Invented Pluralities

When I learned one piece of data was datum, and that syllabi is the plural of syllabus, things changed. I began to further develop the grammatical world with invented pluralities. When my friend Nermeen would tell me about recent EMT calls she’d gone on, I would interrupt her each time she said ambulances, correcting her - “it’s ambuli.” Eventually she picked up on the new grammatical rules her middle school teacher surely had forgotten. Alec, too, knows that a group of female waitstaff is referred to as “waitri” instead of the obsolete term "waitresses". I have begun a linguistic revolution.

Scrounging

After the cabinets run dry and dinners become scarce, we employ the survival strategy of “scrounging”. The chain of desperation begins with refrigerated leftovers, progresses to canned soups (beginning with chicken and stars and ending with cream of tomato), stabilizes with an over-consumption of rice with canned gravy, and ends as we scavenge the laundry room cabinets for soy nuts and, embarrassingly, Chef Boyardee ravioli. This last step fully solidifies the recognition of our deprivation. Considering why our parents cannot comprehend the immediacy of our grocery shopping needs, we remember that Daddy dines out while Mother, seemingly, just doesn’t eat.

Migration

Still gawky from their recent growth spurt, my young chickens spent their days scratching for bugs, dust bathing, and crowing. One chick, with much bigger life goals, saw opportunity in the open kitchen door. He strided past the kitchen, through the dining room to the staircase, where, once scaled, he walked the length of the hallway into Sarah’s room. Marking the end of this great migration, he streaked Sarah’s room in his bird poop - across the mirror, down the walls, covering the floor. As horrific as this scene was, I have never been quite as impressed by a bird.

Waitstaff

Driven into the custody of our favorite waitstaff in our search for food, my family would decide between Andy from China Palace, who, when I was little, amused himself by tipping my chair back until it reached the ground, Junior the La Pizzeria delivery man who would always cheerfully greet “Meester John” until my dad started hiding during the deliveries to avoid Junior’s over-enthusiasm, or Oswaldo and Rosa at Friendly’s who quietly expressed their appreciation of our dedicated patronage in smiles. Thoroughly embarrassed by our too-frequent presence in these establishments, we would finally go grocery shopping and cook for ourselves.

Nooks and Crannies

As was customary upon unwrapping popsicles, Libby, Sarah, and I would shout in blurred speech “I declare everything in the world purple (no tradebacks),” basing the asserted color off flavor. Having lost the race for theoretical control over the world’s color scheme, Sarah once pointed out that Libby did not specifically include nooks and crannies. And so Sarah pronounced them green. After deciding in the future to include everything in the world, even the nooks and crannies, I remember looking into the corner of an unused drawer to see if it was purple or green. It was still just wood-colored.

Best Stallion (Hound)

Karen Myers, the official Basset Ring photographer, captured the first moment of me and Alec’s courtship. As the shutter of her camera flashed open then closed, I had been standing on the outer edge of the ring, showing my basset Rowboat in the stallion hound class, when Alec approached. Pleased at each other’s company, we stared down at my hound, smiling to ourselves to avoid blatant flirting. This second of happiness, upon its publication on the photographer’s website, was captioned “Competing for Best Stallion.” We all know she was not referring to Rowboat, but, rather, to Alec, my handsome stallion.

Crooked Pinkies

In the collision of Gilbert and Rogers genes, Libby, Sarah and I emerged a thorough mixture. One of the few traceable features, however, can be observed in our pinky fingers. When we turn our palms towards us, with pinkies pressed together, Daddy and I have pin-straight little fingers. In perpetuation of my mother’s genes, Libby and Sarah’s pinkies align only to veer away from each other at forty-five degree angles from the top knuckle. Though the bent-fingers have the majority in our family, their lack of representation in the general population denotes Crooked Pinky Syndrome as a defect of sorts.

Timex

Surviving the washer’s cycle, a night on the snowy hillside, and many months in the weeds alongside the stream, my little Timex watch with the blue-striped cloth strap endured great trials in its life. Each time it resurfaced, I would cover the pale strip across my wrist, relieved to be reunited with this long-ago gift from Grandma and Granddad. But the day the sudden thunderstorm drove us from the beach, my watch was lost forever. My wrist slowly accepted its nakedness, tanned to match my arms. Someday another watch will replace it, but until then, I remain ignorant of time.

