Black Alligator

Along the base of Knacker Hill runs a perfect little stream where puppies swam, miniature dams were built, and sleds ran aground in winter. But this also was where our German Shepherd Frolic stalked her prey. In the deeper waters, shaded by the grape vines and pricker bushes, she would lie in wait, the ridge of her back and head above the water line. Obligingly we would stroll by, until, sensing her moment, she would spring from the water, chasing us down. Afterward, quite pleased with herself, she would sink back underwater, resuming her role as the pointy-eared black alligator.

Poppy

Early memories often exist without context, as isolated incidents. Such are my memories of Poppy, my great-grandfather. I remember his leather chair, the kitchen behind it. I remember the butterscotch we were supposed to savor, not bite into. I remember my guilt as I accidentally chewed it. I remember his collection of toy animals decorating the shelves along the left-hand wall. On my birthday, Poppy gifted a mama bear and two cubs from this collection. With these, he gave me a cast-metal scottie dog, mistaking it for another cub. They, along with Grandma’s china cabinet, are my most cherished possessions.

Well Wisher

Wish for all things simple.

    A loving husband,

         A home, with happy green walls,

              An adoring little pup, sleepy and moody,

                   Clarity.

A Well Wisher. That is who I am. Not a person who hopes for others’ success, but a hopeful, one that casts her dime to fate, unburdened by worry. Allowing for good fortune, I do not question the Well’s gifts. Instead, gratefully, I accept them, appreciative of my luck and how absolutely ideal it all is. For I simply exist as my world daily announces my fate, one happy gift after the next.

My life is unplanned perfection.

Little Twists

Having recently moved, Alec and I don't yet understand the people or the landscape of our new territory. So, as I drive, I pick out little twists in the road, things in the distance, imagining what they might someday mean to me. I compare them to things back home, the roadside stream which Daddy would drive out to when deciding if the ground was too wet to ride. If the stream ran, he would cancel foxhunting. Stagnant or dried-up, we would go. Admiring this simple tradition, I want to discover my secret earthly connections, to solidify this as my home.

Eggplant Sandwich

Virginia-bound, Libby and I crammed into Moyra’s back seat, avoiding Abby’s cartoon reruns in Uncle David’s Ford. And though both cars ran into the same traffic, Abby, determined to finally end the trip, allegedly directed their car right to the NBC driveway. Moyra’s priorities differing, we postponed our trip in favor of an eggplant sandwich. Going door to door, Moyra sought her craving while Libby and I stood back, shamed by her relentless complaints of Subway’s menu. Exhausted from our fruitless canvassing, we rejoined rush hour until we finally arrived - safe from traffic, bitter old women, and eggplant sandwiches.

Re-Gifted

As a middle school teacher, my mom is showered with Christmas gifts. Tempting as all the candles and assorted chocolates may be, she reserves these gifts for unexpected guests. So when our festive neighbors show up, she runs to the back room, leaving them at the front door, smiles and gifts mid-offer. Ripping off “To Mrs. Gilbert” tags, she curses the children who scrawled their message directly onto the gift bag. Now equipped with reciprocative gifts, she offers unnecessary, lighthearted explanation as to why she didn’t visit first. Pleasantries over, she stores away the new gift for the next guest.

Mop-n-Glo

We are not a family of clean-freaks. Rather, we avoid soap and sponges, fearing the strata of our grime.  But every so often, the old mop emerges, its sponge dried up like mudcracks of the desert. No one told us about diluting the concentrated cleaners, and so the Mop-n-Glo gets applied to the floor - liberally. Unable to stand on the newly frictionless tiles, we have fun sliding about. And that's when Mother returns, our grandfather in tow. Unsteady on his feet to begin with, Pa spends his visit outside. Mother doesn’t ask us to clean again for some time.

Within

Emotions are carefully concealed in the Gilbert family. We are suspicious of those who discuss personal problems, of people who hug too freely. Grandma, born a Hawk, was not prone to these suspicions. Bringing cookies (milk bones for Frolic), reading stories, waiting at the bus stop, and attending school events, Grandma played the perfect grandmother. Granddad, though still a dutiful grandfather, would watch us play outside from within his car. Once, though, at Thanksgiving dinner, the table busy with conversation, he walked two fingers across the table, nabbing a pea from my plate. Rejoining the conversation, he pretended nothing happened.

