Raid

9am and the basset people are ready for their Tuesday morning walk. They take half the bassets up to the pond Daddy says not to go to. If they avoid cur dogs and deer and swallows, they’ll make it back home okay. Then they eat. Lou brought the green box cooler: MUG root beers, Brisk iced teas, a Tab soda for Mrs. Muchmore and a Sprite Zero for Jim Gordon. There’s also a box of assorted Dunkin’ Donuts and oatmeal cookies. When they leave, we’ll raid the basset kennel, set off the mouse traps, and scurry off with our treats.

Stopping Splits

Out foxhunting, when the hounds split onto two foxes, you gallop to the front of the smaller group, crack your whip softly, and hollar “steady up, boys.” This never works, so you get mean, scream your heart out, punch your horse, and cry. Out basseting, you do the same, but the hounds get beat into submission before the angry tears come. Beagles are even easier. You needn’t say a word. Just sidestep into the hedgerow, wait until the lead hound walks in full cry to your feet, and pick her up. The rest get confused and stop on their own.

Jewelweed

Jewelweed: the oxymoron that grows in great heaps down by the stream. On puppy walks and during dam construction we admire them, golden and orange on their bushes. Apparently, if you have poison ivy, rubbing some jewelweed on it will cure the itch. I always wish I had poison ivy, or at least an itch to try it on. I pluck some jewelweed, and smear them on an imagined itch. I wait. It’s less exciting than I thought it’d be. I’ll try again another day, when I have poison ivy. I walk back home, my arm streaked with flower innards.

Trumpeteers

In preparation for our future horn-blowing careers in hunt service, we played the trumpet dutifully in middle school. Libby switched to playing flute after a year of trumpeting. But Sarah and I continued on. Mr. Snyder, the red-faced penguin of a man, directed our band lessons. Each week, my parents signed their names on the designated line, attesting to my trumpet practice at home. But my trumpet rarely left the school’s band room. Mr. Snyder never caught on. Instead, when angry at lesser instrumentalists, he used me as the paragon of trumpeteering: “why can’t you practice at home -- like Katie!?”

J.B. Wiley

Leading a long line of wandering fools, the field master Mr. Wiley marches forward, following the Tewksbury Foot Bassets across fields and through hedgerows. The wooden whips he carries bears the inscription “J.B. Wiley.” The “B” stands for boy, or so he tells us. On his feet are two white sneakers, which soon accumulate the mud of the fields and woods. He points them out to us, pretending to worry that his mother will surely scold him for getting dirty. He’s near about ninety, but we don’t question that old Mrs. Wiley is at home, fretting over muddy sneakers.

Relocation

The parents are away, so Sarah and I nab the couch. It’s destined for the “joint-room,” our communal junk deposit/hang-out spot. We grab sides and drag it upstairs. It gets stuck at the right angle in the hallway. Sarah’s door, which juts out two inches, must go. After an hour, the door is successfully removed (and stays off for the next few years). The couch successfully budges two inches closer to our destination before getting jammed again. We find a handsaw and start sawing at the back legs. With only two legs, the couch slants some, but that’s okay.

Beach Badge

I am Daddy’s “person of gradually increasing size.” Even though I’m getting older and bigger, I’m still too young to need a beach badge, or so the blonde girl under the umbrella tells us. But soon I’ll be 12, and then the girl will collect seven more dollars from Daddy each time we pass onto the beach. I don’t like to be an expense. I’d stay eleven if I could. I worry Daddy won’t call me his “little person” anymore. With time, age 12 comes and passes. I get my beach badge. But I also get to keep my nicknames.

Madame Whittle

Madame Whittle, the local high school french teacher, is a waddling little woman, very motherly, easily confused, and full of odd little quirks. Like how, before a test, she’d invite us out to the hallway water fountain, to “oil our brains.” Or how she never uses lowercase r’s because they look like inchworms. Or when she’d explain France’s wild boars. They’re like American deer - you don’t worry about them in the daylight, but you wouldn’t want to meet one in the dark of night. I imagine her at dusk, rushing to safety, clutching her purse, haunted by angry, vengeful deer.

