Christmas Tree

Santa Claus brings our tree, fully decorated, sometime during the night on Christmas Eve. The next morning, the five of us descend the stairs together, making sure we all witness the tree’s glory at the same moment. But at four years old, I didn’t feel like respecting this tradition. I burst from Daddy’s arms, raced down the stairs, through the dining room and the kitchen until I hit the back glass door. The excitement had distracted me from turning into the living room where the tree shined bright. Instead of rerouting to the living room, I slinked back upstairs, guilty.

CVS

The Chester CVS is our go-to place for Rutter’s dark chocolate bars, batteries and peanut butter crackers. Tonight, Libby needs shampoo for her biweekly bathings. Usually I go in with her, our arms locked like good sissybelles, but tonight she goes alone. From the car, we watch her half trotting, half skipping to the automatic doors. As she draws closer, her strides get shorter and, in a less-than-graceful movement, she throws her body at the glass doors with a flying kick. They open. She repeats the attack on her way out, this time while greedily clutching at her new possessions.

L.L. Bean Classic

It’s a faded red sweater, with discreet white snowflakes. Not too showy, just subtly Christmassy. An L.L Bean classic. In essence, perfect for a middle-aged school-teaching woman. Yet something about it grates on most everyone. It’s not the person inside of it. It’s not the knowledge that it has mucked out one too many cow stalls. It’s not the quality, brand, or color. This sweater is offensive purely for its persistence; it’s worn beyond the Christmas season. Beyond winter and into spring. It’s tied around her waist as the early summer sun beats down. And no one knows why.

Albuquerque Turkey

Elementary school teachers don’t celebrate holidays right. At Thanksgiving, we sang Albuquerque Turkey, a song which told us a pet turkey was better than a dog. During that lyric, I’d close my mouth up tight. No one was about to convince me some turkey was better than my basset hound. Christmas was even worse. Mr. A dared to read The Night Before Christmas. Didn’t he understand that this story is only read on Christmas Eve? I closed my ears and pushed his words out of my brain - anything to stop the sound of Mr. A’s voice reading those sacred words.

Ruination

In the dark of night, a fat little groundhog emerges in the feed stall from his underground tunnels. Eyeing the wooden bins which contain an endless supply of sweet feed, he flips open the heavy lid, and, in an explicable feat of athleticism, climbs inside. Without any means of escape, he settles into the dark and gorges himself. In the morning, when unsuspecting little girls come to fetch their ponies’ feed, the fattened groundhog is discovered. But these unwanted rodent invasions ended as Roxy the Patterdale Terrier moved in and brought ruination to the groundhog population at the Essex stables.

Grilled Cheese

Pre-basseting lunch time menus often consisted of grilled cheese and Campbell’s tomato soup - Daddy’s favorite. He made it in bulk for all of us. In the frying pan, slices of cheese were laid against the edge of each sandwich’s long edge. We called them “wings,” and we wouldn’t eat grilled cheese without them. After everything became perfectly browned, Daddy stacked the sandwiches in a towering pile. I remember it being at least two feet tall. It likely wasn’t. Either way, we’d all gather around to watch the glorious moment when Daddy sliced the whole stack diagonally in one great chop.

Lunch Ladies

Elementary schoolers settle into the lunchroom at assigned tables. Above their chatter, lunch ladies rhythmically chant their spells “...eat your lunch before you eat you snack…” Mrs. Moose is the most popular of these mechanical chanters because she holds the power to core and slice assorted fruits. But when she isn’t wielding her apple-corer, she paces the tiled floors in her white moose-embroidered apron, reciting “...eat your lunch before you eat your snack…” At random moments, she and the others silence us by clapping two slows, then three fast claps. An announcement is made before the chatter and chanting resume.

Show and Tell

Paved by the shattered beer bottles of wayward teenagers, the shortcut to town is well traversed. My eyes are cast downward, in search of treasures. A penny will do. For the record, they’re all lucky, not just the Lincoln-face-up ones like some pessimists will tell you. I don’t find any coins, but amongst the infinite shards, I see a beautiful chunk of bluish glass, crudely shaped like a heart. Back at the high school lunchroom, I play show and tell. My fellow twelfth-graders aren’t impressed. They’re the type that’ll argue only Lincoln-face-up pennies are lucky. I’m not one of them.  

Mudpuddle

In the battle of winter and spring, things are not what they seem. A rainy day walk with the foxhounds proved this to us all. We’d gotten as far as the Tillney’s back driveway when there appeared an irresistible mud puddle. Libby got a glimmer in her eye. She leapt high in the air, but upon landing she discovered winter had not gone from this here puddle: beneath the muddy inch of rainwater, a plate of ice lay waiting. Her bottom hit the ground with a resounding splash. And so there she sat, bathing in the mud puddle: absurd, careless.

Centerpiece

The class discussion is moved out into the hallway for better feng shui. We migrate out of the classroom, pushing our orange rollie chairs ahead of us. We circle up, and sit. Today’s topic: achievement gaps. We try to focus on socio-economic status, etc, but what silently holds each of our attentions is the grape. A perfectly oval green grape, sitting perfectly centered in our perfect circle. Our centerpiece. At the discussion’s conclusion, we stand and prepare for our return trip. Unable to take it anymore, we all unravel. The grape dominates conversation for a half-minute. All new learnings disappear.

Bad*ss

Amongst the scatterings of feminists and liberals, I tour the castles of Bryn Mawr College, my best friend Nermeen as my guide. I am introduced to a few of her blonde friends. I approve of these girls; Nermeen has good taste in friends. At the end of our evening, as we pour ourselves her homemade granola, one more friend find us. Apparently Nermeen's told stories about me, because instead of the usual “hello, how do you do,” she looks me in the eye and says “you’re such a bad*ss.” She has happy eyes and a smile. I hug her.

Tea Time

It’s sunday evening and every rabbit within a mile has been hunted. The bassets hang their tails low as they trot at our feet back to the truck. They jump in, and curl up in a solid blanket across the carpeted floor. Mr. Wiley opens up the back of his station wagon and lays out snacks. The sliced cheddar cheese compliments the stale wheat thins beautifully. Kearney comes around, shaking his canister of roasted peanuts. Everyone takes a handful. There’s girl scout cookies and pretzels, too. We eat all of this in the dark and cold, standing in wet sneakers.

