Creola's Moonbeam

by McGraw Propst, Milam

  I nodded. “I brought my pen. This is the one I use exclusively for special events.”

  “Now, I’m flattered, Mrs. Newberry, errr, Honey. I tried to locate all your books. Got every one of them, too, except for that ‘Spinster’s Petticoat.’ Then I finally found it, too. Lucky for me, a feller in Orlando spotted one at an estate sale. Beatrice has folks passing it around. ’Course I’d like it better if they were spending their money in my store.”

  “Hope the guy paid more than a dollar for it,” teased Beau.

  I kicked at him.

  Saturday night, Beau and I had dinner at our favorite spot at the marina. On Sunday, Beatrice joined us for steaks at the condo. She and Beau hit it off like two old friends. When she was getting ready to leave, she gave Beau a kiss on his lips and commented, “If I were two decades younger, Honey, I’d give you a run for your money with this charming man.”

  “Well, I’m not so sure I feel very comfortable about Beau driving you home.”

  “You’re a smart woman, Honey.”

  Beau winked at me as he escorted Beatrice to the car. “I’ll try to be home by daybreak.”

  At the end of the weekend it was sad for me to watch as my husband drove from the parking lot. I went back inside the condo, slumped in a chair, and gobbled a still-warm biscuit. “Rally, girl, you have to rally.”

  My battle cry worked. By midmorning, I resolutely jumped feet first into Creola’s Moonbeam. Besides, I had to justify renting the condo.

  A few days later, pleased with the progress, I telephoned my editor.

  “Guess what I’m doing?”

  “Windsurfing?”

  “No! I’m writing a book, one you’ll surely beg me to publish.”

  “Hmmm, maybe you should try the windsurfing thing.”

  “Uh oh, you’re cranky. Are you dieting again?”

  “No, I’m kidding. I’m pleased you are back at work. Good luck, Honey, and hurry!”

  “What, already a deadline? Some things never change!”

  I looked for Beatrice on the beach the next morning. Sadly, the lady was not there. I took a second walk near sunset, thinking my friend had changed her schedule. I was not so busy that I didn’t have time to be concerned about her. Finally, I went by her cottage and knocked on the door. There was no answer.

  I peeked through the window. There was no sign she was home, only her collections of beautiful pieces tempted me to come inside. Walking around peering into her windows proved to me that my friend was nowhere to be found.

  I’d sent my short stories to her on a disc, so she could read them on her computer. It occurred to me that my stories were so pathetic that Beatrice had run away to avoid telling me the truth. I’d had reservations about them since the day I tossed the printed manuscript in our garbage.

  Creola tsked-tsked in my thoughts. Don’t be ridiculous, Moonbeam. They weren’t that bad.

  My fears about Beatrice’s critique quickly turned into a gnawing feeling that something was wrong, not with my work, but with Beatrice.

  The truth surfaced two days later. A postcard arrived from Atlanta.

  My dear Honey,

  I’m in the hospital from laughing too hard at your stories. The flamingos! The roofers! The POOL! I read the story about the cock-eyed paper hanger and am still trying to recover. The poor daft fellow hung your striped paper horizontally and explained the problem was because your house, as he put it, “just ain’t squaar.” Guffawing so, I must have broken some ribs!

  How about the one where Beau floods the entire first floor trying to unclog the kitchen sink with a garden hose! That doesn’t sound like the capable man I’ve just met!

  I will return on Monday.

  Love, Beatrice

  Beatrice in the hospital? I couldn’t describe my feelings. I pinned a note to her door and anxiously awaited her return.

  Two days later, the phone rang. It was Beatrice. “Did you get my postcard?”

  “Yes, but, Beatrice, I can’t help but be worried about you. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Deary me, my poorly chosen jest about the hospital alarmed you. Forgive me, Honey. Besides, what could possibly be wrong with this old dame? Lest you forget, I once drank from the Fountain of Youth.”

  “Guess that slipped my mind. I’m thrilled to hear your voice.”

  “Good, but, dear girl, why is it that you haven’t gotten these charming stories into print?”

