Barnstorm (7 page)

Gerty’s clover pasture shared a common fence with Maggie’s farm. Tucked neatly in the northwest corner was a small pond. Surrounded by a raised, grassy bank and shaded by young trees and low-slung bushes, it beckoned ducks, geese, and tired farmhands. Nothing better than a quick dip after a hot, afternoon of farm chores. Sunday afternoons with a cane pole, red and white plastic bobber, and a can of worms. Nobody could fry up a mess of bluegills like Gerty.

After his close encounter with Thunderbolt’s talons, Trip limped his way to the pond. The egg yolks and shells were starting to crust on his work shirt and blue jeans. His hair was a matted crud of half-baked meringue. The makeshift shower in the barn hadn’t improved this catastrophe. Nothing less than a Baptist full immersion in the farm pond would save this wretched soul.

From the raised pond bank, Trip could see Gerty’s barn. A slim glimpse of Maggie’s yet-to-be-visited yellow farmhouse was barely visible. He was alone. A quick toss of his work shoes and he was in the water. Cool. Refreshing. The egg shells were peeling from his clothes. A few flips and flops and his clothes were clean. Trip waded out and again surveyed the horizon. First, the shirt was wrung out and spread on a huckleberry bush to dry. Socks, pants, and last but not least, his airplane boxers. Another thirty minutes and the warm sun would complete its task; wet clothes would be dry.

Skinny-dipping is the very definition of freedom. Especially since Gerty had confirmed the absence of snakes and snapping turtles. Only about eight-feet deep, Trip enjoyed diving for a handful of cold, bottom mud. Squishing the goopy ooze between his fingers seemed a minor violation of farm pond rules. Except here, in Gerty’s pond, Trip made up his own rules. No staying after school banging blackboard erasers on the sidewalk. No standing in the corner. If he wanted to moon the sky with a bare buttock, heck, it was him and the pond.

Overconfidence was new to Trip. When shattered, confidence took some time to reconstruct. About the time Trip was ready to see if his clothes were dry, his shirt slid off the huckleberry bush. From the corner of his eye, he saw his pants disappear. He sank to the safety of the deepest recess of the pond. Lungs burning, he surfaced with a gasp. There were his pants and shirt, draped over Maggie’s shoulders. He ducked back under water, the surface smothering a woeful scream.

Trip had been a farmhand long enough to have developed great tan lines. Arms, chest, back, shoulders–all bronzed. Derriere, as white as a wind-blown snow drift. On his next gasp for air, he made eye contact with his temptress as she tossed his boxers back and forth. Left, right, left hands. Maggie’s pouty lips were issuing invitations that Trip didn’t want to RSVP. Another gasp and under he went.

Now seated on the grassy bank, Maggie welcomed Trip to the world of oxygen with, “Hello there, Jacques Cousteau.”

Skinny-dipping in a river offers a number of advantages.

Willows at water’s edge. Underwater caves and washed-out bank overhangs. Except for the occasional gnarly catfish, a dude could hide there for hours. Last resort, float downstream and streak home through the woods or a cornfield. Farm ponds offer zero escape alternatives.

“All my chores are done,” Maggie said. “I got nothin’ but time. How’s the water, pond boy?”

Standing in water only about waist deep, Trip looked down to confirm that his private parts were covered. Obviously not deep enough.

Holding Trip’s shirt to muffle her laugh, Maggie observed, “Looks a wee bit cold, too.”

Trip bent his knees, exposing only bronze skin. “Thanks. I appreciate your concern.”

“Let’s see. I can outwait you, but, you’d just be all cold, wrinkled, and. . .” Maggie rose and laid Trip’s clothes on the bank. “. . . or I could join you.”

Maggie unbuttoned her shirt top button and took a short step down the bank. Trip went back under water.

“You can’t hold your breath forever,” she shouted to a rippled surface. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Trip gulped, “I’m not in the strongest negotiating position here.”

“I’ll toss you your pants, turn my back. That’s a major concession.”