Quietude

Settling the west side of Silver Lake, Alec and I pitched out tent and prepared our meal as the dusk and rain simultaneously fell. From the other side of the lake, a beaver, accustomed to privacy, swam over with curiosity and played in the water before us. From the shore we watched as he resurfaced from a dive with a fish. As we mutually watched each other preparing for our dinners, our collective silence amid the Adirondack wilderness was entirely appropriate, for without a shared language, Alec and I and the beaver could only understand one another in utter quiet.

Mr. McGregor

Frustrated by the invisible divider which prohibited me from entering the pool’s deep end, I found other ways to amuse myself during our summer visit to Aunt Kathy's pool. And so I adopted the character of “Mr. McGregor,” the curmudgeonly old gardener from the story of Peter Rabbit. Filling a bucket with water, I would stand on the edge of the pool and prepare to “water my plants.” As I summoned them, Libby and Sarah would swim over and obligingly allow me to pour water over their heads. This little game more than made up for my limited pool access.

Seasons

When the calendar mysteriously flipped back several months, we'd know Nana was done with February. Her sense of time deteriorating after ninety-eight years of life, Nana would ask when we would be leaving for the shore, forgetting the current season. Her conviction that these summer days were forthcoming reminded us of the nights spent on the porch under the yellow and white striped awnings, listening to her explanations of the blinking red and green lights which nocturnally directed the ships. Thus anticipating her imminent return to Manasquan, Nana would sit happily in her home as snow accumulated outside her window.

Zigzagging

When Frolic was still young, my parents started teaching her to track a scent. During these training exercises, after walking far from home, Daddy would cover her eyes as we sisters ran back down Knacker Hill into hiding, zigzagging barefoot across newly spread horse manure as we went. Even as we inadvertently masked our scent in this way, Frolic would perfectly trace the path of our retreat, undistracted by the trails left by the manure spreader. Though this was all done under the guise of a fun game, my parents were surely training her for future errant teenager search missions.

Project Area

Bringing me up the path, past the hammock and horse paddock to her brand-new half-cleared pathway into the woods, Sarah presented “The Project Area”. Completing the pathway with our loppers, we began decorating the end cul-de-sac with half-broken picnic benches. Each Christmas as our dried-out tree needed relocation, we provided a home here. As many years’ worth of Christmas trees gathered, browned and bare, some of their old jovial spirits lived on within the Project Area’s pricker-bush walls. Surely this is where all expired Christmas trees should end up, not with the wrapping paper on the curb for trash pick-up.

Cowbell

Wearing her charming antique cowbell, “Hope the Dairy Cow” moos and clangs her disapproval of containment. Taking action, she breaks down the post-and-rail fence and moves off with determination in search of a mate. We hadn't realized she’d left until we received a call informing us of the dairy cow storming over the golf course green. Following the divots and chime of her bell, my parents restored peace to the community as they wrestled her into the trailer. Measuring her single-mindedness by the levels of tintinnabulation across the countryside, we tell mother no more cows. And so she gets goats.

Electromagnified

Fleeing the room as the kitchen’s microwave starts up, my mother searches for her electromagnetic meter which is buried in the back of the car because of its incessant and causeless beeping. In her effort to test the electromagnetic field’s threats to the human race, Mother, in gallant self-sacrifice, stands face to face with the microwave, slowly backing away until the beeping slows and the dial points to green. All cooking must be done from this distance. Though the damage most likely is real, the absurdity of this little dinky beeping meter surely validates our constant dismissal of the rule.

Special Nights

Every couple of months, my dad would announce a “special night.” We’d all gather, trying to remember whose turn it was to dine out alone with him. On my turns, I remember above all else sitting quite proudly next to my daddy, feeling very special. As Daddy ordered us a heaping pile of onion rings, my worry that I couldn’t keep up a proper conversation would lessen, disappearing altogether by the second round of appetizers. Coming back home to the rest of the family, the newly strengthened father-daughter relationship must have effectively increased the overall quality of our family’s dynamics.

