she sighed. Milk bucket in one hand, Gerty struggled to open the floppy gate on the faded picket fence surrounding her white, Victorian farmhouse. Exasperated, she kicked the gate. A final rusty hinge broke. Exhausted by its years of service, the gate fell to the ground.
“Rats, one more thing that won’t get fixed ‘round here,” she fussed. She actually would have preferred to whip out a salty curse word, something stronger than rats. College-educated and pretty good with pencil and paper, she had always lectured her son that curse words were what ignorant people used because they weren’t smart enough to have initiated a more dignified confabulation. Kinda hard to smack a kid with a ruler if she said something more descriptive of how she felt than rats. She kicked the broken gate one last time and asked Zack, “Suppose you’re not much good with a screwdriver?”
Zack barked no as if he really wanted to hold up his paw and communicate, Hey, does this look like an opposable thumb to you?
Gerty nodded agreement as she eased over the gate. She ascended the steps to the kitchen-side of the traditional, wrap-around Victorian porch that shaded both the kitchen and front doors. The white-frame house needed work. Peeling paint, shutter hung by a single hinge, knee-high lawn. Weeds might have been absent from the garden, but they had figured out they could flourish in the yard surrounding the house.
Gerty maneuvered around a swarm of farm cats. As she poured milk into a large bowl outside the kitchen door, she nudged a cat or two aside. Nothing serious. Sometimes, gotta show semi-feral cats who was boss. Never find a mouse in Gerty’s barn or house, probably not within a five-mile radius of this milk bowl. These cats earned their keep.
“Hold your britches Tiger; there’s enough for everyone. Not enough for the bankers, but there’s plenty for y’all.”
Gerty sat on a porch bench, her back resting against the house. She sighed, looked at Zack, then a quick glance skyward. “I know Lester. Gettin’ tough to hold it together. Damned if I’m gonna let them take this place without a fight. I can feel it in these old bones. Today, Lester. Today, we’re gonna find a way to save this place.” Gerty could forgive herself a few wayward damns when talking with her dead husband.
☁ ☁ ☁
The tall trees in the woods provided a shady canopy for the leaf packed, soft ground below. Torn orange fabric and nylon cords fluttered in the early-morning, treetop breeze.
Trip was still asleep. Not unconscious, asleep. His deep nasal snore had alerted the creepy-crawlies near a fallen log that this dormant creature should be given a wide berth. He stirred, yawned. At least he was not dead. Stretching his arms above his head, he sat up. In obvious pain, he grabbed the back of his head as it throbbed like a tom-tom. He crawled around on all-fours, not yet sure of his bearings.
Holding his head again he mumbled, “Whew, what a crash landing.”
Seated on his butt, he looked around, as if where in the heck am I? The freefall tumble through the limbs and branches had dislodged his wallet. Failing to realize its absence, his hand unknowingly on his fumbled wallet, he pushed to a standing position. As he dusted off leaves, dirt, and spider webs from the nocturnal party held on his chest, he discarded an acorn from his shirt pocket. Trip was unaware of the name Buzz scripted above the pocket of his work shirt.
A rooster crowed in the distance. Trip turned his head and stumbled toward the source of the sound. Leaving his nighttime abode, he stepped on his wallet hidden among dead twigs and leaves. Walking under the shade of his orange parachute, he glanced up, nodded a thanks for saving his life, and made a mental note to cross skydiving off his bucket list. Been there, done that. He adjusted his direction to pursue the rooster that hopefully would lead him back to civilization. Trip touched the back of his head and winced once
“Rats, one more thing that won’t get fixed ‘round here,” she fussed. She actually would have preferred to whip out a salty curse word, something stronger than rats. College-educated and pretty good with pencil and paper, she had always lectured her son that curse words were what ignorant people used because they weren’t smart enough to have initiated a more dignified confabulation. Kinda hard to smack a kid with a ruler if she said something more descriptive of how she felt than rats. She kicked the broken gate one last time and asked Zack, “Suppose you’re not much good with a screwdriver?”
Zack barked no as if he really wanted to hold up his paw and communicate, Hey, does this look like an opposable thumb to you?
Gerty nodded agreement as she eased over the gate. She ascended the steps to the kitchen-side of the traditional, wrap-around Victorian porch that shaded both the kitchen and front doors. The white-frame house needed work. Peeling paint, shutter hung by a single hinge, knee-high lawn. Weeds might have been absent from the garden, but they had figured out they could flourish in the yard surrounding the house.
Gerty maneuvered around a swarm of farm cats. As she poured milk into a large bowl outside the kitchen door, she nudged a cat or two aside. Nothing serious. Sometimes, gotta show semi-feral cats who was boss. Never find a mouse in Gerty’s barn or house, probably not within a five-mile radius of this milk bowl. These cats earned their keep.
“Hold your britches Tiger; there’s enough for everyone. Not enough for the bankers, but there’s plenty for y’all.”
Gerty sat on a porch bench, her back resting against the house. She sighed, looked at Zack, then a quick glance skyward. “I know Lester. Gettin’ tough to hold it together. Damned if I’m gonna let them take this place without a fight. I can feel it in these old bones. Today, Lester. Today, we’re gonna find a way to save this place.” Gerty could forgive herself a few wayward damns when talking with her dead husband.
☁ ☁ ☁
The tall trees in the woods provided a shady canopy for the leaf packed, soft ground below. Torn orange fabric and nylon cords fluttered in the early-morning, treetop breeze.
Trip was still asleep. Not unconscious, asleep. His deep nasal snore had alerted the creepy-crawlies near a fallen log that this dormant creature should be given a wide berth. He stirred, yawned. At least he was not dead. Stretching his arms above his head, he sat up. In obvious pain, he grabbed the back of his head as it throbbed like a tom-tom. He crawled around on all-fours, not yet sure of his bearings.
Holding his head again he mumbled, “Whew, what a crash landing.”
Seated on his butt, he looked around, as if where in the heck am I? The freefall tumble through the limbs and branches had dislodged his wallet. Failing to realize its absence, his hand unknowingly on his fumbled wallet, he pushed to a standing position. As he dusted off leaves, dirt, and spider webs from the nocturnal party held on his chest, he discarded an acorn from his shirt pocket. Trip was unaware of the name Buzz scripted above the pocket of his work shirt.
A rooster crowed in the distance. Trip turned his head and stumbled toward the source of the sound. Leaving his nighttime abode, he stepped on his wallet hidden among dead twigs and leaves. Walking under the shade of his orange parachute, he glanced up, nodded a thanks for saving his life, and made a mental note to cross skydiving off his bucket list. Been there, done that. He adjusted his direction to pursue the rooster that hopefully would lead him back to civilization. Trip touched the back of his head and winced once
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