  “Apparently, Beatrice, you’re more confident about them than I am. Besides, I’m currently hard at work on Creola.”

  “Making progress, are you?”

  “Yes, indeed, and loving every minute of the writing. I’m nearly finished with the first draft.”

  “Good for you, but about these other stories. They are simply marvelous.”

  “Maybe you like them because you’ve gotten to know me. They’re very personal. Boring?”

  “Hardly. Take the story about the fence as an example. Think how many people will relate to that one. And that one about the plumber and, ah hem, the galvanized nipples. That’s an attention getter!”

  I pooh-poohed my friend’s praise and pleaded with her to allow me to come by. Beatrice, saying she remained worn out from her trip to Atlanta, begged off. Concerned more than ever, I reluctantly changed the subject.

  “Did you visit Jennings?”

  “Yes, of course. Although I didn’t find a good opportunity to encourage him to visit you once you’re back in that fearsome city. For that I apologize. At any rate, he and I had a grand holiday.”

  I was delighted that Beatrice was safely home in her beloved cottage. I was also pleased to learn she had enjoyed her Jennings.

  Selfishly, I was equally thrilled with my friend’s generous praise regarding the stories. Later that night, I put aside my new project and took a look at the story Beatrice commented on regarding the plumber.

  Lady, You’ve Got Galvanized Nipples

  by Honey Newberry

  “Sorry to interrupt your meeting, ladies,” said Russell Long as he leaned into the sunroom. “Mrs. Newberry, I’m afraid Bobby and I have found something you’ll probably wanna see.”

  Doubt that. “Of course.”

  “The news isn’t good, Mrs. Newberry. Come back here and we’ll explain what’s going on.”

  Rising apprehensively from the wicker chair, I fretfully ran my fingers through my newly cut, currently blond hair. My clattering teacup’s frenetic clicking on the saucer confirmed a mounting level of anxiety.

  “It seems these nice men need a quick word with me,” I chirped hopefully to the women of my writer’s group. A manuscript slid off my lap, its pages dispersed throughout the sunroom like paper napkins in a burst of summer wind. “I’ll be right back.”

  I didn’t want to hear bad news from my plumbers. My body’s temperature rose as my neck began to constrict. I suffer from plumbing phobia, which is something akin to one’s apprehension upon going to a periodontist’s office. As we entered the bathroom, my gums began to feel tender. They were puffy, too. I ran my tongue around my mouth. “Hmmm, blood? Maybe not. Maybe I’m just drooling.”

  “What’s that?” asked Russell.

  “Oh, just thinking out loud.”

  He pointed to his assistant, Bobby. “Let’s start by discussing the situation here in the main bathroom.”

  “Sure,” said I with forced self-confidence. Their tag-team approach intimidated me all the more. The three of us squatted down and wedged our bodies halfway into the bathroom cabinet. I bumped my head. We were down on our knees, shoulder-to-shoulder, heads burrowed together so we were nearly nose-to-nose.

  Russell pointed his flashlight at the area in question. Shaking his head, he sighed deeply and began, “See where your pipe goes into your wall there?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  Bobby nodded in agreement.

  Russell sighed. “I’m sorry to tell you this. See, you’ve got these galvanized pipes, so naturally, your nipples are galvaniz
ed, too.”

  “What?” Again, I bumped my head. I started to giggle. “Did you say something about, eerrrr, nipples?” My face grew hot.

  “Your house was constructed in the early 1960’s. The pipes were made from lead.”

  “Not a good thing,” I surmised.

  They continued on patiently talking to me, giving me more detail than I could possibly comprehend. Still, I paid close attention, wondering when they’d explain about nipples. In their concluding statement, the plumbers noted that the lead pipes were attached to the wall with a round piece called “the nipple.”

  Ah-hah.

  “Look right here, Mrs. Newberry, that’s your nipple. See it?”

  “Um huh. Nipple.”

  “That’s where you folks got your problem.”

  That was what I heard. What I saw was nasty rust and a good bit of cruddy gunk. Little wonder we had only a tiny trickle coming from that faucet. I shuddered to think about the condition of the water we were using to brush our teeth. Were my gums really bleeding? Perhaps they were actually rusting.