Safeway

Late night stop at Safeway in Leesburg. For breakfast: Captain Crunch, Honey Smacks, orange juice. Ham, rolls, port wine cheese and crackers for lunch. Three grapefruits for alone grapefruit time. Sourdough pretzels for munching and crunching. An assorted box of plastic spoons, forks, and knives. We debate if we have dixie cups in the cabin from last time (we do) but get a box anyway. Having forgotten our real cooler, we grab a styrofoam one along with two bags of ice. As we check out, the grey-haired cashier offers assistance in loading our groceries into the car. We can manage.

Raid

9am and the basset people are ready for their Tuesday morning walk. They take half the bassets up to the pond Daddy says not to go to. If they avoid cur dogs and deer and swallows, they’ll make it back home okay. Then they eat. Lou brought the green box cooler: MUG root beers, Brisk iced teas, a Tab soda for Mrs. Muchmore and a Sprite Zero for Jim Gordon. There’s also a box of assorted Dunkin’ Donuts and oatmeal cookies. When they leave, we’ll raid the basset kennel, set off the mouse traps, and scurry off with our treats.

Stopping Splits

Out foxhunting, when the hounds split onto two foxes, you gallop to the front of the smaller group, crack your whip softly, and hollar “steady up, boys.” This never works, so you get mean, scream your heart out, punch your horse, and cry. Out basseting, you do the same, but the hounds get beat into submission before the angry tears come. Beagles are even easier. You needn’t say a word. Just sidestep into the hedgerow, wait until the lead hound walks in full cry to your feet, and pick her up. The rest get confused and stop on their own.

Jewelweed

Jewelweed: the oxymoron that grows in great heaps down by the stream. On puppy walks and during dam construction we admire them, golden and orange on their bushes. Apparently, if you have poison ivy, rubbing some jewelweed on it will cure the itch. I always wish I had poison ivy, or at least an itch to try it on. I pluck some jewelweed, and smear them on an imagined itch. I wait. It’s less exciting than I thought it’d be. I’ll try again another day, when I have poison ivy. I walk back home, my arm streaked with flower innards.

Trumpeteers

In preparation for our future horn-blowing careers in hunt service, we played the trumpet dutifully in middle school. Libby switched to playing flute after a year of trumpeting. But Sarah and I continued on. Mr. Snyder, the red-faced penguin of a man, directed our band lessons. Each week, my parents signed their names on the designated line, attesting to my trumpet practice at home. But my trumpet rarely left the school’s band room. Mr. Snyder never caught on. Instead, when angry at lesser instrumentalists, he used me as the paragon of trumpeteering: “why can’t you practice at home -- like Katie!?”

J.B. Wiley

Leading a long line of wandering fools, the field master Mr. Wiley marches forward, following the Tewksbury Foot Bassets across fields and through hedgerows. The wooden whips he carries bears the inscription “J.B. Wiley.” The “B” stands for boy, or so he tells us. On his feet are two white sneakers, which soon accumulate the mud of the fields and woods. He points them out to us, pretending to worry that his mother will surely scold him for getting dirty. He’s near about ninety, but we don’t question that old Mrs. Wiley is at home, fretting over muddy sneakers.

Relocation

The parents are away, so Sarah and I nab the couch. It’s destined for the “joint-room,” our communal junk deposit/hang-out spot. We grab sides and drag it upstairs. It gets stuck at the right angle in the hallway. Sarah’s door, which juts out two inches, must go. After an hour, the door is successfully removed (and stays off for the next few years). The couch successfully budges two inches closer to our destination before getting jammed again. We find a handsaw and start sawing at the back legs. With only two legs, the couch slants some, but that’s okay.

Beach Badge

I am Daddy’s “person of gradually increasing size.” Even though I’m getting older and bigger, I’m still too young to need a beach badge, or so the blonde girl under the umbrella tells us. But soon I’ll be 12, and then the girl will collect seven more dollars from Daddy each time we pass onto the beach. I don’t like to be an expense. I’d stay eleven if I could. I worry Daddy won’t call me his “little person” anymore. With time, age 12 comes and passes. I get my beach badge. But I also get to keep my nicknames.

Madame Whittle

Madame Whittle, the local high school french teacher, is a waddling little woman, very motherly, easily confused, and full of odd little quirks. Like how, before a test, she’d invite us out to the hallway water fountain, to “oil our brains.” Or how she never uses lowercase r’s because they look like inchworms. Or when she’d explain France’s wild boars. They’re like American deer - you don’t worry about them in the daylight, but you wouldn’t want to meet one in the dark of night. I imagine her at dusk, rushing to safety, clutching her purse, haunted by angry, vengeful deer.

Turkish Delight

We the third graders of Mr. A’s third-grade classroom gathered together on the carpet to listen to The Chronicles of Narnia as we did every Wednesday. We listened as one of the characters, Edmund, spent his time eating Turkish Delight. We imagined it was a mythical, luxurious chocolate treat. We were wrong; it was no such thing. Kristine’s dad brought our class two boxes of it from his recent travels in England. This was a thoroughly exciting event in classroom 3A. But disappointment soon came: Turkish Delight was not chocolate. It was horrible. It was fruity and sticky and gross.

Food Lion

I like the double-decker blue carts Food Lion has out front. The older black woman ahead of me is struggling to extract one from the line. She looks back apologetically as she gives one last tug, freeing the caught wheel. I smile, it’s okay. I get my cart and follow her through the automatic doors. We stop at the coupon kiosk. She scans her loyalty card. The coupon gets stuck. She fights to free it. In the struggle, her keys fall, today is not my day. I pick them up for her. Bless you. I think her day got better.

Exodus

The great exodus begins as the 9th period bell rings at 2:42. To my locker, to the doors, up the sidewalk, onto the shuttle bus. I take my spot in a two-seater and wait for everyone else to board. We leave the high school and drive four minutes to the middle school. We shuffle out, walk up the sidewalk, and board PG-8 - the short bus. This one drops us off halfway up our driveway. We march four minutes uphill to the house, into the mudroom, to the front door and finally turn the doorknob -- it’s locked. We start knocking.