Untold Injuries

Rather than brag on my ailments like a middle-aged woman, I am mute in the face of blood and swelling. This silent suffering began with B’s wicker chair. During a family gathering, a broken strand of tacky white wicker stabbed deep into the back of my knee, making fatty white tissue visible. Instead of crying like any normal little girl, I snuck some paper towels from the kitchen, wadded them under my knee, and let my weight apply pressure to the puncture. That minute which passed without remark led to a lifetime of injuries unknown to family and doctors alike.

Milk-Bone Mourning

Cherishing the Grandmother-Granddog relationship, Grandma, with each of her visits, would fetch a Milk-Bone from the oversized box in her backseat and present it to Frolic. Gently taking her gift, Frolic would politely trot off a respectful distance to enjoy her bone as she held it between crossed paws. After Grandma’s death, however, Frolic refused any offering of these treats, thus exhibiting her mourning through Milk-Bone abstinence. Finally, after a year or so, Frolic ceremoniously marked the end of her sorrow as she indulged herself with a Milk-Bone. I mark that day as our collective move from grieving to healing.

Neighbor Girl

Self centered and rough atop her motor scooter, B is hardly the quintessential grandmother. Balancing her out, my dad’s mom is a floor length skirt wearing, book reading, nurturing grandma. The day she pretended not to know me, however, was the only time she erred in her matriarchal role. As she jokingly called me the little “neighbor girl” and asked why I didn't run along home, I, horrified at her misidentification, ran away to the barn for a little cry. Since I can isolate one sentence from her entire career as a grandmother as being hurtful, she did pretty well.

John H. Gilbert International Memorial Library

As a little boy, my dad named his book collection the "John H. Gilbert International Memorial Library." After the books laid dormant for decades, Daddy reopened his library for us little girls. On the pre-established library days, we all would march in unison to the Welsh cabinet singing the John H. Gilbert International Memorial Library theme song. Our books chosen, we filled out our library loan cards which were printed on special letterhead stationery, and awaited Daddy’s authenticating signature and due date. Someday my children will hold very similar library cards for the Mrs. Katherine G. Guth Private Literary Collections.

Pancake Breakfasts

Taking pride in collapsed cakes, ruined pans, and cooking failures of all sorts, my grandma B is not the chef of our family. Thus, she is forced to substitute dinner parties with pancake breakfasts. Claiming culinary ignorance, she calls upon us grandchildren to perform the mixing and flipping. After reminding us to serve from the left and clear from the right, B seats herself at her salvaged lime-green painted table alongside the people who have so often treated her to fancy dinners. As she talks up her expensive mail-order maple syrup, she, by sheer charm, repays her guests twice over.

Cooking Pants

Each year, the day before Thanksgiving, Daddy and I dice, peel, and mash late into the night as we make Pennsylvania Dutch stuffing. Witnessing this labor, Libby puts on her “cooking pants” and becomes an expert cook, giving fake advice and thumbs-up. Looking silly in her flannel pajama pants, we oblige her odd little joke which she unexplainably plays whenever we undertake big cooking projects. But as we read the recipe written in Poppy’s handwriting, we must be thankful that although she never touches a kitchen utensil, she’s still there, taking part in the family tradition of cooking this meal.

Bedtime

Bedtime approaching, Daddy calls us to the refrigerator door for our nightly routine. As we line up in age order, Daddy evaluates our posture. "Shoulders back. Chest out. Chin up." As we take his orders, Daddy hands out our little green cups which we grip with both hands. Opening the refrigerator, he asks "Who wants WA-TER?" We girls raise our hands. "Who wants MILK?" - Only Mommy. We focus hard not to pull away mid-pour, like Sarah so often does. Glasses full, we march (left, left, left right left, forward MARCH!) our way to the bedrooms like good little soldiers.

