His teeth chattering, Beau stomped up our back steps and went inside to change out of his wet clothes. As I applauded wildly, Champ ran home. Later, I related the story to the children of how their Daddy had saved Champ’s life.
The kids decided their dad was a hero. His actions, in my view, were comparable to Captain Ahab resuscitating Moby Dick.
Mary Catherine made note of that and questioned him. “Daddy, I thought you hated that dog?”
Beau sighed. “Still do.”
The estimate to build an eight-foot wooden fence around our entire back yard came to 8,000 dollars. Beau went for it. A couple of days later, a truck arrived with the lumber. Or, should I say, the first truck arrived. There would be several deliveries. This fence was to become the Newberry’s very own Fort Apache. Still and all, the fence would silence that dog.
“Worth any expense,” reasoned Beau.
Rick Hogg, our builder, asked if we’d object were he to bring along his dog, Heidi. “It’s just such a nice day, I hate to lock her up when she could be outside playing.”
“Of course, it’ll be fun to have her,” I agreed.
Heidi, a mixed-breed terrier, leapt gleefully out from Rick’s truck. She scampered around, circling her master every step of his way.
“Calm down, girl.”
Heidi obliged and quietly continued to make herself at home. The curious pup checked out every inch of our backyard as, one by one, she sniffed each tree and bush.
The kitchen door at Champ’s home opened. He advanced onto his porch. His ears perked. Champ sprung from the top stoop. Charging toward Heidi, he erupted in a vicious, “RRRRoooooollllllf!” His reaction to the visiting dog rivaled any he had shown toward Beau.
Heidi was taken aback. She stiffened, then burst forward, charging like a hungry lion. She screeched to a stop at Champ’s chain-link fence. Nose to nose. Heidi growled. Champ growled back. Heidi barked. Champ tucked his tail, turned around, and quietly slinked up to his porch.
Heidi triumphed as the champion of the two beasts.
Rick shook his head. “Looks like you didn’t need an expensive fence after all. Heidi works for dog biscuits.”
The Bomb Scare
by Honey Newberry
When Beau and I moved into our Atlanta neighborhood in April of 1982, we were one of the first families to come along with young children in more than a decade. What a disruptive force our family must have been to the formerly peaceful neighborhood of retired people.
At one neighbor man’s funeral, I suddenly felt an urge to apologize to his widow for all the trouble my family caused in those early years. Was mine a need for absolution? Most assuredly.
There has rarely been any extended time of peace and tranquility around the Newberry household. The following incident is a typical example of our singular brand of havoc.
Beau was on his way home from work one quiet spring afternoon when he turned onto our street and noticed a large crowd gathering at the top of our hill. Not only were there police cars, there was a van from the bomb squad!
“What in the world?” Beau pulled halfway into the garage, slammed on his breaks, and raced inside to make sure his family was all right. There he found a note from me:
Please drive the soccer carpool at 5:30. Mary Catherine’s at school, and I’m at a PTA board meeting. We should get home in time for dinner. I’ll pick up Chinese.
Love you, Honey
“Whew, that’s a relief. Thank goodness that Honey and the children are safe.”
Children? Wait a minute. My note only accounted for our daughter. Not our son.
Beau’s eyes opened wide. Actually, my husband vows that his pupils literally dilated from shock when he suspected, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that our son Butlar and his band of ten-year-old buddies had something to do with the emergency. He raced up the street, where he found Fulton County firefighters, police officers, paramedics, and detonation experts swarming our neighbor’s home.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” replied Cantey, our neighbor. “We heard the sirens about fifteen minutes ago. Wylda and I and ran over to see what all the excitement was about.”
“What do y’all make of the Bomb Squad truck?” asked another man.
Beau just shook his head.
Our frantic neighbor, Bruce, came through his back gate and joined the group. The father of two preschool girls, he was trembling, and his face was as white as the sand in his daughters’ sandbox.
