Mud

After the hounds have drank and bathed in its waters, the stream continues eastward into the horse pastures. Here, the horses tromp paths across its width, turning its banks to mudslides. Seeing this from the driveway, Libby and I dismounted our bicycles and parted to claim turf along the stream. Taking up heaps of muck, we battled. After peace was restored, we saw Mr. Wiley’s car creeping up the driveway. At almost ninety years old, he must have been quite pleased to see us, with our mud-stained faces and clothes, still enjoying the games he surely played as a boy.

Your Party

When B calls the day of my mom’s birthday, and tells her the party’s at 5:30. What she’s really saying is this:

"I lied, the party’s at six, but you guys always show up a half hour late. Aunt Ali’s leaving early, so we’re eating dinner right away. And even though it’s your birthday, get ready to give her a back massage (she’s been up since four). Also Aunt Karen’s been worked up about political conspiracy theories again lately, so watch out for a fight. And the cake fell into the sink. Anyway, Happy Birthday - see you soon!"

Momentum

As part of natural sisterly adaptation, our maturity levels roughly synced up, as mine heightened and Libby’s lowered to meet halfway. In this, we generally lived as equals, and so were often mistaken as triplets. Because of this, I rarely begrudged my position in the birth order. Once though, on the basset’s annual fourth of July bike ride, Mother insisted that I practice braking during the descents while Libby and Sarah were allowed to coast freely. Speeding to catch up, perhaps I gained higher momentum which allowed me to move out, marry, and buy a home at the earliest age.

Back to School

Mothers and daughters everywhere excitedly search Gap Kids for the perfect first day of school clothes. After browsing some, they compromise, pairing the bold flower-print shirt with the knee-length tan shorts. At home, the clothes are hung neatly in the closet. Miles away, at the Gilbert house, my Mother’s closet looks strangely similar, heavily evoking the “first day of third grade” style. It’s in the dirtied Keds, patterned capris, and second-hand, brightly-colored tee-shirts with their tags out-turned. Standing next to Daddy in his hole-ridden, dirty polo shirts and khaki shorts, they make the cutest couple in all the third grade.

Dobbins

June 25, 2015
When gluten-free meets playground safety, the Dobbin Mothers emerge from their dander-free homes. This new generation of bored mothers dominate your local school board. And when their children first turn down candy, they become Dobbins, products of the win-win world. Our second cousins were raised Dobbins, and without pre-existing terminology to describe them, my family coined this generic name to represent every child within this sect of society. So when Aunt Jen’s perfect little family comes up from their ostentatious yet middle class house, we ask if the Dobbins will be visiting, or is our home just too, ya know…

Squinty-Eye Disease

June 24, 2015

During the summer’s early morning hunts, we often look upon the dawn through squinted eyes. The cause of this limited vision previously unknown, Libby coined the affliction most simply “Squinty-Eye Disease.” Through her rampant cases, she identified the cause: too many pretzels. One morning, however, she awoke with squinty eyes even though the pretzel jar had been empty for days. This new development warranted reopening the case, which ended this time with salt, generally, as the culprit. Despite this new information, at the sight of squinted eyes, we ask Libby if maybe she ate one too many pretzels last night.

Love Luck

June 23, 2015
While others experience dumb luck, Alec and I are blessed with love luck. Under this force, the world treats us wonderfully simply because we are so in love. We first recognized this the day of our wedding. In out last minute search for a place to spend the night before our hiking honeymoon, a women sent us away from her dingy and cluttered motel as she directed us a few minutes down the road to a bed and breakfast which overlooked the Great Sacandaga Lake. Here, the happy inn-owners gave us the key to room number six (Alec’s favorite number) and told us of the southern rock band scheduled to play in the living room that evening. Later, we listened alongside strangers who had been informed of our story and celebrated accordingly. While a man bought us glasses of wine, the singer gave us a shout-out, thanking us for coming to celebrate with them. Throughout the night, the bass player pointed to the two of us and thumbs-upped his approval at our union before hugging us both in an overflow of happiness at our good fortune at finding one another. And so our unplanned reception continued in all its perfection.

