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.

Firewood

When the local men get off work, they come to the hunt club to chop some wood. They arrive in a train of maroon pickup trucks, chug up the hill to the woodpile, and drink cans of Coors Lite. Eventually the splitter is turned on, and work begins. By the end of summer, the woodpile towers higher than our house, eliciting the envious looks of all those with a fireplace or woodstove. Libby has been instated as gatekeeper, allowing only the regulars in. Trespassers’ license plate numbers are recorded and turned over to Scotty. We don’t ask what happens next.

Woodsmoke and Grime

After five hours of sleeping in the backseat, we ready ourselves to bounce out of the truck, feed and put away the hounds, then unpack our own things. Our five happy days in Aldie left most of our clothes pretty filthy and well worn. But it’s too late to do laundry tonight, so Libby goes straight to sleep, fully clothed, paw printed and grimey. In the morning, she wakes up and boards the school bus still wearing her favorite stretched-out blue tee shirt over ripped short shorts. If you’re still dirty and reek of woodsmoke, the trip doesn’t seem over.

Licks

We peek over the half-door into the barn. Sarah’s ready, curled up in a ball atop the basset puppies’ bench. We throw open the door, allowing the litter of puppies to propel themselves at her. One jumps atop her hunched back, another tugs at her ringlet curls. We watch in anticipation, looking for the first one to find her face, which is tucked away, shielded from kisses. But as Sarah writhes from the abuse, a little gap appears between her shoulder and neck, just big enough for a snout. Spiral takes advantage and licks Sarah’s face. We have our winner.

Tewks

While my parents can rarely be coerced into a glass of wine, others at the National Beagle Club overindulge in the evenings after hunting. Down in the Tewksbury Cabin, commonly known just as ‘Tewks’, the folks of our basset pack gather, drinking beer and eating the marshmallows us girls roast in their fireplace. Mr. Wiley eats them right off the stick, sickening us. The other drunken men, instead of doing regrettable things, spend their revelries debating roller derby’s authenticity and arranging themselves into a barbershop quartet. Late into the dark night they sing songs of the past. They’re harmless drunks.

Stroke

Some people prefer to keep their medical past private. B, on the other hand, chooses to announce it at any and every chance, for a laugh. So when she cries at an emotional story or old photo, she blames her tears on her stroke, explaining she never used to cry so easily. Similarly, when she misspeaks or forgets what she was going to say, it’s because of the stroke. As her audience expresses their pity, B laughs, amused that this excuse absolves her so easily of mistakes. Making it into a joke makes the whole ordeal worth it for her.

Losing War

Eli, the first grader in my aftercare classroom, sits across from me, dealing out a Harry Potter themed deck of cards. This is our fourth consecutive game of war, so I speed up the match anyway I can. I memorize my top couple cards, and only draw out cards lower that Eli’s. He is gleeful, amassing a pile of winning cards. I feign disappointment, shrug my shoulders at my bad luck. His dad shows up to take him home. Eli forgets to say goodbye. I try to decide if cheating to lose is morally any better than cheating to win.

Good Deed

Mrs. Murdock lived up the hill, lonely and old. We girls didn’t know her very well, but my parents vouched for her, saying that she was deserving of a good deed. So they sent us a couple fields away to where the wild strawberries grew. Once our little tupperware containers were brimming with fresh fruit, we walked towards her house to ring the doorbell and present her with our gifts. I don’t remember her reaction at the time, but that Christmas, when we learned she had died, I remember being grateful that we had shown her kindness when we could.

Fishy

Though we’d rather drop it off at her house, B wants her birthday present tonight, at Cafe Azzurro. If it was new shoes or a bird feeder, we wouldn’t drag our feet, but she asked for a fish. Obliging her whim, we replace the restaurant’s center piece with the glass vase bearing the little orange goldfish. Realizing her chance to make a scene as the waiter passes, B puts the vase to her lips and pretends to drink. Fishy water slips past her lips, causing her to spit and gag. At least the waiter hasn’t noticed her thermos of vodka.

Solomon

In the basset kennel, Solomon emerges from his dog house, leaps atop the bench, and voices deep, resonant barks. The others, recognizing his cue, freeze in place, and raise their heads in song. Solomon continues barking time. The latest puppies listen in, trying to learn the words. The foxhounds stand at the border fence silently, waiting out their neighbors’ festivities. Later they will sing their own song, and it will be the bassets who will listen quietly. Surplice, in the house, joins in with her gurgling yet noble voice. Even Frolic belts out the song of the Tewksbury Foot Bassets.