“I can’t t-tell you much,” stammered Bruce. “I was digging a hole for a rosebush, and ka-plunk, my shovel struck something hard. I figured it was just a rock until I bent down to pitch it out of my way. The thing looks just like a hand grenade!”
The crowd gasped.
“I called 911 for the fire department. They’re back there now. I expect the bomb squad will have to take whatever it is away from here and blow it up.”
Murmurs of “blow it up” echoed through the crowd.
“For the life of me, I can’t imagine how such a dangerous thing got into my yard!”
Beau moved closer toward Bruce. “I should take a look at what you’ve found.”
“Don’t try to be a hero, Beau. That thing might explode and blow you to Kingdom Come! I think we all should stay right where we are. For safety’s sake, you do understand.”
Beau found the officer in charge. He whispered something to the man and the two went around to the back of Bruce’s house. Once there, he saw six or eight men gathered around a box. In the company of the fire chief, my husband ventured closer. Whatever the object was, the bomb squad was being extremely cautious with it. One man gently placed the device in the box while another carefully packed it in some protective material.
Beau finally got a good look. His face turned as red as the fire trucks parked out front.
“Damn.”
“What, sir?”
“Ummm, let me see that thing.” With that, Beau reached down and picked up the box. The bomb squad men leapt back, dropped to the ground, and covered their heads. Other emergency people scattered.
“Look out!”
“Man, are you nuts?”
Beau stood calmly holding the object out for a captain to peruse. The captain stared at it then groaned with disgust. “It’s okay, men. The excitement’s all over.” He glowered at Beau. “I suppose the good news is that there never was any real danger here.”
My poor husband, still beet red, uttered, “I don’t know what to say. I really am sorry about this.”
“It happens,” said the captain. “Okay, folks, we’ve eliminated the problem. Everything’s fine and everyone can go home now. ”
Puzzled, maybe a little annoyed that “whatever” turned out to be nothing at all, the neighbors returned home to dinner, to television, to phone calls, and to reading the evening paper. To our knowledge, no one ever discovered exactly what Bruce dug up in his garden.
And no one in the Newberry family was ever going to tell them.
When I got home, Beau was talking with Butlar. I caught a few words. It was one of those father-son discussions that I knew was best left to them. I set the table and opened the takeout boxes of Chinese food.
Beau shared the truth with me later that night. Several months prior, Beau had taken Butlar and his buddies, Ben, Jeffrey, and Casey, on an adventure to their favorite haunt, the Army Navy surplus store. The guys begged Beau for some of those cool-as-could-be “practice” grenades. He’d reluctantly agreed to purchase a few of the “dummies” so they could play “war” in our back yard. The key phrase being in our back yard.
Apparently, one of the dummies found its way into the yard of the genteel man up the hill. War was not a familiar venue for Bruce. He was far more accustomed to watching his two little girls play on swing sets and have tea parties with their dolls.
Yes, Bruce, we will let you in on our secret, now. It was us. Actually, it was Butlar, with Beau’s assistance. Mary Catherine and I are innocent
of this particular transgression. If you and your family hadn’t moved shortly thereafter, we’d gladly purchase extra boxes of those delicious Girl Scout cookies from your daughters.
In closing, and as always, the Newberry family would like to apologize to all of our neighbors and let them know that our children are grown and are currently living far, far away.
That evening when Beau called the beach condo, I brought up the bomb-scare incident.
“Isn’t it curious that Bruce moved away right after that? Surely he wasn’t that upset about the hand grenade.”
“If you can’t take the heat, you better get out of the kitchen.”
“For Pete’s sakes, Beau, you can’t mean that. Come to think of it, I really can’t remember another time I saw him out in his front yard.”
“Maybe Bruce was in his basement building a bomb shelter.”
As Beau laughed at his own joke, I began to worry about our children’s children, especially the males. How might they turn out?
“Beau, would you ever take one of our future grandsons to the Army Navy store?”
“Sure, why not?”
Beau Newberry definitely suffers from short-term memory loss.
