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“Garlic is a miracle vegetable if there ever was one.” – P.D.
Since there was a war on—excuse me, since there was an escalating conflict on—chartering a carriage to take me to Philadelphia proved difficult. Luckily, John Adams’ letter had included orders for my commanding officer, Bart, demanding him to provide me a horse. On the morning of my departure, I saluted Bart, shook his hand, and gave him a kiss on the cheek for good luck. Then, I mounted my steed who was already carrying the old ball and rein—a.k.a., Zippy—in a cushioned saddlebag.
Bart threw a messenger bag into my open arms, striking my unguarded face. He always pulled pranks like that on the men. It’s too bad he got syphilis and passed away soon after. Anyway, Bart slapped my horse on the rump, and we galloped off into the rolling hills of rural America. The messenger bag held a treasure trove of Continental Army intelligence which I was to present to the congress. Zippy listened intently as I read snippets aloud each night by our campfire and pup tent. I say pup tent because, before I commandeered it for the purposes of Zippy and my leisurely travel, it was in use by Bart’s hound.
In all, our trip to Philadelphia took fifteen days. We were able to regain occupancy of our previous quarters in the boarding house. Sadly, Zippy and my matching tailored suits were probably long gone by that point, since they were shut up with those stinky British in Boston. I heard a rumor years later that her suit was making the rounds at carnivals and traveling circuses as a sort of curiosity. Not wishing to be entirely out of character, my mule and I tried out a few walking sticks on the way to the Pennsylvania State House, the meeting place of the second congress.
As we stood in the entry hall, Zippy and I again made out respective knocks at the door—mine high, hers low. “I’m not answering it again.” John Adams’ unmistakable voice rang out behind the heavy doors. I don’t blame him for not wanting to take a chance after his last encounter with a set of double doors had left him with a deviated septum.
“Stand clear of the doors, Representative Daviess.” I hopped onto Zippy’s back. My mini mule edged away from the doors. “Are you clear?”
“Yes, the pimples of my youth have long since abated. Thank you for asking, stranger.” A few groans emanated from the assembly room. They must have gotten takeout from the local kebab cart. The lock clicked on the doors, and a person whose acquaintance I’d yet to make was revealed.
I could attempt to explain his appearance until I ran out of ink, but there’s really no use. He looked like all the rest of them did—old and white wigged. I clicked my tongue, and Zippy scooted forward. Inclining my head and stretching out my hand, I shouted—you never know whether old men of that sort are deaf, “Pritchard Daviess.” Zippy, in her own way, introduced herself by licking the man’s shoe.
“Ben Franklin, representative of both Philadelphia in Pennsylvania colony and the womanizer lobby.” Franklin smiled.
“There’s a lobby for that? Wait till they hear about this in Rinky-Dink. They’ll riot. In my opinion and the opinions of the constituents who I’ve never bothered to meet let alone ask but who I’ll gladly speak for now, there should be one common lobby for everyone, whether animal or person, in public places regardless of the lobbygoers’ romantic yearnings.”
Franklin pulled back his hand which I’d been shaking all the while. I clicked my tongue again, and Zippy took off suddenly in a burst of speed toward my designated seat. Her unusual speediness knocked me from her back. It’s difficult enough to ride her without standing on one leg. As I lay cramping, Franklin stood over me and asked, “Do you need a hand?”
I was a bit lightheaded from hitting my noggin, but my wit dulls for no cranial contusion. I cried, “Enchanted, I’m sure! I know this might seem premature, Benji, but I know we’re going to be best friends in no time.” BJ suffered some sort of muscle spasm and dropped me back onto the floor where I again struck my head. After a few moments, he picked me up and draped me over Zippy’s wee back. As she tottered the rest of the way to my seat, I whispered, “You were always my favorite, Zippy. Never fear, your siblings won’t get a farthing in my will.”
