4
She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. “I’d always be miserable in a city. I’d die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here.”
—Willa Cather, My Antonia
By the time December rolled around the following year, we’d found a groove, but still we were all coming and going in dizzying patterns. My youngest brother, Conrad, was graduating from college, and I went home to North Carolina for his graduation. John was finally home for good, and it was the first time my whole family was going to be together in three years. Jeffrey wasn’t working, but he decided not to go with me. I was hot about it, but I didn’t say anything outright; in fact, I barely said anything at all.
Jeff called me from Los Angeles. “I miss you guys so much. Are you having fun?”
“We’re having a great time. You’re missing it.” I said shortly.
The next night when we spoke, I reported, “We took Gus to see Santa. You missed it.” I was really disappointed, and my family was a bit insulted. It was a sore spot.
We were doing Christmas in LA that year, and Jeff’s way of making it up to me after not going to my brother’s graduation was to agree to go to church on Christmas Eve. (He’s convinced every year that he’s going to burst into flames at church. It hasn’t happened. Yet.) So the three of us set out to go to the children’s service at a little nondenominational church in Studio City.
Outside the church was a living nativity. Donkeys, alpacas, sheep, and cows roamed around in the front yard of the church, with men and women in Jerusalem’s finest fashions tending to them. Little kids dressed as angels shrieked with laughter as they ran through the crowds, goosing people with their wings. “This is adorable!” I yelled to Jeff over the chaos. He grinned as Gus, now a highly active toddler, plowed through the sea of bodies to get to the animals. Gus reached his hand out and screamed with giggles when a goat nibbled at him. Then the church bell rang.
Suddenly, nothing was adorable anymore. Whoever had the bright idea to put the fun stuff before the service did not take into account that kids are unreasonable creatures. No amount of “We can see ’em after the service, buddy!” could calm the storm that was Gus. Folks around us started up with the fan favorite “Joy to the World” as our boy flung himself into the aisle and ran to the big double doors and banged on them with balled fists.
Side note: Please don’t think we are negligent parents. I’m a stickler for manners and good behavior. Our boy was widely known for tipping his hat to ladies (a trick Jeff had taught him) and acting like a little adult. But these barnyard creatures were his kryptonite!
Jeff looked at me. “Do you want to stay?”
“No,” I said, crestfallen. I had just wanted to sing “The Little Drummer Boy” with Gus folded in my arms.
“Do you want to drive around and look at Christmas lights?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
We drove in the dark and listened to carols on the radio. It was lovely, but it also felt very quiet and very small. Having come from celebrating with my big family, it felt hollow out in LA without our relatives or community. I’d gotten used to the bustle of our Hudson Valley life and constantly running into familiar faces. Trying to function in LA was harder than ever before.
The next morning Jeff made coffee and we opened gifts. Gus tore into his presents, and then I got up to go make breakfast, feeling the letdown of a holiday ending.
“Hold on, there’s something in the tree,” Jeff said.
I looked, and there was a white envelope that read “HILARIE.” I opened it up, thinking it was a gift certificate. But inside was a piece of paper that read “MORGAN.”
I turned around, and Jeffrey was down on one knee with the ring.
I wept. He wept. And then he explained that he’d stayed back in LA rather than go to North Carolina because he was in the process of designing and buying my ring. I felt like such an ass for giving him a hard time! (Big life lesson kids. Just don’t be an ass. You never know when someone is planning a sweet surprise!) Meanwhile my entire family was very smug that the secret had been kept and I was finally gonna be a bonafide married lady.
“Do you guys have a date in mind yet?” my mom asked.
“We’re working on it,” I assured her. And we were. Jeff and I would zero in on a month, and then Jeff would book a job. We’d pick another date, and then I would book a gig.
I also wondered whether it was silly to get married when we were already living as husband and wife. I certainly didn’t need a party. I wanted wedding planning to be enjoyable, and it wasn’t. So we decided to back-burner the wedding. “We’ll do it when it’s super fun,” I said, and kissed Jeffrey.
* * *
At the cabin I took a lot of pride in trying to fulfill the same duties that my mom had while I was growing up. I liked being self-sufficient. I liked being able to say that I was doing everything. I’d look at a magazine on Tuesday and decide I was going to build a window bench seat. I’d paint the walls the next day. Then I’d do the trim. Then I’d figure out the curtains. The cabin was an evolving renovation. Our visions for our life and our home were evolving too. We went on walks together in the woods and dreamed stuff up.
While I still worked down in NYC, my brother Billy came out from LA to help when Jeff had knee surgery. All this rugged living took a toll on my former high school basketball star. His knees had always been an issue, and we were assured that the surgeon in town, Andrew Stewart, was the very best. And he was. Billy helped Jeff out around the cabin and looked after Gus. And a couple of days after the surgery, the two of them decided to buy a huge wooden swing set to assemble in the yard, complete with a tower and a slide. So much for taking it easy.