Imagined Worlds

A profound division exists within the Gilbert family, dreamers against non-dreamers. While my Mom spends her nights parading through her imagined worlds, an airborne hero, my father sleeps fitfully, obsessing over reality. He and Sarah wrythe at the long-winded and fanciful dreams. And so we have a pact of sorts, a segregation of the dreamers and non-dreamers. Though Libby or I, the fellow dreams, might find ourselves charged with the task of recording our mother’s half-asleep retellings for later analysis, we stand by each other, for who else will listen to our imagined escapades if not for our fellow dreamers?

Dead Halt

Fred was a simple pony, not too bright, not too much personality. He was essentially Eeyore. He wasn't much for fancy nonsense like dressage, but he could get around out hunting. So we’d try to keep him fit. Riding out in the backwoods, Fred would plot his return to the barn. Over the course of a minute, he'd walk slower and slower until he reached a dead halt. Then, rearing to his back legs, Fred would spin around and trot for home, only to have me jerk him back around. Defeated, Fred would start his game again, wearing me down.

Counting Seconds

Warm and windy summer nights are my favorite of all. Like the night Libby and I invented our game of "Gordon Lightfoot" - rolling in the grass to capture and recapture a shoe, the singer’s name our victory call. Or the night the family stayed in the yard long into the night, shooting our toy bow and arrow, for Frolic. Or the night Mommy gathered us on the foxhound kennel stoop, watching the approaching summer storm, teaching us to count the seconds between flash and rumble. These nights exist in the moment, unrepeatable. Standing alone like this, they become memories.

Abby's Entrances

All’s peaceful at the National Beagle Club. Out of sight, a jeep pulls up. From it, Cousin Abby barges, arms outstretched. "I'm HERE.” Folks pretend not to notice, struggling to continue their conversation, to avoid an encounter. Arms flop down, then fling back out, giving the entrance another shot. "I'm HERE". Still no reaction. Phase two goes into effect. She saddles up to the group, thrusting her elbow atop a stranger’s shoulder, showing off her monstrous height. She juts out her chest, her stomach, smiles a gooney grin. Unimpressed with this audience, she runs off to make some more entrances.

Surplice

Surplice the basset hound lived in our house. Not really by our choice, but because the fences wouldn't hold her. She adapted well to house-life. Cuddling came easily. She was a natural-born cuddletress, using all her wiles to achieve the most comfiest of naps. She starts out quite docile, curled at your feet, but soon stretches out along your calf, beginning her ascent to your head. Worming her way up your side and onto your chest, you are now helpless - her spotted white fur soon will be smothering your face. And so until she decides otherwise, you are hers.

Ragtag

While every other American woman ventures up and down the mall’s escalators, us Gilbert girls scavenger for our clothes. My grandma picks out armfuls of men's button-down shirts from her neighbor’s garbage. Mother wears hand-me-downs from sympathetic teachers at her school. Libby’s closet consists of little girl dresses, a sweater which inexplicably is missing the last three inches of sleeve, a black tee-shirt with enough holes to satisfy any man's curiosity, and a pair of denim shorts whose zipper never quite zipped. Sarah and I get our clothes from our favorite brands: Goodwill and Salvation Army. We’re a ragtag bunch.

Boots

Boots are complicated. My artist grandma, B, painted her rendition of the boot: one laying on its side, the other upright, laces undone, encircling the toe. They are frozen lifeless in the position where the foot left them. But however visually accurate this may be, it does not capture all the boot’s nuances: a winter chill freezing the leather into a hardened uncomfortable form, the day’s accumulated mud weighing on each step, the fear that your foot will find something else inside, the pride at the work they’ve done. Just try and paint that, the discomfort, weight, fear, and pride.

Officer Maude

"Officer Maude’s on the march." Or so we'd say when my mother went on a rampage. She’d begin by listing her grievances: hunger, fatigue, bank hours, sibling quarrels, messy house, etc. (the lists always started the same “I’m hungry, I’m tired…”). And since she was too busy making these lists, she would get nothing done.  But about an hour later she would succumb to hunger, start to make toast, forget about it, burn it, and settle for spoonfuls of peanut butter. The sugar acting as a sedative, she’d collapse in a heap on her bed, glasses knocked askew. Officer down.

