Sorrow

Libby and Sarah were in middle school now, so I rode PG-8 home all alone. I walked from the bus stop through rain and puddles until, from the driveway, I saw my family, miserable, huddled in the mudroom, waiting. Something was not right. Indeed, Arrow, our basset, was dying and the vet was scheduled to put her down that afternoon. We sobbed as we cuddled with her for the last time, as we said goodbye. I took a mental picture as the jeep drove away; as she sat seneley in the passenger seat, looking back at us, full of sorrow.

Hateful

Up and back, down and over. I follow the L-shaped sidewalk in front of the horses’ stalls on my scooter. I zip past them one after another: Blaze, Kerry, Smokey, Shamus, Jimmy. And back again: Jimmy, Shamus, Smokey, Kerry, Blaze. Back and forth, over and over. Kerry gets fed up, puts an end to my fun. As I speed by, he reaches out his ugly, white head, and bites deep into my shoulder, through my red down coat, sweater, shirt, flesh. I’m scared and angry, he cowers in the corner of his stall, fearing my wrath. He’s a hateful horse.

Boys vs. Bees

Two of the Hester boys, age three and five, stand amongst the swarm of bees, swinging tree branches at them furiously, doing their best to kill. Honoring my duty as protector of insects, I try to reason with them, but they far outdo my logic, explaining how carpenter bees are very destructive, and most certainly will destroy the cabin’s structural integrity. So I try another method, try their sympathy. “But won’t their families be sad that you killed them?” Eli thinks on this a moment, weighing the costs and benefits. He finds a solution: “We’ll just kill their families, too!”

SNIP

Pity on the flowers, crushed beneath muddy boots. Pity on the fallen trees, limbed from top to bottom. Pity on the fresh sprouts of pricker bushes, drawn into the sunlit path, into our way. They need to be cut, trimmed back, for our sake, for the horses, and for the hounds. Surely our comfort matters more, but, still, they tried so hard, used so much energy to form themselves, to stretch out over the trail. They really must be cut, though. So I raise my loppers, position the branch between blades - SNIP. I continue down the path, rationalizing my destruction.

Renewed

After a long day’s hunt, we often climb in the basset truck with a new toy, something taken from the woods or the river bank. At some point on the drive home, however, that perfect walking stick, old glass bottle, or oddly shaped rock loses value. It’s no longer worth the effort of taking it up to the house or into the basset kennel. So it stays alongside the forgotten items from last week. When the truck eventually is clean out, and the used tinfoil and newspapers are thrown away, the old treasures resurface, their appeal renewed, continuing the cycle.

Avenged

In the dentist chair, the dreaded Dr. Rostami or maybe Dr. Emami (who can tell the difference?) reclines me back into a position of vulnerability. As I clutch the armrests in desperate fear, Daddy advises me to kick my sneaker through the window upon feeling the least bit of pain. But I haven’t the courage to carry this out, even as she pricks and prys at my teeth. Sensing my angry dejection as we leave, Daddy scrapes the dog poop off his boot using the edge of their office door. We share a look of satisfaction. I feel sufficiently avenged.

Tea Kettle

Naptime should be over, but me and Puppy-June can’t manage to keep our eyes open, though Alec has risen already. Before he returns to the workshop, to his knifemaking, he promises to wake us in a bit. Instead of setting an alarm, which would beep and blare away my peaceful sleep, he fills the tea kettle and turns the back burner to medium. Some minutes later, a soft whooshing sound eases me awake, until the sharp whistle of the teapot calls me off the couch. I respond with a tea bag, a spoonful of sugar, and a splash of cream.

New Year's Eve

We had never stayed up for New Year’s Eve before, partially out of disinterest, partially because we were tired. But one year, the family resolved to stay up. Daddy had prepared, buying chocolate Häagen-Dazs bars for dessert. Looking for entertainment, we chose the dvd Santa had gotten me for Christmas, a National Geographic Bengal tiger documentary. But when the film switched its interests to mating and cub birth, Libby and Sarah casually excused themselves, at intervals, while I feigned sleep. The movie finished, the Häagen-Dazs bars all eaten, we disbanded our party. 2005 arrived as we slept, dreaming of tigers.

Sweater for Stalls

Libby knows little of unrequited envies. She’ll never accept the lesser dessert, choosing smiles and pleas to win the most symmetrical, chocolate drizzled, plump chocolate nut roll. We oblige her always, spoil her, because we know she will get triple the enjoyment from it than either Sarah or I are capable of. Not always this lenient, Sarah sometimes capitalizes on Libby’s irrational desires. Agreements are drawn up: one black quarter-zip North Face sweater in exchange for Libby’s soul and lifelong labor. The sweater, threadbare, is worn into oblivion. And the horse stalls are always clean, but never by Sarah’s pitchfork.

Piping Plover

We navigate through the canopy of umbrellas shading the beach, and head up the coastline, lead by our mother on a mission. The people fade away, leaving only the old fishermen and us. We reach a restricted beach, open to nesting piping plovers only. Judging by Mother’s excitement, this has been our destination all along. Armed with her camera, she passes over the border, and watches for the little scampering birdies. When we realize she no intention of leaving, we skip and play back to our umbrella, writing messages in the sand for her to read on the way back.