Jeffrey has always played sentimental characters that sweep women off their feet with gentle words and thoughtful inclusions. Real-life Jeff? Well, he’s an entirely different kind of magic man. He pays compliments only when he really means them. He is 100 percent about actions over words. And so one spring morning, over coffee, Jeffrey asked, “Wanna build a fire pit today?” That’s Jeff’s code for: I’d like to spend time with you. Exactly my kind of romance.
There was a small portion of stone wall along the back of our property. It had fallen in on itself and wasn’t doing much good keeping the deer or teenagers on dirt bikes out. So we salvaged the stones, heaving them into the back of the Rhino until we’d loaded the bed well past capacity. Once back at the site he’d prepped for the fire pit, we worked in tandem finding exactly the right stones to fit together. He could have taken me on a jet to Paris for dinner and it wouldn’t have meant half as much as building that pit together. Once the steel ring was completely covered, Jeff gleefully leaped into Boy Scout mode, building his base of kindling and tinder to create a roaring blaze that burned through the wet springtime chill.
In the spring we started going to the Rhinebeck farmers’ market every Sunday in the town’s municipal parking lot. We’d walk from one white-tented booth to another, collecting a colorful riot of vegetables and fruits. The very frank cheesemonger dictated recommendations to each customer. “You’re going to try this,” I heard her announce to the older man in front of me. Then she fixed me with her stern gaze and handed me a piece of cheese. “You’re going to like this one.” I had blind faith in her ability to read my cheese fortune. There were the woodworkers who made cutting boards out of wood from the trees on their property, a beekeeper with a huge hive case that had a glass window so you could see all the bees at work. Gus always jostled his way up through the swarm of kids. At the market Jeff radiated charm.
The Want-To Creates the How-To
Things I’ve built: A bar. A couch. A king-size bed. Multiple coffee tables. A bathroom vanity. Outdoor furniture. Bookshelves. Raised garden beds. And it all started with a fireplace mantel at my parents’ house.
The house I was born in had a huge handmade oak fireplace mantel that my dad had made before I was born. It was extravagant to us, and the center of our home. My parents sold that house when I was six years old, and the mantel along with it. When I was a teenager working at MTV, making my own money, I came home for the holidays and bemoaned the tiny, flat white mantel in my parents’ home.
“You wanna go to the lumber yard and make another one?” I asked my dad, and together we worked on a beautiful new mantel. The pride of re-creating that family treasure made me feel better about myself than any professional accomplishment.
A pattern ensued. Whenever I wanted to feel good about myself, I burrowed into home improvement projects. Here’s one of my favorites. In the original farmhouse at Mischief Farm, the kitchen had shitty old linoleum flooring while the whole rest of the house had original wood floors. I’d promised Jeff I wouldn’t spend a lot of money fixing that place up, so I went to Home Depot and picked out six sheets of plywood. Most home improvement stores will cut the sheets for you as narrow as twelve inches. I sanded all my plywood planks and then sanded down all the edges to re-create old farmhouse flooring. I laid them out in a herringbone pattern and then did a chalk paint whitewash on them. After a few coats of matte protective polyurethane, they were sturdy, chic, and cheap as hell.
If you’re a newbie to home renovation, a few tools are must-haves. Get yourself a cordless drill. It’s the tool I use most often. The drill comes with bits for everything from drilling holes to mixing paint. I’m also a huge fan of the compound miter saw. It makes projects like flooring so much quicker and much more precise. My dad gave me one for my twenty-first birthday, and it’s been a game changer.
If you’re looking for tools for small projects, I just recently discovered and really enjoy the Dremel rotary tool kit. You can cut, drill, sand, and sculpt to your heart’s desire.
Every year new toys come out, but those are my standbys. I feel my prettiest with sawdust in my hair and at least one bloody knuckle.
One gorgeous May day some really cute, shy girls were working at the poultry and egg booth, Quattro’s. If you have a party up here, it’s a faux pas not to serve Quattro’s pheasant sausage. So, we always make it a point to stop there. In a basket of straw were huge, fist-size eggs that looked like a small dinosaur had laid them.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Wild turkey eggs,” one of the girls told me. “We only have them in the month of May, and only for about two or three weeks. So if you want to try them, try them now.”
At home, Jeff heated up the skillet with a little butter, and I cracked the eggs. The shells were speckled brown and much harder than the shells of chicken eggs, and the membrane that lines the shell was so tough I had to tear into it with my fingernail. Jeff fried them up, and I sliced some of the bread we’d bought. The bright yolks were smoky and rich. If chicken eggs are a McDonald’s hamburger, then wild turkey eggs are a perfectly cooked filet mignon.
