A Fox In Every Farm Name

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign,
Blockin' out the scenery, breakin' my mind.

Five Man Electrical Band

I have a request. This is directed to those who move to a rural area where foxhunting is still practiced and who embrace this lifestyle, either riding to hounds themselves or at least supporting the local hunt and allowing its members to cross their land. Bless you, thank you, may the heavens shower you with health, wealth, happiness, and an abundance of tax shelters. I ask but this: Please don’t use the word “fox” in the name of your farm. We have enough already. We have too many. We have so many that it’s become laughably trite. The only incentive now is to see how many variations of fox-themed farm names people can come up.

Think I’m exaggerating? Consider these few examples:

Fox Acres, Fox Arbor, Fox Bay, Fox Brook, Fox Brush, Fox Call, Fox Cave, Fox Chase, Fox Country, Fox Covert (pronounced “Cover”), Fox Cover (no, not pronounced “Covert”), Fox Cradle, Fox Creek, Fox Crest, Fox Den, Fox Delight, Fox Falls, Fox Farm (that took some deep thought), Fox Fawn (an interspecies commune?), Fox Feather, Fox Fields, Fox Fire, Fox Folly, Fox Found, Fox Frolic, Fox Gallop, Fox Gamble, Fox Gate, Fox Glen, Fox Glove, Fox Grove, Fox Haven, Fox Heaven, Fox Hideout, Fox Hill, Fox Hole (complete with an image of a helmeted fox in a sandbag bunker on the sign), Fox Holloa (pronounced “Holler”), Fox Holler (pronounced, well…”Holler”), Fox Hollow, Fox Hunt (another brilliant stroke of imagination), Fox Knoll, Fox Lair, Fox Lake, Fox Lane, Fox Lea, Fox Ledge, Fox Manor, Fox Mask, Fox Meadows, Fox Mews, Fox Mill, Fox Mount, Fox Mountain, Fox Oaks, Fox Over, Fox Park, Fox Pasture, Fox Path, Fox Paw, Fox Penny, Fox Pines, Fox Point, Fox Pond, Fox Redoubt, Fox Rest, Fox Retreat, Fox Return, Fox Ridge, Fox River, Fox Rock, Fox Roll, Fox Romp, Fox Run, Fox Rush, Fox Shadow, Fox Star, Fox Stream, Fox Stone, Fox Swamp, Fox Tail, Fox Time (or Thyme), Fox Thorn, Foxtopia, Fox Trail, Fox Treat, Fox Tree, Fox Trot, Fox Turn, Fox Watch, Fox Way, Fox Willow, Fox Woods, Fox Vale, Fox Valley, Fox View, Fox Village.

Now replace “Fox” with “Vixen” or “Vixen’s” and you can repeat the entire list.

If only it stopped there. But it doesn’t. Let’s move “Fox” to the end of the name and consider these possibilities.

Lazy Fox, Sneaky Fox, Running Fox, Trotting Fox, Fancy Fox, Briar Fox, Brer Fox, Bold Fox, Hidden Fox, Laughing Fox, Shadow Fox, Sunny Fox, After the Fox, Rocking Fox, Rolling Fox, Wiley Fox, Barking Fox, Granny Fox, Cedar Fox, Swamp Fox, Copper Fox, Flying Fox, Painted Fox, Wild Fox, Sassy Fox, Cozy Fox, Sly Fox, Snooty Fox, Little Fox, Big Fox, Extra Large Fox (just kidding), then there’s a fox of any color (Gray Fox, Red Fox, Blue Fox, Green Fox, etc.) and foxes of any number (One Fox, Two Fox, Three Fox, and so on), Sleepy Fox, Happy Fox, Bashful Fox, Sneezy Fox, Grumpy Fox, Dopey…well, maybe not.

I appreciate the spirit behind these names. Each is a counterpoint to the developers’ use of hunt-themed names for places where hunting, or even trail riding, no longer exists. But how about shooting for a little more creativity here folks? And let’s recognize some other woodland critters that are an integral part of the countryside. Doesn’t “Possum Pastures” have a nice alliterative ring to it? Although it’s accurately descriptive of the rural lifestyle, “Knee-deep In Dirt, Debt, Hay and Horseshit Farm” might be hard to fit on a sign. For boldness and accuracy, as well as brevity, it would be tough to beat “Feral Cat Farm.”