Turkish Delight

We the third graders of Mr. A’s third-grade classroom gathered together on the carpet to listen to The Chronicles of Narnia as we did every Wednesday. We listened as one of the characters, Edmund, spent his time eating Turkish Delight. We imagined it was a mythical, luxurious chocolate treat. We were wrong; it was no such thing. Kristine’s dad brought our class two boxes of it from his recent travels in England. This was a thoroughly exciting event in classroom 3A. But disappointment soon came: Turkish Delight was not chocolate. It was horrible. It was fruity and sticky and gross.

Food Lion

I like the double-decker blue carts Food Lion has out front. The older black woman ahead of me is struggling to extract one from the line. She looks back apologetically as she gives one last tug, freeing the caught wheel. I smile, it’s okay. I get my cart and follow her through the automatic doors. We stop at the coupon kiosk. She scans her loyalty card. The coupon gets stuck. She fights to free it. In the struggle, her keys fall, today is not my day. I pick them up for her. Bless you. I think her day got better.

Exodus

The great exodus begins as the 9th period bell rings at 2:42. To my locker, to the doors, up the sidewalk, onto the shuttle bus. I take my spot in a two-seater and wait for everyone else to board. We leave the high school and drive four minutes to the middle school. We shuffle out, walk up the sidewalk, and board PG-8 - the short bus. This one drops us off halfway up our driveway. We march four minutes uphill to the house, into the mudroom, to the front door and finally turn the doorknob -- it’s locked. We start knocking.

Bday

It’s my birthday party. A boy’s XL yellow tee-shirt lays neatly folded in it’s GAP gift box, destined never to be worn. Under a blanket, there’s a dresser with drawers lined in floral wax paper. Pa and Linda send a fifty dollar check which will forever sit in the birthday card and never be cashed. The traditional hazelnut cake with chocolate shavings from the Gaston Avenue Bakery sits gloriously in it’s cake box, wrapped up in red and white striped wax string. After eating three bites, I’ll save my slice in the refrigerator. Tomorrow morning I’ll eat it for breakfast.

Marshmallow

The family journeyed across the lawn from Squaw Two to the Tewksbury Cabin, armed with a bag of marshmallows and the traditional green roasting sticks harvested from Daddy’s secret tree. When faced with the decision to roast or read, I decided we should roast our marshmallows first, then listen to Daddy read Old Yeller aloud, even though the newly built fire hadn’t yet produced sufficient coals for proper roasting. When we were filing out the cabin door to leave, Daddy turned, looked at the fire, “now it’s perfect for marshmallows.” This implicit condemnation of my decision brought me great shame.

“Cool Weathervanes”

The foxhounds’ mid-winter walk takes us through the Allen’s farm. On the far south side of their property, the “little” house is being renovated for the arrival of young Mr. Allen. The barns, too, are being made decent for his viewing. Chickens bustle about their chicken coop, which is newly adorned with a rifle-shaped weathervane. Mr. Allen comes out to greet us; Daddy compliments him on this new feature. He glows with pride. We think it must be an antique, resurrected from the Allen’s ancestral collections. But no, Mr. Allen tells us, he bought it online after googling “cool weathervanes.”

Back Roads

We take the back roads home from Bernardsville. On Lake Road, Daddy pauses for a minute to look at the waterfall. The angry sound of gushing water fills us simultaneously with excitement and fear. We start driving again, only to be pounced upon by the car monster. Daddy plays with the gas and brakes, making it seem like the monster is tugging on our back bumper. After this struggle ends, Daddy pulls to the shoulder, turns off the engine, and rolls down the windows. We listen to the glorious chorus of spring peepers - a peaceful moment on our harrowing drive.

Wormy

Out hunting, Uncle David and I walk together, looking for worms. Actually, one worm, named Wormy. We make up stories about him, his relatives and his adventures. During the colder months, we see him less often. He must have gone to Wormy World in Florida for the winter. In the kennel, we see the first worm of the spring. He’s back! Aunt Loren doesn’t tolerate our silly running joke, and so denies us our fun: “that can’t be the same worm.” We glare at her, “of course it is.” After this, we never speak of our little friend ever again.

Walking the Trail

Mr. Caswell, who’s been my gym teacher all through middle and high school, announces the day’s options for gym class: ultimate frisbee or “walking the trail” (the hallway/staircase loop immediately outside the school gym). I consider these, but decide on another activity: a trip to ShopRite. I slip away after he takes attendance, walk two minutes to town, and get my usual: a corn muffin and Arizona Sweet Tea. The next day, Mr. Caswell asks where I was yesterday. “Walking the trail.” He practically apologizes for asking, “people slip away sometimes, but I know you would never do that...”