Bday

It’s my birthday party. A boy’s XL yellow tee-shirt lays neatly folded in it’s GAP gift box, destined never to be worn. Under a blanket, there’s a dresser with drawers lined in floral wax paper. Pa and Linda send a fifty dollar check which will forever sit in the birthday card and never be cashed. The traditional hazelnut cake with chocolate shavings from the Gaston Avenue Bakery sits gloriously in it’s cake box, wrapped up in red and white striped wax string. After eating three bites, I’ll save my slice in the refrigerator. Tomorrow morning I’ll eat it for breakfast.

Marshmallow

The family journeyed across the lawn from Squaw Two to the Tewksbury Cabin, armed with a bag of marshmallows and the traditional green roasting sticks harvested from Daddy’s secret tree. When faced with the decision to roast or read, I decided we should roast our marshmallows first, then listen to Daddy read Old Yeller aloud, even though the newly built fire hadn’t yet produced sufficient coals for proper roasting. When we were filing out the cabin door to leave, Daddy turned, looked at the fire, “now it’s perfect for marshmallows.” This implicit condemnation of my decision brought me great shame.

“Cool Weathervanes”

The foxhounds’ mid-winter walk takes us through the Allen’s farm. On the far south side of their property, the “little” house is being renovated for the arrival of young Mr. Allen. The barns, too, are being made decent for his viewing. Chickens bustle about their chicken coop, which is newly adorned with a rifle-shaped weathervane. Mr. Allen comes out to greet us; Daddy compliments him on this new feature. He glows with pride. We think it must be an antique, resurrected from the Allen’s ancestral collections. But no, Mr. Allen tells us, he bought it online after googling “cool weathervanes.”

Back Roads

We take the back roads home from Bernardsville. On Lake Road, Daddy pauses for a minute to look at the waterfall. The angry sound of gushing water fills us simultaneously with excitement and fear. We start driving again, only to be pounced upon by the car monster. Daddy plays with the gas and brakes, making it seem like the monster is tugging on our back bumper. After this struggle ends, Daddy pulls to the shoulder, turns off the engine, and rolls down the windows. We listen to the glorious chorus of spring peepers - a peaceful moment on our harrowing drive.

Wormy

Out hunting, Uncle David and I walk together, looking for worms. Actually, one worm, named Wormy. We make up stories about him, his relatives and his adventures. During the colder months, we see him less often. He must have gone to Wormy World in Florida for the winter. In the kennel, we see the first worm of the spring. He’s back! Aunt Loren doesn’t tolerate our silly running joke, and so denies us our fun: “that can’t be the same worm.” We glare at her, “of course it is.” After this, we never speak of our little friend ever again.

Walking the Trail

Mr. Caswell, who’s been my gym teacher all through middle and high school, announces the day’s options for gym class: ultimate frisbee or “walking the trail” (the hallway/staircase loop immediately outside the school gym). I consider these, but decide on another activity: a trip to ShopRite. I slip away after he takes attendance, walk two minutes to town, and get my usual: a corn muffin and Arizona Sweet Tea. The next day, Mr. Caswell asks where I was yesterday. “Walking the trail.” He practically apologizes for asking, “people slip away sometimes, but I know you would never do that...”

Cowering

Elementary schoolers flock from the classrooms and hallways, out the double doors and onto the playground. A particularly bitter playground aide follows me down the stairs. As I kick open the door, she squawks her disapproval at me. I run faster and find a hiding spot. I squat under the playground equipment, awaiting my discovery, my punishment. When the whistles are blown at the end of recess, I get in line. She ignores me like nothing happened. Apparently she isn’t looking to punish me; she has forgotten. Ashamed at my irrational fear, I vow to never again cower from authority.

Hockey Skum

Blonde-haired, blue-eyed boys and girls densely populate the skating club down the driveway from us. When hockey practice or figure skating classes are over, they pack up into their cliques and march into the barn and past the kennel. Time to scare them away. From inside a stall, we stare blankly at them, expressionless. Libby carries around an old deer skull. I hold onto Frolic’s collar, pretending to use all my might to hold her back. “Easy, Killer.” Between the vicious German Shepherd and mute hillbillies, the rich kids get nervous. They run back to safety in their matching sweatsuits.

Beagles

King leads the pack under the barbed wire and into the pondside covert where the rabbit has gone to ground. Irma’s persistent ferocity at the earth sends the rabbit bolting back out. Eight-year old Mandy arrives in time to see Lincoln with the rabbit’s hind-end clenched in his jaws. She giggles. We turn our worries to the other spectators: the family who has just emerged from their ratty mobile home planted in front of the corn field. I wave my friendliest wave. They don’t even uncross their arms. We skulk away, letting the beagles chew their meal out of sight.

Our Goats

Mother throws open the stall door with pride. We peek inside. There’s two white goats staring back; they bleat at us. They’re not the cute kind, not little pygmy goats. But their our goats now. Mommy rescued this mother and daughter from slaughter, but they aren’t the least bit grateful. On the milking stand, one stamps and struggles the second her food is gone. She kicks over the milk pail, leans her weight against Mommy, who is tirelessly patient. With glasses knocked askew and milk spilled on her sneakers, Mommy milks on, resting her head against the stained white fur.

Negefits

Libby sits in the rocking chair in front of the family computer, writing an essay. As we pass through the den, we loiter around her to read over her shoulder. She has a question on her mind, puts it to the little peanut gallery gathered about her. “What’s the opposite of benefit?” Disadvantage. Drawback. Downside. No, that’s not it….she sounds it out. “Benefits and….” She can’t come up with a satisfactory ending. She tries again. “Benefits and….negefits!” Negefits? Yup, negefits. We nod our approval, it makes sense. We’ve adopted it into everyday language. Oxford English Dictionary hasn’t, yet.

November Morning

Intervals of cloud and sunshine. High near 73F. Winds light and variable.

A pleasant change from October’s wintery chills. June plays in the sunshine with her new toys while Alec and I throw knives. I hang my little cream colored sweater on a tree branch. We stroll hand-in-hand around the yard. Alec points out trees he’d like to chop down; I protest. We re-enter the house at 10:29 - I had meant to leave nine minutes ago. I hurry out Alec calls me back for goodbyes. On my drive to school, my heart is light and happy as can be.

Frolic's Collection

Frolic’s Collection is showcased in the little pantry nook that the dogs have made home. It’s a cozy little place, complete with dog beds and pictures hung with blue sticky tack. Inside, a vast collection of sneakers and sandals are on display, valued highly for their aromatic qualities. Though we steal them back as needed, Frolic doesn’t seem to mind. On such occasions, when the shoe exhibit is scarce, the assortment of stuffed animals becomes the prime attraction, particularly the silverback gorilla and the tiger who lay sideways, their fur matted from Frolic’s affectionate grooming. She is a dutiful curator.