I will allow one exception to the banishment of the word “fox” from any more farm signs. If your name happens to be “Fox,” you get an exemption.

© 2010 J. Harris Anderson

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 11: Chasers

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!"

To A Louse
Robert Burns

"Let him who is without sin and has a good pitchin’ arm see how far he can cast this here stone.”

Dave Barry

Our journey through a Typology of Foxhunters concludes with this week’s posting – Chasers. This series has generated many comments such as “What typology do you think I am?” and “My lawyer will be in touch with you.” Without citing a hard number, I think it’s safe to report that the favorability rating of this blog has far outstripped that of Congress (they’re down to single digits in some polls now, right?). And as everyone has a suggestion to improve the legislative process, so too have many readers of the Foxhunters Guide felt moved to suggest other topics for consideration on these pages. All such input is appreciated. And the more detailed the better. As the saying goes, “Plagiarism is the highest form of flattery.” (Certainly makes my work easier.)

For now, though, we’re going to wrap up Foxhunter Typologies with this week’s posting, give the blog a thorough cleansing with cyber disinfectant to wash away any remnants of lingering snarkiness, and turn to other, perhaps less prickly, topics starting next week. But for those of you who appreciate the attitude of Alice Roosevelt Longworth (“If you can’t say something nice, come and sit by me.”), fear not – there’s sure to be a return of the pricklies at some point.

Here is the final installment of Typologies, the one you’ve all been waiting for…

Chasers

Chasers make up the majority of foxhunters. Indeed, everyone reading this should consider himself or herself a Chaser (your good taste in blog selection clearly confirms that). Their primary motivation is a pure and simple love of the chase. Chasers enjoy riding horses and following hounds but the sport is not the main focus of their lives. They ride well enough to endure long runs and jump difficult fences without braggadocio, complaint, or excuse. While many could easily match or even exceed the skill and knowledge level of those serving as staff, the Chaser aspires to no higher office than that of the happy member of the field. They understand the difference between accepting the inherent risk the sport entails and the stupidity of taking unnecessary chances. If called upon to help out in a pinch as, say, field leader or whipper-in, they’ll rise to the occasion and do an admirable job. When the master or whip returns, the Chaser steps aside and rejoins the audience, his or her ego still comfortably intact. Most days Chasers will stay out until the huntsman blows “Going Home.” But when the action drags on for several hours and even fit horses begin to flag they will pull up, let the Superman Striver and his small band of Juice Junkies continue on, and take a leisurely walk back to the trailers, saving both themselves and their horses for another day.

Chasers serve on various club committees, as their schedule allows, and bring a level-headed maturity to the work. They pay their dues on time, recognize the value they receive for the outlay, and kick in extra bucks when appropriate such as at fundraising auctions and for the huntsman’s Christmas bonus. They appreciate the finer points of the sport – proper turnout, order in the field, when to be silent (most of the time), how the day’s hound work is proceeding – but are not insistent that all others adhere to the same old-fashioned standards. They are friendly and polite toward guests and new members, offering assistance and guidance when appropriate.

If there’s a downside to my depiction of Chasers, it’s that they’re so damn admirable it’s hard to poke fun at them.

Chasers are the backbone of foxhunting, the ones who are aware that the privilege of riding to hounds makes each of us one of the most fortunate people in the world. So why sully this singularly distinctive experience with misplaced ego or personal agenda? The Chaser revels in the joys the sport has to offer, accepts its responsibilities, laughs at his or her own shortcomings, and strives for patience with the foibles of others. If this Typology of Foxhunters has shown nothing else, it’s that when it comes to foibles, each of us contributes in some way, whether major or minor (okay, so maybe some waaaay more major than others). This is what makes us human. And wouldn’t life be damn boring if we were all perfect?