  I replied astutely, “Yuk.”

  “The job’s gonna take a good bit of time.”

  “Umm, huh, time,” said I. Time, as any homeowner knows, is the international code word for money.

  Bobby, Russell, and I extricated ourselves from under the cabinet.

  “The job will call for new materials, of course, and then there’ll have to be a good bit of drilling and ripping out before we can start.”

  Translation: we’d have noise and mess along with the significant outlay of money.

  Some customers, most normal customers, would have panicked. The me-of-old would have dissolved into tears, but, because we had battled this house for such a long time, this type of announcement had become a way of life.

  I rolled my shoulders and cracked my neck. “No problem.”

  “Sorry again about this news, ma’am. I’m afraid there’s more.’”

  “Let me have it.”

  We passed by the sunroom en route to the basement. I called to my writers’ group, “It will be another minute or two, girls.”

  “Go ahead, we’ve gone on without you,” one called back.

  I smiled, only faintly though.

  Once in the basement, I pointed out the water spots on the ceiling tiles. I flipped on the light switch. With that, the just replaced bulbs began to sizzle and hiss. “There, you see,” I said, “water spots.”

  Russell whipped out his flashlight and aimed it at the ceiling. With his index finger, the plumber poked a hole in the tile and immediately jumped backwards. I wasn’t nearly as quick, so I got dusted from head to toe with a white, powdery substance.

  “Whoops, sorry ‘bout that, ma’am. I didn’t expect that much fallout.”

  “No problem.”

  Even Bobby was surprised. He, too, had to dust himself off.

  I looked at him. “Not a good sign, is it?”

  “The shower pan, Mrs. Newberry, it’s the shower pan all right.”

  “What’s a shower pan?”

  The tag-team answered in unison. “It’s the bottom of your shower, ma’am.”

  A future scene flashed before me.

  6:45 a.m. Beau stands in the shower.

  6:55 a.m. Steam rises, his shampoo bubbles. His eyes blink open as he wipes water droplets from his lovely brown lashes.

  7:00 a.m. There comes a rumble, then a cracking sound as the shower floor begins to quake. A terrified shriek and my beloved crashes through the ceiling onto the basement floor. The shampoo bottle remains gripped firmly in Beau’s lifeless hand. I foresee myself dialing 911.

  I looked at Russell and Bobby without a shred of hesitation and said. “Fix it.”

  I quickly ushered the men upstairs and into the room where my writers’ group was finishing up. “Ladies, I want to introduce our favorite plumbers to you. Russell and Bobby, this is Beverly, Janet, Lalor, Dorothy, and our second Janet.”

  The girls each responded with “Hello’s” and “Nice to meet you’s.”

  The men answered, “How y’all doin’?”

  I looked at my friends dully. “I’m afraid we’ll have to host a telethon to pay for this.”

  They uttered sympathetic “Oh no’s” and “Dear me’s.”

  Russell shrugged his shoulders and laughed nervously. “Well, we hope it won’t be that bad, Mrs. Newberry.”

  “Oh, yes, it will be.” I put my hand on each of the plumbers’ backs. “Ladies, it seems I have galvanized nipples.”

  At first, there was a collective gasp, then their tentative giggles burst into howls.

  Russell stammered, “Well, g-guess we gotta go. Come on, Bobby.”

  I escorted them out. Russell called back to me as he got in his truck, “I’ll let you know when I can line up the shower pan man.” Cranking the vehicle, Russell looked at Bobby, shook his head, and took off.

  I slouched back inside. “Y’all are rats deserting a sinking ship!” I teased as my friends prepared to leave. They hooted. I followed them outside and watched them climb merrily into their cars.

  Janet rolled down her window and attempted to say something, but all she could muster was another snicker. She rolled up the window and backed down the driveway. I could see her head bobbing as she made her way to the end of the street.

  I went to the phone and called Beau. He was awaiting the plumbers’ estimate. Somewhere in the ballpark of thirty-five dollars upwards to a hundred, he’d decided. I tried to lighten the moment, so I described the girls’ reactions.

