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Daffodil Hill: Uprooting My Life, Buying a Farm, and Learning to Bloom
A candid and heartwarming memoir of reinvention about a city girl who trades her career and her heels for five acres and a herd of goats
"Jake Keiser is my favorite kind of woman-gutsy, tenacious, and not afraid to be vulnerable. And the animals are pretty f*cking adorable, too."-Tara Schuster, author of Buy Yourself the F*cking Lilies
Jake Keiser was living the life in Tampa, Florida, running a high-powered PR firm and juggling drink dates, shopping sprees, and charity galas. But at age thirty-eight, following a failed marriage, a series of miscarriages, and a still-blistering breakup, she began to suffer from extreme anxiety. Hit with the realization that no amount of Botox could fill the hole in her heart, she decided to make the impulse purchase of a lifetime and bought a farm in the middle of nowhere, Mississippi.
Suddenly responsible for more than seventy-five animals and five acres of land, and with only one bar of cell service, Jake begins her search for inner peace. She learns to fix a well, haul wood, shoot a gun, and care for baby chicks, goats, turkeys, geese, dogs, and a cat, playing spa music for them when they're sick and naming them after her favorite fashion designers. The only problem is that she still can't figure out how to truly care for herself. Unable to escape the accumulated pain of her past, Jake hits rock bottom. With nowhere left to run, she's finally forced to confront a bracing reality: The farm won't save her. Only she can save herself.
Poignant, hilarious, and utterly charming, Daffodil Hill is for anyone who feels stuck-for those of us strapped to our desks and dreaming of an unconventional life, for those of us searching for something more. Most of all, it is for people who believe that the greatest love story of all is the one we write with ourselves.
"Jake Keiser is my favorite kind of woman-gutsy, tenacious, and not afraid to be vulnerable. And the animals are pretty f*cking adorable, too."-Tara Schuster, author of Buy Yourself the F*cking Lilies
Jake Keiser was living the life in Tampa, Florida, running a high-powered PR firm and juggling drink dates, shopping sprees, and charity galas. But at age thirty-eight, following a failed marriage, a series of miscarriages, and a still-blistering breakup, she began to suffer from extreme anxiety. Hit with the realization that no amount of Botox could fill the hole in her heart, she decided to make the impulse purchase of a lifetime and bought a farm in the middle of nowhere, Mississippi.
Suddenly responsible for more than seventy-five animals and five acres of land, and with only one bar of cell service, Jake begins her search for inner peace. She learns to fix a well, haul wood, shoot a gun, and care for baby chicks, goats, turkeys, geese, dogs, and a cat, playing spa music for them when they're sick and naming them after her favorite fashion designers. The only problem is that she still can't figure out how to truly care for herself. Unable to escape the accumulated pain of her past, Jake hits rock bottom. With nowhere left to run, she's finally forced to confront a bracing reality: The farm won't save her. Only she can save herself.
Poignant, hilarious, and utterly charming, Daffodil Hill is for anyone who feels stuck-for those of us strapped to our desks and dreaming of an unconventional life, for those of us searching for something more. Most of all, it is for people who believe that the greatest love story of all is the one we write with ourselves.
Editorial Reviews
"Jake Keiser is my favorite kind of woman-gutsy, tenacious, and not afraid to be vulnerable. Daffodil Hill is a real, raw story of heartbreak and loss, and the bravery it takes to leave your comfort zone and go after what your truest self desires, to build an authentic, beautiful life. This is a fun, frank, powerful story about freedom. And the animals are pretty f*cking adorable, too."-Tara Schuster, author of Buy Yourself the F*cking Lilies
"Daffodil Hill offers a delightful escape into the wonderfully colorful farm life of Jake Keiser. This unlikely story delivers all the feels, but beware! Keiser makes you want to buy a Prada bag just to let a baby chick sleep in it. While showcasing that special kind of laugh-out-loud crazy that only a Gucci-wearing farm girl could brew, Keiser casts a lovely light on her Mississippi community and explores the perils of a middle-aged single woman trying to break free of all that has kept her caged for too long. A must-read!"-Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Perennials
"Daffodil Hill offers a delightful escape into the wonderfully colorful farm life of Jake Keiser. This unlikely story delivers all the feels, but beware! Keiser makes you want to buy a Prada bag just to let a baby chick sleep in it. While showcasing that special kind of laugh-out-loud crazy that only a Gucci-wearing farm girl could brew, Keiser casts a lovely light on her Mississippi community and explores the perils of a middle-aged single woman trying to break free of all that has kept her caged for too long. A must-read!"-Julie Cantrell, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Perennials
Short Excerpt Teaser
Dirty Secret
I planned each outfit the way celebrity stylists plan for the Oscars. Boats and yachts meant cover-ups and hats. Polo, depending on the side of the field, meant upscale picnic or Kentucky Derby chic. Girls' nights out meant, well, Prada, Dior, Gucci, or some other fashionable designer. Tampa Bay was rich with see-and-be-seen events, and I lived two blocks away from everything: bars, restaurants, dress shops, a high-end movie theater, and a farmers' market.