An attitude of patient acceptance strengthens the sense of camaraderie, a belief that we’re all in this sport for the same reasons, that we share the same values. True, we may have come to this pastime from a diversity of backgrounds, but now, in the spirit of the American Dream, we’re all bound together as equals (although “diversity” among foxhunters may have a slightly more narrow definition than it does among the broader populace).

And so I now conclude the Typology of Foxhunters, for the time being anyway, with one more inclusion of my oft-cited Burnsian riff:

I pray no power the giftie gie them

To see themselves as I do see them.

May readers sing the praise that’s due me,

But none get pissed and try to sue me.

© 2010 J. Harris Anderson

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 10: Hodads & Hunters Emeriti

"They also serve who only stand and wait.”

On His Blindness
John Milton

This week’s posting gives you two for the price of one. (And considering the price, what a bargain this is!) Although different in critical ways, the two types depicted below share a common thread: their link to foxhunting is missing one critical element – the horse. The difference, however, is that one group has never ridden to hounds and never will while the other group once did but never will again. I have termed the former “Hodads,” an arcane reference that might strike a chord with a few folks out on the Left Coast. The latter group I have dubbed “Hunters Emeriti” if only to impress readers with my grasp of Latin tenses. Each group represents an important component of the hunting community and can be easily spotted at a tailgate in the field or breakfast at the clubhouse. Neither will be wearing hunting attire; street clothes will reveal their horseless status. The Hodads will be attempting to ingratiate their way into a conversation between those who have just returned from the hunt, seeking some opening for a comment that does not necessitate having been a part of the day’s action. The Hunters Emerti will be attempting to remain upright, possibly with the aid of a cane or walker, wondering who all these people are and if there’s still time to make the Early Bird special at Denny’s.

In more detail, we consider first…

Hodads

In surfing culture a Hodad is someone who hangs out at the beach, likes to associate with surfers, but never actually gets on a board. In the foxhunting world a Hodad is a social member, or in some cases a hanger-on politely referred to as “a friend of the hunt” (i.e., he shows up at tailgates but doesn’t actually fork over the few bucks required to be listed officially on the club’s social roster). This is someone drawn to the allure of foxhunting but who can’t muster the gumption to actually get on a horse and give it a try. Some live it vicariously through a child or spouse but many don’t even have that connection.

The Hodad’s role, when he or she is a paying social member, serves two functions.

First, this membership category provides an additional source of revenue for the club. And it’s pure profit. The Hodad’s dues help offset the cost of maintaining a pack of foxhounds and a string of horses, paying the salary of professional staff, and covering all the other operating expenses the club incurs. But the Hodad doesn’t use the hounds, horses, or staff, other than to show up and admire them as they move off into the countryside where the Hodad can’t go.

Second, Hodads provide a source of redemption for Posers. The Poser at least gets credit for being out there, on a horse, dealing with all her fears, taking the risks. Her timidity and constant excuses may be a source of annoyance, or amusement, to her fellow hunters but everyone has to recognize that she’s willing to put her feet in the irons and give it a go. She’s the surfer girl who may not be able to take the big curls but will paddle out, catch a wave, and have a wobbly ride back to the beach, arms akimbo to keep her balance, her face locked in grim determination. As long as she’s willing to get on the board, or in this case the horse, she ain’t no Hodad.

And now for a reverent consideration of…

Hunters Emeriti

A hunter emeritus is greatly venerated, typically someone who was an avid and active hunter for many years, a major supporter of the club, perhaps an ex-master or a major landowner. Now age and infirmity have taken their toll. The old hunter has swung a leg over a saddle for the last time. There will be no more days a-field riding to hounds. But the appeal of the chase and for the hunting-centered lifestyle remains undimmed. They still want to participate in some manner, even if it’s just staying involved as a social member, following a day’s hunting action by car or in the hound truck, attending the club’s social functions, serving as an officer or committee member. Given the premium foxhunters place on tradition, our focus more backward than forward, those who provide a living link to earlier times play a vital role in preserving the sport’s history. Old timers are the elders of our village, the sages who have seen it all, were there for the glory days, took the risks, and lived to tell.

