by Page, Wayne;
“Unbelievable,” said Deb, as she shook her head at Trip’s recounting of his close call with death. “You musta been terrified.”
“How long did you fly the plane?” Bomber asked, giving Gerty a brief respite.
“Stuff happened so fast,” Trip said. “And I wouldn’t exactly call it flyin’.”
“And the parachute?” Buzz asked.
“How’d ya know when to pull the rip cord?” Crash asked. Hooker jumped in and admitted, “You may have pilot blood after all.”
Directing his attention to Gerty, Buzz accused, “No corn fungus, sweetheart?”
“I do need a better corn crop,” she grinned. “But I don’t think crop dusting would help now.”
“You should see her farm,” Trip bragged. “Nice place.”
“A lot better since you dropped in,” Gerty said. “He’s painted everything. Procured me a new rooster. Fixed my tractor-” Bomber interrupted, “--Trip? Fixed?”
Almost everyone around the table voiced ‘fixed?’ at the same time.
“Time for me to go,” Gerty announced, as she slid her chair back from the table.
“Thanks for taking care of Trip,” Deb said.
Trip lowered his head and bit his lower lip. This can’t be goodbye. He and Gerty exchanged mournful looks as she limped off to her truck.
“Gotta go,” she insisted. “Eggs need gathered.”
As Gerty held the truck door for Zack, he hesitated and did not immediately jump into the cab. He looked around, and in dog speak communicated–where’s Trip?
“He’s gone, Zack,” she said with a quick lump in her throat. “Let’s go.”
Gerty settled in behind the wheel and turned the ignition. Trip had exited the cafe and was standing at her side window. “Don’t go,” he said.
Patting his hand, she said, “You fixed it just fine. You belong here.”
“Belong?”
“Follow your dream.”
“Where do I belong?” he pleaded.
“You’ll figure it out. Stop by whenever you need an egg.”
Double-clutching the gear box into reverse, Gerty backed away from Trip. As she disappeared down the country road, Trip was left in the cafe parking lot, alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his past. Or was it his future? And how alone would he be? And for how long?
He turned to walk back into the cafe as Socrates waddled around the corner and flew into his arms.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was almost as though he had never left. But he was not the same. Trip didn’t fall or crash into things. He didn’t need Band-Aids. Try as they might, the Liar Flyers couldn’t rattle him with their usual teasing and banter. They would need to develop new material. Not easy for eighty-year-old has-beens who had not yet become accustomed to being has-beens. These ole geezers hadn’t developed any new material since Truman was President.
Abusing Trip wasn’t as much fun as it used to be. They had a new mission. They spent most of their time in the hangar working on the Stearman biplanes. Buzz had seriously considered cutting his losses and selling the three biplanes. This kicked them into gear and out of the cafe, pleasing Deb immensely. Even though it decreased the loitering traffic and impulse diner sales, the trade-offs were mostly positive.
The Liar Flyers finished their morning coffee and gathered up their antique airplane rehab supplies. Today was paint day. They all wore white coverall painter pants and carried an assortment of scrapers, brushes, buckets, and paint.
“Red, bright-yellow trim,” Hooker insisted.
“That’s Navy, not Army Air Corps,” Crash disagreed.
“Blue fuselage. Yellow wings,” came the verdict from Bomber. “Red and white, flag-stripped rear stabilizer.”
“What’s with these old fly-boys?” Trip asked Deb.
“Every time they slow down, or try to take a break, Buzz reminds them of his promise.”
“What promise?”
Deb continued, “He promised he would give them flying lessons to get them recertified as pilots. If, if they got the Stearmans flight-ready.”
“Is he nuts?” Trip asked.
“That’s what I said,” Deb agreed. “If they don’t get them done by the end of the month, Buzz also threatened to sell them to help cover his payments on his new jump plane.”
Buzz entered from the hangar and yelled at the Liar Flyers, “Let’s go guys, burnin’ daylight.”
“Now, they can’t agree on the colors,” Deb laughed.
“You haven’t heard?” Buzz said. “After lunch, we’re firin’ up the PT-17. Maybe run it up and down the runway.”
Shocked, Deb got in Buzz’s face, “You’re not gonna fly that rusty bucket-a-bolts?”