It was a warm, sticky October Saturday, and I was returning home with my typical farmers' market haul of fresh cut flowers, vegetables, handmade porcini pasta, and free-range eggs. The cruelty-free movement spoke to me, but I couldn't help wishing that the splotched, irregularly sized eggshells had the same pristine uniformity as the kind in the grocery store.
As I entered my apartment, a strong odor of fish smacked me in the face. I drew a breath through my mouth and greeted my little designer dog, Kahuna. Kahuna was an eight-year-old, seven-pound black Yorkie-poo who'd been with me since he was a puppy, ever since my divorce. I gave him a kiss while searching for air spray, scanning the shelves, the countertop, the dinette. The scent was intense. The Spanish-style detailing and soaring ceilings made the place feel like home, but I couldn't change the fact that my apartment was sandwiched between two undesirables: to the left, a lady with a knack for stinking up the building with her cooking; and to the right, a single man with a parade of partners almost nightly. Air spray, earplugs, and a noise-canceling app had become necessary quality-of-life items.
My heartbeat quickened from anxiety as I rushed from room to room. I hated to be late to anything, but I also didn't want to smell like my neighbor's fish dinner. Finally, I spotted the can and walked around spraying while wiggling out of my romper. Glancing at my phone to check the time, I dashed to my closet. There wasn't a second to lose. I had brunch with the girls. "Ten minutes until you're late," I sang to myself, trying not to work up a sweat in the Florida humidity. The very idea of not being on time made my lungs feel like they were filled with cement. These days, everything triggered my anxiety. But instead of crumbling under the weight, I forced myself to take a deep breath, and when I threw open my wardrobe doors, the pressure lifted. My clothes hung neatly in a row. I took a mental inventory, pairing each potential outfit with complementing accessories, from over-the-top baubles to delicate heirloom pieces. In the Tampa social scene, fashion was as much a sport as it was a science. Keeping up appearances required not only an expert knowledge of the playing field, but also a well-developed understanding of weather patterns.
I pushed past the understated Burberry and brightly colored Versace, and then my eyes landed on the perfect mix of form and function. "We have a winner!" I said to Kahuna, shimmying into an easy black maxi dress made even more perfect by a pair of hidden pockets. With a simple base, I layered on the silver statement jewelry I had purchased in Mexico, black Prada slippers, and Chanel sunglasses. After fluffing my long, chocolate brown hair, I twirled in front of the mirror, appraising the comfortable yet effortlessly sophisticated look. With a parting smile, I scooped up Kahuna and grabbed my key chain, heavy with keys.
Racing from one temperature-controlled environment to another, I moved from the lobby, to the car, to the restaurant. I arrived with five minutes to spare, the first of the group to the table, a critical bit of social maneuvering. As every socialite and Mafioso knows, having the best seat is vitally important. With a prime position, I not only had the best view of the scenery, but also a strategic advantage should an ex or a frenemy walk through the door. I'd see them before they'd see me.
After settling in and ordering a Bloody Mary, I pulled out my phone. In the three minutes since I'd last checked, I'd racked up thirteen missed texts. All from her. Laura. The reality TV "starlet."
