Barnstorm (12 page)

‘bout the only sugar yer gettin’ tonight.”

Shorty’s wife turned her back to Shorty, arms folded across her ample chest.

“Bid high, Shorty,” the auctioneer advised. “You’ll need this quilt to keep you warm on the couch tonight.”

“Two hunderd dollers,” Shorty shouted.

Bidders’ hands popped up-and-down. Gerty’s quilt was a popular item. It wouldn’t make a dent in her mortgage, but every little bit would help. The auctioneer pointed, accepting bids.

“Going once, going twice. All done? All done? Sold. Shorty Richards. Five hundred dollars. Shorty, Gerty, come on up here.”

Gerty walked to the stage as the crowd applauded. Shorty, all five-foot-two of him, assisted his overly-fed wife up the steps. Easily topping three hundred pounds, his wife waddled her way like a fattened sow onto the stage. Shorty held one end of the quilt as his wife held the other, unfolding it to its full length. The auctioneer shook Gerty’s hand and gave her a hug. Rufus and Gomer slinked in the side shadows.

Dorothy and Trip stood awkwardly at the back of the crowd. “She looks nice,” as Dorothy broke the silence. “Good dress choice.”

“Told you it wasn’t for me.”

“Well, it’s nice.”

“Thanks. I’m surprised you know Gerty.”

“Why?” Dorothy asked.

“Workin’ for Robinson and all,” Trip halfway accused. “I don’t work for him. He’s a creep.”

“You’re not trying to steal her farm?”

“Excuse me?” Dorothy challenged.

“Guess I’m the creep.”

“Not really,” she said.

“Want some popcorn?” Trip asked.

“Sure,” she responded.

As they wandered off, Robinson lurked at the fringe of the crowd. Holding a wad of cash, he nodded toward Gerty. Rufus took the bills as he and Gomer melted into the exiting crowd.

☁ ☁ ☁

“Gertrude Murphy,” the auctioneer lamented, “I should have kissed you at the eighth-grade dance sixty years ago.”

“You were so shy, you’d have swallowed your tonsils,” Gerty grinned. “How ya been, Jesse?”

“I love county fair week,” he said, as he looked around the mostly deserted Grange Hall. “Everything I hold near and dear-”

“--Aren’t you the poetic old fool?” Gerty interrupted, before Jesse had a chance to get all blubbery. “Poor Shorty.”

“Imagine goin’ through life as Shorty Richards,” he chuckled.

Seated at a card table in front of the Grange Hall platform, he counted out Gerty’s five hundred dollars for her log cabin quilt.

Securing the cash into her purse, Gerty laughed, adding, “You did a great job tonight, Jesse. It’s always fun guessing who you are going to take down a notch or two. Poor Shorty.”

“If I were a bettin’ man, I’d wager that five hundred dollars that Shorty will be sleepin’ on the couch tonight with your quilt pulled up under his chin.”

“Sucker’s bet.”

“Don’t lose that purse before you get to the bank,” Jesse warned.

Gerty acknowledged the warning with a quick pat of her purse as she leaned across the table, giving Jesse an affectionate smooch on the cheek.

“There, eighth-grader,” she grinned. “Now, go swallow your tonsils.”

Gerty threw a mournful glance around the cluttered Grange Hall. The county fair was over for her. Pies, jams, jellies that showcased the best cooks in the county were now gone. A few wilting roses and other cut flowers hinted that gardens and picket fences in Highland County burst an uncommon beauty to very common folk. She exited the dimly lit Grange Hall to a midway that was slowing down. Uneven light sources from a Ferris Wheel and Merry-go-Round that were about to stop spinning added to a sadness that would linger into the fall.

Trip and Dorothy entered the Grange Hall and approached Gerty. Seeing their hands touch in the bag of popcorn and observing Trip’s nervous laugh, she grinned that patented Gerty grin. The fair might be over for her, but it looked like something else might be starting.

“I see you two have met,” Gerty teased.

“Thanks for the popcorn,” Dorothy said, as she waved goodbye.

“See ya,” was all that Trip could muster.

“Nice girl,” Gerty commented as they slowly walked toward the pickup truck.

“Yep.”

“She like the popcorn?”

“Guess so. Surprised a gal that pretty doesn’t have a guy,” Trip said.

“She did,” Gerty said as she liberated a handful of popcorn from Trip.

“Oh?”

“She was Luke’s fiancé.”

Trip stopped cold as Gerty walked ahead.

Gerty turned and said, over her shoulder, “I think she likes you.”

As Trip hustled to catch up with Gerty, neither noticed that the carnies were closing ranks. Stalking at a safe distance, Rufus and Gomer measured their target. Keeping close watch on Gerty, in her floral-print dress, Gomer the pickpocket eyed her purse hanging from her left elbow. Just as Rufus was to make his planned distraction on Gerty’s right side, some 4-Hers on horseback cut between the carnies and their prey.

Closely following the horses were two ATV’s that cut them off again. As the crowd filled the temporary void, Rufus and Gomer surveyed the exiting fairgoers.

“There she is,” Gomer whispered.