Not convinced there was a ‘win’ in this negotiation, Trip whimpered, “Yeah?”

“I’ll tell you the rest after you get dressed.”

“Sounds a bit risky, don’t you think?” he asked.

Maggie picked up Trip’s clothes and turned to walk up the gradual slope of the bank, “Up to you.”

Stuck between the proverbial rock-and-a-hard-place, Trip shouted, “Wait, you win. Pants?”

Maggie turned her back and flung Trip his boxers, then his blue jeans. So much for being dry. Trip struggled with wet pants. Dressing underwater is as difficult as it sounds. Maggie snuck a peek but was disappointed with only a view of the white bottoms of Trip’s feet. Trip pulled his pants up and waded out of the pond.

With a flip of her long brown hair and a lilt in her voice, Maggie challenged, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“That depends. What are your other demands?”

“Time for that personal tour,” she said as she walked up the bank, flinging Trip’s shirt over her shoulder. “Come along.”

Trip, slumped shoulders, defeated, dripping wet, followed.

The personal tour of Maggie’s farm was not as painful as Trip had imagined. Over the past few years, with hard work and attention to detail, Maggie had resurrected her father’s tired patch of corn and hay fields into a respectable little farm. She only needed a man in the house to complete her perfect picture.

Trip noticed the pride she exhibited and bounce in her step as Maggie strolled through the neat rows of dwarf apple trees and peonies framed against a freshly white-washed fence.

“What’s with all the ants?” Trip inquired as he bent down to examine the plants more closely.

“Heck if I know,” Maggie answered. “Like clockwork. Fat green bushes pop up ‘round Memorial Day. Then, bang. Ants everywhere. Full blossoms weigh down the bushes like heavy snowballs. The blossoms don’t last very long. See, only green bushes now. But the ants? Mystery to me.”

Trip slapped the back of his neck to discipline a pair of industrious critters that were ready to scoot down his shirt collar. “Worthless little bugs.”

“Irritating, maybe. But not worthless,” Maggie corrected as she opened the door to a small shed.

No way was Trip following Maggie into this dark abyss.

After only a few minutes, Maggie the astronaut exited the shed. At least Maggie looked like an astronaut. Covered from head-to-toe in a white, baggy jump suit, she looked like an actor on the set of Ghostbusters. She sounded like an overstuffed bag of potato chips as she waddled to Trip and handed him his own astronaut suit.

“And what am I supposed to do with this?” Trip asked. Removing her mesh-net pith helmet, Maggie laughed, “Put it on.”

“Why?”

“If you didn’t like those ants crawling down your collar, you certainly aren’t gonna want bees buzzin’ down your pants.”

“Bees?”

“Yeah, it is time to harvest some honey.”

Trip knew it was futile to protest. One leg partially in the white pants and hopping on one foot, Trip collapsed to the ground. This was the second time in the past hour he was putting on pants in front of Maggie. Flailing his legs like a wounded, left-legged grasshopper, he rose to his feet. Velcro flaps securely fastened at his ankles, now the straight-jacket top. This was easier. Even through her bee suit, he could see that she was laughing at him. More Velcro. Booties attached. Pith helmet with a fine-mesh overlay and he was ready for battle. Maggie assured him that her poking and prodding was designed to confirm that he was fully protected. He was not convinced that some ulterior motive was not at hand.

“You look like a professional beekeeper,” Maggie said. “Any other last words of wisdom before I suffocate?” Trip asked.

“No farting,” she laughed. “It can’t get out.”

“Good advice,” Trip agreed as he checked every possible seam where a bee might invade his body.

“Here, you pull the wagon,” Maggie instructed as she handed Trip the handle of a classically-rusted Radio Flyer that belonged in the Smithsonian. Loaded with a large plastic storage tub, the wagon rattled over every rut and tree root in the orchard as they maneuvered toward the double row of white boxes between the apple orchard and Gerty’s clover field.

