Dear Gretchen, (the best Dachshund ever)
Do you remember the patchwork blanket Grandmom made for you? And the patchwork PJ’s she made for me out of little 4 inch squares of flannel? How about the time we got a blue ribbon at the county fair when I dressed you up homemade Thumbelina doll’s Santa Outfit ? You were an awful good sport about it. What about the little deerskin booties we made for you to swim in, to keep your nails from scratching us, with your flailing doggy paddle? And the time you ran through the screen door and tore your itchy stitches out and I had to sleep with you in that scary dog box to keep you from crying all night? I couldn’t stand to hear you crying but we couldn’t let you jump up on the bed until you got healed.
And I know you remember that horrible day when you were hanging out under the kitchen stove and the hot bacon grease flashed on the stove and then spilled down onto your poor head. I had never heard anyone scream in that much pain before. It was awful. You ran,
yelping and screaming, all the way down the stairs into the basement and tried to hide under the couch. I had to drag you out so we could get you to the vet, you poor thing. After that you had an inch wide hairless, black skin, scar that ran from your left eye all the way to your right ear and you couldn’t see out of that eye anymore.
You used to dig up all the mole tunnels in the yard and turn them into Dachshund sized ditches instead. And you brought home antlers bigger than you and chewed on them for ages. And there was that time you killed a mama bunny and brought home all her babies and nursed them with your precocious milk. You must have wanted your own puppies pretty bad to go through those false pregnancies, even getting milk and then to steal baby bunnies. It was cute though. And we had to blast you with a soapy water pistol to try and break you from chasing cars down the road after they paved it. You were way too small to be chasing cars, you know. It was really dangerous. You liked to ride out in front on the sailboat and your ears would flap in the wind. You kept me warm at night, sleeping under the covers and letting me use you as a knee pillow. Even your head was under the covers.
It was hard to leave you behind when I left home but I couldn’t take you to West Virginia when I moved. You were old and half blind and mostly deaf by then. I was afraid you would follow a ground hog down its hole like it was just a little mole and get all torn up.
Dad brought you home for me when I was eight years old, after Aunt Peg came back from Tripoli and wanted her Dachshund Shotzi back. We had kept him for more than six months and I had fallen in love with him . I had to give him back and could not bear to be alone again. There is nothing else like having a best-friend dog who loves you no matter what. I really appreciated Mom and Dad allowing me to have you since you were not exactly a hunting dog like the Irish Setters they raised.
You lived to be thirteen years old, which is pretty good for a Dachshund. I was not there for your last two years and I feel I let you down in the end. I wish Mom had let me know when she decided to put you down. I didn’t even know until months later. I wouldn’t never have wanted you to suffer though, and I have to trust that Mom did the right thing for you. You were in pain and unable to function anymore. You were my closest friend and such a good dog. Thanks for being you.
Written by Wendy lee, blogging at http://www.edgewisewoods.com
Riding Road Graders and Sleds- Mimosa Lake, NJ, 1960’s
When I was little, we lived on a one lane, white sandy road in the Pine Barrens named for my family as Watson’s Way. It looped around the back side of our small lake, through the Piney woods and scrub oaks, eventually joining with another road to form a figure eight around two lakes. Towards the end of summer each year, the little one lane track would get all humped up with sand in the middle, with the wheel tracks lower on each side. It had to be scraped down and leveled or the cars would drag bottom and get stuck in the soft sand. The curves were especially tricky to maneuver when the sand got deep. Flooring the gas was not at all helpful, it just dug you in deeper. For some reason, the Mayor of the township was the guy who would come out to grade it. I have never known why it was him that came out, as he didn’t live nearby. Maybe he was a land owner or something. He lived way off in town in a huge old farm house and held a big community Easter Egg Hunt there each year.
We learned to ride our bikes on that sandy road, which wasn’t easy, but the falling wasn’t too bad in the soft sand. Way better than falling on gravel or black top. We played Wiffle ball in the middle of the road too, as there was hardly ever any cars besides ours on it. Our bikes had fat tires and no gears back then, with the old style back pedaling brakes. After it rained, the sand was firmer, darker colored and easier to ride on. When the weather had been really dry for a while though, it was almost impossible to pedal fast enough to stay upright. My mom had to carry a shovel in the back of the car in case we needed to dig ourselves out. Old floor mats came in handy too.