Inspection

Tim and Joe are coming to inspect our windows for replacement. But the house isn’t fit to be seen, so the parents beat it out of there, locking the doors behind them. Shortly after, the men arrive at the door, knock, then wiggle the door knob. We sisters are silent. They walk the perimeter of the house, inspecting windows. As we hide in the bathroom, the men crawl through a window in the room next to us, but crawl back through five minutes later. Had they remembered breaking and entering was a crime? Or were they appalled by our mess?

Hark to Arrow!

The scent is lost, and all is quiet. Basset hounds snuffle to the left and right, but one strives out forward. She strikes the rabbit’s scent, lifts her little white head, and speaks. The huntsman, anxious for the rest of the pack to join this little lass, cries out “Hark to Arrow!” A little girl overhears this from a field away. She smiles to herself, for that is her basset, the one that sleeps in her house at night and looks lovingly into her eyes. For years to come, those three words, heard from afar, are the essence of pride.

Insole

They’re a bit tight in the calf, so my riding boots don’t slide right on. They haven’t been worn since last week, so I vaguely worry about spiders lurking at the toe. I pull and tug, stamp and pry.  This is getting serious; I take off my hunting coat. Eventually, I convince my arch to fit through the tightspot at the ankle. My foot touches the insole, only to discover it is not alone! I panic, whip my leg back and forth, get terribly claustrophobic. The boot flings off. A pretzel tumbles out, likely placed there by a revenge-seeking sister.

Empanadas

No sleepy morning commute on this short bus. Wrists stick out into the aisle way, thrusting dollar bills at Aldahir. He collects them greedily. Part two of the trade begins. Who ordered Chicken? Beef? Corn? The Zacharias family has a monopoly on empanadas in this town, certainly on this bus. People reach for their order, unwrap the tinfoil, and eat. Aldahir is forgotten until the ride home from middle school, when orders are placed for tomorrow. His power over his fellow bus riders is absolute. Any sour look, and he might end it all: no more empanadas.

Everyone smiles big.

Spices

Easily accessible kitchen cabinets are cluttered with spilled rice, expired cans, and soy nuts. But more secluded places, like the top left corner cabinet, are not. It houses spices and tea bags, neither of which are in high demand. But in the rare instances that either are needed, we mount the garbage can, open the doors, and pull out the wicker basket from inside. Little plastic bottles of spices are piled high, we hunt through them until we find the garlic powder. The little basket is slid back, the doors are shut, and we jump off the garbage can, victorious.

Would-Be Friends

Something about her strikes me: I would be friends with her.

The sweet waitress at Friendly’s who took an extra second to smile,

Or the giggly but oddly-dressed girl Cousin Sean brought to Christmas,

Or the girl who stopped her car at the crosswalk, smiled as she leaned forward into the steering wheel, and let me by.

Or the sad girl at the Mexican restaurant,

Or the one walking down North Washington Street,

Or the one I might find at the corn maze, waiting.

These I have singled out from the rest of the population,

They are my would-be friends.

Rose-Colored

At the top of the mountain, looking out from the back porch, the world is inexplicably tinted red. Why? Maybe it’s like the children’s book Hello, Red Fox where you stare at the green fox for thirty seconds, then glance at a white surface. A red fox hovers in your vision for a few seconds, then fades away, as your eyes “see” the complimentary color. In our case, we sit and stare at our green walls, then emerge outside to a world that appears to glow red. Or maybe, just possibly, happiness makes us see our world through rose-colored glasses.

Calcium

In a desperate, decade-long effort, Daddy force-fed us calcium. Trying to find more pleasant sources than milk, he’d buy Tropicana Calcium, Extra Pulp Orange Juice. I loved it, but Sarah complained of its acidity. So calcium vitamins were bought and handed out daily. But they soon lost appeal. Next, Daddy bought chocolate flavored cubes of calcium, much to our initial delight. But after a couple years, we became sickened by their awful fake-chocolate taste. More recently, Mother has been sending us home with a bottle of sugar-coated calcium vitamins. We eat them dutifully. None of us has broken a bone.

Bard Owls

All has been silent during the first twenty minutes of the Tewksbury Foot Bassets’ three couple. The hounds plod in and out of covers, the whipper-ins plod up and back. Monotony reigns supreme until one whipper-in shouts for her huntsman, a sense of urgency building in her voice: “John! John!” Hope fills everyone’s heart - she’s seen a rabbit, for sure! But no: “the Bard Owls are going Crazy!” The second whipper-in and the huntsman share a look of disbelief, a look of disappointment and amusement. The hounds plod on. The bard owls screech and holler - maybe they saw the rabbit...

Ring! Ring!

The phone rings, but we don’t answer. We never answer.

“You’ve reached the Gilbert residence, please leave a message after the beep”

BEEEEP!

As the voicemail records, we all sit frozen on the couches, as if any movement or sound would give our presence away. It’s Aunt Ali. And unless Mother is in the house, there’s no chance that phone is getting picked up - and she knows it.

“Pickup-pickup-pickup….I know you’re there...pickup-pickup-pickup”

We shake our heads, “no we’re not.”

She repeats this several times, sighs, and hangs up.

We recommence talking and moving...until the phone rings again.

Gibberish

On my saddle, a nylon case holds a radio. A voice breaks the silence: “John? it’s Richard….Fox...there’s two couple of hounds running east...I’ll see if I can stop them”

No one responds, but the grammatically inclined silently add an “s” to the end of “couple.”

Later, Bart will scream unintelligible gibberish.

Scotty views a fox, but refuses to talk on the radio.

Daddy asks why no one reported a split that’s just crossed Long Lane.

Eileen mentioned it five minutes ago.

Daddy says if he didn’t hear her, she didn’t say it. No argues with his logic.

All Clean!

In a house with both a German Shepard and carpeting, a good vacuum is essential. But without a functioning machine, a stiff broom makes a mediocre substitute. On the staircase, where the entrenched fur is most visible, we sweep the dirt out of the carpet and into the air. As each stair accumulates the filth from all those above it, the process gets more difficult as you go down. Upon reaching floor level, the dining room is engulfed in a potent dust cloud. Paper towels and a can of Pledge effectively rubs the dirt into every horizontal surface. All clean!