Maggie carried a weird contraption that looked like a cross between a watering can and the funnel hat from the Tin Man in a high-school production of The Wizard of Oz. The tour of Maggie’s farm had been harmless enough, but Trip wasn’t convinced he would live through this honey harvest.

Maggie led the way. She stopped about ten feet shy of reaching the row of beehive boxes. She crumpled up some newspapers from Trip’s wagon and stuffed them in her funnel-topped doo-hickey. Striking a match, she lit the newspapers. Pumping a small bellows in the handle of the gizmo, white smoke sifted out of the funnel. It looked like a new Pope had just been elected.

Trip gained a small measure of comfort as he watched Maggie hypnotize a thousand bees in the first beehive. A few wayward bees landed on her white protective suit, but they crawled around harmlessly. When two bees landed on the fine screen mesh that protected his face, Trip’s confidence waned. He didn’t worry about Maggie’s admonition that he not fart. Frankly, at this point, he was more concerned about pooping his pants. A quick flick of his protective glove encouraged the fuzzy visitors causing his eyes to cross to flit away. He had an up-close view of the underside of two honey bees. This adventure was proving to be more interesting than threatening.

“Hey, spaceman,” Maggie said. “Pull the wagon over here.”

Trip pulled the wagon close to the first white box. The bees were dizzy, sleepy, or something other than hypnotized. They were so lethargic that Maggie was not hindered as she lifted the lid off the first beehive. Pulling frames of honeycomb and bee saliva out of the top of the box, one last puff from her magic dragon machine, and a gentle wave of her hand, most of the bees vacated the frames.

“Here,” as she handed each frame to Trip, “stack these in the tub.”

“Why are you only taking the top sleeves out? Trip asked.

“Good question,” Maggie noted. “The bees need the honey in the lower hive to make it through the winter. Don’t want to kill the golden goose.”

“Super,” Trip said.

“Exactly,” Maggie agreed. “The top box section is called the ‘super’.”

“Lucky guess.”

Trip had become an able assistant. Up and down the row of white boxes, Maggie and Trip switched roles. Back and forth they went. Trip burned newspapers in the magic bellows and put the honeybees in their trance. Then he pulled the frames out of the super. They made a decent team.

Within an hour, the white protective suits were once again stashed in the shed. The Radio Flyer wagon, with its precious cargo of dozens of wax frames crammed with bee spit was ready for the next step. Trip helped Maggie carry boxes of Mason jars to the workbench in the lean-to beside the shed. Maggie removed a rectangle of wax-coated honey from a frame and handed Trip a knife.

“Without cutting off your finger, slice up a bunch of one-inch squares,” Maggie instructed.

“Like this?” Trip asked as he balanced a drippy square on his knife.

“Yep,” as Maggie held up a Mason jar. “Scrape it into the jar.” The waxy honey frame took up its new, bitesize residence in the collection of glass jars. “Lots of people like a tad of honey wax. Gives it character.”

“Where’s the gooey stuff?”

“It’s like mashing potatoes. I’ll come back tomorrow and squish the wax frames. A little messy, but worth the effort.”

“That’s it?” Trip asked. “No cooking?”

“Nope, all natural,” Maggie winked. “Just like me,” as she dipped a shoulder.

They shared a good laugh at Maggie’s tease. Retreating to the farm house seemed timely. Trip was comfortable in letting down his guard. Maggie, the queen bee, had no sting.

Trip relaxed on the front porch step. He sipped iced tea with fresh mint as Maggie first spread peanut butter on homemade bread, then slathered on a generous blob of the best honey Trip had ever tasted. As he rose to leave, Maggie handed him a jar of honey. “Here, Gerty can perform magic with this.”

Accepting the gracious gift, Trip had forgotten that this episode began with an ill-fated skinny-dip. He had a new friend. “I enjoyed the tour Maggie, thanks,” he smiled.

“Any time.”

“And thanks for the beekeeping lesson. Don’t know how to repay you.”

“Bring me some of Gerty’s fresh eggs.”

“Frankly,” he exclaimed. “I’d rather dance with your bees.”