Assuming, that is, they can still form intelligible words. Some are way overdue for a one-way trip to the old hunter’s home. Not only did they live the glory days, they think they’re still in the glory days, that it’s 1956 and Ike has just won a second term.

Anyone who has lived much of his life outdoors is likely to end up with skin that looks like they did a Rip Van Winkle in a tanning booth. These folks are walking warnings to remember the sunscreen.

Assuming, that is, they can still walk. I knew one old chap who kept a collection of glass jars filled with all the pins, bolts, and screws that had held various busted parts of his body together while they healed. Another fellow still rode for a few years after he had to give up foxhunting and had a special flap affixed to his saddle pad from which he could hang his cane. The broken neck that ended his hunting career left him a bit gimpy. Another gentleman could walk without aid, sort of. His unsure footfalls made him look like a parody of the drunken sailor.

They may be blubbering, decrepit, withered old sods but they’re our old sods. And we all hope to be like them one day. Either that or go out as a privileged few have, to suffer a massive heart attack in the saddle, preferably just after taking a long swig from a lovely lady’s flask, and to then find yourself following hounds through the fields of Elysium before your mortal carcass hits the turf.

© 2010, J. Harris Anderson

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 9: Posers

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!"

To A Louse
Robert Burns

As threatened…er…promised we get to the subject of Posers in this week’s posting. It’s been awhile since I included the Burns quote (above) to underscore the theme and tone of these Typologies. I thought it was time to revisit that quip, portrayed here in the original Burnsian dialect. To get the full effect, try to think of Mel Gibson in Braveheart reciting these lines. (Of course, there might be a few folks who, after reading some of these postings, have been sounding more like the Gibson of late, now known more for his incendiary rants than for his onscreen action.) I’ve also included my Caveat Lector (Reader Beware) variation on the Burns lines. For the best effect here, to most closely replicate my own sonorous tones, I’d recommend Richard Burton’s voice, preferably from his Hamlet period. Alternatively, you could go with Kermit the Frog.

I pray no power the giftie gie them

To see themselves as I do see them.

May readers sing the praise that’s due me,

But none get pissed and try to sue me.

That said, we present…

Posers

The Poser loves the idea of foxhunting a thousand times more than the act itself. She is enthralled by the glamour and pageantry of the sport, enraptured by the exquisite attire and overjoyed to see a photo of herself in top hat and shadbelly coat, elegantly turned out for Opening Meet.

As soon as the toe of her highly shined dress boot slips into the stirrup iron, it all goes to hell. She prays that the hunt is slow-paced with few, if any, jumps. The thought of galloping, especially downhill or over rough terrain, causes apoplectic panic. She will often use the excuse that her horse is tired, has a loose shoe, or is just coming back from an injury to justify retiring early. This usually occurs just as hounds are opening at the start of a blazing run.

One riding instructor described the typical Poser as a “Too Rider." When unable to execute the instructor’s commands, it is always because she worked too late the night before, had to get up too early that morning, her horse is too out of shape, the ground’s too hard (or too soft), the temperature’s too high (or too low), the air’s too moist (or too dry), she’s too sore from her most recent hunting day (even though it was a week and a half ago and she was only out for 20 minutes, having packed it in when the field picked up a canter down a gentle incline which she describes as the side of a cliff).

If she hunts once a week, averaging three hours per hunt, and goes out 20 times per season (enough to say she hunts “regularly”), that’s 60 hours in the field per year. 58 of those hours are likely to be at least uncomfortable and at times filled with shear, nerve-wracking terror. From the master’s opening command “Let’s go hunting!” to the plaintive strains of the huntsman’s horn signaling the end of the day, she just wishes it was over. Why, then, does she subject herself to this torture? Because of the other 8,700 hours in the year during which she can impress her friends, relatives, coworkers, and business clients by subtly dropping references to the fact that she rides to hounds.

To the uninformed she can paint a picture of herself as a bold, accomplished hunter. What the hell, they’ll never actually see her in the hunt field. She knows enough about the terminology and how the sport should be conducted to talk a good show.

