Life, Love, & Laughter

by S. L. Menear

  He claimed his slow-motion version of the Lomcovák was tame and fun. The only difference with his kinder, gentler version was the snap roll didn’t bang my head into the side rail hard enough to bruise me.

  I eventually learned how to do what I considered the fun stunts, but I never mastered the roll on top of a loop. My husband’s laughter was my main clue that I had messed up the timing and something bad was about to happen. He would chuckle first. All-out laughter always accompanied our entry into an inverted spin.

  I failed to see the humor.

  We’re divorced now.

  Meadow Muffins

  D.M. Littlefield

  While driving to my granny’s ranch alone at night on a deserted country road, a deer leaped in front of my car. I swerved and skidded on the wet road toward a deep drainage ditch.

  I slammed on the brakes. The car stopped with one front wheel hanging over the edge and the rear wheels stuck in the mud. Frustrated, I pounded the steering wheel. Oh, that hurt! I had forgotten about my scraped knuckles from changing a flat tire earlier.

  It had been exhausting driving through heavy showers all the way from Houston. I saw Granny’s ranch lights in the distance on the other side of the ditch that separated her land from the road. Instead of walking the longer winding road, I decided to cut across her property.

  I retrieved my penlight before locking the car. I needed my hands for holding the barbed wire fence apart, so I plunked my car keys into my large handbag and tossed it into the trunk alongside my suitcase. As soon as I slammed the trunk lid closed, I cringed, realizing I had locked myself out of the car. Meadow muffins!

  I shined the penlight on the ditch and decided it was possible to jump across it with a running start. After backing up to the road and taking a deep breath, I raced toward the ditch and leaped. I landed on the slippery slope.

  Sliding down the wet embankment, I clawed the ground and broke six fingernails. My penlight was covered with mud when I came to a halt. I looked up for something to grab and clutched a branch on my right with both hands. Oh, that hurt! It was a thorn bush. With painful grunts, I managed to crawl to the top of the ditch.

  I wiped the mud off the penlight and my clothes. Clenching the light between my teeth, I ducked my head while holding the barbed wire apart. The sleeve of my new red pantsuit ripped when I reached up to free my long black hair from the barbs. Now my scalp was minus some hair. Meadow muffins!

  Such a klutz! Why couldn’t I be more like Granny? I’d seen her shoot the head off a rattlesnake from fifty feet with her Colt 45 six-shooter. She was as brave as her hero, John Wayne, but she looked like Sophia on The Golden Girls and was just as sharp and witty. Since childhood, I enjoyed spending my summers with her. Even now, at twenty-six, I cherished my visits.

  When I was ten, I walked on top of the pig-pen fence and fell in. Angry and frustrated, I shouted the four-letter S-word I’d heard the hired hands use when they were angry. Granny stormed out of the barn. She said no granddaughter of hers used potty-mouthed language like that, and I should say meadow muffins instead. She said it meant the same thing, but was more ladylike. I never used the S-word again.

  As I tramped through the fields it began to drizzle, or as Granny would say, “It’s spittin’ outside.”

  At the next barbed-wire fence, I stretched my leg through first so my hair wouldn’t get caught again. This time, the back of my pantsuit ripped. Meadow muffins!

  A cowbell clinked, so I shined my penlight toward the sound. Elsie, Granny’s cow, was ambling toward me. Thanks to Granny, I learned how to milk Elsie and the goats.

  I enjoyed riding Granny’s horses and remembered never to squat with my spurs on. It was fun caring for her ranch animals. One of my favorites was Aflack, a thirteen-year-old duck. He was my constant companion, just as Lady, the German shepherd, was hers.

  Granny’s billy goat, Elmo, liked to show off by butting things. We had to be careful not to bend over when he was nearby.

  Lost in memories, I stepped into one of Elsie’s soft, stinky, meadow muffins. It oozed inside my shoe as I tried to pull it free. My foot came loose, but my shoe stayed stuck. I bent down to retrieve it and wham, I was airborne. I landed face-first onto the muddy ground and puffed a strand of hair away from my eyes to look behind me. Elmo. As I wiped the mud off my face with one hand, I groped for my penlight with the other.

  Elmo’s happy bleating called the rest of his herd to come and marvel at his talent. I didn’t know goats had such good night vision. My rear end must have been too tempting. His groupies surrounded me as they bleated their praises to Elmo.

  I stood up and glared at Elmo before hopping on one foot to retrieve my shoe stuck in the stinky meadow muffin. I reached down and shook most of the poop off my shoe, hoping that walking through the wet grass would finish the job. If not, a creek awaited at the bottom of the hill.

  Elsie, Elmo, and his groupies followed me to the creek and waited on the bank to see what other amusing entertainment I might provide. Beyond the opposite bank, the outdoor light on Granny’s barn lit up her barnyard and the creek I had to wade across.

  After rolling up my pant legs and holding my shoes and socks in my hands, I slowly waded in. The creek was usually shallow, but recent rains brought it up to my thighs. Halfway to the other side, I stepped into a hole, twisted my ankle, and fell back into the water.

  Struggling to lift my head above water, I lost my shoes and socks while frantically splashing. Finally, I managed to sit up in the strong current, coughing and sputtering in water up to my neck.