I took repeated deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This was de rigueur. This was my job. I was a publicist, and she needed publicity. But did that mean I had to sacrifice my nights, weekends, and every available moment? Her never-ending calls, texts, and emails were starting to give me gray hair. I was going to have to increase my Botox dosage just to keep the worry lines at bay. She paid well, sure, but was it worth it when most of the money went toward covering the very spa ...
I planned each outfit the way celebrity stylists plan for the Oscars. Boats and yachts meant cover-ups and hats. Polo, depending on the side of the field, meant upscale picnic or Kentucky Derby chic. Girls' nights out meant, well, Prada, Dior, Gucci, or some other fashionable designer. Tampa Bay was rich with see-and-be-seen events, and I lived two blocks away from everything: bars, restaurants, dress shops, a high-end movie theater, and a farmers' market.
It was a warm, sticky October Saturday, and I was returning home with my typical farmers' market haul of fresh cut flowers, vegetables, handmade porcini pasta, and free-range eggs. The cruelty-free movement spoke to me, but I couldn't help wishing that the splotched, irregularly sized eggshells had the same pristine uniformity as the kind in the grocery store.
As I entered my apartment, a strong odor of fish smacked me in the face. I drew a breath through my mouth and greeted my little designer dog, Kahuna. Kahuna was an eight-year-old, seven-pound black Yorkie-poo who'd been with me since he was a puppy, ever since my divorce. I gave him a kiss while searching for air spray, scanning the shelves, the countertop, the dinette. The scent was intense. The Spanish-style detailing and soaring ceilings made the place feel like home, but I couldn't change the fact that my apartment was sandwiched between two undesirables: to the left, a lady with a knack for stinking up the building with her cooking; and to the right, a single man with a parade of partners almost nightly. Air spray, earplugs, and a noise-canceling app had become necessary quality-of-life items.
My heartbeat quickened from anxiety as I rushed from room to room. I hated to be late to anything, but I also didn't want to smell like my neighbor's fish dinner. Finally, I spotted the can and walked around spraying while wiggling out of my romper. Glancing at my phone to check the time, I dashed to my closet. There wasn't a second to lose. I had brunch with the girls. "Ten minutes until you're late," I sang to myself, trying not to work up a sweat in the Florida humidity. The very idea of not being on time made my lungs feel like they were filled with cement. These days, everything triggered my anxiety. But instead of crumbling under the weight, I forced myself to take a deep breath, and when I threw open my wardrobe doors, the pressure lifted. My clothes hung neatly in a row. I took a mental inventory, pairing each potential outfit with complementing accessories, from over-the-top baubles to delicate heirloom pieces. In the Tampa social scene, fashion was as much a sport as it was a science. Keeping up appearances required not only an expert knowledge of the playing field, but also a well-developed understanding of weather patterns.
I pushed past the understated Burberry and brightly colored Versace, and then my eyes landed on the perfect mix of form and function. "We have a winner!" I said to Kahuna, shimmying into an easy black maxi dress made even more perfect by a pair of hidden pockets. With a simple base, I layered on the silver statement jewelry I had purchased in Mexico, black Prada slippers, and Chanel sunglasses. After fluffing my long, chocolate brown hair, I twirled in front of the mirror, appraising the comfortable yet effortlessly sophisticated look. With a parting smile, I scooped up Kahuna and grabbed my key chain, heavy with keys.
Racing from one temperature-controlled environment to another, I moved from the lobby, to the car, to the restaurant. I arrived with five minutes to spare, the first of the group to the table, a critical bit of social maneuvering. As every socialite and Mafioso knows, having the best seat is vitally important. With a prime position, I not only had the best view of the scenery, but also a strategic advantage should an ex or a frenemy walk through the door. I'd see them before they'd see me.
After settling in and ordering a Bloody Mary, I pulled out my phone. In the three minutes since I'd last checked, I'd racked up thirteen missed texts. All from her. Laura. The reality TV "starlet."
I took repeated deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This was de rigueur. This was my job. I was a publicist, and she needed publicity. But did that mean I had to sacrifice my nights, weekends, and every available moment? Her never-ending calls, texts, and emails were starting to give me gray hair. I was going to have to increase my Botox dosage just to keep the worry lines at bay. She paid well, sure, but was it worth it when most of the money went toward covering the very spa ...