“Nah, not today. Just blow some cobs out of the carburetor. Bomber is one heck of a mechanic. If he can’t get a part, he creates something out of paper clips, chewing gum.”
“Chewing gum?” Deb shook a finger in Buzz’s face. “I forbid you to fly any of that junk.”
“Easy now, Deb,” as Buzz tried to calm her down. “I’ll probably have the mortgage paid off here before those planes see any action.”
“Gerty has a thirty-day mortgage deadline,” Trip interjected. “That’s what those old fly-boys need.”
“What?” Deb and Buzz said, in unison.
“A deadline,” Trip said. “Something to light ‘nother fire under ‘em. A demonstration flight. Call the newspaper, be good for business. Draw a big crowd.”
“That’s it,” Deb said excitedly. “There’s yer deadline to get ‘em hustlin.’ An air show. Pony rides. Get a clown or two.”
The mention of clown gave Trip a start. He felt a little lightheaded, had to pause for a moment to shake it off. The flashback of bulls, cowboys, Flossie, and rodeo clowns was a bit much for him. He moaned a quiet sigh of I’m gonna be sick.
Deb noticed Trip’s discomfort and put it together, “It was you!”
Trip could only offer an, “Uh.”
Deb poked Buzz that poke one pokes when proven right, “I told you it was him.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Buzz asked.
“The rodeo clown. I told you it was him.”
Deb relished being proven right. Excitedly, she danced around the table, hands aside her ears like the horns of a charging bull.
“Okay, okay,” Trip admitted. “It was me. But you gotta stop dancin’ around.”
“Ha,” Deb bragged. “That’s what we need. A flyin’ rodeo. ‘Stead of horses, bulls. Schedule a flyin’ rodeo. That place out in Iowa, there’s an annual fly-in of old biplanes. We’ll add in the ponies and some clowns.”
Buzz corrected, “You’re losin’ it, sweetheart. It’s a Flying Circus. And it’s not Iowa. Illinois. Galesburg, Illinois. Every year they have a reunion of Stearman biplanes. The National Stearman Fly-in.”
“You mean those barnstormin’ stories are true?” Deb asked. “Pretty much.”
Deb was with the program now, “Maybe we call one of those Galesburg guys. Get a couple of them to fly over here. Challenge our has-been fly-boys to a contest of some kind.”
“Whoa,” Buzz cautioned. “Let’s see if our PT-17 starts up first.”
Impatient with Buzz’s caution, Deb insisted, “Schedule it, see how much gets done. It’ll give ‘em a goal. Heck, pick a date, thirty-days out.”
Trip entered the fray with, “Two deadlines. Raise some money to help Gerty with her mortgage.”
Deb slapped the tabletop, declaring, “Headline, Trip saves grandma’s farm!”
The three schemers settled down to consider the practicality of pulling something like this off. Their strategizing was rudely interrupted by a building-shaking rumble as an airplane engine backfired in the hangar next door. The ceiling lights in the cafe swung to-and-fro as the engine coughed and backfired again. Buzz leapt out of his chair so fast it fell over
backwards. He tumbled to the ground, kicking the chair out of his way, as he rushed toward the hangar.
“Really?” he screamed. “Son-of-a. . .”
As Buzz opened the door separating the cafe from the hangar, the Liar Flyers started the engine again. It sputtered and backfired, a third time. The deafening sound and rush of airplane exhaust blasted through the cafe.
This plane might actually fly.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Late summer brought a bumper crop of tomatoes to Gerty’s garden. Canning tomato juice was in full swing. Gerty couldn’t sell a tomato at the local farmers’ market if her life depended on it. Seemed as though every spare clod of dirt in the county sprouted a tomato plant. Neighbors would donate them back and forth to each other until threats were issued.
The squash and pumpkin vines were wending their way to escape the garden confines. If not channeled, they might climb onto anything not moving. With Trip’s departure, it was up to Gerty and Zack to control the garden. Mostly Gerty, as Zack had limitations due his poor hoe control.
“I know, Zack,” Gerty lamented. “Kinda lonely without Trip. Only been a week.”
To Zack it had been seven weeks. Dog weeks.