Egg Count

Any prideful poulteress will brag on her flock’s daily egg count. But my raggedy little brown hens only brought me shame. Our poor, handsome rooster could not hold his head high as he surveyed his flock. But then, one day, I saw the ugliest of my hens sprinting from an abandoned dog house, cackling as if she’d just laid an egg. So I peeked inside, and there, amid the moldy straw, lay heaps of eggs, piled up in every corner. My pretty little hens were still laying! The flock’s dignity restored, we all walked and strutted about with great pride.

Visitors

The silence in the kitchen was disturbed by the sound the mudroom door closing. Investigating, Sarah edged towards the door and slowly opened it, just enough to stick her eye out. “Hellooo,” my parents’ old friends shouted their greeting, sounding suspiciously like Winnie the Pooh. Panic-stricken, she took her eye back out of the crack, and slammed the door. She scampered to the parents’ room, and reported the incident, drawing out every detail. Towards the end of the tale, they realized that the visitors were still at the door, likely confused and offended. Horrified, Mother rushed off to make amends.

Business Calls

Out hunting, talking is frowned upon. Yet the followers jabber on about every sort of thing, becoming deaf and blind to the excitement around them. They trudge all over the countryside, without noticing a thing. Running by, you’ll hear two middle aged women complimenting each other’s new boots or vest. Up the line from them, the mayors of neighboring towns talk strategy. But the worst offender stands alone in the woods, ordering false eyelashes. No, it’s not a woman looking to adorn her eyes, it’s the mortician, planning out an upcoming funeral. Undertakers should never take business calls in public.

Chocolate Thunder

After dining at Mugs, the family traveled over the crosswalks to our favorite little ice cream place, where our favorite ice cream server worked (the silent foreign women at Dairy Queen weren’t terribly strong competition). Here, Daddy always ordered Chocolate thunder in a sugar cone, but called them “pointy cones” instead. Eventually he and the man behind the counter devised a new way of ordering: “Stick me in the eye with a Chocolate Thunder.” Ever after, Daddy ordered with this phrase, even on nights our server had off. But the other scoopers just looked at us funny, and we’d translate.

Backseat Driver

Heading for the bus stop, Daddy and I, along with Frolic and Surplice, would drive the dirt roads. NPR’s All Things Considered served as our background music on sleepy drives, but when we were in more lively spirits, Daddy would put on Surplice’s voice, and shout warnings against all sorts of made-up dangers. Trash can! Daddy would swerve violently, sending me sliding across the backseat, giggling. Squirrel! Daddy would slam on the brakes, though it was already out of the road. With those hazards successfully avoided, I boarded the bus, leaving Daddy and the dogs to navigate their way home.

Dead Cat

Enduring bassets, chickens, and children in his house, Tigger was a tolerant cat. To amuse us girls, Daddy would catch the cat and drape him across his neck. After some teaching, Tigger would lie limp there, playing dead. In this game, Daddy was an African villager returning to his people with the day’s catch: a dead tiger. As we rejoiced at the kill, Tigger must have, for a moment, feared that we weren’t playing anymore, that he would become dinner. At those moments, he would dig his nails into Daddy’s shoulders, and leap away to safety. No dinner for us.

Lifelong Friend

In old age, a Tewksbury Foot Basset’s greatest hope is to be adopted into Moyra’s Peapack home. There, dinner is no competition and no night is bitter or lonely, yet he would spend the daytime happily back at the kennel. After car rides back and forth, he would hobble from her car, and she would look to him and beckon “come on, old man,” the way a woman might call to her husband of fifty years. And he would begin to trot behind her, his lifelong friend, who was there at his birth, and would be beside him at death.

Firewood

While Scotty and company are chopping logs three feet across into firewood, Libby collects twigs from the yard. Setting fire to these, she builds up her fire and sits beside it in Carhartt coveralls. As it burns out, she ventures into the woods behind the puppy yards, and emerges with an armful of branches and vines. She soaks in the woodsmoke as it drifts off the logs, but the next morning she’ll regret it. Her red and swollen face lets her know she’d burned poison ivy vine. It’s not as bad as when she slept in poison ivy, at least.

On West Avenue

On West Avenue, we pull into Aunt Karen’s driveway behind her Honda Element. Charlie and Joey greet us with wagging tales. Sean initiates a game of hit-the-child before we move on to run-to-the-chair. Star Wars monopoly is another option, but Sean always puts four hotels on Boardwalk. Luccia from next door arrives, demands to be fed. Aunt Karen offers us hot chocolate, but Libby politely refuses for all of us (Daddy’s made us prejudiced against water-based Hot Chocolate). In the evening, Aunt Karen serves spaghetti with parmesan cheese on paper plates. Mommy drives us back home, one mile across town.

Black Market

Under the tack room blackboard, a little bowl of candy was forever being emptied and refilled. We became dependent on those tootsie rolls, twizzlers, blow pops, and chocolates. Sometimes, when the bowl sat empty, outbreaks of desperation seized the barn. A black market sprung up as Libby routinely sold her soul for Sarah’s secret candy stash. But when Libby had no more to offer, she had to hunt for her sweets, under hunt caps, in the pockets of dormant kennel coats, everywhere. But when she found the hoard, the accompanying written note, warning against thievery, sent shivers down her spine.

Spunk

Common society knows the odorous little mammals who characteristically sport a white stripe down their black coats as “spunks”. But Grandma had other ideas, decidedly pronouncing them to be “skunks,” with a k. So terribly stubborn, she would never allow me to talk of spunks without “correcting” me. But I stayed true to my language, never giving her the pleasure of hearing that k instead of the p. It’s such a heated debate between us, that I hesitate to write about it, even after a decade’s silence, for fear of disturbing her peace. But right is right, and wrong, wrong.

Peanut Butter

A second dumpster appeared on the property, one bigger than the usual one which sat in the parking lot. Its arrival inspired a basement clean-out. For help, Mother employed Cousin Sean. As we surveyed the mess, Mother suggested we group items into categories and label them with signs. Horse Stuff for the back left corner. Beach Stuff on the right side. We traveled through the basement, until a lone item stood in the path, a gallon jug of peanut butter. Sean passed his hand in front of the obstacle, pretending to read the sign for this particular category: “Peanut Butter.”