There is a clear distinction between the Poser and the hunting lady who knows her limitations. The former suffers from the gnawing disparity between the reality of her ability compared to how she craves to be seen by her fellow hunters. She may be able to fool all of her non-hunting acquaintances, but those who ride with her know the truth. Still, though, she cannot refrain from continuously embarrassing herself by seeking the spotlight and then failing to perform. It must be a most unpleasant way to go through life and one wishes the Poser would experience an epiphany of self-realization. Unlikely, though, that such will ever occur and one can only pity the poor darling for the turmoil she must suffer.

By contrast, the humble hunting lady is happy with any moments of sport she is blessed to enjoy. She does not try to portray herself as anything more than she is: a rider of modest ability, one who does not seek out undue risk, understands the essentials of the sport, and if she is not capable of being among the half dozen mud-splattered Juice Junkies who come straggling in after a four hour hunt, she’ll still be at the tailgate to pleasantly serve them up some much-needed nourishment. She is grateful to be a part of our rarified world and at peace with herself. And for that she ain’t no Poser.

There are no male Posers. Men are too egotistical and insecure. If a man can’t do something well enough to look good at it – if only in his own self-deluded estimation – he won’t do it. That’s why so many men refuse to dance.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 8: Grande Dames

When the Foxhunters Guide blog was launched two months ago, I had not intended for it to become a participatory endeavor. It was, you see, supposed to be all about me, a platform through which I could impress readers with my deft wordcrafting and sage insights. As it turns out, and to my immense surprise, I am not the sole custodian of such talents. Nor am I alone in my inclination to classify our fellow foxhunters according to identifiable typologies. Suggestions continue to come along at a steady pace, some simply one word leads (e.g., “Thrusters”), others fully developed compositions.

We’ve already seen the result of Liz Williams’ tip on “False Staffs,” the nicely done lead-in piece on “The Sponge” from our (still) anonymous contributor, and Harry Kuniansky’s addition to “You might be a foxhunter…” Now comes another complete typology, Gary Mantello’s touching take on that daunting personage many of us have known all too well, the Grande Dame.

Suggestions and contributions are certainly welcome, even if it means the spotlight is not always on your humble blogger. But for a worthy submission, especially one as well-written as Gary’s, I will gladly share the cyber stage so that you may enjoy reading about…

Grande Dames

By Gary Mantello

May I humbly suggest that you cover the most terrifying member of the foxhunting bestiary, The Grande Dame. Grande Dames are a subset of that much-discussed group, the Fashion Police, but they are far more fearsome to the new foxhunter. These formidable women know their place exactly in the social hierarchy of the hunting world. Although they will toady to those few they feel to be grander than themselves, they will never fail to let their inferiors know that despite their best efforts they will never be skilled/fashionable/acceptable enough to be considered true foxhunters – or human beings. Although some Grande Dames are brilliant horsewomen, others are merely competent; all Grande Dames, however, are mounted on perfectly made and mannered (sometimes with the help of about 5ccs of Ace Promazine) equines that are the envy of all. The said equines appear to have an almost preternatural understanding that they will end up on a Frenchman's dinner table should they dump milady in the mud during a hunt. Grande Dame mothers have usually frightened at least one of their progeny into becoming a perfect and perfectly correct rider, an embryo Grande Dame, as it were.

GDs tend to exhibit their recondite social skills in all areas of social life, not just foxhunting. If one proudly tells a GD that young George has just been admitted to Princeton, one will be congratulated before the GD says how sad it is that the school is not what it once was. GDs always get a particular look on their faces when talking to a personage whose last name ends in a vowel.

You get the picture; anything that makes another person feel small provides a frisson of pleasure for this – not to put too fine a point on it – harpy. In short, imagine Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell, the fearsomely haughty matriarch in The Importance of Being Ernest, crossed with a werewolf. A werewolf, mind you, descended from werewolves that came over on the Mayflower.

