Barnstorm (6 page)

Trip was at his chores. The first few days were spent pulling and hoeing weeds. Surprising what a difference that made. Gerty’s barnyard and area around the house and picket fence looked much improved. However, the absence of weeds actually made the house picket fence look worse. The straggle of weeds had previously obscured broken stakes and peeling paint. Fixing and painting the fence would stay on Trip’s fix-it list. All in good time. Gerty had suggested some paint training might be a good idea. Someone with as many Band-Aids as Trip should probably not be on a twenty-foot ladder sloshing paint on Gerty’s house. Gerty had not yet discovered Trip’s fear of heights.

Gerty thought the board fence surrounding the barnyard would provide the necessary experience before tackling something more intricate. Trip was wearing an old, long-sleeve white shirt and grubby work pants. Gerty had delivered boxes of clothes for Trip to pick through. Having dropped in with nothing but the Buzz work shirt on his back and blue jeans, Trip now had a decent wardrobe. The fit wasn’t perfect, but the gift boxes were much appreciated. Wisely, Trip had selected something from the two boxes labeled ‘farm clothes’ rather than the boxes labeled ‘go-to-town clothes.’

The day had started poorly with as much paint going on his shoes and pants as on the fence. As the day wore on, more paint hit the fence. Gerty had decided to hibernate in the kitchen snapping beans. She didn’t want to over-supervise Trip. Frankly, she thought that her frequent laughter and patented chuckle-snort were not confidence builders for Trip. She left Zack in charge. He would periodically bark out some instruction that probably didn’t build much confidence either. Zack appeared happy, lying in the shade of Gerty’s black pickup truck.

This black pickup truck was not just any black pickup truck. It was a classic. GMC 1951. Gentle slope to the front hood was as regal as a patrician’s nose. A synchro-mesh, three-on-the-tree gear-shift transmission that Gerty could nurse through its paces without ever engaging the clutch. Husband Lester almost wore the paint off the hood as he coaxed a shine that could blind a nearsighted pigeon. After Lester died, Gerty couldn’t bring herself to wax the old GMC. She knew her efforts would pale by comparison and she didn’t need Lester tumbling ‘round in his grave any more than necessary. To say that Gerty loved this old pickup truck was an understatement.

Trip had promoted himself to painting the fence closest to the barn. Its wide boards offered larger targets than the narrow pickets around the house. He was kneeling, working on a lower horizontal board when he saw someone’s feet on the opposite side of the fence.

As he rose, he stared directly into Maggie’s heavy cleavage. Startled, he jumped back, stumbled away from the fence. Only Gerty’s pickup truck kept Trip from crashing to the ground. Zack might have been half-asleep, but he was alert enough to quickly scurry out from under the truck. Trip’s paint bucket went skyward and landed ‘plop’ on the hood of the truck. Gravity rolled it down the stylish slope of the hood. It bypassed the grille, bouncing on the front bumper, and finally came to rest on the ground. Empty. A huge, white blob now adorned the pickup truck hood. It was good that Gerty missed this. Her laughter and patented chuckle-snort would have been replaced by a mixture of words not appropriate for a chronologically-gifted Sunday School teacher. Lester had definitely nailed a perfect half-gainer in his grave.

Struggling to hold back her own laughter, Maggie offered a morning greeting, “Hello there, Picasso.”

Caught staring at Maggie’s ample breasts, he stammered, “H-H-i. You must be M-M-aggie.”

Seductively, Maggie glided her finger from Trip’s shoulder, to his Adam’s apple, then weaved down his sternum toward his belly button. Licking her lips, she said, “And I’ll bet you’re Buzz.”

“Ugh,” was the best that Trip could summon.

“Not a farm boy are you?”

“Evidently not. I’m no expert, but this seems like a nice little farm. You’re next door, right? Is your place this nice?”

Maggie tilted her head, licked her lips again, and tossed her hair. Her boobs jiggled, once again tempting Trip’s gaze. She reached across the fence once more, hooked the top of his shirt with her index finger and pulled him closer. Employing a breathy voice barely strong enough to extinguish a candle, she teased, “Stop by, I’ll give you a personal tour.”

Leaving her temptress routine aside, she let go of Trip’s shirt and answered his question, “Gerty’s place is okay; needs a little work.”