Stolen Freedom

June 22, 2015
Certain occasions warrant the bending of rules. The release of Ben and Jerry’s new line of Core ice creams called for such behavior. And so, after I had “excused” myself from art class, I met Nermeen in the cafeteria for our outing. Having secured the caramel-cored pint from Kings, we returned victorious just in time for English class. Greeted by a worksheet-bearing substitute teacher, we knew better than to ask permission and instead seated ourselves in the backroom for our ice cream party. Slap-happy from our stolen freedom, caramel deliciousness, and well spent English class, we deemed the day successful.

Suburban Dog

June 21, 2015
A free-range dog for all her life, Frolic rarely had need for leashes. When we traveled, she would wear the same leather leashes the bassets wore. Once though, we bought her a pretty pink and green leash from the Middleburg Tack Exchange. Instead of just grudgingly accepting her restraint as most dogs would, she wore it with absurd pride. Where the leash slacked, she held it lightly in her mouth, taking on the duty of walking herself as she kicked her paws out in an elegant extended trot. She thought it terribly funny to pretend to be a suburban dog.

To Any Readers:

In celebration of our one year wedding anniversary, Alec and I will be camping in the Adirondacks today through Thursday the 25th. Don't worry, I'll be writing every day in our tent, counting the words, preparing the stories for publication upon my return! See you then!

Footsie Day

On Footsie Day, or, more officially, the Day of the Foot, the practice of shoe wearing is cast aside. According to the rules set forth by the holiday's great founders (Daddy and Uncle David), the day prior to Spring is the highly celebrated start to a barefooted summer. Depending on the year, we either anticipate the day with great agitation as we grudgingly keep our feet covered during all outdoor excursions, or, in the harsher springs, we must brave the last snow patches in order to fulfill the celebratory rituals. Either way, the decades-old holiday persists. 
Go mark your calendars.

Empty

With all their daughters now in college, moved out, or married, my parents simultaneously discovered an empty nest and empty cabinets. For without our constant prodding, my parents simply can’t manage to drive fifteen minutes away to Shop Rite. Instead, they take each day individually, buying just enough to get them through till nighttime. So, when Sarah returned home for summer vacation, she found the cupboards drained of all substance, that is, apart from the meat of the dead mouse who likely died of starvation atop these barren cabinets. And so he remains, just a clump of matted fur now.

Other Rooms

In the eternal search for lost items, sometimes it is necessary to ask my mother if she’s seen the missing sweater or textbook. Oddly enough, she often knows, “it’s in the other room”. Somehow, people, pets, and belongings are eternally in this other place. And even though this answer does tell me that the missing item is not in this room, I am still clueless. And so the conversation must continue. “Which room”? Pause…“um”...silence. I wait impatiently. She gets distracted, forgets the question. “Which room?” Silence. “Mother?” “Oh!...um...the kitchen.” Ah, yes, of course, that other room.

Credit

My sisters and I always preferred to leave our shoes behind in the house. And though this inspired mean-spirited middle aged ladies to spread rumors that my parents couldn’t afford shoes, we took pride in the toughness of our feet. As we walked over gravel and through horse manure, B would inform people that she, too, never wore shoes during her girlhood. Using this anecdote to take full credit for our tough feet, she exaggerates her role. The dna which curls my hair may be hers, but the thickness of the soles of my feet was built up, not inherited.

Roosters

When chicks still occupy the living room in their cardboard box, we listen, trying to identify how many different voices try to crow. And when we count (one, two, three), we gripe, too many roosters. But the day the chicken hawk came and attacked our gawky brown hen, following her under the coop, digging its talons into her hide, these roosters acted as men. Once Daddy’s shout sent the hawk away, empty stomached, each, in turn, walked over with reverence to my little stunned and cowering hen, and stood peacefully over her, creating a protective circle. And stayed like this.

