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.