Trip took his first breath since he encountered Maggie. He could feel the blood leave the blush in his face and return to normal circulation duties throughout the rest of his body. If he could avoid panting like Zack–who had returned to the shaded safety under the newly painted pickup truck–he might have had an outside chance of surviving this first meeting with Maggie.

More serious now to answer Trip’s question, Maggie continued, “Gerty’s farm has been goin’ downhill ever since her husband Lester and son died. She’s ‘bout one twist from losin’ this place. When you’re as old as Gerty, Lester, you kinda expect to bury your spouse. But, when you bury a child? When Lester and Gerty had to bury their son, that’s when this place started goin’ to pot. That’s why you’re here.”

Composure now mostly regained, Trip pulled his spiral notebook from his shirt pocket and said, “Made a project list. Tryin’ to get organized.”

“Good idea. I keep a list on my refrigerator. You’ll have to stop by and see it sometime. You’re being a big help to Gerty. There’s more spring in her step ever since you arrived.” She looked around, motioning to the barnyard. “And look at this. Paint on the fence. Some,” she snickered. “Weeds pulled. You’re making a difference.”

Not quite knowing how to respond, Trip shuffled his feet. The short, awkward pause was thankfully interrupted as Gerty stepped out of the kitchen and beat a pan with a wooden spoon.

“Maggie, thought you were gonna help me snap some beans. Stop bothering the help and waddle your fat tush over here.”

Maggie shouted across the barnyard, “Comin’.” She walked a few steps away from Trip. Trip saw too much bottom crammed into jeans straining under the assigned task. Maggie tossed her hair and left Trip, seductively reminding him, “Don’t forget about that personal tour, Buzz.”

The Mercedes screeched to a stop in the airstrip parking lot. Robinson, with his young photographer in tow, walked briskly to a BMW parked in front of the hangar. Sam Butler, a developer of multi-million dollar commercial projects, was finishing a business call where the party on the receiving end was definitely on the receiving end. This royal chewing-out would probably leave a scar. Sam finished his instructional tongue-lashing and hustled to greet Robinson. The young photographer gathered up his camera equipment. Brief pleasantries were exchanged. Brief meaning ‘not sincere,’ merely required by the status of the moment. All three entered the Sky Gypsy Café.

Deb abandoned cleaning the lunch counter to greet the trio. She wiped her hands on her apron and smiled, “Good afternoon. Ya must be Buzz’s one o’clock photography flight. Mr. Robinson?” she extended a hand that was rudely ignored.

Robinson looked beyond her, as if she didn’t exist, surveyed the cafe and gruffly inquired, “Where’s our pilot? We’re on a tight schedule.”

Lowering the rejected hand to her side, scratching her thigh with her tall-man middle finger, Deb motioned to the tarmac.

“That’s Buzz now. Somethin’ to drink while you wait?” as she scratched her cheek with her middle finger.

Robinson ignored the drink offer, walked to look out over the tarmac and runway. Deb shook her head, returned to finish cleaning the lunch counter.

Buzz climbed out of his plane and did a cursory plane walkaround. He was intercepted by a female college student photographer carrying camera gear. Buzz patted her on the shoulder. They shared a laugh as they approached the cafe.

Huddled at the tarmac window with developer Sam and his young photographer, Robinson left no doubt as to who was the boss. “Keep your mouths shut,” he ordered. “I’ll do the talking. We need to get pictures of lots of farms. But listen up, all those other farms,” poking a finger in his young photographer’s chest, “those other farms are a cover-up. Get the Murphy farm. You’ve seen it on the plat maps and Google Maps a dozen times. No screw ups.”

The young photographer nodded nervously. He knew better than to utter a peep. He avoided eye contact and faked an unneeded check of his camera bag.

Buzz and his photographer entered from the tarmac. Buzz walked to greet his three customers and extended a hand to Robinson that was accepted. The lunch counter now clean, Deb turned to the flattop and scratched the tip of her nose.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Buzz smiled. “Understand we’re doing some aerial photography. Meet Erin, photojournalism major, she works with us part-time.”

Firmly in charge, Robinson stated, “My secretary must not have been clear. We always use our own photographer.”

As Buzz tried to speak to the young photographer, Robinson shifted his feet slightly, blocking off his photographer into the background with his shoulder.

Buzz leaned to speak around Robinson, asking, “Spent much time in the air, son?”

Ever quick on the trigger, Robinson retrieved a money clip, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Erin saying, “This should about cover your time.”