Chapter 13
Her daughter’s wedding behind her, Mary Pearle called and asked when she might come down for a few days.
“Tomorrow is good!” I told her. “Yes, come on, and hurry! Just make certain to bring some pictures from Susan’s wedding. I can’t wait to see them. Beau and I had such a wonderful time.”
“That’s marvelous to hear. I can’t remember a thing. It’s all a blur to this mother-of-the-bride.”
“Well, believe me, Mary Pearle, you did yourself proud. Everything was perfection. Mary Catherine and Butlar are still raving about the band y’all had at the reception.”
“Thank you, Honey. I’m about dead but it’s a good dead.”
“I’ve never seen my niece as happy. And was she ever gorgeous!”
“I almost can’t believe Susan is mine. Her darling Matthew seems to adore my girl. You know, I cannot bring myself to call that young man Susan’s husband. They seem like babies to me.”
“Don’t you remember, Mary Pearle, Daddy didn’t acknowledge you and I had husbands for years.”
“You’re right, I’d forgotten that. Daddy always wanted us to remain his little girls. By the way, to my great relief, Susan’s father held up his end of the bargain. Edgar actually behaved himself.”
“It was all I could do to acknowledge his presence, the selfish jerk. I think Beau had a few polite words with him.”
“Forget Edgar. Let’s talk about the beach. Now please don’t go to a minute’s trouble on my account. I only want to stare at the Gulf, drink water, and read.”
“Don’t worry about me distracting you. I’m really busy with this book. In fact, the weekend at the wedding provided just the right break for me. Now I’m back working constantly, and you know how that can be. I crunched through an entire bag of Jordan almonds for lunch and dinner yesterday. I will get up from my computer and give you a welcoming hug, but that’s all I can promise.”
“Perfect!”
“Beatrice, I hope you will come over to meet my sister Mary Pearle. She’s arriving on Tuesday.”
“Glorious! But I insist we gather over here. I’ll have a dinner party for the four of us, you and your sister, Oscar and me. The dear man has just come back from his trip to Africa and would love to regale us with tales from his safari.”
“Are you quite certain you are up to company? This week you’ve seemed a bit under the weather.”
“That’s your all-too-active imagination at work again,” growled Beatrice. “I’ll not have you behaving in an impertinent way. I truly want to entertain your sister at my cottage.”
I had been brought to my knees by the queen mother.
“Thank you, Beatrice. It’ll be fun. I know Mary Pearle will be completely fascinated by you.”
“Of course, she will be! My guests are rarely disappointed.”
I got an idea. “Beatrice, you remember that my sister is divorced.”
“Oh yes, been there, done that, dear.”
“Well, I’m very worried about her, especially since her daughter’s wedding is over. The planning kept her busy for weeks, and now she has very little to occupy her time. Mary Pearle is awfully forlorn now that both of her girls are out of her home.”
“Poor dear. I’m glad she’s coming to be with you. We’ll boost her spirits, you’ll see.”
“Your friend Oscar sounds like a charming fellow. Do you think he might take an interest in her?”
“Oscar? Heavens no. That man is too old even for me!”
“Didn’t you say he’s just back from a safari?”
“So he says. Travel has nothing to do with age! Besides, don’t you remember my telling you that Oscar must avoid the sun? I’m convinced the man remained in his tent the entire time. As well, Oscar would never consider shooting a gun, he’s anti-NRA. I think the old boy was merely after fresh conversation for dinner parties.”
“I assumed he was — oh, I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t try to matchmake.”
“Don’t fret! You were only being compassionate. Your sister, if she’s even half as darling as you, deserves to find companionship. She’s only experienced the one love? My lord, she’s a novice!”
“A novice who’s been wounded.”
“All the more reason for the universe to send healing her way. I feel it in my bones, your Mary Pearle will find another.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“In matters of the heart, I usually am. But, for now, let’s settle our plans. We can work on your sister’s romance once I get to know her.”
