Dad allowed me to hunt, although he wouldn’t kill anything himself. He went along to watch the dogs or hounds work. I had a Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Chap, which I trained. They are easy dogs to work, and I thought I knew something.
Dad drove me to streams and I’d send Chap in after a rubber ball. I dearly wanted a rifle so I could shoot ducks, but we couldn’t afford one. Dad, a devout pacifist, believed that guns did the devil’s work and if you had to resort to violence to solve a problem, it meant you’d failed. But if he’d had the money, he would have bought me a rifle. Dad felt beliefs had to come from inside. He couldn’t push his beliefs on me.
He had served in the Civil Air Patrol during World War II. He was thirteen when World War I ended, so he was too young to participate except for gathering scrap metal, which the boys did while the girls rolled bandages.
Sometimes we’d tag along with the pheasant hunters. Setters of every sort would be out. The Irish Setters, shiny chestnut, dashed quick as lightning but could be flighty in the field. The English Setters, still fast, proved more reliable and the Black-and-Tan Gordons, heavier setters, while comparatively slow, were steady as a rock.
However, the gun dog I loved was the Clumber Spaniel, which most people take to be an ugly huge Cocker Spaniel. Steady in all conditions, patient as a saint and with unflagging drive, these animals earn every morsel of food you give them. On top of that, they are playful, loyal and loving. I hope to own a Clumber one day and work in the field with it.
One morning Dad and I got up early to watch field trials. PopPop tagged along, although he much preferred hounds to gun dogs.
When I got home I told Mom and Aunt Mimi everything. Then I rambled on about who shot John (a southern expression that means you give more information than society requires).
When I’d finished my bucolic rapture Mother informed me that I was to be enrolled in cotillion. Really it was pre-cotillion, just as Brownies precedes Girl Scouts.
The thought of endless ice-water teas (nothing but ice-water was served) and filling out dancing cards gave me the heaves.
Mom couldn’t remember if the lessons were to take place at one of the local schools, Hannah Penn or Millard Fillmore, or at Miss Holtzapple’s house.
At the mention of Fillmore, Aunt Mimi blurted out, “You can’t send her there.”
“Why not?”
“Because her brother is there.”
Mother snapped, “Shut up, Sis.”
Aunt Mimi obeyed her sister for the only time in their lives together. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“What brother?” I asked.
“Your aunt Mimi’s elevator doesn’t go to the top, kid. Forget it.”
Fat chance.