"Being 'Bailey'"

 Dogs have been part of my life, since aged two when I crawled into ‘Rollo’s dog house. He was my grandmother’s Great Dane. At about 150 pounds, he was roughly six times my weight – me, a tasty morsel! While my parents were unnerved they knew they planned to have plenty more children, so weren’t overly concerned. At any rate, I escaped unharmed. As a child our dogs were, ‘George,’ an Irish Terrier and ‘Mopsa,’ an Irish Setter. Caroline and I had a total of five dogs – from ‘Susie,’ a Dachshund to ‘Dakota,’ mostly a Lab. Our children have (or have had) five dogs. While we no longer have a dog, we are happy that many of our neighbors do.   

 

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

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“Being ‘Bailey’”

October 24, 2026

 

“Now, I’m a mixer. I can’t help it. It’s my nature. I like men. I like the

taste of their boots, the smell of their legs, and the sound of their voices.”

                                                                                                                       P.G. Wodehouse (1881-1975)

                                                                                                                       “The Mixer”

                                                                                                                         The Man With Two Left Feet, 1917

 

To start, I was born a Beagle – or, more precisely, mostly Beagle; my heritage is a mystery. I come from Virginia’s Appalachian hills and was consigned to an animal shelter. Unexpectedly, at least to me, I gave birth to a litter before the age of one. It was a rough start.

 

But my luck changed when a young family in Greenwich, Connecticut adopted me; though I had to leave my offspring. The year was 2014, and the family had four children, aged five to twelve. Two cats resented my appearance. Once, when confronted by a hissing ‘Clover,’ I simply slipped away. The children and their parents, however, are wonderful, but Greenwich was a culture shock. Other dogs in the neighborhood looked down their snouts at my country accent. After a year or so of being snubbed, I prevailed upon the family to move to rural Connecticut. The town I chose was Lyme, which is where we now live. Here I chase squirrels, observe deer, and avoid the occasional coyote. While it isn’t western Virginia, neither is it suburban Greenwich. 

 

Most days I go for a walk, bringing with me whoever is available. In off-season I go to the beach, anywhere from Hammonasset to Watch Hill. If the weather is bad – and humans dislike being out in the rain, cold, or snow – I take them to the end of Ely’s Ferry Road, or perhaps a short walk on Smith Neck where the children’s grandparents once lived.

 

Now I am getting older – 14 next month. My hearing is going; my sight is not what it was, nor is my stamina, and the family still insists I use the outside loo. Nevertheless, except for the two cats, I remain content. I enjoy looking at the pictures of my cousin ‘Snoopy’ and thinking of the missed opportunity to go after the Fed Ex driver. And I do miss the four children who are working or in college, and I can never remember who is where. 

 

But I am thankful for my life. My eyes may look sad – and sometimes guilty – but I am not sad. Years ago, when a pup, I read Mark Twain’s Pudd’nhead Wilson, and I have always remembered his line: “If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and a man.” And that is a lesson I have followed.

 

So I spend more time on the sofa, and even – sometimes – invite whoever is around to join me. After all, next month I will be 98 in human years. Nevertheless, I am positive for the future. I look out the window, wonder about my pups and dream of past chases. I cherish the family that took me in, and I think of the Appalachian hills where my journey began so many years ago.

"Things We Think About at Night"

 

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

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“Things We Think About at Night”

October 20, 2026

 

“Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking, loving and

dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true.”

Elie Wiesel (1928-2016)

Dawn, 1961

 

Like many of you, I sometimes lie awake at night, reliving past experiences, considering alternatives, even thinking of some episodes that should not be recalled in a family-friendly essay. I ponder questions that seem silly when the morning sun pours through the open window – silly even for someone like me who likes to contemplate unimportant questions. For example, I once found myself wondering if aristocracy was a necessary step in the evolution from the divine rights of kings to a democracy. 

 

Usually, though, my mind wanders to more mundane matters – to retorts I might have made had I been prepared. Or was I rude in the dining room the other night. Or things I should have said but did not; or something I did say when I should have kept quiet.

 

Once, upon returning from a trip to the loo, the clock read 2:37am. Interesting. Two was month my daughter was born, and seven the month my wife was born. Two times three is six, the month our youngest son was born, and two plus seven equal nine, the month our oldest arrived. I could even get to one, the month I was born, by multiplying two times three and subtracting it from seven. In fact, I realized, in a moment of rare illumination, I could arrive at the numbers for all twelve months by adding, subtracting or multiplying. Happy, I fell to sleep.

 

Waking in the night, I am reminded of lines from A.A. Milne in The House at Pooh Corner: “When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain and you Think of Things, you find that a Thing that seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it.” 

 

The other night I found myself in that trance-like state between awake and asleep. This time it was the English language and how difficult it is for non-natives. Some words like ‘there,’ ‘to’ and ‘four’ have at least three definitions, are spelt differently but sound the same. Could I put three definitions of each word into sentences? What would be the shortest sentence I could produce? My answers: “They’re there in their house,” “two is too old to pamper” and “four for the fore.” Upon waking, my Apple watch showed my sleep score to be low. If wasted brain power were measurable, I would be at the top of the list.

 

Those minutes before we fall asleep can feel like hours and they can be, as Mr. Wiesel wrote, intense. The absence of sound, sight, taste and odor magnify imagination and memory.  However, on rare occasions they can be productive, which is why I keep a pen and pad on my bedside table, praying that in the morning any words won’t be ‘Thingish.’

"My First Car...And a Lesson Learned"

 Some of the most important lessons we learn are quietly and thoughtfully offered with no fanfare. The key is, do they stay with us for the rest of our lives? This one has.

This is a short essay (about 280 words) of a minor incident that had a long-lasting impact on my life. The photo is one I downloaded from the internet of a ’47 Ford coupe, similar to the one my sister and I had. Sadly, I was unable to find a photo of our actual car.

 

 

Sydney M. Williams

 

More Essays from Essex

“My First Car...And a Lesson Learned”

October 17, 2026

 

“You’ll always remember your first car and the 

 memories that come with it — that sense of adventure!” 

                                                                                                                                             Paddy McGuinness (1973-)

                                                                                                                                             English comedian and actor

 

In late spring 1957 the local Ford dealership in Peterborough, NH, then owned by Milt Fontaine, had for sale a blue 1947 Ford four-door sedan. The price was $95.00 – above my budget. But splitting the cost with my older sister made the purchase possible.

 

While the back seat looked like Jack the Ripper had spent an afternoon locked inside, the engine ran smoothly, and it even had a radio – a necessity for teenagers in the mid-1950s. My sister named it the “Blue Bus,” as it became a means for conveying friends.

 

We lived four miles from the village, so the car provided independence – at least when it was my turn at the wheel. As I was in boarding school and my sister was in college in Boston, the “Blue Bus” was primarily a summer and holiday vehicle for the two years we had it. I used to enjoy driving the back roads, sometimes with friends but often alone – trying to add to what few skills I possessed.

 

One day at our local gas station, a man walked over, leaned into the driver’s side window. He spoke gently but gravely:

 

“I wouldn’t drive this car so fast on back roads.” He turned and walked back to his car.

 

Startled, I said nothing. I never learned his name. However, I have never forgotten what he said – wise words to a young, over-confident, but inexperienced young driver.