There is no male equivalent to the Grande Dame. (Grande Monsieurs? I'm grasping for a term here.) If there were, they would get their respective/collective blocks knocked off unless they had won their house boxing championships at Eton.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 7: Strivers

We continue with another excerpt from the Foxhunter Typologies. This week’s posting addresses Strivers, without whom there would be no foxhunting. Ours is not a sport for namby-pambies. Leadership requires an ability to herd cats, act decisively, and show absolute confidence in any situation. Having demonstrated those abilities in less significant arenas (e.g., industry, governance, space exploration, etc.), the Striver sets his sights on the most challenging undertaking of all – leading a group of unruly foxhunters. Those of us not so constructed, we who are content to simply ride among the ranks, are thankful for our dearly beloved Strivers. Which is not to say, however, that we’re above making the occasional comment regarding those whose backsides we have spent many hours observing. And so we present…

Strivers

The Striver is an A personality type writ large. He is supremely self-confident and certain that God has put him on this earth to be a leader of men. The job opportunities for cavalry officers are slim these days but serving as a hunt master is the next best thing. His need for dominance extends beyond the hunting field to include all aspects of club management. He can be the most gracious, charming, delightful person you have ever met, a man you would willing follow anywhere and whose biding you would do without question or hesitation. Or he can be the most overbearing, rude, self-focused, nasty, and dictatorial SOB you’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. These opposing traits are often embodied in the same person.

A lifetime of striving has brought him wealth, property, and position (along with multiple mistresses and at least one trophy wife). His land makes up a substantial portion of the hunt’s territory and without his generous support the club would suffer immensely. He may have even started the club himself and owns the kennels, hounds, and staff residence outright.

Many Strivers are not content to simply lead the field while the hired help hunts the hounds. Instead, they take over this role as well, fully convinced that not one person in the entire world can do the job as expertly as they can. Not only must all people bow to the Striver’s will but so must hounds and horses. The one creature capable of foiling the Striver’s quest for total dominance over all that moves is the fox himself. The need to bring this wily opponent into submission fuels the Striver’s passion for the chase. It may be that the Striver considers the fox alone to be his equal for wits, drive, boldness, and supreme self-confidence in the face of overwhelming odds. In a contest of three dozen foxhounds versus one fox, the Striver will always identify with the fox.

Not every master is a Striver. But every Striver is either a master or is steadily working his way toward obtaining that office. If the current hunt doesn’t offer sufficient opportunity, he’ll either switch to another club more likely to need his redoubtable leadership skills or break away and start his own, appointing himself master and huntsman.

Other than a few lingering old fashioned customs of dress and speech, foxhunting is, for the most part, a gender-neutral sport. The use of the masculine pronoun in the paragraphs above notwithstanding, a woman is just as likely to be a master as is a man. And she is equally likely to fit the Striver profile. Some are even rumored to have testicles. Or wish they did.

A Typology of Foxhunters, Part 6: The Sponge

"Mr. Sponge declares himself." (John Leech, 1817-1864)

As we’re roughly at the mid-point of the Foxhunter Typologies, I thought it appropriate to note that I am hardly alone in my observations of “types” within the foxhunting world. Virtually all of the typologies consist of a hefty portion of input from acquaintances that have, over the years, remarked on one type of character or another whom they have had the pleasure, amusement, or annoyance to encounter. This process has also led to a composite result. There is no one person who solely represents any of the typologies. If anyone thinks he or she is the single example on which any typology is based, that person is mistaken. Eliminate any individual who may see some aspects of himself or herself in a given type, and there would still be ample resources available to have crafted the exact same depiction.

My involvement in a recent project commemorating the anniversary of a certain sporting association provided me with the unique opportunity to work with every recognized foxhunting club in North America, all 165 of them. Over the three years spent on this project, the resources for typology profiles expanded considerably. While my own hunting experience is limited to a few clubs in the Mid-Atlantic region, I have been gratified to learn that readers from Georgia to Texas to California have echoed the same sentiments about their fellow fox chasers.