Family Values

Readily using questionable means to get things like haircuts done, building trust was low on the list of my parents’ concerns. You see, I was protective of my special curl, the one which spiraled down between my eyes, alighting on my nose. For whatever reason, it had to stay. But Mother didn’t agree. Bringing a pair of blunt-tip kid’s scissors to her sleeping toddler's head, she snipped away at that perfect curl. Scarred from this breach of trust, I sleep just a tad bit lighter knowing my mother may creep in, ready to take what is precious to me.

Shoelaces

A dozen foxhound pups, Cousin Abby, and me. I'm babysitting for a couple hours, but she's easy enough to watch as long as you have a dog or two. That or endless reruns of her favorite television show. Of course I choose the puppy pen. We sit and play, she makes some light conversation. No, not with me. With herself, or maybe her new floppy eared friends - I can't tell. A puppy come over, tugs my shoelace, untying it. Abby is amused.
"You used to do that all the time when you were a puppy, you know'. 
She gasps.

Hope the Dairy Cow

My Mom once got an old dairy cow. The first day "Hope” lived with us, my mom's sister arrived to claim her share of the milk. Libby didn’t look kindly upon her impatience, and so refused. Had it been the second day, we would have graciously given the still-warm, mastitis-ridden, milk-pail with kicked-up mud settled in the bottom. But they did not wait. And so they were punished. Crazed by Libby's “selfishness”, Aunt Karen verbally harassed us all, and scolded my mother for not teaching us good Christian values. Libby didn't bother fighting; she just hid the milk. Well played.

Tank-Cleaner

Some people shouldn't have fish. As strictly dog-people, my family falls into this category. Yet we have two murky green tanks. My grandma, who also keeps fish, has 5 immaculate tanks. To add excitement to her life, she shifts her fish from tank to tank every couple weeks so that no one fish gets the best or worst tank for too long. Even this does not satisfy her boredom, so, while my family is away, she sneaks into our house and cleans our tanks. Returning home, we find our tanks sparkling, our fish gazing out, shocked by the water's transparency.

Tourists

While playing an invented game with Sarah on the swing, I ripped her from the seat. Though this was the object of the game, she fell funny, spraining her ankle. The blame for the subsequent cast, limp and general misery fell to me. During Sarah's healing, we visited Washington DC. But even the city’s pink blossoms in all their glory couldn’t lighten the family’s mood. I remember my parents cruelly telling me I ruined the trip by not smiling for the photos. I remember crying. I remember the forced grimaces. We stay home now, we can’t handle the tourist life.

Another Brother

My parents were not wise in choosing hairstyles for their little girls. Though they let Libby's hair grow long, they kept me and Sarah's hair short. And so this started a game of sorts. Libby would convince new acquaintances that we were three brothers. She would explain that as a poor snowboarder who could not afford earmuffs, she grew out her hair for warmth. In this role, she used Sarah and I as props, short-haired kids who easily passed for boys. I did not protest, it didn't occur to me that I could. So there I was, just another brother.

Rats

The local terrier trials are quite the spectacle. Beside the usual folks (firefighters manning the food tent, RV-owners pursuing canine glory, and bumbling pet owners testing their dog’s luck against professional training) is one woman whose pre-competition rituals win her every blue-ribbon. As her turn approaches, she holds her dog against her face, cheek to cheek, and begins to whisper. First quivering then thrashing in her arms - the dog, riled beyond compare, leaps into the bushes to find the hidden caged rat. Quietly observing, we hear her menacing chant: "raaatss… raaats, diirrtyy FILTHY crawlling raattss: kill them. muuurder. muuurder.”

Cat-Care

Cat-care is not our expertise. Yet we had two, Tigger and Putin. My mother started out strong: buying them food, collars, even little bells. But soon the enthusiasm faded, the bells were lost forever under the refrigerator, collars outgrown, food eaten. So we'd get the fifty pound bags of Purina cat-chow and leave it up to the cats to chew and tear the bag open. And they feasted at will. But all this came to an end when the bag ran out. The dog's food bowl becoming increasingly appetizing, Dog and Cat came to coexist, sustained on the same food.