  He didn’t see one iota of humor. Like most husbands, Beau doesn’t share his wife’s idea of what’s funny.

  After I finished reading the nipple story, I cut up a bowl full of fresh fruit. Fruit would provide balance for all the cheese crackers I was currently consuming. The downside of writing, for me, is how badly it impacts my generally well-balanced diet. This is especially the case when Beau is not around.

  It’s too much trouble for me, as a focused writer, to eat anything but quick, crunchy meals. “Quick” accommodates my schedule while “crunchy” takes care of my stress. Just under ten pounds per book is proof positive that the quick and crunchy diet isn’t a good one. Even so, I’m more content while writing stories than I am when eating wisely.

  I sat back down at my computer. I’d intended to read just one of the stories that I’d given to Beatrice. However, I came upon another favorite, “The Dog Fort” and couldn’t resist. Apparently, it’s one Beatrice liked, too. Once again, Creola had to simmer on the back burner.

  I’ll be waiting, she whispered.

  The Dog Fort

  by Honey Newberry

  Champ, the collie dog who lived in the house behind ours, truly enjoyed the sound of his own bark. But he was selective in his choice of “barkee.”

  Champ barked only at Beau.

  One neighbor finally confided in us that the teenage boy who had lived in our house prior to us often antagonized the otherwise calm dog. It was becoming apparent that Champ believed my husband was that young man.

  Each and every time Beau went outside, Champ snarled, barked feverishly, and tried to leap his chain length fence. However, should any other member of our family go outside, even venturing all the way up to his fence, Champ would wag his tail gleefully.

  The problem escalated to such a level that the dog would go into a frenzy should he as much as spot Beau in our sunroom. This was beginning to bother my husband. Every afternoon, when he came home from work, his appearance would spark Champ’s frenzied barking. Beau’s reactions also were beginning to escalate, as well.

  One particular day stands out in my memory. Same drill: Beau drove up and got out of the car. Champ stood poised at his fence, his head erect, his eyes sharp, teeth bared. The barking began.

  It was then that Beau snapped. He grabbed a yard rake. Running through the back yard, headed for Champ, he screamed at the top of his lungs and whirled the rake over his head in the style of a r
otating helicopter blade.

  Neighbors gathered laughing and cheering him on as my husband, grasping a rake, charged like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. “Champ, you son of a —” He stopped and hurled the rake at the dog.

  The rake missed. Champ barked all the louder.

  So did Beau.

  Mrs. Whitmere, a quiet, unassuming lady who lived next door to Champ, shouted out her window, “For goodness sakes, Beau, you’re making more noise than the dog!”

  Somewhat embarrassed, my husband muttered back to her, “Sorry about that, Mrs. Whitmere.”

  Unlike Mel Gibson, he retreated.

  Although Champ’s afternoon ritual continued even after the rake incident, Beau tried to temper his reactions. Oh, the change was not all together due to Mrs. Whitmire’s remark. Beau had thrown several other expensive tools at Champ, and he wasn’t comfortable about asking his owners to return them. Beau resorted to making a wee-hours-of-the-morning telephone call.

  3:30 a.m. “Hello, George!”

  “Hello?” yawned Champ’s owner.

  A pause. Then came Beau’s loud “RRRROOOOFFFFFFFF, RRROOFF!” For added drama, he slammed down the phone.

  I sat up in bed and crossed my arms. “Beau, aren’t you ashamed?”

  Beau pounded his pillow and grunted. “Nope.”

  One Saturday morning, Champ escaped from his yard, into ours. Would he finally get a nose-to-snout look at his human antagonist? The dog stopped for a quick drink of chlorinated water from our pool and lost his footing. Beau and I were working in the front yard when we heard the commotion. We raced toward the sounds of splashing and frantic yelping.

  “Good grief!” I yelled. “Champ’s drowning!”

  The water was weighing down his heavy, collie coat. In his panic, the frightened animal couldn’t find his way to the steps.

  It’s also significant to explain that it was the fall of the year and rather chilly. Even so, Beau didn’t hesitate. My heroic husband jumped in, swam to the dog, and pulled him to safety.