Erin’s eye’s about fell out of her sockets. She had seen pictures of Ben Franklin in her history books. She knew all about the kite flying, the pot-belly stove, and had even heard of Poor Richard’s Almanac. But here he was, on the bill, flashing her that Ben Franklin grin. With hope in her eyes, she pleaded, “Okay by me. Buzz?”

Scratching his chin, Buzz smelled a skunk. He looked at the three strangers, then surrendered to Erin’s wishful plea, “Sure, why not.” Directing his attention to the replacement photographer, he said, “Don’t throw up in my brand new plane. Took me three weeks to get it.”

Now that Ben Franklin had a new home, Buzz turned to Robinson. “Tell me about your objectives again.”

“We sell folks aerial photos of their farms. Mostly an ego trip when they see their own barn, framed on their living room wall.”

The skunk smell lingered. Mercedes. BMW. Has his own photographer. Buzz knew something didn’t add up. He had been asked to fly all kinds of missions. This one would not involve any carpet bombing or napalming of chickens on area farms. What’s the harm? Buzz dismissed the angel on his shoulder and said, “Let’s do it.”

Buzz flew around three counties, dipping wings, responding to directions from Robinson. The photographer snapped pictures. Robinson pointed to properties. Sam Butler got airsick and threw up. Now over Highland County, the next county to the east, the plane banked hard over the Murphy farm. The barnyard, white picket fence around the white frame farmhouse were clearly visible. A white paint blob on the hood of an old black pickup truck conjured images of a psychedelic rock band on tour. Or a Rorschach inkblot test. The photographer clicked away. He got so many shots of so many farms, it was not obvious which farm was of most interest. Mission accomplished.

☁ ☁ ☁

Trip, lying on his back, applied one last fix to the broken gate on the white picket fence. He rose, pushed the gate open-and-closed. It worked, but it squeaked. Miracle-of-miracles, Trip only sported three Band-Aids. Johnson & Johnson either had run low on inventory or Trip was slowly becoming less clumsy. The white picket fence was also freshly painted. While Trip’s work clothes might have had a smudge or dirt here and there, he was mostly paint free.

The gate squeak was annoying. Trip retrieved a can of 3-In-One oil from his toolbox. He tried to squirt the cure on the hinges, but failed. As he started to look into the end of the oilcan for a blockage, he pulled it away, furrowed his brow, smirked as if not that stupid, again. He shook the oilcan and succeeded. The newly painted fence now had a fully operational, non-squeaking gate.

He assembled his tools, pulled his spiral notebook from his pocket and crossed another task off his list. Heading toward the barn, he paused in the middle of the barnyard and looked skyward. He saw a low-flying plane. The plane circled the farm, banked hard, and flew away. Trip’s gaze followed the plane over the horizon as he thought, miss me Buzz?

Farm work had a lot to offer. Outdoors, sunshine, cool breezes, fresh air, the smell of new-mown hay. However, as with any job, there’s a reason it was called ‘work.’ Dumping a bucket of oats and barley in front of Bessie as she was milked was fine. A Guernsey is basically a factory that produces milk. As with most factories, there were also bi-products that needed managed. Gerty was particular about how Bessie’s main bi-product was managed. Cow manure is a great fertilizer. One of Trip’s jobs was cleaning out Bessie’s stall and spreading the odorous material around Gerty’s vegetable garden. Washing the tomatoes was a good idea.

Trip’s ‘Not Okay’ farm task list was short. Cleaning up after Bessie wasn’t as bad as first imagined. The Liar Flyers at the Sky Gypsy Café produced more crap than Bessie. While the smell of new-mown hay was heaven, scrambling to the top of the hayloft to retrieve a bale of hay was one of the dustier, dirtier jobs on the farm. It was also hotter than Hades near the barn roof. The only saving grace of this task was the gradual passing of his fear of heights. He couldn’t explain it, but his daily climbs up the hayloft ladder had become second nature.

First on the ‘Not Okay’ list had to be egg gathering. No contest. Nothing better than one of Gerty’s hot breakfasts. She could perform miracles with an egg. Over-easy, sunny-side up, scrambled. Didn’t matter. A farm day started without a fresh egg, was like a day at the beach with no sand. Before Gerty could perform any of this magic, someone had to get the eggs out from under the hens, into a basket, across the barnyard, and into the kitchen. No cracks, no breakage. Not tasks exactly in Trip’s sweet spot. Still a bit clumsy, he hated gathering eggs.