As was noted when one typology was posted – False Staffs – the inspiration was not my own, but was suggested by a long-serving whip with far more experience than I have on this topic. In that same vein, a suggestion to embellish the Nouveau Gentry typology has come in the form of a comment submitted by a reader who chose to remain anonymous. And a shame that is because the succinct profile he or she crafted shows an insight and eloquence for which the writer deserves credit. Of course, “succinct” is not my forte so I could not resist taking the germ of the idea and expanding on it. Herewith is the result:

The Sponge

A Subspecies of Nouveau Gentry

From an Anonymous Reader:

“Another more common variety of the Fox Hunting Nouveau Gentry wannabe is a species affectionately known as the ‘Sponge’. The Sponge is a person of little innate ability, limited education, and considerably low motivation to succeed in the adult business world. This person’s sole existence is for the pleasure of the sport and the thrill of the chase – both the two- and four-legged variety. The Sponge knows when opportunity knocks and how to strike. They carefully seek out the recently separated, divorced or widow of the deceased with the means to keep him in the lifestyle for which he believes he deserves. The Sponge cherishes and embraces the material possessions of the former spouse and is more than willing to step into the breach to become the surrogate spouse. He does not wait for the pajamas or the bed to get cold – he moves swiftly and deliberately to occupy the persona of the Nouveau Gentry.”

My Elaboration:

In an effort to help conceal his pedestrian roots, the cunning Sponge attempts to pass himself off as a member of the shabby aristocracy. His hunting kit appears to have been handed down from the time of his great-grandfather, although it was actually bought at the consignment shop. A touch of unkempt hair and laconic drawl add to the illusion that his direct ancestors rode to hounds with General Washington and Billy Lee. This façade facilitates his move from a nameless suburbia to the heart of hunt country, courtesy of the newly unattached recipient of his affections. The masquerade that he is, as our anonymous contributor noted, in his own estimation deserving of the foxhunting gentry lifestyle is further enhanced with well-timed references to how it was in “the old days” (by which he means the latter part of the second Bush Administration).

To further the subterfuge he steers his new paramour toward the formation of fresh friendships with those less familiar with his past. Perish forbid anyone of position in the hunting community should see his actual CV wherein his limited education and spotty employment record are revealed. If at all possible, his highest achievement would be to switch allegiance to another hunting club where a clean slate would allow him to write his own story.

The Sponge’s lexicon gradually progresses in the use of the personal pronoun from “hers” (house, barn, truck, tractor, horses, land, etc.) to “ours” to “mine.”

Yet for all that posturing and obfuscation, it can be argued that The Sponge provides a public service. The foxhunting world is long on unattached women and miserably short on available men. The single man who hunts purely for his own pleasure is a rare commodity indeed. The line-up of ladies more than eager to enter into a partnership is legion. Many of these ladies are already self-sufficient, for one reason or another, and not in need of a provider. What they seek is a companion. And without the demands imposed on those who would be titans of industry, The Sponge has ample time for the quotidian chores of daily farm life as well as adventures afield for foxhunting and other pleasures.

Perhaps the greatest risk faced by the target of The Sponge’s affections is that she will incur the ire of her single friends over her good fortune while they remain alone, still awaiting the arrival of their Sponge Charming. The availability of so many companion-less ladies in the hunting world suggests potential for a new, specially focused matching service. Sponges R Us? eSponges.com? Or, to borrow a bit of inspiration from a local racing syndicate, how about Pelvic Venture?

As our contributor pointed out, the passing of a spouse is one possibility for the vacancy The Sponge now fills. But our astute observer lists separation and divorce ahead of widowhood. This, then, would indicate that someone chose to leave that bed, those pajamas, all those possessions, and the partner herself so that he might pursue options more to his own pleasures. The Sponge is then the grateful recipient of what The Spouse has left behind through his own philandering and malfeasance.

To be sure, the arrival of a Sponge into hunting territory and his immediate posturing as “Gentry” (whether Nouveau or Vieux) is likely to raise a few eyebrows. Some gentlemen who have achieved their positions and possessions strictly through their own hard work and well-applied talents may look askance at this interloper. They see in him the old fable of the carefree grasshopper who has fiddled away the summer of his life while the industrious ant prepared for winter. But unlike the lesson of the fable, now that winter approaches the blasted grasshopper keeps on fiddling while the poor ant continues to struggle onward. It’s just not fair.