Haag’s Hotel

Halfway to Virginia, we pass through Shartlesville, home of the Haag’s Hotel. We stuff straw wrappers in the fish pond’s stone wall, and then hunt for the ones planted there last time. Mommy conducts a handwashing contest in the bathroom, crowning the pair of hands which produces the filthiest water the winner. At the table, an overwhelmingly white platter awaits us, comprised of open-faced turkey sandwich over potato filling. Though the potato filling burns my throat for the remainder of the trip, I order it each time anyway, out of respect for tradition. Afterall, I’m not one to break tradition.

Grass Walker

Students traverse the sidewalks zigzagging every bit of the Gettysburg campus, never stepping off the prescribed path. I walk on another axis, perpendicular to the others, yet many of us share our destination. Very few join me on the scenic route, through trees and bushes, over grass. Only inside, in the classrooms, do I temporarily relinquish my freedom, understanding that I must integrate on occasion. It could be worse, I could be one of the sorority girls who are forbidden to cut across the grass, to imagine their own path. I revel in my freedom. I am a grass walker.

Downstream

On the shore of the Black River, we board an inflatable boat and settle in for our adventure. After passing our old nursery school, we steer around a tree growing horizontally from the bank. Where the current is forced down around it, the water deepens. In this swimming hole, we sisters learned to swim. It was also here that we doggy-paddled alongside Frolic on the last day of summer vacation. Farther downstream, we pass the hounds’ watering holes and the river crossings until we see McCan Mill Bridge. Sarah abandons ship. We picnic on water-logged food in the usual place.

Enslaved

During the many forced apologies of childhood, Libby, Sarah, and I would follow our self-prescribed protocol. Mother would stand by to negotiate the peace treaty, and the guilty sister would cede herself into slavery for the day. Carrying out the whims of her master, the slave would suffer according to her wrongdoings from earlier. Offering one’s enslavement was also a standard gift bestowed on birthdays. Resultantly, only one day a year, May 29th, was I ever master of my two sisters. For it was always me, never them, who misbehaved, who needed to compensate for bad behavior through slave labor.

Roadkill Kisses

Lining either side of the paved roads, far too many lifeless little animals lay cold, destroyed, and friendless, without even the dignity of decomposing back into the earth. I send them all kisses, carried over the air, bridging the distance between us. A policeman sits on the side of the road, watching faces as the cars drive by. I start to blow my kiss to the roadkill a few yards beyond his patrol car, but realize the policeman surely would misinterpret. Beyond his view now, I send the poor groundhog a kiss through the reflection in the side view mirror.

Drawn in Dew

Before disembarking on the morning hunt, the Doughertys each draw me a trail map, one traced on the jeep’s dew-covered window, another sketched in pencil. In the fields, Mr. Dougherty tells me stories of his great grandfather. How his cry of “by Jove, boy!” struck fear in young Mr. Dougherty’s heart. How he lived his ninety-eight years in full health, drinking schnapps and smoking cigars. And how, shirtless upon his deathbed, his scarred shoulders evidenced his labor as a blacksmith assistant. The story charmed me, but I feared it might soon dissolve away, as quickly as the morning’s dew-drawn map.

Pipe-Smoking Man

As chairman of the National Beagle Club, Mr. Wiley is obliged to attend the annual board meeting in Aldie. But as he is in his nineties, Mother offered to drive him down in his station wagon. As a pipe-smoking man, Mr. Wiley indulged himself frequently during the trip, suffocating us in the backseat. As we breathed out the cracked open windows, Mr. Wiley asked us each how we knew we were getting close. I pointed to the stone wall which parallels the dirt road to Aldie. Now, every time I pass it, I think of Mr. Wiley and his pipe.

Fig Newton Eater

The useful children that we were, Libby, Sarah, and I decided to put our skills to use. As strongest, Sarah was obliged to assist in all jar-opening activities. Libby was employed only on the drive home from the ice cream store, at which time she was called upon to hold our cones as we buckled our seatbelts. Too young to be useful, I chose to gobble up dropped Fig Newtons, thus sparing others the trouble. Not surprisingly, the position of ‘Fig Newton Eater’ was not nearly as honorable as ‘Opener,’ and even less frequently used than the ‘Ice Cream Holder.’

We're Regulars

We’ve come to Raritan to eat at Mugs. Before entering the restaurant, we visit a little fenced-in patch of weeds, ‘Libby’s Throw-up Garden,” named for a past illness experienced there. Inside, we fight over the cherished seat on the L-shaped booth, though it belongs to Libby alone. Daddy orders red wine, potato skins, and chicken parmesan.  He feeds us each a forkful of his red wine. We watch John, the restaurant manager, pace the aisles, chat with the regulars, us included. Libby tries to read the clock on the opposite wall. We discover she needs glasses. Our big night out.