My faithful mule daughter dragged me to my seat, and Sammy grabbed me by the collar, pulling me into my seat where I promptly fell unconscious for several hours. Being knocked senseless is the only way to get through boring life moments like political conferences or tennis matches.
Sammy woke me up around suppertime for a rollcall vote. I leaned over to him and muttered in a groggy voice, “Whattah we votin’ ern?”
“An olive branch petition. Just vote yes.”
I stood to my foot and shouted, “I wish to extend debate on this petition for a time measuring the greater of one day or until my horse-lag has lessened. Can I get a witness? I mean a second.”
My old mate, Singsong, seconded my motion to which I cried, “Singsong, you scalawag!” There was laughter, then silence.
Prior to my return to the congress, a new President had been chosen. You may have heard of his larger-than-necessary handwriting. Yes, it was John Hamcock. Pardon me, my quill ran a bit there. Let me try again. His name was John Hancook. Hancock. That’s it. That last one is the correct spelling.
Hank extended a hand and said, “The floor is now open for discussion on the extension of debate.” Again, I raised my hands to speak. “Representative Daviess,” Hank nodded at me, which I returned in kind. This went on a few more times. “You may continue.”
“Thank you, fair President. I believe the matter at hand has been too hastily considered. As some have said, Rome was not gilt in a day, and not every member of this body feels comfortable taking up this petition for a final vote. There are matters of logistics that have yet to be discussed. For instance, shall we send the proclamation to whomever it is addressed wrapped around an actual olive branch? If so, where are we to obtain said branch? If we wish to show the recipient we mean them well, perhaps we should also tie a pheasant or other game bird to the branch in addition to the proclamation. It’s a matter of branding. How do we wish them to feel when they receive it—whoever it is?”
Sammy slammed a fist on the table before him and screamed, “It’s for the King and Parliament. If you hadn’t been drooling on me, you’d have known that!” By that point in his life, Sammy had mellowed considerably.
“Well, in that case, kill the pheasant and take the stick from a thorn bush. That should get the message across clearly enough. I yield back the remainder of my time.” I let out a heavy sigh, using the exhale as a means of gently tipping myself off balance. I toppled toward my chair, satisfied I’d made my point.
The petition passed, and the congress took a recess for lunch. Important political matters can always wait until the hunger of democratic representatives has been sated. I’d bore you with explaining the rest of the day’s agenda, but I honestly can’t remember it. Besides, I’ve skimmed a few memoirs where the author provided every tedious detail of their life down to what they ordered at each meal and why. This isn’t that sort of memoir.
Talk around the Silk Snapdragon that evening centered on the heroic exploits of Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Men. My fertile imagination spun up wild visions of their victory in capturing Fort Ticonderoga and its stash of cannon. While the daydreams took different forms, the bucktoothed, banjo-strumming mountain men were the same throughout. It’s comforting to know that, in the early days of the revolution, people from all walks of life—whether those living deep in old-growth forests and siring children with close relatives or the rest of us—had a hand in the victory to come. Woops. There I go, spoiling the end for you. Since you’ve no doubt already purchased or borrowed this book at great personal expense, I urge you to finish it out.
I’ll admit that the lads and I went a little wild that evening. We may or may not have gone to Sammy’s apartment and painted him red. (We did.) Needless to say, our prank wasn’t taken too well by my generally understanding and gracious relative. He’d seemed a bit short all day. I wonder if he’d switched to shoes without proper arch support. Sammy cut me off on the spot—financially, not with a knife. I had enough money to tide me through the walk back to Zippy and my quarters at the boarding house.
Unsure of how I’d support Zippy and myself, I surfed through the streets, searching for work. It’s rather ironic to think how crucial my opinions and votes were to the colonies because, although I was a growing celebrity and champion of my constituents, I was poorer than most of them. A few jobs looked promising, but I was told many times that they had zero tolerance for pets. When I corrected them and explained that Zippy was actually my daughter, they went on to explain they weren’t tolerant of children either. I could’ve asked one of my congressional comrades to take me in, but I was too proud to ask them for help.