Ergonomic

While others buy chairs designed with the latest ergonomic designs, my family plops an old rocking chair in front of the communal desk. And even though the back slats fall from their joints when leaned on, and the wood floor is rubbed bare from all the rocking, and Frolic, her tail cast beneath the raised end of the rockers, renders us immobile, it works fine. We could buy a real office chair, or, more reasonably, we could continue to smack the slats back into place, put a rug over the worn spots, and convince Frolic to contain herself. Either way.

Burnt Toast

Originally believing my mother had dull taste buds, I now understand how she grew to prefer burnt toast, overcooked meat, and the smallest dollop of gravy. As she gifted the best of the meal to my dad, she enjoyed the food vicariously. And even though Daddy almost never complimented a meal and her only reward was that he didn't leave the table in disgust, she continued this practice naturally, perhaps subconsciously, because she is a good mother. Having watched her selflessness for all of my childhood, I, now a wife, automatically choose the apple slice with the least peanut butter.

Sanity

Noticing how most of our kitchen cabinet doors are eternally open, we each recognize the role of our innate domestic carelessness. All except Mother, who accuses us of having collective OCD which prevents all cabinet doors from being closed at once. Given the absurdity of this claim, we hope she is just trying to shame us into keeping a neater home. And yet she, the messiest of us all, in total seriousness continues to contemplate this possibility. So then, in demonstration of our sanity, we shut the doors for a day or so, until our sloppiness overcomes us once more.

She's No Lady

Despite my mom’s logical case that “B” was her mother, not a man, all evidence said otherwise. Our investigation originated out of her ambiguous alias, “B”, which lacked the gender-clarity of the more traditional title of “Grandma”. Furthering our case, B was husbandless and so lacked a counterpart to which she could be compared. The dye for her short hair marked “Just for Men” and the cigarette cartons in her kitchen solidified our suspicions that this person was no lady. Eventually, we all came to an understanding: she was neither a man nor a lady; she was just a woman.

Eventually

I watched as other elementary school parents vied for front of the pick-up line, last names brandished across the passenger-side visor for the teacher on duty to call out. I watched as each classmate, his name called, leapt from his crosslegged seat on the blacktop, into the welcoming arms of his air-conditioned car. I sat as they all left, until it was only me, like last time. Teachers’ feet tapped, questioned me. I tailed behind those feet through the halls into the principal’s office for the phone call to be made. The memory ends there. Surely she showed up eventually?

Froo

When proofreading the work of an elementary schooler, deciphering requires creativity. The word “froo,” for example, once appeared in a vocabulary sentence. Maintaining only one letter from the approved spelling, “froo” could only be identified within the context of its sentence - “he froo the ball at me.” As a more authentic spelling of the word (as pronounced by a third grade boy), I could not fault him, but since his teacher most certainly would, I suggested the more mainstream spelling. Someday when I am a English teacher, I will remind myself that innocent logic must sometimes trump scholastic law.

Disposal

When my parents finally began packing, B sought to expedite the moving process. Tolerating my mother’s hoarder-like nostalgia for only so long, B began to enact silent reform. When my mother exaggerated the utility value of a clearly disposable item to avoid throwing it out, B would offer to store it for us at her own home. Winking to Libby, she reverently loaded the old aquarium, stool, or wicker basket into her car and drove away, out of sight, to the dumpster for proper unloading of the junk. Mother shielded from the disposal, useless items landfill-bound, it was a win-win.

Laundered

Like many cultures who value the home-keeping capabilities of their female children, my mother pawned her laundry duties off to her eldest daughter. Accordingly, in my memory, it was always Libby who collected my dirty laundry to wash with her own. After many years passed under this system, I, around age nine, finally took on the responsibility for myself. Unaware that this practice is uncommon among middle-class American families, I always thought it odd when I heard about college students just learning the skill. Only slightly less ignorant, I have just recently discovered the peculiar practice of folding one’s laundry.

