middle of some forlorn, possibly haunted woods.
The branches above him cracked, his parachute slipped a foot. Trip waved his arms to get leaves out of his face. He saw his parachute and cords tangled in the branches above him. Only one small branch was holding him up. It snapped. The sound of breaking limbs shattered the early night silence.
Options considered, Trip acted. He decided that he couldn’t hang around all night. It was hard to get a good night’s sleep with goodies all squished and crunched. Trip released his harness leg clasps, then the chest clasps. Some falls are in slow motion. Every scratch, bruise, yelp of pain recalled as clear as a bell. Other falls just happen. Boom. Over. Ouch. Trip’s fall was the worst of both. He tumbled through the branches, hitting them all. That golfer wisecrack about ninety percent air? Crap. Trip missed one hundred percent of the ninety percent ‘air.’ Leaves flew. He hit his head on a rock. Unconscious, Trip slept soundly, oblivious to the nighttime sounds of the crickets and frogs.
Chapter Six
Sunrise meant bedtime for the crickets and frogs. Trip stirred, his head beside a bloody rock. A rooster crowed in the distance signaling a farm nearby. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and tried to stand up too quickly. Still a bit wobbly from his head injury, he doubled over and settled back on the cushy leaves for one last snooze.
☁ ☁ ☁
Early dawn was a busy time on the small farm. A rooster bugled his reveille. Most animals saluted their concurrence that it was time to do whatever it was they did. Bessie the cow mooed that she was ready to unhomogenize her udder. Light spilled out an open barn door. The barn was in poor repair, looking like a paint brush hadn’t visited its faded boards in years. Overgrown weeds had assumed possession of portions of the barnyard.
Inside the barn, a weathered old farm woman sat on a three-legged stool, milking ole Bessie. Gerty Murphy leaned her head into Bessie’s side, spat some chewing tobacco juice on the straw-covered ground, and began a rhythm with fingers, thumb, and palm that streamed to fill her stainless steel milk bucket. Baggy pants, a denim shirt, and a straw hat completed a picture that would tempt Norman Rockwell to pick up a paint brush. Zack, her black-and-white border collie, supervised Bessie’s cooperation.
“Come on, Bessie,” Gerty pleaded. “Give it up, a few more drops.”
Bessie, mooed, looked back at Gerty. Zack barked.
“You tell her, Zack.” A few more tugs, squirts and Gerty pulled the bucket away. She rose, scooted the three-legged milk stool aside. Gerty patted Bessie, “Good girl. Best Guernsey milk in Highland County.”
Gerty limped slightly as she exited the barn. She admired her prize rooster perched on a fence post as he welcomed a new day. The county fair championship ribbons won two straight years by that rooster were displayed on the milking stall wall and ceiling with hundreds of other ribbons snatched over the decades.
Milk bucket in hand, she paused in the barnyard. She looked over the fence into a well-tended garden. The local grocery store could close and Gerty wouldn’t notice. She could feed an army with the fresh produce arranged in perfect rows. Not a weed in sight.
“Um. Um. ‘Maters are lookin’ mighty fine, Zack. Probably get some cash money at the farmers’ market this week.”
Zack barked. Gerty bent down and confirmed, “Yer one smart dog. Those radishes are lookin’ good too.” Zack barked appreciation that his observation had been noticed. Gerty rose, shuffled toward the house.
“Yep, yer right. Even if we picked every tomato, not going to make a dent in that mortgage with banker-man Mel Smith.”
Zack’s bark turned into a nasty growl. Gerty stopped. “Now Zack, no need to growl at Mel Smith. Without Mel and the bank’s help over the years, Lester and I would never have been able to keep this place goin’.” Looking around the barnyard,
The branches above him cracked, his parachute slipped a foot. Trip waved his arms to get leaves out of his face. He saw his parachute and cords tangled in the branches above him. Only one small branch was holding him up. It snapped. The sound of breaking limbs shattered the early night silence.
Options considered, Trip acted. He decided that he couldn’t hang around all night. It was hard to get a good night’s sleep with goodies all squished and crunched. Trip released his harness leg clasps, then the chest clasps. Some falls are in slow motion. Every scratch, bruise, yelp of pain recalled as clear as a bell. Other falls just happen. Boom. Over. Ouch. Trip’s fall was the worst of both. He tumbled through the branches, hitting them all. That golfer wisecrack about ninety percent air? Crap. Trip missed one hundred percent of the ninety percent ‘air.’ Leaves flew. He hit his head on a rock. Unconscious, Trip slept soundly, oblivious to the nighttime sounds of the crickets and frogs.
Chapter Six
Sunrise meant bedtime for the crickets and frogs. Trip stirred, his head beside a bloody rock. A rooster crowed in the distance signaling a farm nearby. He rolled over onto his hands and knees and tried to stand up too quickly. Still a bit wobbly from his head injury, he doubled over and settled back on the cushy leaves for one last snooze.
☁ ☁ ☁
Early dawn was a busy time on the small farm. A rooster bugled his reveille. Most animals saluted their concurrence that it was time to do whatever it was they did. Bessie the cow mooed that she was ready to unhomogenize her udder. Light spilled out an open barn door. The barn was in poor repair, looking like a paint brush hadn’t visited its faded boards in years. Overgrown weeds had assumed possession of portions of the barnyard.
Inside the barn, a weathered old farm woman sat on a three-legged stool, milking ole Bessie. Gerty Murphy leaned her head into Bessie’s side, spat some chewing tobacco juice on the straw-covered ground, and began a rhythm with fingers, thumb, and palm that streamed to fill her stainless steel milk bucket. Baggy pants, a denim shirt, and a straw hat completed a picture that would tempt Norman Rockwell to pick up a paint brush. Zack, her black-and-white border collie, supervised Bessie’s cooperation.
“Come on, Bessie,” Gerty pleaded. “Give it up, a few more drops.”
Bessie, mooed, looked back at Gerty. Zack barked.
“You tell her, Zack.” A few more tugs, squirts and Gerty pulled the bucket away. She rose, scooted the three-legged milk stool aside. Gerty patted Bessie, “Good girl. Best Guernsey milk in Highland County.”
Gerty limped slightly as she exited the barn. She admired her prize rooster perched on a fence post as he welcomed a new day. The county fair championship ribbons won two straight years by that rooster were displayed on the milking stall wall and ceiling with hundreds of other ribbons snatched over the decades.
Milk bucket in hand, she paused in the barnyard. She looked over the fence into a well-tended garden. The local grocery store could close and Gerty wouldn’t notice. She could feed an army with the fresh produce arranged in perfect rows. Not a weed in sight.
“Um. Um. ‘Maters are lookin’ mighty fine, Zack. Probably get some cash money at the farmers’ market this week.”
Zack barked. Gerty bent down and confirmed, “Yer one smart dog. Those radishes are lookin’ good too.” Zack barked appreciation that his observation had been noticed. Gerty rose, shuffled toward the house.
“Yep, yer right. Even if we picked every tomato, not going to make a dent in that mortgage with banker-man Mel Smith.”
Zack’s bark turned into a nasty growl. Gerty stopped. “Now Zack, no need to growl at Mel Smith. Without Mel and the bank’s help over the years, Lester and I would never have been able to keep this place goin’.” Looking around the barnyard,
Similar Books