Cowering

Elementary schoolers flock from the classrooms and hallways, out the double doors and onto the playground. A particularly bitter playground aide follows me down the stairs. As I kick open the door, she squawks her disapproval at me. I run faster and find a hiding spot. I squat under the playground equipment, awaiting my discovery, my punishment. When the whistles are blown at the end of recess, I get in line. She ignores me like nothing happened. Apparently she isn’t looking to punish me; she has forgotten. Ashamed at my irrational fear, I vow to never again cower from authority.

Hockey Skum

Blonde-haired, blue-eyed boys and girls densely populate the skating club down the driveway from us. When hockey practice or figure skating classes are over, they pack up into their cliques and march into the barn and past the kennel. Time to scare them away. From inside a stall, we stare blankly at them, expressionless. Libby carries around an old deer skull. I hold onto Frolic’s collar, pretending to use all my might to hold her back. “Easy, Killer.” Between the vicious German Shepherd and mute hillbillies, the rich kids get nervous. They run back to safety in their matching sweatsuits.

Beagles

King leads the pack under the barbed wire and into the pondside covert where the rabbit has gone to ground. Irma’s persistent ferocity at the earth sends the rabbit bolting back out. Eight-year old Mandy arrives in time to see Lincoln with the rabbit’s hind-end clenched in his jaws. She giggles. We turn our worries to the other spectators: the family who has just emerged from their ratty mobile home planted in front of the corn field. I wave my friendliest wave. They don’t even uncross their arms. We skulk away, letting the beagles chew their meal out of sight.

Our Goats

Mother throws open the stall door with pride. We peek inside. There’s two white goats staring back; they bleat at us. They’re not the cute kind, not little pygmy goats. But their our goats now. Mommy rescued this mother and daughter from slaughter, but they aren’t the least bit grateful. On the milking stand, one stamps and struggles the second her food is gone. She kicks over the milk pail, leans her weight against Mommy, who is tirelessly patient. With glasses knocked askew and milk spilled on her sneakers, Mommy milks on, resting her head against the stained white fur.

Negefits

Libby sits in the rocking chair in front of the family computer, writing an essay. As we pass through the den, we loiter around her to read over her shoulder. She has a question on her mind, puts it to the little peanut gallery gathered about her. “What’s the opposite of benefit?” Disadvantage. Drawback. Downside. No, that’s not it….she sounds it out. “Benefits and….” She can’t come up with a satisfactory ending. She tries again. “Benefits and….negefits!” Negefits? Yup, negefits. We nod our approval, it makes sense. We’ve adopted it into everyday language. Oxford English Dictionary hasn’t, yet.

November Morning

Intervals of cloud and sunshine. High near 73F. Winds light and variable.

A pleasant change from October’s wintery chills. June plays in the sunshine with her new toys while Alec and I throw knives. I hang my little cream colored sweater on a tree branch. We stroll hand-in-hand around the yard. Alec points out trees he’d like to chop down; I protest. We re-enter the house at 10:29 - I had meant to leave nine minutes ago. I hurry out Alec calls me back for goodbyes. On my drive to school, my heart is light and happy as can be.

Frolic's Collection

Frolic’s Collection is showcased in the little pantry nook that the dogs have made home. It’s a cozy little place, complete with dog beds and pictures hung with blue sticky tack. Inside, a vast collection of sneakers and sandals are on display, valued highly for their aromatic qualities. Though we steal them back as needed, Frolic doesn’t seem to mind. On such occasions, when the shoe exhibit is scarce, the assortment of stuffed animals becomes the prime attraction, particularly the silverback gorilla and the tiger who lay sideways, their fur matted from Frolic’s affectionate grooming. She is a dutiful curator.

Inspection

Tim and Joe are coming to inspect our windows for replacement. But the house isn’t fit to be seen, so the parents beat it out of there, locking the doors behind them. Shortly after, the men arrive at the door, knock, then wiggle the door knob. We sisters are silent. They walk the perimeter of the house, inspecting windows. As we hide in the bathroom, the men crawl through a window in the room next to us, but crawl back through five minutes later. Had they remembered breaking and entering was a crime? Or were they appalled by our mess?