Skewed Speed

After piling into the Durango, each of us would submit a guess at the arrival time based on the cumulative effects of traffic, stop lights, and the driver’s preferred speed. Skewing his speed to best suit his entry, Daddy would abuse his position of power at the wheel until the outcry from the backseat restored the car to the speed limit. This corruption of the game aside, our winner was decided by the clock’s reading at the time of arrival. Though prizeless, the win certainly awarded the closest guesser momentary superiority over all within the bounds of the car’s chassis.

Vocal Frogs

Sarah once had a pair of stuffed animal frogs which, when their hands touched, sang Christmas carols in their hoarse froggy voices. In an attempt to entertain our toddler cousin Abby, we showed off their talents, expecting laughter. Instead, she grew pale, looked at the pair with horror, and ran downstairs to her parents, nearly in tears. Conducting experiments as she grew up, we introduced her to other, non-vocal stuffed animals but received a similar reaction. It is an odd child who does not trust real toys, instead favoring two-dimensional human and animal replicas in the form of televised cartoons.

Pretzel Salt

While some families pride themselves on their honor roll students or the size of their swimming pool, we secretly take pride in pretzel salt. As the designated pretzel jar accumulates the uneaten remnants of each bag, we observe changing pretzel-to-salt ratios within the micro-ecosystem of the jar. To increase our coveted stockpile, each dumped bag is shaken out thoroughly to transfer every last grain of salt. Mother, having never understood this experiment, once cleaned the jar out, just as we were reaching a one-to-three ratio. What horror and depression we felt at losing this testament to our collective culinary past.

Avian Extracurriculars

Recognizing the need for avian extracurricular activities, I filled my bicycle basket with baby chickens until they learned to ride on the handlebars. Their wings catching on the wind, they would soar down from their perch with little grace. And so I tested one chick’s balance atop my pony Fred’s withers. Midway through this bareback pony ride, the chick leapt or fell or fluttered down into the neighboring eroded ditch. Slipping off Fred to retrieve my bird, I found him wide-eyed in a nest of worms, feasting on this wriggling mess. Very little could make a chicken keeper more proud.

Gurgle Talk

Distorting my words into a gurgle of sorts, I founded the language of “Gurgle Talk”. Though it crazed my sisters and mother, my father could imitate it, and so conversed freely in this dialect. Once, in response to Mother’s distaste for the voice, I responded, in Gurgle Talk, “Well I don’t like the way you talk.” Outraged at this gurgly backtalk, she sent me, shovel in hand, to dig a hole for her new plant. Having thus avoided certain death within our household, the plant blossoms yearly in reminder of the incident which by now would have been long forgotten.

Pickled

Disregarding my mother's openness to condiments, seafood, and olives, our tastes developed in alignment with the culinary guidelines set by my father. And although we do diverge from his own tastes as we eat pasta and corn, we will forever hold a shared disdain for pickles. Expressing this to waitstaff, we explicitly detail our collective nausea at the sight and smell, on occasion claiming an allergy, hoping that the threat of medical reaction will keep our plates untainted. Yet after the meal is ordered, and the wait is waited, one pickle appears, always on my mother’s plate. Somehow they know.

Rite Aid Racoon

While the family waited in the car, Mother entered Rite Aid only to exit a few minutes after, empty handed, and running. Behind her, a raccoon. As other shoppers and staff bounded into their cars, Mother leapt to the running board. Elevated above the asphalt in this manner, she peeked in the windows, counted her children, and resolved to stay put, fearing that the raccoon would enter with her, and ravage her family. Similarly, the raccoon, now under the neighboring car, held its ground, bringing panic to an awkward standstill. Shooing her back into the car, Daddy drove us home.