Gerty pulled the garden gate closed, not sure what good it did. It didn’t keep the squash and pumpkin vines ‘in’ and never kept the raccoons ‘out.’ Her basket full of ripe tomatoes, she wished Trip were around to brag about her BLT’s. As Zack spun around her legs, he barked at an approaching car. It was Mel Smith. Gerty set her basket of tomatoes on Mel’s car hood and opened his door.
“Mornin’, Mel. How is Martha?”
“Her rheumatism is actin’ up. Getting old sucks. Right side of grass though.”
“Good start for any day,” Gerty agreed. “I still buy green bananas.”
“Ever the optimist,” Mel laughed.
“Enough small talk, Mel,” Gerty frowned. “You and I both know you didn’t drive all the way out here to talk about rheumatism and green bananas.”
Failing the courtesy of good eye contact, Mel fumbled his words, “Y-you know, I’m stuck on this one, Gerty. The big boys in Cleveland won’t approve an extension on your loan.”
“Look at that cornfield, Mel,” Gerty pointed. “Bumper crop this year.”
“Yeah,” Mel said, as he scratched his head. “Won’t come in soon enough to make a difference.”
“How about if I rent the place out?”
“That won’t work either. Every farmer in the Midwest has a bumper crop. All those huge crops mean falling corn prices. That lowers cash rent values.”
Mel pulled an envelope out of his suit breast pocket. Tapping it against his side, he couldn’t bring himself to close the distance to Gerty.
“Mel Smith, how did you ever become a banker? Your heart is bigger than Fort Knox. Relax, it’s not your fault.”
Gerty took a step toward Mel and extended her hand to accept the envelope. “Go ahead, hand it to me.”
“We’re out of options,” Mel said as he feebly handed the envelope to Gerty.
“It’s alright. Go on now, get back to town before Mr. Jerk Robinson robs you blind.”
Gerty removed her basket from Mel’s car hood and handed him two red tomatoes.
“They’re poison, aren’t they?” Mel grinned.
“If you promised to personally deliver them to Robinson, I’d inject them with rooster poop. Now, get going before we both get into trouble.”
The dust from the gravel lane settled as Gerty surveyed the barnyard. Every building gleamed with fresh paint. Even-rowed corn rustled in the mid-morning breeze. Diablo chased hens around the barnyard. But it would not be enough. Gerty knew that her farm was lost.
“Sorry, Lester,” she sighed as she slowly limped back to the house.
Chapter Thirty
The upstairs had been packed first. Cardboard boxes cluttered Gerty’s living room, hallway, kitchen. The whole house was a wreck. Packing paper was everywhere. It was an obstacle course; difficult to set a foot down without stepping on something. It was as though the floor had disappeared. Every drawer, every door on the Hoosier was open. Gerty and Maggie had stopped saying excuse me days ago as they bumped into each other; back and forth from the Hoosier to the kitchen table. As Gerty emptied the Hoosier, Maggie wrapped treasures and junk alike in packing paper, placing them in boxes.
“I suppose it was inevitable, but somehow I didn’t think it would actually happen,” Gerty lamented. “Careful, this frame came from my great-grandmother,” she said as she handed Maggie a picture of Lester.
Lester’s face disappeared under Maggie’s careful fold of paper. “Lester was an excellent farmer,” Maggie sighed.
“He would know what to do,” Gerty acknowledged. “I should probably pitch all of this stuff.”
Maggie took the stack of journals from Gerty to save them from the pitch barrel. “Nah,” Maggie said as she buried the journals in the bottom of a box. “Don’t pitch ‘em yet.
What did you call ‘em? Musings? Bring ‘em along, we’ll drink bourbon beside the fireplace this winter. Read ‘em and fling ‘em into the fire.”
“It’s nice of you to let me stay at your place until I get settled.”
“Got all that extra room, no man under foot. Yet,” Maggie added with a wink. “On a more serious note, do you think you’ll go to the sheriff’s sale? Might be tough.”
“Part of me says no. I don’t need to make Mel or Sheriff Brown feel bad.”
“And the other part of you?” Maggie challenged.
