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.