Tres Leches

I had a neck-knife dangling in front of my chest, Alec was unshaven in his leather outback hat. After camping on the edge of Stephen’s Pond for the last week, we craved real food, something sweet. At a little coffee shop, we ordered sandwiches and a slice of Tres Leches cake, to go. The woman behind the counter, the owner, the chef was disappointed. She brought out two forks and a square of cake. On the house, she told us as she boxed up another piece. We ate as she watched. She invited us and our future children back anytime.

Red Ranger

In my aftercare classroom, there were the girls who played with dolls, the card players, the boys who loved legos, and the misfits who played violent games of hide-and-seek. Fernando was in the lego group, but today he didn’t fight over the lego-man accessories. Because today, he had a story to tell, about how his mom and her sister had gotten in a fist fight. He seemed surprised that I cared, that I would listen. The next day, he showed his appreciation by giving me a drawing. The back read “You are Red Ranger.” I took it as a compliment.

Crash-land

Opposite the Peapack Gladstone Pond, a gathering of mothers and children encircle a baseball diamond. After innings, snacks are distributed to the little ball players who trot about identically clad in red sweat wristbands. Down the hill, I am content to play alone. But interfering mothers place me and another toddler on opposite ends of the seesaw. I decide that this stranger doesn’t interest me, so I dismount, leaving her to crash-land in the wood chips below. Embarrassed, my mother has me apologize, and I obey, grudgingly and without sincerity. Afterall, I didn’t want to play in the first place.

Super Secret Spies

There were two of them, Slick and Sneak. Under the flag of the Super Secret Spies, they were united, dedicated to their cause. Though they had no mission, no purpose, they spent great amounts of time maintaining their image, using their aliases. I watched them from afar, longing to be included. But they were an exclusive club, not open to outsiders or little sisters. After some deliberation, I was allowed to undergo the necessary tests and training to achieve spy-status. No longer would I respond to “Katie,” for I was now “Slime.”  And I have the certificate to prove it.

Short Bus

The cool kids of Bernards High School took the train; I took the bus - the short bus with the long line of trainee drivers. First came George, who routinely pulled out in front of ‘Toys R Us’ trucks and listened to “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurythmics on a loop. Next, the good-humored lady who was immune to the boys’ constant screeches and bellows and referred to us as “youse guys”. After that, the hispanic woman, who ate cut fruit from tupperware in the glove compartment while listening to trashy morning radio shows. We endured them all, and they endured us.

Sorrow

Libby and Sarah were in middle school now, so I rode PG-8 home all alone. I walked from the bus stop through rain and puddles until, from the driveway, I saw my family, miserable, huddled in the mudroom, waiting. Something was not right. Indeed, Arrow, our basset, was dying and the vet was scheduled to put her down that afternoon. We sobbed as we cuddled with her for the last time, as we said goodbye. I took a mental picture as the jeep drove away; as she sat seneley in the passenger seat, looking back at us, full of sorrow.

Hateful

Up and back, down and over. I follow the L-shaped sidewalk in front of the horses’ stalls on my scooter. I zip past them one after another: Blaze, Kerry, Smokey, Shamus, Jimmy. And back again: Jimmy, Shamus, Smokey, Kerry, Blaze. Back and forth, over and over. Kerry gets fed up, puts an end to my fun. As I speed by, he reaches out his ugly, white head, and bites deep into my shoulder, through my red down coat, sweater, shirt, flesh. I’m scared and angry, he cowers in the corner of his stall, fearing my wrath. He’s a hateful horse.

Boys vs. Bees

Two of the Hester boys, age three and five, stand amongst the swarm of bees, swinging tree branches at them furiously, doing their best to kill. Honoring my duty as protector of insects, I try to reason with them, but they far outdo my logic, explaining how carpenter bees are very destructive, and most certainly will destroy the cabin’s structural integrity. So I try another method, try their sympathy. “But won’t their families be sad that you killed them?” Eli thinks on this a moment, weighing the costs and benefits. He finds a solution: “We’ll just kill their families, too!”

SNIP

Pity on the flowers, crushed beneath muddy boots. Pity on the fallen trees, limbed from top to bottom. Pity on the fresh sprouts of pricker bushes, drawn into the sunlit path, into our way. They need to be cut, trimmed back, for our sake, for the horses, and for the hounds. Surely our comfort matters more, but, still, they tried so hard, used so much energy to form themselves, to stretch out over the trail. They really must be cut, though. So I raise my loppers, position the branch between blades - SNIP. I continue down the path, rationalizing my destruction.

Renewed

After a long day’s hunt, we often climb in the basset truck with a new toy, something taken from the woods or the river bank. At some point on the drive home, however, that perfect walking stick, old glass bottle, or oddly shaped rock loses value. It’s no longer worth the effort of taking it up to the house or into the basset kennel. So it stays alongside the forgotten items from last week. When the truck eventually is clean out, and the used tinfoil and newspapers are thrown away, the old treasures resurface, their appeal renewed, continuing the cycle.

Avenged

In the dentist chair, the dreaded Dr. Rostami or maybe Dr. Emami (who can tell the difference?) reclines me back into a position of vulnerability. As I clutch the armrests in desperate fear, Daddy advises me to kick my sneaker through the window upon feeling the least bit of pain. But I haven’t the courage to carry this out, even as she pricks and prys at my teeth. Sensing my angry dejection as we leave, Daddy scrapes the dog poop off his boot using the edge of their office door. We share a look of satisfaction. I feel sufficiently avenged.

Tea Kettle

Naptime should be over, but me and Puppy-June can’t manage to keep our eyes open, though Alec has risen already. Before he returns to the workshop, to his knifemaking, he promises to wake us in a bit. Instead of setting an alarm, which would beep and blare away my peaceful sleep, he fills the tea kettle and turns the back burner to medium. Some minutes later, a soft whooshing sound eases me awake, until the sharp whistle of the teapot calls me off the couch. I respond with a tea bag, a spoonful of sugar, and a splash of cream.

New Year's Eve

We had never stayed up for New Year’s Eve before, partially out of disinterest, partially because we were tired. But one year, the family resolved to stay up. Daddy had prepared, buying chocolate Häagen-Dazs bars for dessert. Looking for entertainment, we chose the dvd Santa had gotten me for Christmas, a National Geographic Bengal tiger documentary. But when the film switched its interests to mating and cub birth, Libby and Sarah casually excused themselves, at intervals, while I feigned sleep. The movie finished, the Häagen-Dazs bars all eaten, we disbanded our party. 2005 arrived as we slept, dreaming of tigers.