I thanked my friend for the kind invitation and for her heartening comments. “Looks like you are always giving wise counsel to us Butlar girls. You’re a later edition of our Creola.”
“That’s rare praise, indeed.”
“Sincerely meant. Mary Pearle and I will make ourselves available any time that’s convenient for you and Oscar. I do insist on bringing the dessert. I make a mean key lime pie.”
“Rubbish. When I invite, I prepare.”
On the way to the dinner, I gave my sister a bit of background. “Don’t forget, Beatrice is rather eccentric, and I have no idea what Oscar will be like. You should be prepared for almost anything.”
“Listen lady, I’m tickled pink that she’s gotten you going on your book. My only disappointment is that I’ve just arrived. I wanted some time with my baby sister before meeting her friends.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’m not complaining, Honey, this is really a grand welcome for me. And the dinner party is also serving to get you off the computer! I’m afraid you’ll soon go blind from staring at that screen.”
“I thought you were glad I was working again?”
“Okay, so I’m contradictory.”
As we walked up to Beatrice’s cottage, the door suddenly swung open. There stood Oscar in full safari dress.
“Welcome to Kenya. I am Oscar. I am your official guide for this evening.” With that, the wizened, gray-haired Scottish gentleman stepped aside, and, extending his arm, motioned for us to enter.
Mary Pearle pursed her lips at me and whispered, “And heeeeerrre we go!”
“I told you to expect the unexpected.”
All manner of strange smells wafted from the kitchen. Beatrice’s usual array of books and objects of art remained scattered about but were complemented by photos of animals in the jungle, exotic plants, and huge African masks. A seven-foot stuffed python curled down from the chandelier and onto the dining room table.
Covered with bamboo, the table was set sparsely with wooden bowls and a single ladle for each of the four diners. Stereo speakers, which ordinarily played classical music, squawked and hooted with the songs and sounds of tropical birds.
Oscar put a hand to his heart. “Would you ladies li
ke a drink?”
“Yes, yes, please!”
Beatrice danced into the room. Dressed in colorful African fabric and wearing flowers atop her turban-wrapped hair, she began beating a large drum, which hung from her shoulder by a colorful strap.
“Welcome, friends, welcome to my country! I call it the Jungle of Mexico Gulf.”
Everyone laughed.
“Don’t laugh at me! My late husband, ‘What’s His Name,’ and I played this very drum at a royal luau in Maui. It was a glorious experience. I do enjoy a good drum, don’t you, Mary Pearle?”
I looked over at my sister. Mary Pearle’s face was frozen into a toothy grin. I recalled my own surprise when first Beatrice turned the cartwheel. Tonight the woman had outdone herself.
“You are the Lady Mary Pearle, elder sister of Royal Princess Honeybee, I presume?”
“Well, ah, oh yes, I, I, I suppose I am,” stuttered my suddenly dumbstruck sibling, the Lady Mary Pearle.
The meal was scrumptious, featuring some sort of delicious fish — Beatrice wouldn’t say exactly what it was. I was afraid to ask. There were bananas and mangos, tubule, and odd, sweet-tasting breads along with shrimp (Beatrice rarely served a meal without some form of shrimp).
For dessert, we were treated to a four-layer chocolate cake. As our hostess explained, “I deemed it appropriate to have a layer for each member of our delegation from the Jungle of Mexico Gulf.”
“Chocolate cake, my darling?” questioned Oscar. “Your dinner was divine, but never once on my journey to Africa was I served chocolate cake.”
“That’s all the more reason for you to have it tonight, dearest!”
Our foursome enjoyed thick, rich coffee along with the dessert while Oscar regaled us with tales of the safari. Contrary to Beatrice’s theory, the fellow did indeed leave his tent. He joked that he took more photographs “than there are animals in Africa.”
“It’s a shame I forgot to put film in my bloody camera!”
“Oh, Oscar,” I groaned, “What a tragedy. Tell you what, let’s split a second piece of cake. It’s often said that chocolate is the universal healing salve for all missed opportunities!”
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