Rejected Presents

When Mother wasn’t contorting her face in a reminder to say ‘thank you’ for birthday presents, she inadvertently dismissed other, less tangible gifts for us. Like when Aunt Jen invited us all to the Crayola Factory, her treat, for Libby’s birthday. Our collective disinterest postponed the trip several times until it was forgotten and never spoke of again. Or like the dozens of fifty dollar checks which were regularly sent at birthdays and on Christmas by our step-grandma Linda. Out of sheer laziness, we never managed to take them to the bank to be cashed. We just couldn’t be bothered.

(Poison) Ivy

Walking the block, you see grand houses beautifully cloaked in ivy. Many decades ago, that house was bare-faced, but slowly adorned itself until only the windows and doors peeked out beneath the greenery. While some houses trained the ivy up with lattice, others grew up naturally, like at our home. Behind the porch, the exterior wall is coated, the ivy’s tentacles reaching up and around my parents’ upstairs bedroom window. But once during one of Mother’s occasional cleaning crazes, she began ripping it down from the siding with gloved hands. Only then I found it out it was poison ivy.

One-Horn Salute

At the trailhead, Alec pulls off the road. We loiter at the tailgate, making last minute preparations before our week-long hike. Our packs lay side by side in the truck bed, waiting to be strapped on. The roar of approaching motorcyclists drowns out all other sound. As they fly by us, someone beeps. Maybe he’s a hiker, too. Maybe he sees himself in Alec. Whatever the reason, he offers a beep of encouragement. Later down the progression, another honk. We smile at the unspoken friendliness, at the motorcyclists who took a moment to send us off with a one-horn salute.

Tragedy of the Jigsaw

Dozens of puzzle pieces laid perfectly conjoined before us, but as the loose pieces dwindled in number, we realized that we were afflicted with the tragedy of the jigsaw: a puzzle piece was missing. It was neither under the table nor stuck in the corner of the box. Our great-grandma, Nana, explained the predicament as she had many times before, he (the puzzle piece) must have grown legs and walked right out that door. I looked to the back porch door, imagining our little puzzle piece, with new-grown stick figure legs and arms, waving good bye as he slipped away.

Victor

Eileen came home from the county fair with a silky rooster. He gawked, and pecked, and wandered about the cage, trying to see through the fluff of feathers which clouded his vision. We tried to integrate him into our little flock, but he failed to make friends. When new chicks were hatched, he kept them company, but they grew up and abandoned him. Victor lived a lonely chicken life. That is until he met an untimely demise in Rapid the basset’s mouth. As I held him on my lap in his dying moments, Rapid returned to nurse her month-old puppies.

Signatures

A trained dolphin once painted brushstrokes on a sweater for my mother. Less exoticly, we have mud applied with love from our bassets. And when the paw print is clear, we call it a signature. It’s a point of pride to have a well-loved basset’s pawprint on your jeans. But when I was about six, I was wearing Sarah’s yellow shirt when I got a prominent signature right on my chest. It never washed out, and Sarah held it against me. A decade later she hit me in the stomach with a wild grape. It stained. We call it even.

Family Chickens

Our newly hatched chicks took up residence in the living room, nestling together under the heat lamp in their plastic bin. We had meant to keep the bin’s webbed lid on to protect against the other animals of the house, but we grew careless. So when we walked in to find Frolic staring intently over the edge, we grew anxious. But Frolic hadn’t murdered our little chickens, she was just watching them, trying to understand. When she finished her deliberations, she resolved to adopt them, to guard them and to love them, for they were part of her family now.

House of Jawi

During one of my frequent escapes from school, I went in search of the most beautiful thing Bernardsville had to offer (for under $7). After asking the price of unmarked little trinkets in the Rebecca Collection, I wandered the town’s crosswalks until I found ‘The House of Jawi’ in the back alley of the movie theater. I browsed through the over-priced vintagey mishmash, staying out of pity for the lonely store owner. And then I saw a rose quartz egg. After trading the man a five dollar bill, my quest had ended; I owned the most beautiful treasure in town.

Eskimold

A festively wrapped package sat under the Christmas tree, its gift tag filled out in Santa’s all-capitalized lettering. It was an Eskimold and Sarah loved it. So at the next flurry, she began construction on an igloo. But without a substantial amount of snow, we were forced to strip-mine a twenty foot radius around the project. As I scraped snow into the mold, Sarah dumped and positioned the bricks, building up her igloo’s walls. After I had left and the sun had set, Sarah continued her labor. When the last brick was in place, my sister, the eskimo, crawled inside.

Like Daughter, Like Mother

Cousin Abby is wandering thoughtlessly across the lawn, drifting past Miranda, whose intolerance for ill-behaved children is well-known. Abby takes notices of Miranda’s rather wide rump, and administers an ungainly yet somehow swift kick to her target. As she does so, she narrates: “and then the angry dwarf kicked her in the butt!” We look on horrified. She has been acting out this movie line for weeks.