Sweater for Stalls

Libby knows little of unrequited envies. She’ll never accept the lesser dessert, choosing smiles and pleas to win the most symmetrical, chocolate drizzled, plump chocolate nut roll. We oblige her always, spoil her, because we know she will get triple the enjoyment from it than either Sarah or I are capable of. Not always this lenient, Sarah sometimes capitalizes on Libby’s irrational desires. Agreements are drawn up: one black quarter-zip North Face sweater in exchange for Libby’s soul and lifelong labor. The sweater, threadbare, is worn into oblivion. And the horse stalls are always clean, but never by Sarah’s pitchfork.

Piping Plover

We navigate through the canopy of umbrellas shading the beach, and head up the coastline, lead by our mother on a mission. The people fade away, leaving only the old fishermen and us. We reach a restricted beach, open to nesting piping plovers only. Judging by Mother’s excitement, this has been our destination all along. Armed with her camera, she passes over the border, and watches for the little scampering birdies. When we realize she no intention of leaving, we skip and play back to our umbrella, writing messages in the sand for her to read on the way back.

Haag’s Hotel

Halfway to Virginia, we pass through Shartlesville, home of the Haag’s Hotel. We stuff straw wrappers in the fish pond’s stone wall, and then hunt for the ones planted there last time. Mommy conducts a handwashing contest in the bathroom, crowning the pair of hands which produces the filthiest water the winner. At the table, an overwhelmingly white platter awaits us, comprised of open-faced turkey sandwich over potato filling. Though the potato filling burns my throat for the remainder of the trip, I order it each time anyway, out of respect for tradition. Afterall, I’m not one to break tradition.

Grass Walker

Students traverse the sidewalks zigzagging every bit of the Gettysburg campus, never stepping off the prescribed path. I walk on another axis, perpendicular to the others, yet many of us share our destination. Very few join me on the scenic route, through trees and bushes, over grass. Only inside, in the classrooms, do I temporarily relinquish my freedom, understanding that I must integrate on occasion. It could be worse, I could be one of the sorority girls who are forbidden to cut across the grass, to imagine their own path. I revel in my freedom. I am a grass walker.

Downstream

On the shore of the Black River, we board an inflatable boat and settle in for our adventure. After passing our old nursery school, we steer around a tree growing horizontally from the bank. Where the current is forced down around it, the water deepens. In this swimming hole, we sisters learned to swim. It was also here that we doggy-paddled alongside Frolic on the last day of summer vacation. Farther downstream, we pass the hounds’ watering holes and the river crossings until we see McCan Mill Bridge. Sarah abandons ship. We picnic on water-logged food in the usual place.

Enslaved

During the many forced apologies of childhood, Libby, Sarah, and I would follow our self-prescribed protocol. Mother would stand by to negotiate the peace treaty, and the guilty sister would cede herself into slavery for the day. Carrying out the whims of her master, the slave would suffer according to her wrongdoings from earlier. Offering one’s enslavement was also a standard gift bestowed on birthdays. Resultantly, only one day a year, May 29th, was I ever master of my two sisters. For it was always me, never them, who misbehaved, who needed to compensate for bad behavior through slave labor.

Roadkill Kisses

Lining either side of the paved roads, far too many lifeless little animals lay cold, destroyed, and friendless, without even the dignity of decomposing back into the earth. I send them all kisses, carried over the air, bridging the distance between us. A policeman sits on the side of the road, watching faces as the cars drive by. I start to blow my kiss to the roadkill a few yards beyond his patrol car, but realize the policeman surely would misinterpret. Beyond his view now, I send the poor groundhog a kiss through the reflection in the side view mirror.

Drawn in Dew

Before disembarking on the morning hunt, the Doughertys each draw me a trail map, one traced on the jeep’s dew-covered window, another sketched in pencil. In the fields, Mr. Dougherty tells me stories of his great grandfather. How his cry of “by Jove, boy!” struck fear in young Mr. Dougherty’s heart. How he lived his ninety-eight years in full health, drinking schnapps and smoking cigars. And how, shirtless upon his deathbed, his scarred shoulders evidenced his labor as a blacksmith assistant. The story charmed me, but I feared it might soon dissolve away, as quickly as the morning’s dew-drawn map.

Pipe-Smoking Man

As chairman of the National Beagle Club, Mr. Wiley is obliged to attend the annual board meeting in Aldie. But as he is in his nineties, Mother offered to drive him down in his station wagon. As a pipe-smoking man, Mr. Wiley indulged himself frequently during the trip, suffocating us in the backseat. As we breathed out the cracked open windows, Mr. Wiley asked us each how we knew we were getting close. I pointed to the stone wall which parallels the dirt road to Aldie. Now, every time I pass it, I think of Mr. Wiley and his pipe.

Fig Newton Eater

The useful children that we were, Libby, Sarah, and I decided to put our skills to use. As strongest, Sarah was obliged to assist in all jar-opening activities. Libby was employed only on the drive home from the ice cream store, at which time she was called upon to hold our cones as we buckled our seatbelts. Too young to be useful, I chose to gobble up dropped Fig Newtons, thus sparing others the trouble. Not surprisingly, the position of ‘Fig Newton Eater’ was not nearly as honorable as ‘Opener,’ and even less frequently used than the ‘Ice Cream Holder.’

We're Regulars

We’ve come to Raritan to eat at Mugs. Before entering the restaurant, we visit a little fenced-in patch of weeds, ‘Libby’s Throw-up Garden,” named for a past illness experienced there. Inside, we fight over the cherished seat on the L-shaped booth, though it belongs to Libby alone. Daddy orders red wine, potato skins, and chicken parmesan.  He feeds us each a forkful of his red wine. We watch John, the restaurant manager, pace the aisles, chat with the regulars, us included. Libby tries to read the clock on the opposite wall. We discover she needs glasses. Our big night out.

Hayloft

In the corner stall, I slap flakes of hay, testing for mold. The dust billows; I hold my breathe against the spores. I mentally prepare myself to do what I must: venture into the hayloft to retrieve fresh bales. The ladder rungs hold their place, allowing me to ascend into the darkness and shadows, into the still and dusty air. I distract myself from imaginary dangers by singing the the few words I know of ‘Hey Jude’. I look to my only other solace: the sliver of light coming through the second-story doors. I throw them open. Sunlight bursts in.