We went back the next weekend and bought a dozen of them, and then we ran into Pam and Roger Hoffman, of Hoffman’s Barn fame, the source of my everything. Pam took me by the arm. “Oh, Hilarie, I want you to meet my son, John.”
We knew John Traver, but barely. He was Ira’s shy, smiling wingman at Samuel’s. “Hey man, nice to see you,” Jeff offered.
“John is running for town council,” his mother said, beaming as John shook hands with another couple and passed out stickers and fliers.
“Well hell,” Jeff said, “make us up some T-shirts, and we’ll be your personal billboards.”
* * *
For the Fourth of July, Jeff’s old buddy Jeremy Sisto, his beautiful wife, Addie, and their two kids came out to stay at the cabin we couldn’t shut up about. Jeff has known Jeremy forever; they were dudes in LA together. They grew up together. And Addie is amazing; she rides horses, and it took her about half a minute before she was encouraging our country adventure. “Yes! Live there full time,” she said. “We would if we could.”
Their son was just a baby, a couple of years younger than Gus, and their daughter was just a couple of years older, so those kids made a fearsome trio. Wild-haired and seldom-shoed, they were funny and spirited, and I liked their parents more for how they were raising their kids. It was very tight quarters, with bodies in beds and on couches and in sleeping bags and kids and dogs running wild. We built a fire every night and stayed up late, gossiping and hatching plans to work together or just quit everything and turn into a commune.
Jeremy invited us to a Fourth of July party at his friend Andy Ostroy’s house in Rhinebeck. Andy’s beautiful house cut into the side of a hill. A swimming pool skimmed the top of the hillside, and as we made our way through the gate, he and his girlfriend Phoebe greeted us with warmth and ease. Still, my default when I’m in a situation where I don’t know anyone is to talk to the kids at the party, and seeing as how Gus was two years old and insane, it seemed pretty legitimate to be keeping an eye on him.
Another two-year-old was there; she was very shy, but Gus was determined that they were going to be friends and proceeded to pursue her rather aggressively. I sat on the floor, trying to keep Gus from emptying the bowl of chips, and struck up a conversation with a seven-year-old boy in cool, hipster glasses. I had no idea who he belonged to until I was introduced to his mom, Julie, who was also the mother of the little girl Gus was pursuing.
“I’m sorry my family is infiltrating yours,” I said somewhat sheepishly.
Then she introduced me to her husband, Paul.
Hi Paul Rudd, I thought. Please don’t remember me. I interviewed you once at MTV during my really awkward years, and I’d like to think I’m an entirely different person now. I felt like a creep. Did they think I was talking to their kids just to get to them? But it turned out I was overthinking it. They were perfectly kind and equally as welcoming as Andy and Phoebe had been.
The kids spent the day splashing in the pool and begging various moms for “just one more soda.” As dusk was settling in, Andy called out, “Time to go to the river for fireworks. See you guys at Clermont.” The Clermont State Historic Site along the Hudson River has a huge sloped property that offers perfect views of the fireworks across the river.
Julie had remembered the blanket, the bug spray, the hand wipes, and the snacks. I had brought none of these things. She was so kind and shared everything with us, and before I knew it, I had an enormous lady crush on her. “I think I’m in mom-love with her,” I told Jeffrey as we drove home that night.
I saw Jules again later that summer at our friend Griffin Dunne’s house, and I felt that embarrassing joy like when a senior invites you, a sophomore, to sit at their lunch table. She is such a smart woman, and she understood everything I was going through—what it was like being the mostly-stay-at-home person and having a partner with a high-profile career whom women threw themselves at—all the trappings of fame. We have both been elbowed out of the way by fans who think they have a shot with our partner, or by other actors and producers who don’t waste time on “the plus ones.” I’d always been so hot-headed about those situations. Julie had been a vice president at a major film studio, had a big creative career, and made all the same choices I was making, but she’d made them eight years before. Julie had navigated it all beautifully and was seemingly unstressed. I thought, Whatever she’s doing, I want to do. Jules showed up in my life exactly when I needed her.
That group of buddies was the linchpin—Andy to debate politics and gossip about juicy current events, Phoebe to gush about theater and our love of documentaries, Paul to inject absurdity and mischief into any situation, and Jules to infuse everything with her absolute chillness. I have friends I love dearly in California. But between traffic and schedules and especially with a baby, getting together was always so inconvenient and we rarely saw each other. In Rhinebeck we started having regular Saturday dinners and lazy afternoons at each others’ houses.
I began to notice that every time I went back to LA, I’d funnel more things back to the cabin.