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“Love of honey is the root of teeth rot.” – P.D.
After a brief pause to increase the tension, I strolled into the room at a deliberate pace. Zippy followed me, her shoed hooves making little clicks with every step she took. A collection of several dozen men stood before me. Well, some were standing but a few others were sitting down. I spied Sammy in the group. He was seated at a table near the front of the room. His head was cradled in his hands—must’ve had a headache. I sized up one of the chairs and breathed a sigh of relief. I didn’t have any trouble filling my seat. They were sufficiently wide.
A frail man at the front of the room stood to his feet and muttered, “Who are you and what reason do you have for disrupting this congress?”
Before I could take a breath large enough to respond, Sammy rose to his feet and replied, “Mr. President, this is Pritchard Daviess, a man of humble means from Massachusetts colony. He will be silently filling the vacant seat from their delegation.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, Cousin.” When I mentioned my relationship to Sammy, the men in the room began chattering amongst themselves. “That man’s chair is creaking whenever he takes a breath.”
The man I’d referenced piped up, “You disrespectful youth! That’s not the chair. I have a breathing condition.”
I bowed low for a moment, and Zippy did the same. “I apologize, sir. You could’ve fooled anyone. To get this out of the way, yes, I’m Sammy’s cousin.”
Sammy raised his hand, which I slapped in a jovial sort of way. My cousin appeared stunned for a moment before almost screaming, “What my wife’s distant relative by remarriage is trying to say....”
“Sammy’s being modest. We practically grew up together.”
“Representative Daviess is exaggerating the truth. He and I lived in different municipal townships. His relationship to me is akin to a crow calling a robin his brother.” A vein began to pulse on Sammy’s forehead.
“We lived on the same street.” I wasn’t usually this argumentative, but I didn’t want my fellow representatives to get the wrong impression.
“It was a long, winding street if I recall—more of a thoroughfare than a street, really.”
“Yes, but it was our thoroughfare, Cousin.”
Sammy turned to address the man at the front of the room. “Mr. President, I’d like to have a private word with Representative Daviess. I won’t be a moment.”
The President of the congress smacked what appeared to be a toy hammer against his desk and called for a five-minute recess. I wish I could’ve spent my recess outside sporting about with the other representatives like Zippy did, but Sammy quite literally pulled me to the side of the room by my jacket collar.
Sammy’s eyes were twitching wildly, and his breathing was labored. I decided I needed to say something to break the ice. “How was your flight?”
“Are you trying to embarrass me, Pritchard?”
“No, Cousin, I thought you’d be happy to see me here on time.”
“You weren’t on time! We started three hours ago.” Before I could add that our boarding house was all the way across town, Sammy put his hand over my mouth and continued, “The recess is almost over. I need you to sit in the chair next to me and not say a word unless—and I mean this in the strictest sense, so pay attention—there is a life-threatening emergency. Nod if you understand.” I nodded my head several times, a difficult task considering Sammy’s hand was still tightly covering my mouth.
Sammy drew back his hand and returned to his chair. I seated myself next to him. When the recess concluded, the next item on the agenda was presented by one of the representatives from Rhode Island. He said something along the lines of, “I move that the revolting creature before us be expelled from this body.”
To which I said something equivalent to, “Kiss my mule’s bum, you Celtic troubadour.” Everyone began shouting all at once. A light shower of spittle rained down on those present. When I realized that jerk was referring to Zippy, I defended her honor by imploring, “Mr. President, I may not have shown signs of it as I confidently entered this place, but I suffer from a painful malady of the foot. I’d wager it’s probably nothing you or wheezy over there have ever heard of. It requires constant elevation, or my leg may well combust in a conflagration of pain and misery. My mule doubles as a portable footstool. If she goes, I’m afraid so does my uninformed vote.” I figured those old fogies would never accept my adoption of Zippy as a legitimate excuse for her continued presence. In those days, such unorthodox relationships weren’t heard of in political circles—not even in sewing circles, for that matter. I’d prepared another excuse, but I don’t think my fellow representatives would have believed me if I’d told them Zippy was my emotional support animal/daughter.
A vote was taken. It was close, but the motion to remove Zippy failed passage by one vote. Judging by the way she bristled and spat at me when I put my feet up on her back, my mini mule didn’t entirely appreciate the outcome. However, Zippy forgave me later that evening when I explained to her that, had she been removed from the congress, she would’ve had to stand at the hitching post and make awkward chitchat with her distant—and considerably taller—relatives for hours at a time. Zippy’s never been a fan of small talk.
The whole congress thing was a big snooze fest. I don’t remember much of what happened, because I stopped paying attention early on. Something about Parliament passed some intolerant laws, and we were all like, “Oh, no, you didn’t.” There was sassy snapping and a staring contest—or was that the second congress? I remember signing a proclamation saying we weren’t going to let anyone in the colonies buy anything that said, “Made in India,” but that’s about all that comes to mind.
For the most part, I followed Sammy’s lead when it came time to cast my vote. Every day, I eagerly awaited the assembly’s dismissal. At that point, I met up with several of the other representatives—they were so insignificant to the revolution, even I can’t recall their names—for dinner and a nightcap in our nightcaps at The Silk Snapdragon. The tavern had all my favorite brews, but I missed the cold familiarity of The Lukewarm Shandy back in Annapolis. I remember a few of the fellows’ nicknames. There was Singsong, Post, and Cheddar. We had great times, the boys and I.