Bernards Protégé

Each year, Bernards High School students gather along the glass hallway to peek into the courtyard. Our duck is back! For several weeks she broods in the bushes, until she reappears with her offspring. If the ducklings still luxuriate in their safe haven by the time the school closes for summer, the janitors herd them down the hallways to the outside world, for without the Green Team filling up their inflatable swimming pool and collecting money for their duck food, they could not survive. Next year, the survivors will occupy the courtyards to raise their own ducklings, the Bernards protégé.

Rescue

At a trot, my pony and I bounce along the Morris’s fields, getting fit for hunting. Another horse passes us, fully tacked, but riderless. In a minute, we come across his crime scene where his rider still lies helpless, awaiting rescue. But I need not interfere or pretend like a hero, 911 has already responded and sent out help. And here they come: three work trucks, each bearing the name of a different family-owned plumbing businesses. The Finns, Fagans, and Russos put aside their rivalries and adopt the brotherliness of the Peapack fire squad. The woman is in good hands.

Putin's Goodbye

As NPR detailed the meeting between President Bush and President Putin, a stray kitten was brought into our home. And without a name, Daddy jokingly named him Putin. It stuck. Ten years later, as Alec and I were getting on Route 15 in Camp Hill, my family called. Putin had died that morning. While Mother imparted the news, we approached a stop light, and heard it: a meow. Maybe a cat was wandering the roadside beside our car. But no, as we accelerated onto the highway at 60 mph, another meow. And another. Calm and clear meows. A last goodbye.

An Ode

The bathtub spouts scalding water, perfect for soaking the hounds’ food. The stall doors are raised enough for Rags or Frolic to duck under for a visit. The cement floors showcase my dew-dampened footprints in the early morning, and puddles left by dropped water balloons in the afternoon. The ladies’ room in Aldie is only unwelcoming once each day, the hour before cocktails, when half-dressed women emerge from their baths to coif themselves. At all other times, it is our shelter, our safe haven, snuggly during spring rains, chilled in the summer heat, and toasty against the chilly fall air.

Nobility

The hounds were gone, and my pony Fred was long past tired. Sick of kicking him along, I dismounted and decided to run instead, dragging Fred along at reins’ length. Now at the Morano’s, we stood in the bottom covert, a little braided girl and her pony, covered in burrs and mud. And five feet before us, the most noble bird in our skies, a red-tailed hawk perched atop a stump. Fearing losing a finger in his beak, I petted him with the end of my whip at arm’s length. He looked offended, but stayed put. We were not worthy.

Morning's Itinerary

It’ll be dark for another hour, but we’re awake and heading for the barn. The hounds’ excitement breaks the 5am silence. At 6:00 they’ll pour from the door and pack up on the front lawn. We’ll scale Knacker Hill and meander the countryside. By 7:30, we’ll be heading home on the gravel path through the Slacks’ apple orchard. Emerging with an apple each, we’ll eat breakfast by the pond while the hounds go swimming. The horses will slobber over apple cores all the way home. By 9:00 we’ll be up at the house, down for our nap.

Work Weekend

Twice a year, the most devoted basseters and beaglers trek to Aldie, fully equipped with power tools. The manliest among them drive the steel-wheeled tractor or operate the stump grinder. The next tier of workers take down selected areas with chainsaws. The men incapable of either point and give directions. Meanwhile the women pile into the kitchen and prepare a constant flow of hearty meals and bountiful desserts. Us girls are sent to work with paint brushes. Deer hunters arrive, happily doing their share to maintain the property. They work well alongside the others, united in mutual love for Aldie.

Bathtime

After bathtime in our old Jackson Avenue house, we’d put our pod of toy beluga whales away, and begin construction on a towel fort. Inside, we’d place our little box heater whose face glowed red as it warmed us. We’d huddle around it, shielding ourselves from the chilly air of the bathroom. In there, we became the three little pigs. The wolf, then, was our mother, who clawed at our poorly pitched tent, playing along. Eventually, she’d get in, but instead of gobbling us up like the big bad wolf, she’d just sit there beside us and enjoy the warmth.

Wolfe's Diner

After we leave the Bedminster Shell station, we don’t stop again until Wolfe’s Diner in Dillsburg. There, people stare at the three little blonde girls with their Daddy. They come over to tells us their thoughts.

...pretty as a picture...

...where you going with all them dogs...

...Don’t like pickles?? Don’t you know where you are...

The bill comes, it’s just over twenty dollars for the four of us. Daddy checks on the bassets outside. Libby admires pictures of James Dean in the bathroom hallway. Sarah and I eat our locally raised ham. 
Another hour and a half to Aldie. 

Salt Lick

After arriving at Somerset Grain and Feed, men load up our car with bags of horse feed, doing their best to avoid Mother as she frets about them, trying to make room around the junk. On our way home, I take out the prize purchase, a salt lick, meant to supplement the horses’ diets. Fearing Mother won’t approve, I sneak licks all the way home, getting in my month’s worth of salt intake before the ponies taint it with their own saliva. It’s not ruined then, but I try to avoid licking areas deeply dished out by the ponies’ tongues.

Scarred and Squishy

Libby and Sarah took turns pushing in my nose, delighted that their baby sister had ‘no bone in her nose’. But our cat Tigger was less fond of me. To him, I was prey. He’d hide beneath one of the kitchen chairs and pounce as I passed by. After his most successful attack, my face was scratched diagonally from my forehead to chin. In the hall mirror, I saw the blood streaked across my face as my mother tried to shield my eyes. My nose is still scarred. Between the scar and it’s squishiness, I’m quite fond of my nose.

Mop and Pop

At some point, your classmates start talking about ‘Mom’ instead of ‘Mommy’. For whatever reason, Libby, Sarah, and I skipped this developmental stage, and so sticked to 'Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’. In public, we’ll usually say ‘my mom’ instead, as we avoid sounding overly juvenile. Out of earshot, though, we sisters occasionally amuse ourselves by calling them by another set of names: Mop and Pop. That’s what I’ll teach my babies to call Alec and I someday. So when they overhear talk of other kids’ mommies, they’ll sit quietly in their mud puddle and wonder why they have a Mop instead.