Rufus closed the distance and eased to the right of the floral-print dress. He brushed the old woman’s shoulder, prompting a thump on his head from the old woman’s cane.

“Hey, where’s your manners?” came the verbal grunt, as Rufus received another clonk to the head.

The distraction accomplished, Gomer reached for a purse that was not on the left elbow. The old woman’s left arm was in a sling. Not Gerty. It was Ethel, from the ladies dress shop. She loved the floral-print dress so much, she bought one for herself.

As Ethel accosted Rufus with her cane, Gomer was thinking, how many old women in this county have the same dress?

Now in full retreat, Rufus and Gomer shoved each other. It was over. Gerty had evaporated into the crowd. She was gone. There would be no huge carnie payday tonight.

Oblivious to how close they had come to having fair week ruined, Trip and Gerty placed a few remnants of their day in the truck bed. Fireworks over a darkened midway announced the climax of the fair. Ever the gentleman, Trip opened the driver’s side door for Gerty. As he closed her door, he heard a rooster crow.

By the time he had scooted around the truck bed and opened his passenger-side door, the truck cab was filled with rooster clucks and feather dust. Gerty sneezed. Only the dashboard gauges and dome light illuminated the cab. On the seat between them, in a wire cage donning a blue rosette ribbon, a Rhode Island Red rooster bobbed his head at Gerty.

Smothering a laugh, Trip announced, “Got you a new, prizewinning alarm clock.” Followed by his best rooster wake-up call of, “Er – er – er – er – er!”

Lifting the cage to eye level, Gerty could only say, “Really?”

“I think he likes you,” Trip laughed.

“Does he have a name?”

“Yep. Diablo.”

Er – er – er – er – er.

Gerty was impressed. Diablo knew exactly what time it was. Of course, sunrise was probably easy for a rooster to figure out. Not like Diablo had to learn how to read the hands on the face of a windup clock. Gerty would have to wait until autumn to see how he would handle the change from Daylight Savings Time. Bessie did pretty well with time changes. Maybe she could coach up Diablo.

After the highs of the county fair subsided, it was back to the long list of fixes around Gerty’s farm. Every morning at breakfast, she and Trip discussed and prioritized the long list of projects. Trip was done with the Band-Aids, he hadn’t hit himself in the thumb with a hammer in two weeks.

Gerty was the mentor, instructor, and supervisor. She could fix anything. She lacked the strength and raw muscle power needed to loosen a decades-rusted lug nut on a farm wagon, but she knew how and she always selected the right tool. Not every job required a hammer.

Trip was the student. He had the muscles and the willing attitude. Buzz over-supervised him at the airstrip; never seemed to trust him with anything remotely important. It was different with Gerty. Initiative was rewarded, even if it meant the demise of Thunderbolt. The hatchet might have been the right tool, it was just overkill.

They agreed to tackle the fixer-up list around the house first. Tops on the list was the irritating, dripping, kitchen sink faucet. The constant plink plink earned it top honors. Cotton drape under the sink parted open, Trip’s upper body disappeared. Lying on his back, legs splayed out on the kitchen floor, Trip was banging on the pipes. Zack barked his disapproval. Pushing the screen door open with his nose, he retreated to the shade of the apple tree.

“Remember,” Gerty admonished, “no banging.”

“Sorry,” Trip agreed.

“Clockwise,” she reminded, “turn the water off first. Hand-tighten will be enough. Right is tight; left, ‘L’ is for loose.”

They made a good team. Gerty rarely yelled or let exasperation creep into her voice. Trip followed her lead and only swore under his breath once or twice. Gerty would grin and ignore those minor lapses in patience. She saw the humor in watching her young charge learn the ropes. As she handed him the channel lock wrench she said, “Gentle with the wrench. That’s it. Easy. Loosen the connection. Break it and we’ll have to drive to the hardware store and replace more parts. Remember which one leaks?”

“Hot.”

“Right.”

As Trip started to loosen the connection above his head on the right, Gerty squatted at his waist and pointed to the left faucet pipe.

“You said right,” a smidge of frustration in his voice.

“Right, I did,” Gerty laughed. “I meant, right, as in ‘correct,’ it’s the hot water that leaks.”

“You wanna lie on your back down here for a while?” Trip begged. “I’m gettin’ a kink in my shoulder. Left?” Trip tapped the left faucet nut above his head.

Gerty agreed, saying, “Right.”

Trip raised his head to furl his brow at Gerty. Not a wise move in the cramped space below the sink. He bonked his head on the u-shaped grease trap. Two swear words escaped his work space. Under the circumstances, Gerty chose to ignore them. Finally on the same wave length, Trip loosened the hot water connection, above his head, on the left. Gerty pulled the handle and valve pieces out from the top.

Trip started to crawl out from under the sink to come topside. Gerty put her foot onto his sternum, clearly communicating, stay put.

“You need help up there?” Trip asked.

“I got this,” she said. “It’s so hard to get down under there, take a little break.”

It only took a minute or two for Gerty to disassemble the faucet valve with a Philips screwdriver. Removing the old, cracked O-ring, she molded in the new rubber replacement.