During the proceedings of that first colonial congress, I was presented with one moment to dust the dandruff off the old noggin and impress those gathered with my oratorical abilities. Sammy had left for a moment to use the facilities, and the President said, “Would anyone else care to make a statement about the bill?”
On the way to Philadelphia, I’d taken several minutes to jot down my thoughts about the colonies’ relationship with the empire. I rose to my foot and cried, “I wish to speak.” (I say foot because I had to stand on one foot to continue the ruse about my pretend ailment.) My statement was met with a few groans. Food poisoning must have been making its rounds. I told them we shouldn’t have ordered takeout from a place called Haggis Hoagies.
“Sure, why not? This should be enlightening,” the President muttered as he seated himself.
“Thank you, sir.” I pulled out several pages of notes from my pocket, took a deep breath, and entered into the body of my speech, “Friends, yeomen, countrymen, lend me your ears that I may hear the will of the people—yea, even the women.”
“Blasphemy! Do you understand what you say, boy?” A large, elderly man behind me slammed his fists on the table before him.
I looked up from my notes and explained, “I thought the same thing until I met a girl the other day who was as smart as any boy I’ve met in the colonies. She could even do math in her head. She was one smart rookie.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Get him out of here.” The man was turning red as he screamed at the top of his lungs. At the time, I figured the man must’ve had to tag along to the congress with his son because they couldn’t find a sitter. I’m sure Sammy had been placed in similar predicaments by Ann’s grandfather.
I turned to face the President. “Please, let me continue. I didn’t realize my comments would face such hostility.” The President raised his hand, urging me to carry on. I don’t remember what happened to the old man at that point. He either stormed out or suffered a stroke. Sadly, the secretary was so busy striking his head against his desk that he wasn’t able to take notes regarding the body of my speech or its reception. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he ever took notes when I addressed the congress.
I continued, “Eight score, give or take several years ago, our gold-fevered yet pious ancestors laid waste this land, subjecting it to their unfettered power and poor knowledge of sustainable agricultural practices. But the fetters did come, and we, simple British subjects, have had the life choked out of us and the money shaken from our coin purses. Yet, today, we stand at a crossroad. One fork will take us unwillingly into the fiery mouth of the King—straight into the burning maw of Hell and taxation without recrimination. The other choice is no less hard of a road, but in that scenario, we are, quite literally, a fork plunging ourselves into the proverbial thigh of the British Empire. Our chances of victory are slim, but the rewards, although won at great cost, are better still.” By this point, the room was deathly silent. In case you’re concerned, the food poisoning hadn’t offed them all.
“But what are we to do? What actions shall we take? Firstly, ask not what your fellow delegates can do for you in return for a hefty bribe. Nay! Ask why these chairs are not a mite more comfortable.” I bowed to a still room. “Furthermore, are we better off this day than we were four years prior under the tyrannical rule of an armed-chair royal? Nay! I tell you—nay!”
Again, the room remained silent, so I flipped through my notes to something more practical. “The people must know that we’re concerned for their wellbeing, but to truly win their hearts, they must feel we’re at least pretending to care about improving their children’s lives as well. I propose that this congress allocate a special fund, affording every child in the colonies the opportunity to play checkers—or purchase a spaniel. Pardon, I’m having trouble reading these notes. I thought of that last night and had to scratch it out in the dark. That idea’s a freebie, by the by. I’m no credit harlot.” Murmurs shot through the room. I knew they’d like that idea.
To conclude my speech, I crumpled my notes in my fists and raised my arms above my head, shouting, “I’d like to propose a toast. To fight!” Singsong, Cheddar, and Post gave me a standing ovation, as did John Jay.
The President banged his little hammer again. “Does the motion have a second?” He scanned the room. “Anyone? Anyone?” Cheddar and Singsong raised their hands to second the motion, which, to this day, I appreciate, but the President didn’t seem to notice them.
“Mr. President,” I cried, “a number of my compatriots are attempting to second this very motion to declare war on the King.”
The President banged his hammer on the table several times. “Order. There will be order! The chair does not recognize the motion.”
“Of course, the chair doesn’t recognize them—none of them would. They’re inanimate! The important thing is that you recognize them, sir. Is this all you people do, sit around and pretend not to notice one another?” I jabbed my index finger down onto the table in front of me. “If our constituents knew the nonsense that goes on around here, they’d be appalled. You’re all a bunch of stuffed wigs. Right, Zippy?” My mule daughter let out a snort of disdain that was almost palpable. It felt good knowing that at least I had Zippy and those fellows whose real names escape me to back me up.
Before I could fall into my chair with a huff, I fell to the ground where I clutched at my cramped calf for several minutes while the other delegates continued to plow through the agenda. Zippy came over and tended my cowlick, as any good daughter would. That moment served as a valuable life lesson for me which I’ve remembered to this very day. If one is to pretend to be plagued by a foot ailment, one must be physically prepared to endure long periods of standing on one leg. It’s a good thing Sammy had stepped out for a few minutes, or that incident might’ve been a tad humiliating.