So, when the center hump got to too high, Eeph (short for Ephraim) would come out on his old tractor pulling a box grader/ scraper. This was not like a highway department grader blade but more like a giant box type cheese grater. The blade on the bottom would scrape up the sand and it would rise up in the open topped box, the pile growing higher and higher, as he traveled on down the road. When it would get so high it started spilling, he would drive it to some low area or a washed out place nearby and tip it out. It was fascinating to watch but the best times were when he let us sit on top of the pile as it grew. I don’t think this was something I ever mentioned to my parents, and I can’t imagine they would have approved, but it sure was fun.
Another dubiously safe pastime was when Dad would hook the toboggan up to the back of the station wagon and pull all four of us kids down the road in the snow. He’d be fishtailing and we’d be yelling for him to go faster and slinging ourselves off on purpose. It was a blast. Come to think of it, Jeff was game for this kind of thing back in the 90’s when he pulled about twelve of us uphill on sleds behind his Isuzu. It was our annual Presidents Day weekend caving trip out in Franklin, WV. There was a good snow on the ground so we had all brought our sleds. The first sled in line was tied to the car with a rope, and the rest were all holding on to the bent up legs of the person in front of us. We whip snaked up that forest service road way faster than we ever slid down it. He’d pull us up, we’d sled down, he’d pull us back up again. That was even more fun than the toboggan and we were mostly all in our thirty’s and forties then. Well, except for Ackie, who was probably in his sixties at least. He rode his sled down the hill sitting upright like the Norelco shaver commercial on TV at Christmas. You have to be ready to enjoy whatever fun comes along.
I grew up in the woods of the Pine Barrens in South Jersey, on a tiny little lake that was a cranberry bog in its earlier life. As a kid I spent a lot of time outside and my dad taught us four kids how to shoot rifles, fish, and how to paddle and sail our small boats. We would walk the perimeter of our 180 acres every year to post it against hunters we didn’t know. There were swamps, briar thickets and little hillocks we thought were Indian Mounds. We ate a lot of wild game in the form of venison and pheasant and ducks.
Dad was in charge of maintaining the two lakes known as Mimosa for some years. There were numerous lakes nearby that were all strung together, separated only by swamps or manmade earthen dams with narrow roads over them. Each spring the water in the lakes would be let down starting with the lowest ones in the chain and working upstream in succession. This allowed folks to clean up the edges of their swimming areas, bringing in clean sand and building docks and bulkheads along the shore. There were probably about thirty houses around our two lakes and all the kids would get together to muck walk when the muddy bottoms were exposed. This involved traipsing around the lake bottoms barefoot and in old clothes, sometimes sinking up to mid thigh in thick, smelly muck in search of anything interesting. One year, one of the bigger kids from the upper lake, stepped on a buried snapping turtle and it bit his big almost toe clean off. We had a heck of a time getting him back up to a house without him bleeding to death. After that we wore old sneakers for protection when we went mucking.
We justified this fairly disgusting activity by rescuing various fish and turtles that had gotten stranded in the high spots when the water level dropped. We would take them home and hold them in an assortment of aquariums and buckets until the water was back up again. We found lots of turtles- Snappers, Stinkpots, Kings, and Paints, and also newts. The fish were mostly Sunny’s, Pickerel and little catfish. There was always the possibility we might find something dropped from an overturned canoe to or maybe things people had thrown in for some reason, like bicycles. There were a few places where we could dig out this pure white clay that was good for making pots, and many ashtrays were made for Mother’s Day from it. Everybody’s parents seemed to smoke back in the sixties.
South Jersey is made almost entirely of sand and it is kind of hard to grow much of a lawn without major soil amendments. Dad had the best lawn around because he used child labor to bring lots of rich “Mimosa Muck” up to his lawn by the bucket full before he seeded. It only smelled bad until the grass greened up. We were supposed to help with the grass and leaf raking and trimming of the pathway too. Our stepping stones were made of recycled broken up concrete from a highway demolition and were at least six inches thick, all different shapes and very heavy. Once they got set in place they did not move. The grass would grow over top of them though and make them look smaller and smaller as the season progressed. I remember almost enjoying crawling around, cutting the grass back from them using the hand shears. Dad was into “building things in” and we irrigated the lawn using lake water that ran through pipes buried in the ground with those “chit, chit, chit, chit, ch-o-o-o-sh” Rainbird sprinkler heads that work around in parts of a circle and then go back and start over. I love that sound still. It was great fun to run through as a kid on a hot day. And a real pain if it caught you by surprise.