Authority's Sake

While the other fourth-graders quietly accepted no-recess verdicts due to windy weather, I wondered if these silly adults honestly believed we’d blow away like they said. But as I was too young to fully grasp my argument, Daddy and I would form our rebuttal to the latest outrage. Afterward, like Daddy had guided me to do many times before, I would march uninvited into the principal’s office to discuss the school’s recent indiscretions. Though I barely remember these elementary school confrontations, my disregard for school authority (and all other authority for authority’s sake) certainly is rooted within these little tiffs.

"Aldie Air"

After pre-road trip arguments and tears have subsided, we succumb peacefully to the stench of stale dinner rounds which emanates from the broken heater. As my mother dances wildly within her seatbelt, the rest of us, offended by this indecency, fold into overlapping layers across the bench-seat for our nap. After Daddy’s traditional "We Love You, Virginia" song as we cross the bridge into Virginia, we eventually start to creep up the NBC driveway. Radio silenced and windows rolled down, Mommy tells us to smell the "Aldie Air." How absolutely still and crisp it is, just as we left it.

Alone Grapefruit Time

Juice running down my elbows, I nibble the top edge of my grapefruit slice to detach the film which surrounds the pure pink flesh. As I deposit the remains into the growing pile of skin and pulp, observers take the opportunity to make believe they are watching a monkey dissect his food. These un-invited fellow picnickers who inevitably invade my “Alone Grapefruit Time,” participate in my pre-dinner tradition which I observe each night spent at the National Beagle Club. After cleaning the juice from my forearms on the lawn, I dress for dinner and re-enter the realm of table manners.

Knacker Hill

After carrying litters of foxhound puppies in handfuls past the kennel fence, through the horse pasture, and over the stream, we would arrive at the base of Knacker Hill, where, decades ago, the old horses waited out their lives until slaughter. Gathering the puppies together, we would race all together, up and up. Crowning the fastest little pup with praise, we would stumble down the too-steep hill back home to present our findings to Daddy. Silly as our races were, we liked to think we were evaluating our future crop of hounds, deciding who would one day lead the pack.

Expired

During all-day kitchen cleaning marathons, before tactfully shoving her out the door, my mother would angrily interrupt us to make lists and complain. Her eventual departure freeing us to work, we sorted the contents of our cabinets into piles (trash, keep, trash, trash). As expiration dates dictated these sorting decisions, we would announce the particularly offensive dates, June 2003, November 2001, challenging each other to find one older. Sitting cross-legged amongst the sprawl of our expired foods, one could almost imagine my mother of ten years ago buying this can of gravy, deciding, yes, we definitely need this at home.

Matronal Dignity

A home unsuitable to children, my grandparents’ antique-filled house inspired both awe and fear. With exceptions for holidays, their living room, with held the Gold Couch, was entirely off-limits. During visits, Daddy would walk cautiously, still wary from his childhood. Following his lead, we children sat quietly at his feet. Aunt Loren, though, would sluggishly plop herself down beside Grandma, the only one worthy of a seat on the Gold Couch. We would watch her transgression, wide-eyed, as we silently avowed to never deem ourselves deserving of that seat, that Gold couch we consider synonymous with the utmost matronal dignity.

Tally-Marks

While other family had mother-enforced house rules, Sarah acted as our family organizer. Decorating the refrigerator with endless charts, Sarah assigned point values to various chores: carrying haybales to the ponies: 2 points, topping off water: 1 point, doing a stall, 3 points. After reaching 100 tally-marks, you wouldn’t work until the others matched your score. Sarah, smarter than us all, would secretly hoard her tally-marks, then dramatically mark them all at once, marking her time of leisure until Libby and I grudgingly caught up. At moments like these, my parents should have guessed Sarah would end up at Yale.

The Gilbert Economy

Money was scarce at home, not because we’re poor, but because of our inability to get money out of the bank. Bank-issued debit cards disappeared with junk mail, the bank hours proved incompatible with my Mother’s schedule, and every last quarter was taken for lunch money. Pitying us, B would take our change away in double-bagged ziplocs, returning with fives and tens. After she lost interest in our cause, I turned to the self-checkout machines whose wide-mouthed change pits accepted my coins without judgement. Pouring fistfuls of change into them, I imagined American economists analyzing this influx of long-dormant currency.