That night, as the band announces its closing song, the drunken dancers, including Abby’s mother, protest. And without sobriety holding her back, Aunt Loren lands an uncoordinated kick to the lead singer’s thigh.

Sissybelle

“Keep out” signs are plastered to the door and window, but I walk in anyway. Deflated balloons, ribbons, and stickers litter every inch of the walls. The mistress of the house appears, her deep scoop neck tee on backwards so as to expose her work-tanned back rather than her chest. Nail polish is smeared across her fingernails, overlapping her skin by a quarter inch around the perimeter. Those fingers carry her only mug, now filled with coffee, down the hallway. When you realize she’s not coming back, you follow. A cowboy and indian movie awaits, paused where she left off.

Betty Crocker

Family gatherings usually brew talk of the foxhunt’s latest dramas, how the rich have most recently lied or backstabbed. Aunt Karen, left out of the conversation, gets offended that we refuse to talk about anything else. But when she carries the conversation, it’s all about political extremism or saving cats. Meanwhile Aunt Ali texts, preferring her electronic conversations, because unless we’re talking about her, she finds it difficult to pay attention. And Sean, wishing he were somewhere else, just listens in, trying to follow along. He tells us it’s not easy. To him, everybody’s name just sounds like 'Betty Crocker'.

Inchworms

Inchworms dangle from the trees above, like raindrops frozen in place. I don’t need an umbrella though, I can steer my horse around them, occasionally lying against his neck when one drops down unexpectedly. Some surely will hitchhike atop the horses’ rumps or on my shoulder. They will find happiness in thicker, greener foliage. But that is a small percentage, those are the lucky ones. Others, who have completed their skydive, inch their silky green bodies along the dirt road with purpose. Hooves and paws, unknowing, trample them. I will the feet to avoid them. I try not to watch.

Guilt or Fear

Apparently against the use of bribery as motivation to clean, Mother would choose between guilt or fear. If she chose the fear route, she would tell us that we surely will be taken away and put in a foster home if child services got a look at that bathroom sink. If she decided to guilt us, we were told that our cluttered bedroom floors were endangering firemen’s lives. They would inevitably trip over my clothes and fall into the junk-fueled flames engulfing our home. Early on she figured out guilt was more effective, and so she now employs it regularly.

Pa-tooie

With sticks for weaponry, and Surplice, our pet basset hound, as a fellow soldier, my sisters and I ran through the fields as rival armies. Though we had plenty of fun hiding behind the deserted chicken coop or in the uncut hay, our favorite part was army crawling. Libby was the best at it, but even Surplice shuffled along on her belly. When it came time to attack, we got one little detail wrong. Because unlike little boys, we were unaware of the traditional shooting sound effects ‘bang’ and ‘pow’. Instead, when our imaginary pistols fired, we’d shout “pa-tooie! pa-tooie!”

Stability

While I am not particularly well suited to aquatic life, Alec grew up swimming beside his parents’ boats. But we played well together on our visit to the ocean, romping in the waves for hours. With too much seawater in my belly, nose, ears, and eyes, I became giddy and disoriented, losing my bearings almost entirely. But I didn’t need to stand up straight or know which way shore was; Alec held me, tossed me, retrieved me, like the water dogs he grew up with. It’s a wonderful privilege to be able to release all control, and still have stability.

Junie

Our long walk this morning tired little Junie out a good bit, so she’s been curled up beside me as I read Reader's Digest outside. She wakes up, stretches, and kisses me sweetly on the mouth, without overstaying her welcome or slipping her tongue up my nose. A kiss like that is never given by your ordinary dog. It’s not the “I miss you” kiss, or a “thank you”, or a “come play” or a “let me get that off your face” kiss, it’s just an “I love you.” I say it outloud back to her, and she seems satisfied.

Accents

When coming home from Aldie, my family adopts the deep Southern accent of a Tennessee dairy farmer. Hound show season drives us to speak like the British foxhound huntsman. At other times, we speak like Eastern Europeans after so frequently listening to Nana’s Lithuanian housekeepers. Aunt Karen, B, and Aunt Ali despised that accent after a few months of it. So we changed again, this time picking up the “Abby Voice,” from cousin Abby. It’s moved beyond just a voice, it’s an entire personality now. Even her mother inadvertently starts in on it when she overhears us. It’s very contagious.

Memorabilia

I pull my eyelid away from my eye, allowing air to fill the void. When I drop it back into place, a bit of air becomes trapped. So I gather the air of my favorite places: Aldie air under my left eyelid, and the Millbrook wind under my right. When summer comes, and my family visits Manasquan, both eyelid pockets are full, leaving no room for the ocean air. I could take a picture instead. Back in Pennsylvania, no memorabilia clutters my little home, yet I still have a little bit of Virginia and upstate New York with me always.