The dams on these converted cranberry bogs were simple in design. They consisted of a culvert under the earthen dam with a three sided concrete box at the upper end set down in the lake bottom. The fourth side of the box was made of 2×6 inch boards set into slots and stacked as high as the level of the lake dictated. Each time a board was removed, the water level would drop 6 inches. Of course that meant that the next lake down took on that much extra water so there was a certain amount of planning that had to go into it each year. The lakes were small, the longest, Centennial Lake, being only one mile, but all strung out together they went on for miles. All the lakes had associations and they would coordinate the spring let downs and fill ups so nobody’s water got too low or too high. One of the benefits to getting the timing right on the let downs was that it would kill off a lot of the lake weed which could get to be a major problem some years. In really wet springs it was hard to get the lakes down and in really dry years it might take awhile to refill them. There were a lot of lawns too close to the waters’ edge and people were not careful enough with fertilizer applications so they tended to feed the weeds as much as the lawns. We later discovered that septic systems might have been feeding the weeds as well. There were no motor boats allowed on any of the lakes unless they were battery operated to prevent oil and gas pollution and excessive noise. Most folks had a canoe or a rowboat and there were quite a few sailboats as well. These Sunfish or Sailfish were only about 10-12 feet long and looked like glorified surfboards with sails stuck on them. We had two Sailfish (made from a kit) and you had to lay down to sail them. My Dachshund, Gretchen, was about the right height and loved to stand in the bow with her ears flapping in the wind. The sailboats were a lot of fun and tipping them was part of it. We were not allowed to sail alone until we were big enough to tip it over in the wind and then quick jump up on the center board to get it righted before the sail filled with water. We got good at that pretty quick though. I remember we had a Sunfish for a short time though and my older sister tipped it and nearly drowned under the sail trying to get it upright the first time she took it out. My Dad decided to get rid of that one.
We had these great dumps nearby that we could scrounge all kinds of good stuff out of back then. Trash pick up was just starting to be a normal thing and they didn’t take construction debris or old furniture and rugs so everybody dumped it in these sort of OK’d spots. All us kids would dig through the piles of trash and get the makings for great tree forts. One time we found an entire wooden canoe with all the ribs intact but no skin on it and we made a good long project out of repairing it with fiberglass cloth and many coats of bright red resin. It made a great canoe and we got a lot of use out of it over the years. Every year it would get a little heavier though, as we patched the fiberglass with yet another layer. My brother found a wooden Kayak frame in the same dump a few years later and redid it the same way but he was never keen on letting any of us girls use it. We also had a big old waterlogged wooden rowboat which weighed a ton and got only heavier the longer it sat in the water. We were supposed to drag it out each time we used it but it was so heavy that we rarely bothered. I guess we all got pretty good exercise dealing with our boats. We used them to fish from, to visit friends down the lake, or to just get away from home. In the early spring they were good for chasing down the baby ducks and their mothers so we could pen them up and keep them safe until they were big enough to not be eaten by the turtles. We had huge King turtles and Snapping turtles that would lay in wait for the ducklings. You’d be watching the Mama duck paddle by with her line of babies behind her and all of a sudden the one at the end of the line would get pulled under and disappear. The turtle never even showed his head. In the afternoons sometimes six or eight Kings would spread out on a dead snag sticking out in the water to rest and my Dad would get out his gun and blow them away. So we would round up as many ducks as we could every spring and keep them penned up down in the creek behind our house. We built chicken wire pens that each had some dry land and some water and a little shed with a nest box and we fed them a couple times each day. They were mostly wild Mallard ducks but there were some tame white ones in there as well. In the fall the wild ones would leave and head south for the winter but they always came back and some of them we knew well enough to name them. They would come waddling up the hill in the evenings and eat corn out of our hands. The white ones were always too fat to fly very far and they stayed over the winter, paddling furiously in shifts to keep a hole opened in the ice. That way the dogs and hungry wild critters could not reach them. Once, one of them stood too long on one foot while he was sleeping on the ice and his foot froze off. We ended up eating him. We actually ate a good many ducks each year and some of the neighbors complained about our keeping so many ducks but we didn’t really keep them, they left whenever they wanted to. Sometimes they would travel from lake to lake for awhile and we would not see them for a few days at a time. There were usually about 30 or so together.
My Dad had a favorite Mallard he called Loner who would come when he was called and tended to keep to himself. The other ducks picked on him sometimes. He was late arriving back home one Spring and when he finally did show he came walking up the path with his head all bloodied and in really bad shape. Dad cried as he went to get his gun and put the poor duck out of his misery, it was obvious he would not survive. We buried him. You can’t really eat your friends.
-Wendy lee Maddox
Getting a word in edgewise through storytelling and pictures