on the first night in a country

on the first night in a country home, sleep never comes easy.

Morning is better. Things always look better in the daylight. But this time you are blasted out of bed by a sound that is like nothing you ever heard before.

Dogs barking. No, not barking, roaring, screaming, racing across your entrance lane. Adding to this racket is a human sound, a voice seemingly encouraging them. It is a feral, wild sound...truly bloodcurdling. A crowd of people on horseback follow the dogs out of sight.

Juat The Hunt

“Pull in your eyeballs," your wife says, "it’s just the hunt.”

“I thought maybe a convict had escaped or something,” you mumble foolishly, “all those wild-looking dogs and people.” 1

“Those are foxhounds, dummy. Don’t you remember the real estate agent told us we lived in hunting territory?”

You expected something else though. You didn’t know that much noise was involved. Your total knowledge of foxhunting was an occasional snide reference to it in the Post or a snippet on television that used the sport as a counterpoint to some country family on welfare.

But your son has a look on his face and is still staring into the distance toward the faint cry of hounds. Without saying a word, he is telling you that he liked what he saw, and he noticed a few kids on ponies running with the best of adults. “Later,” you say to yourself, “I’ll explain how it's impossible later.”

Water From Your Well

The morning coffee tastes great with the water-fromyour-own-well. Despite the wild introduction to the day, everything looks wonderful and complete.

A day of work on the house has been planned. The real estate agent put you in touch with a neighbor who has a tractor and something called a bush hog to cut (}Qwn t;he weeds and broomsedge.

There is unpacking and cleaning and rug laying and furniture to place and pictures to hang. Feeling a bit