Aunt Glad - her name contrasted sharply to her personality, Nana liked to say - lived up island, just down the road apiece from Bill Albright, with her flock of dogs. She carried a shotgun, daring anyone to trespass on her property and promising a life of retribution for those brave or foolhardy enough to try. She and Bill had been long time rivals in the business of whiskey making, never caring enough for each other to form what could have been a profitable partnership. She was, he told people, a woman of spare parts - composed of a glass eye, one wooden leg, the heart of a miser and all the rest mean temperedness. Aunt Glad never argued with this assessment - she was a woman to shoot first and eliminate the need for questions altogether.
Had me enough foolish questions to last a lifetime, she complained to her sister and only confidante during a sheep shearing session, Seen me dead dogs smarter'n most folks.
Ayuh, Old Hat agreed, a woman who made a virtue of the economy of speech.
The two women would often sit on each other's porches, shotguns at the ready, jugs at their sides, watching the boats come in and drinking themselves into complacent, contented oblivion. Glad's pack of dogs, thirteen by her latest count, scattered at their feet and slept peacefully among the chickens and sheep. They were an odd assortment of different sizes and colors, long and short haired, terriers and shepherds and some wolf, so Glad claimed, and all were called Rufus. Saves time, she told her sister, Call one, they all come. Old Hat paused in the act of lighting her newest pipe and nodded, Ayuh, she said agreeably and passed it to Glad. Swirls of smoke drifted in the air along with fireflies and mosquitoes and the warm, damp scent of the ocean. From Sparrow's porch, we watched the two old women set up a makeshift table between them and begin a game of cribbage with only the moon to light their play while one of the Rufuses, a black and tan hound mix of indeterminate age and sex began to bay in the direction of the lighthouse. Quit! Glad said sharply and the dog stopped instantly, giving her a forlorn look before trotting to her side and sitting attentively. Down! she added, and the hound immediately laid down, head resting on its paws. Good dog, Glad said, absently stroking its head, Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six. Old Hat cackled and puffed on her pipe.
Much later that night I heard the sounds of Aunt Glad and the dogs passing. It was six miles up island and she was walking, following the path of the moonlight, dogs trailing ahead and behind. I could hear her singsonging, fifteen two, followed by a sharp clack...fifteen four, followed by a sharp clack...and a pair is six! Her wooden leg hit the newly paved road with each step. The woman of spare parts and her dogs were dancing their way home.
Had me enough foolish questions to last a lifetime, she complained to her sister and only confidante during a sheep shearing session, Seen me dead dogs smarter'n most folks.
Ayuh, Old Hat agreed, a woman who made a virtue of the economy of speech.
The two women would often sit on each other's porches, shotguns at the ready, jugs at their sides, watching the boats come in and drinking themselves into complacent, contented oblivion. Glad's pack of dogs, thirteen by her latest count, scattered at their feet and slept peacefully among the chickens and sheep. They were an odd assortment of different sizes and colors, long and short haired, terriers and shepherds and some wolf, so Glad claimed, and all were called Rufus. Saves time, she told her sister, Call one, they all come. Old Hat paused in the act of lighting her newest pipe and nodded, Ayuh, she said agreeably and passed it to Glad. Swirls of smoke drifted in the air along with fireflies and mosquitoes and the warm, damp scent of the ocean. From Sparrow's porch, we watched the two old women set up a makeshift table between them and begin a game of cribbage with only the moon to light their play while one of the Rufuses, a black and tan hound mix of indeterminate age and sex began to bay in the direction of the lighthouse. Quit! Glad said sharply and the dog stopped instantly, giving her a forlorn look before trotting to her side and sitting attentively. Down! she added, and the hound immediately laid down, head resting on its paws. Good dog, Glad said, absently stroking its head, Fifteen two, fifteen four, and a pair is six. Old Hat cackled and puffed on her pipe.
Much later that night I heard the sounds of Aunt Glad and the dogs passing. It was six miles up island and she was walking, following the path of the moonlight, dogs trailing ahead and behind. I could hear her singsonging, fifteen two, followed by a sharp clack...fifteen four, followed by a sharp clack...and a pair is six! Her wooden leg hit the newly paved road with each step. The woman of spare parts and her dogs were dancing their way home.
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