Trip waved as he stepped off Maggie’s front porch. Halfway down her gravel lane, a honeybee landed on the back of his hand. “Howdy, little guy,” he said.

The bee stung him. He sucked the stinger out and laughed.

Thunderbolt beckoned. His brood of hens felt safe. Two days earlier, Trip had fended off millions, maybe only tens-of-thousands of honeybees. His Socrates hypno-waggle abilities held no sway in the chicken coop. Too dimly lit. Or Thunderbolt held more magical powers over his collection of dumb hens than Trip did. In any case, it was once again time to test his mettle with egg gathering.

Zack had returned for this encore performance; he knew it was show time. He had recruited Bessie. Leading Bessie by her rope halter, Zack sat on his haunches in front of the chicken-coop door. Bessie welcomed Trip with a taunting moo as he walked toward his Waterloo.

“Thanks a lot, guys,” Trip scolded as Zack dropped Bessie’s rope to the barn driveway floor. “No show today. It’s either me, or him.”

Zack didn’t know whether to bark or whimper. Even dogs exhibit some discretion. He settled on a shake of his head and a wag of his tail.

Basket in one hand, other on the chicken-coop door latch, Trip inhaled deeply. Bessie shifted her feet back and forth. Zack’s ears flopped to-and-fro as he shook his head in anticipation. Trip disappeared into the abyss.

Cluck, cluck. No big deal for a brief moment. It is thought that a dog can predict or announce an earthquake five or six seconds before the most sensitive Richter instrument registers the smallest of tremors on its scale. Zack leapt to his feet. Front paws danced like he was walking on hot coals, barking to announce the end of the world. Bessie joined the chorus as her tail accurately flicked a fly off her back.

Chicken feathers generally look innocent and clean. Not so when ruffled–a micro-dust kind of dander floats through the air. Zack’s every sense was being challenged. The hen squawks, dampened somewhat by wing-flapped wind, disturbed the morning calm. The feather dust or better described, chicken dandruff, rose from the coop and blotted the sunlight streaming onto the barn driveway. The smell of this floating dirt and dust from unbathed hens insulted Bessie’s mucus-clogged nostrils. She shook her head and sneezed a snot-blob that almost landed on Zack’s head. The scene inside the chicken coop might best be described as mayhem. ‘Henhem’ would be more descriptive, if not insulting to Webster.

The chicken-coop door strained under the assault. The door burst open with Trip staggering to freedom. It’s hard to tell when a dog or a cow laughs. Dog joy is usually communicated with the wag of a tail or a jumping, tight turn-spin chasing of a tail. Cows might have a gleam in a dark brown eye. Whatever it is that Zack and Bessie did, it was clear they both failed at masking their laughter.

Zack and Bessie could hardly contain themselves. Trip had his shoulders pressed against the chicken-coop door as though it protected him from a flesh-starved velociraptor. Covered with feathers and broken eggs, he limped his way toward Zack and Bessie. He sorted through his basket of broken, dripping eggs. He rescued one perfect egg. Admiring it, he lost control, but caught it safely. Triumphant at last.

The door shook behind him. Zack barked in protest. Bessie, hard to rattle, zapped another fly off her back. Trip whirled and threw his only perfect egg against the chicken-coop door. Goopy, broken egg yolk dripped down the door. Trip dropped his basket. With focused resolve, he looked over at the workbench. On the wall peg-board, he eyed the assortment of tools: hammer, handsaw, hatchet, T-square, and then back to the hatchet.

Trip removed the hatchet from the peg-board. Possessed, he approached the chicken coop. If cow minds could be read, Bessie would now be thinking, hey mister, don’t even think it. Trip methodically patted his hand on the side of the hatchet blade.

He’s in. The coop door eased shut behind him. Zack and Bessie reacted to the ruckus. Horrific chicken squawks confirmed–it was over. Bessie’s rope halter dragged the ground as she left the barn, head bowed into the sunlight. Zack plopped his chin on the barn driveway floor.

The pall of death permeated the air.