“Break’s over,” she said as she eased the hot water valve back into place.

Trip hand tightened the washer and nut onto the valve threads. “Clockwise is tight, right,” he muttered to himself.

“Right,” Gerty agreed. “Correct.”

Two twists with the channel locks and he was finished. Gerty shook the hot water handle from above the sink.

“Last step?” Gerty asked.

Trip paused for a moment. Recalling left-versus-right, right-versus-wrong, he opened the hot water valve to a short rush of water as air in the line was displaced. Gerty turned the valve on-and-off. The faucet worked. But does it drip? Now at Gerty’s side, Trip crossed his fingers as Gerty turned the hot water handle to the ‘off’ position. Wait. Wait. Count to ten. Nothing. No drip.

“Nice job, Buzz.”

Hearing her call him ‘Buzz’ always made him feel guilty. He passed it off this time, as he indeed was useful to Gerty. He made progress every day. Someday he’d summon the courage to tell her who he is. Maybe tomorrow.

☁ ☁ ☁

Diablo signaled the start of another day. Another day with more fix-it successes, but another day where Trip failed to confess Hey, I’m not Buzz.

The classic F-20 Farmall tractor only needed an oil change and new spark plugs. After a few skinned knuckles and the mess of sludgy motor oil dripping down Trip’s forearm and off his elbow, the old red tractor cranked right up with only one backfire recoil of the front hand crank.

As the Model T was to Ford, so was the F-20 to International Harvester. Basic. No frills. A whopping twenty horsepower of generic, red paint that could pull a two-bottom plow across a farmer’s field. Hard to steal. No electric starter, only a hand crank that broke many an arm of the unsuspecting. Manufactured from 1932 to 1939, it cost a thousand bucks new.

Now ready to roll, Trip had no experience driving an old tractor. This was the first time the F-20 had started since his arrival two months ago. He scurried around the back, bounded up onto the draw-bar hitch. Perched on the large-holed, perforated seat, he found the clutch and ground the gears. This would be easy. Drive it from the barnyard into the barn driveway. It would have proven easy had curiosity not gotten the better of him.

The lever on the left of the steering column operated the hydraulic lift. An F-20 could accommodate all kinds of hydraulic gizmos. The hydraulic lever would raise or lower whatever was attached to the front. The current attachment was a ten-foot boom; like a flagpole sticking out the front of the tractor. Booms came in very handy in lifting stuff into a wagon or truck. Always a lot of stuff on the farm.

Trip got distracted and entertained by the operation of the ten-foot boom. Lever up, lever down. Boom up, boom down. After getting its new spark plugs, the F-20 had rejuvinated life. Belching exhaust, backfiring, and roaring its approval, the tractor drowned out Gerty’s screams. As Trip neared the barn, he didn’t notice that the boom was too high to fit under the barn doorway. Becoming aware of his plight about two shakes beyond the last second, five controls required his attention, at the same time. Yikes, he only had two hands and two feet. What to do? Brake, engage clutch, lower boom, reduce throttle, kill the engine? The boom, now at a forty-five degree angle, was ready to clip the boards above the barn driveway door. Lady luck was preoccupied, she had no time for Trip.

Trip made a quick decision, kill the engine. Good choice. The tractor jerked to a halt as if it had hit a wall. Gears still engaged, everything froze in place. While the tractor had stopped cold, the boom was bouncing up-and-down like a YoYo. Each upward stroke came close to removing barn siding from above the door. Lady luck must have taken a break from her previous assignment; she now had some time for Trip. Luckily, only one board splintered. He would add that to the list. It was a good day when more things came off the list than went on. On balance, today had been a good day.

☁ ☁ ☁

The farm fix-it list was getting shorter. All the structural things had been rehabbed. Anything that needed paint, had been painted. Farm equipment had been tuned up, greased, and stored in its rightful home. Even the splintered board above the barn door had been replaced and painted–without anything added to the list in the process.

Trip now focused on the cosmetic. Yardwork, trimming, planting flowers. Gerty’s place was beginning to look quite respectable. Yellow fall mums had disappeared from their potted prisons and taken up residence in front of the freshly-painted white picket fence. Trip echoed Gerty’s positive optimism about buying green bananas when he buried a row of tulip bulbs that would sleep during the brutal winter and rise to rejoice Easter morning.

The garden had never looked better. Nary a weed poked its head above the soil before it saw the blade of Trip’s hoe. He and Gerty agreed that the scarecrow looked frightening, even to them. Trip had rigged up moveable arms that flailed drunkenly in the breeze. Ole Zack barked and chased away wayward raccoons and squirrels.

Gerty gave Trip canning lessons. The garden produced enough vegetables to line Gerty’s basement shelves from floor to ceiling. She could feed the entire Continental Army through a Valley Forge winter if the British ever got feisty again.

Trip washed up after planting the last of the flowers. He flipped through his spiral notebook and crossed off the tasks he had completed. He thumbed the pages, looking for his next task. Everything was done. A short laugh reminded him that the chores were never really done on a farm. Yet, he had crossed everything off.

Almost everything. He still had to tell Gerty the truth.