“Not Christian. I don’t have to decide now. Three more weeks. Let’s see how Christian I feel in three weeks.”
Maggie filled a box with another batch of Gerty’s journals.
Chapter Thirty-One
The hangar doors creaked open. The sound of metal-on-metal created a cringe reminiscent of worn out brake pads. Only worse. Just as Band-Aids are best ripped off in one fast, aggressive tug, this hangar door should be opened quickly–in one fluid motion. Crash and Hooker hadn’t experienced a fluid motion in years. As they huffed and puffed with the hangar door, Deb couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Outta the way,” Deb ordered as she shouldered the door like a linebacker hitting a tackling dummy.
Sunlight bathed the hangar entrance revealing splashes of blue and yellow paint. Red and white tail accents glistened as morning light chased the hangar shadows. A fully-restored Stearman PT-17 stood ready to train another World War II pilot. If the biplane could talk, she probably would have shouted, let’s go barnstormin!
The sound of the screeching metal door was replaced by the oo’s and ah’s of the Liar Flyers. Deb, Buzz, and Trip pushed the gleaming PT-17 into the full sun of the tarmac. The Liar Flyers avoided eye contact with each other as they were close to tears. They reverently walked around the plane, gently touching it as if it were a fragile, newborn baby.
Hands on hips, Buzz beamed, “Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Never thought you guys could pull this off.”
Wiping a tear, Hooker said, “I feel like I’m in church.”
“You ain’t been to church since 1957,” Crash accused.
“I think it was 1954,” Bomber corrected.
“It never stops,” Deb observed. Shaking her head in disbelief, she flung a compliment toward the Liar Flyers, “Phenomenal. Take a piece of junk, turn it into this?”
Buzz and the Liar Flyers conducted a pre-test walkaround. Struts were shaken, fingertips graced the refurbished wings, and Hooker swiped his hand along the propeller’s edge. They all nodded in agreement, this baby was ready for a runway test. No flight today, just a test run. Put the engine through its paces. Buzz, foot on the wing near the fuselage, rose to climb into the rear cockpit. He hesitated and retreated back to the tarmac.
“Something wrong?” Trip asked.
Approaching Bomber, Buzz announced, “First taxi honor
is yours, Bomber.”
Pats on the back accompanied Bomber to the rear cockpit. Buzz assisted the rickety fly-boy shuffle across the wing and instructed, “Crank her up to about nine-hundred RPM.”
“Got it,” Bomber agreed.
“Turn around, vary the RPM between nine-hundred and a thousand toward the north end of the runway.”
“Like ridin’ a bike,” Bomber assured. “How ‘bout a third pass at eleven-hundred?”
Confident that this really was like ridin’ a bike, Buzz agreed, “Sure, why not? Watch the oil pressure gauge. Let’s not blow the engine on our first test run.”
Buzz helped Bomber strap in and shook his seat harness.
A firm slap on the back and a thumbs-up to this old-timer pilot completed the briefing–once a pilot, always a pilot.
As Buzz retreated off the wing, he was elbowed aside by Deb. “Me too! I’m comin’,” she announced as she wiggled into the front cockpit seat.
“What?” Buzz exclaimed.
“Quick joy ride, I’m goin’.”
Knowing when Deb was not to be denied, Buzz adjusted Deb’s harness with a stern warning, “Remember, this is a trainer biplane.”
“So?” Deb protested.
“So, don’t touch the foot bars or any of the controls. Bomber has control from the rear cockpit. Don’t be surprised when stuff around you starts movin’.”
“How stupid do I look?” Deb laughed.
Buzz started to respond, then thought he best treat Deb’s last question as rhetorical.
Bomber didn’t show an expected disgust or frustration that Deb had commandeered his front seat. His Sky Gypsy Café nemesis was now his flight partner and stealing some of his show. The grease under his fingernails and scrapped knuckles clearly screamed that today was a guy’s day. Through his flight goggles, a quick wink and glint in his eye also communicated that he still had it. His mind wandered back to his good-ole barnstormin’ days when the prettiest gal in every town across the Midwest eagerly hopped into his Stearman. Deb wasn’t exactly Bomber’s sweetie, but she did represent all those babes over the years who were. Yep, Bomber still had it.