Hayloft

In the corner stall, I slap flakes of hay, testing for mold. The dust billows; I hold my breathe against the spores. I mentally prepare myself to do what I must: venture into the hayloft to retrieve fresh bales. The ladder rungs hold their place, allowing me to ascend into the darkness and shadows, into the still and dusty air. I distract myself from imaginary dangers by singing the the few words I know of ‘Hey Jude’. I look to my only other solace: the sliver of light coming through the second-story doors. I throw them open. Sunlight bursts in.

Bernards Protégé

Each year, Bernards High School students gather along the glass hallway to peek into the courtyard. Our duck is back! For several weeks she broods in the bushes, until she reappears with her offspring. If the ducklings still luxuriate in their safe haven by the time the school closes for summer, the janitors herd them down the hallways to the outside world, for without the Green Team filling up their inflatable swimming pool and collecting money for their duck food, they could not survive. Next year, the survivors will occupy the courtyards to raise their own ducklings, the Bernards protégé.

Rescue

At a trot, my pony and I bounce along the Morris’s fields, getting fit for hunting. Another horse passes us, fully tacked, but riderless. In a minute, we come across his crime scene where his rider still lies helpless, awaiting rescue. But I need not interfere or pretend like a hero, 911 has already responded and sent out help. And here they come: three work trucks, each bearing the name of a different family-owned plumbing businesses. The Finns, Fagans, and Russos put aside their rivalries and adopt the brotherliness of the Peapack fire squad. The woman is in good hands.

Putin's Goodbye

As NPR detailed the meeting between President Bush and President Putin, a stray kitten was brought into our home. And without a name, Daddy jokingly named him Putin. It stuck. Ten years later, as Alec and I were getting on Route 15 in Camp Hill, my family called. Putin had died that morning. While Mother imparted the news, we approached a stop light, and heard it: a meow. Maybe a cat was wandering the roadside beside our car. But no, as we accelerated onto the highway at 60 mph, another meow. And another. Calm and clear meows. A last goodbye.

An Ode

The bathtub spouts scalding water, perfect for soaking the hounds’ food. The stall doors are raised enough for Rags or Frolic to duck under for a visit. The cement floors showcase my dew-dampened footprints in the early morning, and puddles left by dropped water balloons in the afternoon. The ladies’ room in Aldie is only unwelcoming once each day, the hour before cocktails, when half-dressed women emerge from their baths to coif themselves. At all other times, it is our shelter, our safe haven, snuggly during spring rains, chilled in the summer heat, and toasty against the chilly fall air.

Nobility

The hounds were gone, and my pony Fred was long past tired. Sick of kicking him along, I dismounted and decided to run instead, dragging Fred along at reins’ length. Now at the Morano’s, we stood in the bottom covert, a little braided girl and her pony, covered in burrs and mud. And five feet before us, the most noble bird in our skies, a red-tailed hawk perched atop a stump. Fearing losing a finger in his beak, I petted him with the end of my whip at arm’s length. He looked offended, but stayed put. We were not worthy.

Morning's Itinerary

It’ll be dark for another hour, but we’re awake and heading for the barn. The hounds’ excitement breaks the 5am silence. At 6:00 they’ll pour from the door and pack up on the front lawn. We’ll scale Knacker Hill and meander the countryside. By 7:30, we’ll be heading home on the gravel path through the Slacks’ apple orchard. Emerging with an apple each, we’ll eat breakfast by the pond while the hounds go swimming. The horses will slobber over apple cores all the way home. By 9:00 we’ll be up at the house, down for our nap.

Work Weekend

Twice a year, the most devoted basseters and beaglers trek to Aldie, fully equipped with power tools. The manliest among them drive the steel-wheeled tractor or operate the stump grinder. The next tier of workers take down selected areas with chainsaws. The men incapable of either point and give directions. Meanwhile the women pile into the kitchen and prepare a constant flow of hearty meals and bountiful desserts. Us girls are sent to work with paint brushes. Deer hunters arrive, happily doing their share to maintain the property. They work well alongside the others, united in mutual love for Aldie.

Bathtime

After bathtime in our old Jackson Avenue house, we’d put our pod of toy beluga whales away, and begin construction on a towel fort. Inside, we’d place our little box heater whose face glowed red as it warmed us. We’d huddle around it, shielding ourselves from the chilly air of the bathroom. In there, we became the three little pigs. The wolf, then, was our mother, who clawed at our poorly pitched tent, playing along. Eventually, she’d get in, but instead of gobbling us up like the big bad wolf, she’d just sit there beside us and enjoy the warmth.

Wolfe's Diner

After we leave the Bedminster Shell station, we don’t stop again until Wolfe’s Diner in Dillsburg. There, people stare at the three little blonde girls with their Daddy. They come over to tells us their thoughts.

...pretty as a picture...

...where you going with all them dogs...

...Don’t like pickles?? Don’t you know where you are...

The bill comes, it’s just over twenty dollars for the four of us. Daddy checks on the bassets outside. Libby admires pictures of James Dean in the bathroom hallway. Sarah and I eat our locally raised ham. 
Another hour and a half to Aldie.