He had procrastinated as long as he could. The chicken coop beckoned. Gerty had about twenty chickens, and one happy, very cantankerous rooster. Free-range, they had full wander-around privileges. Mostly they pecked the ground in the barnyard. They liked to roost in the deep, dark reaches above the barn driveway, that center section of the barn that separated the two haylofts. Gerty’s barn had two large, double-doors on opposite ends through which a tractor and farm wagon could be pulled, loaded, unloaded, or parked, thus the term ‘driveway.’ The chickens considered it more like a runway, where they would squawk and flap down on Trip whenever he entered the barn. Trip didn’t think it amusing.

The chickens slept and laid their eggs in the coop. The coop occupied the very back corner of the barn ground floor underneath one of the haylofts. Most farm chicken coops were separate outbuildings. Gerty’s husband Lester had configured his coop within the safety of the barn–thinking it more secure from clever foxes and coyotes. While mostly dark, some light crept in around weathered barn siding and the chicken wire separating the coop from the interior barn driveway.

Trip placed his toolbox on the workbench. He picked up a basket and headed toward the chicken coop. A few chickens pecked the ground in the barn driveway. It was time.

Zack sat on his haunches facing the chicken-coop door. He knew that the best entertainment of the day was about to begin. Zack had done his share of chicken chasing, but he also had learned to steer clear of Thunderbolt, Gerty’s prizewinning rooster. Thunderbolt was plain nasty. Mean.

Trip cautiously opened the door, sighed, exhaled deeply, then entered. The show began. A chicken launched, flew at Trip’s head. He ducked as feathers scattered in every direction. One foot purposely in front of the other, Trip approached the cubby holes. He eyed an egg in a cubby. This one would be easy. No hen sitting on the egg. He picked up the trophy, placed it gingerly in his basket and repeated the process with another chicken-less cubby. His eyes had now adjusted to the dimly-lit coop. Egg gathering hadn’t gone this well in weeks. His basket contained a dozen-or-so eggs. He probably should have turned-heel and quit while he was ahead. Trip hadn’t had much lifetime experience with overconfidence, so he charged forward. Gerty would be impressed with his full basket of fresh eggs.

Trip eyed a top row cubby guarded by a chicken. “Alright Henrietta, surrender. Egg, now.”

Much too quick on his approach, caution to the wind, he reached his hand toward the cubby. The chicken atop the cubby was not Henrietta. It wasn’t even a hen. Thunderbolt! Overconfidence was about to meet its arch nemesis–under-thinking. Thunderbolt did not immediately attack. The experienced rooster only offered a timid peck at Trip’s hand. This ploy was learned at baby-chick school.

Still not recognizing that he was playing with fire, Trip shouted, “Hey, bird brain. Yer done with it.”

Harkening back to his Socrates hypno-magic skills, Trip stared deep into Thunderbolt’s darting, brown eyes. He summoned his courage, eased his hand toward the last cubby. Thunderbolt attacked. So much for playing mind games in a dimly-lit chicken coop. Flapping wings spread to their full glory; talons stretched, menacing toward Trip’s forehead. Beak poised to permanently part Trip’s hair. Twenty hens sprang airborne as one. Trip’s flailing arms looked like a drunken windmill in a hurricane. Ear piercing squawks, feathers, and dust filled the air.

Zack’s ears were on full alert. He barked, jumped at the bulging chicken-coop door. He was helpless. Trip would have to save himself. The chicken-coop door shook and exploded open. Trip burst out, stumbled over Zack, somersaulted in the middle of the barn driveway.

Zack leapt at the open door, his best barking growl keeping the chickens at bay. All the hens retreated to the safety of the coop. Thunderbolt flew to the upper reaches of the hayloft.

Trip had temporarily regained enough of his composure to slam the coop door shut. His shoulders and back held the bulging door closed. He was covered with feathers and broken eggs. He sorted through his basket, picking through busted, dripping eggs. He removed one last, perfect egg and admired it. He fumbled. The egg plopped on his shoe. Defeated, he dropped the basket. All his confidence was scrambled in a heap on the barn floor.

Thunderbolt had flown to a triumphant perch on a bale of hay. Neck stretched high, wings flapping, he cut loose with a victorious crow. Zack flung a woeful bark skyward. Trip’s shoulders slumped in defeat.