Meltdown Timetable

We sisters are ready to head off to the basset trials in Virginia. The family decided on a 4 pm departure. Bags loaded, we start the waiting. 4:20 - Daddy starts the washer. Mommy hauls her overflowing blue duffel bag, filled with the clothes from last fall's trip. 5:00 - we take it upon ourselves to move Daddy’s clothes to the dryer, he is no where to be found. Mommy starts cleaning the house for the first time this year. 5:30 - Frolic, impatient, jumps in the open doors of the truck, ready to wait us out. Mommy calls Aunt Karen, won’t she give the cat his diabetic shots? 6:00 - Mother’s panic sets in, she threatens not to take us, MAYBE tomorrow. We’re getting bitter. We control ourselves, avoiding meltdown. 7:00 and getting dark - Mother tries to find the key to a house we haven’t locked in years. Daddy reemerges. We load the hounds, coerce mother out the door, gather in the van. Oh wait, we forgot the dog dish. Mother returns to get it. 7:05. 7:10. Libby fetches her, exasperated. Mother relocks the keyless door. We leave. It’s eight o’clock.

Driving in Skirts

I bought a skirt once, marked down to fifty-cents, at a flea market. This skirt is exactly like the ones my Grandma wore, the style, the silhouette, the length, everything. For a few years it sat in my closet, unworn. But I didn't think much of it, it was less than a dollar, after all. But recently I have started a skirt "de-beautification" process, trying to make skirts less dressed up, more of an everyday garment. With this, the skirt has reemerged. And since Grandma drove everywhere, antiquing with Granddad, yesterday, when I drove in this skirt, I was her.

On the Backs of Bassets

Though Planet Earth may say differently, the feeding frenzies of the sea have nothing on dinner time at the kennel. Dozens of hounds, newly freed from their yards, gather together in mutiny, attempting to break down the door as the Israelites did the walls of Jericho. Upon their release, they charge, magnificently. Confronted with a new doorway, narrower than the wave is wide, they grow vertically, making a double-decker flow of fur, which just as quickly dissipates into neat rows along the troughs.

This is all viewed with awe from the sidelines, but one, braver than us all, has gone undercover, become one with the Great Wave. My cousin: Martha Abigail Gilbert, once stood braced against the tide as the door flung open. As her legs washed out from under her, she rode atop the mass, their backs carrying her body. Her glory was brief, but she is determined to reclaim her place among the bassets. Each Sunday after hunting, her briar-tattered clothes blowing in the wind, she stands as Lady Liberty before the gates, prepared for whatever may ensue. Her mother complains loudly, but dares not step in front of those doors, not even to rescue her only child.

Disease, Dirt, and Girls

Gardening Club is not for everybody. Molly needs some reassurance that she will contract neither rabies nor ebola, depending on the week, from worms in the dirt. Mia showing off her bravery, takes the newly chopped worm over to the compost bin, “rehoming” it. Soon, she, remembering her own distaste for worms, slathers her hands in sanitizer. But the March air chills her newly wetted hands - “brrr”. Meanwhile Jay, the only boy in the group, practices throwing mud balls over the fence. Perhaps they will all choose clubs more wisely from now on: ones without disease, dirt, or girls.

These Green Walls

We're homegrown, Alec and I, healthy outputs of our world. And so we surround ourselves with the same inner glow which attracts us to each other like moths to a flame. Except we don’t perish in the fire, we revel in the warmth; we grow stronger. With this strength we move our lives forward, we marry, become homeowners. When faced with decorating our home, we peruse the color swatches. We consider Red, too royal for us happy little dogs. Green is the color of happiness, we decide. And so here we eat, and sleep, and love: in these Green walls.

Small-Town Ruffian

Late nights at the local bar have become a thing of the past for my grandma, B, after "Chatfields" shut down. For years she went without a hangout, until she created a new hub, a place to gather her audience. And so, each morning, she and her tribe of older men gather at Caesar’s for coffee. Not everyone knows to respect these regulars' table and that's when the turf wars break out. She emerges from these tiffs with her spirit rekindled, pleased by her street gang’s triumph. My grandma is a small-town ruffian, a gal you don’t wanna mess with.

Hit-the-Child

Invented games proved better than monopoly, tag, or marco polo in every way. Cousin Sean initiated the first games of “Hit-the-Child” as he hurled a rubber ball at us girls, assuring us the bedsheet over our heads would protect us. It was Libby who found glory in the game, her feats of bravery making her our hero, “the dare-devil”. This extended beyond the game, into everyday life. She would run up the tree which grew at a 45 degree angle, we would gasp in awe. To this day, I still feel a certain reverence towards my oldest sister, “the dare-devil”.