HARVEST BLEND: Short Story written by Tamera Lawrence
Ernie
Holloway slapped water over his face. The water bucket turned murky. He picked
up a towel, rubbed his face and hung it over a tree branch. Eyes followed him.
A familiar itch danced in his belly. In the distance, smoke billowed from his
neighbor’s house. He squinted,
suspiciously. There she was again, watching him from her kitchen window. Miss
Nosy Body gawked at him, putting on airs. It was the third time this week. Well
he’d give her a show to see. Without much ado, he promptly dropped his pants,
revealing long underwear. With a jerk of his head, he smiled sweetly. Stunned,
she bolted out of sight. He rolled his head back and laughed. The sound echoed
across the distance.
Whistling,
Ernie returned to his house, sat on his porch and lit his pipe. He puffed for a
while, enjoying the tranquility. Scent of fall harvest slipped through the
twilight, mingled with pungent smoke. His prize pumpkin sat in the back of his
wagon. Tomorrow he’d enter it in the county festival. It was the biggest
pumpkin he had ever grown. Surely, he’d receive a prize ribbon. Emily would
have been proud.
His wife’s face
loomed in his mind. Emily had loved the annual festival, entering many
contests. Although his wife had been dead for ten years, he thought of her this
time of year. Childless, he lived alone, except for livestock. He preferred it
that way.
A scream broke the
silence.
Ernie bolted out
of the chair and leaped from the porch. Who was yelling? He stared at his
neighbor’s yard. There stood Greta Gibbon, miss high and mighty herself. The
widow twirled around in circles, flapping her apron with her hands. She
appeared to be engaged in a strange ritual dance.
Without further
ado, Ernie ran to her aid. Yellow
jackets swarmed around Greta in a gathering storm, furious over her intrusion
into their nest. He grabbed Greta’s hand, yanked her along into her house and
slammed shut the door. Greta slapped at the bees that clung to her dress,
howling and mumbling illogically. Ernie helped in her task, turned her around
and swatted at the bees along her backside.
“Mr. Holloway,”
she gasped, jerking around. “Please mind your hands.”
Stunned, he
stepped away as she finished checking her clothes. His skin throbbed from the
stings he bore on her behalf. Finally, she finished, lifted her chin and gave
him a haughty glare.
“I think I am fine
now, Mr. Holloway,” she declared. “Good evening to you, sir.” And with that,
she dismissed him with a snap of fingers.
“Well that’s a
fine how do you do,” he mumbled, scratching his stubble chin. “Not even a thank
you.”
“I did not invite
your intrusion, Mr. Holloway,” she said directly. “But beings that you have
forced your assistance, I now bid you good evening.”
“If I had not
assisted you, Ms. Gibbons, you would still be running around in circles out in
your back yard.“ He smirked, the image appealing. “Bees would be filling your
belly by now.”
“You are most
crude.” She sniffed, wrinkling her nose. “As you can see, I am quite fine.”
“Yes, I can see
you are.” He cracked a wry smile. Her face was swollen from the many stings.
She had to be in pain, yet her pride remained ever intact. “You are back to your delightful ways.”
“Humph.” She eyed
him like an insect. “I detect sarcasm in your voice. Do not mock me. I am not a
county bumpkin like the folk around these parts.”
“That’s right. You
are from the city. Tell me, why are you living here amongst us country
bumpkins?”
“Not that it is
any of your concern,” she said. “But I followed my son here to be closer to my
family. My granddaughter was born a week ago.”
“Yes. I heard her crying through my bedroom window.
That child could stir the dead.”
“Cad,” she said.
“She is just an infant. You are a peculiar man.”
“Perhaps. But my
habits are my business. You should keep your eyes and noise in your own back
yard. But I suppose that would be a boring proposition.”
“You talk to your
vegetables.”
“You talk to your
cat.”
“My cat is an
animal.”
“ My vegetables
are plants.”
“I find it
absurd.” She crossed her arms, scowling. “It’s not natural.”
“My plants bloom
even in drought.”
“You think too
much of yourself.”
“You are welcome
to move anytime.”
“I shall have to
talk to my son about the very notion.”
“I’m sure he’d
like to send you packing back to the city.”
Her face paled considerably.
“Get out.” She opened the door.
“Gladly.”
After
his morning chores, Ernie readied himself for the festival. Despite his hopes
of winning a ribbon, his eyes often strayed to Greta’s house. As he readied the
cart, eyes watched him. She was at it again. He saluted her. The curtain moved
as she jerked away.
Just
as he was about to leave, Greta approached. Her face looked terrible and raw.
“Good
morning to you, Ms Gibbons.”
“You
look a sight,” she said mockingly. “How can you allow yourself to be seen at
the festival?”
“I
am not a handsome man,” he commented. “A splotch or two on my face will make no
difference.” A glimmer of a smile hinted her mouth.
Greta
walked around the wagon, staring derisively at the pumpkin. “So you think that
ghastly thing will win a prize.”
“I
win ever year,” he boasted.
“I
suppose you think it’s because you talk to it while it grows.”
“My
little secret.” He winked.
“Humph.”
She patted the pumpkin. “What will you do with it after?”
“Sell
it at market.”
“Don’t
you ever cook it up and make pies.”
“Can’t
cook.”
“Well
it’s just fortunate that for you I make the best pumpkin pie in the county. But
I have one question?”
“Yes?”
“What
will you tell it when I bring out my knife?”