  My audience on the creek bank mooed and bleated their appreciation for my performance. My hands searched the creek bottom and found only my shoes. Meadow muffins!

  After wading out, I limped up to the barnyard, leaned against a tree to put on my shoes, and looked back at my attentive audience. Elsie mooed. Elmo and his groupies bleated, hoping for an encore. I bowed and limped toward the house, leaving them wanting more.

  My soggy shoes squished as I walked up the porch steps to the kitchen’s screen door and inhaled the mouthwatering aroma of bread baking.

  Lady walked to the screen door, wagging her tail and whining.

  Granny gaped at me. “Betty Jo! Land sakes, you look like a tattered tea bag that’s been dunked way too many times.” She held the door open and patted my back. “Bless your little pea-pickin’ heart. Come on in. What happened?”

  Lady sniffed me, which triggered a sneezing fit. She crawled under the kitchen table and covered her nose with her paws. I guess I’d overloaded her sniffer.

  I heaved a sigh and explained. Then I rolled my eyes. “This trip couldn’t have been worse.”

  Granny looked up at me and took my hand. “Oh, it could’ve been a lot worse! Good thing you didn’t cut through the northeast pasture.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s where I keep Bulldozer.”

  Puzzled, I frowned. “You bought a bulldozer?”

  “No, I bought a mean bull and named the ornery varmint Bulldozer. Check him out after sun up. And don’t bend over unless you want to be butted into the next county.”

  Flowers

  D.M. Littlefield

  I sprang up in bed when I heard loud banging and yelling. Rubbing my eyes, I looked at the clock. Three in the morning. Is the house on fire?

  I struggled into my robe and ran barefoot downstairs where I squinted through the front-door peephole. I groaned in disgust.

  When I yanked the door open, I stubbed my big toe. “What are you doing here? You’ll wake up all the neighbors,” I said, hopping in pain.

  Ben, my ex-husband, leaned against the door frame, drunk. He held a pitiful bouquet of pansies ripped from my window box. Clumps of dirt on their roots dangled as he thrust them at me and almost lost his balance.

  “Here, you can’t say I never gave you any flowers,” he said, slurring. His breath reeked of alcohol as he leaned in.

  I backed away, fanning my face.

&n
bsp; “I have a question. Why’d you divorce me?” He asked. “We were married over twenty years, and I think I deserve an answer. Was it the drinking, the drugs, or all the cheating? Or was it something else? Tell me, I have a right to know!”

  I rolled my eyes and clenched my jaw, knowing he wouldn’t remember anything I said. “It was everything you just said and more.”

  He gazed at me, bleary-eyed, with a lopsided grin. “Well, that makes me feel better. I thought maybe you were mad at me for some other reason.”

  I took a deep breath. “You’re drunk, Ben. How did you get here? Did you drive?”

  He tried to straighten up and almost fell over. “I drive better drunk than most people drive sober.”

  A police car with flashing blue lights pulled into my driveway. Two officers inspected a car stuck in my lawn and then looked Ben over, shaking their heads.

  One officer said, “We’re responding to a disturbance call. Do you need assistance?”

  Ben waved his arms and bellowed, “I don’t need your ... your stance ... ass stance.” He fell down the steps and sprawled at their feet.

  The officer’s partner pushed his hat back from his forehead, crossed his arms, and glared down at him.

  The other cop looked at me. “Lady, do you know this man?”

  I sighed. “He’s my ex-husband. This is only one of the reasons why we’ve been divorced for five years.”

  The officer pointed at the dented car on my front lawn. “Is that his car?”

  I focused on the car stuck in my beautiful red bougainvillea bush. It had carved deep ruts in my lovely flower beds and lawn. I closed my eyes and nodded my head.

  “I haven’t seen him in a long time, so I don’t know what he’s driving, but chances are that’s his car.”

  “Several mailboxes are knocked down along the street. The dents and paint from his car match the damaged property. We’ll take him to jail and impound his car. Do you want to press charges?”

  I gazed at Ben with pity and was about to say no. Then I recalled all the years of stress and mental abuse he had put me and our children through. I glanced down at the poor little wilting faces of my uprooted pansies.

  Years of pent-up rage burst forth. “Hell yes, I’ll press charges! Lock the drunken loser up and throw away the key.”

  I returned to bed and slept soundly for the first time in years.

  Holiday Greetings

  S.L. Menear

  Dear family and friends,

  What a year! In January, I dated a man named Mike, who I met at the Safari Club on Golden Oldies Night. He was sixty, tall, almost handsome, and still had all his hair.

  Mike was quite the sportsman and convinced me to go on a dive vacation with him and two of his friends.

  He chartered a 102-foot yacht, and we headed for some prime dive locations along the Grand Cayman wall. His friend, Tom, brought along his twenty-something girlfriend, Kimberly. She was the poster girl for Airheads Anonymous and satisfied Tom’s most important criteria—big boobs. Why did I care? I got stuck with her as my dive partner so the men could do a little hunting and gathering with their spear guns.

  Nothing like blood in the water to add excitement to a dive. At a depth of eighty feet, Kim and I were admiring the colorful coral and pretty fish when she erupted in a heavy menstrual flow. Her thong bikini wasn’t sufficient to stop the blood from leaking into water that was clear as air. A dark cloud swirled around Kim’s hips.

  I knew what would be coming next, but I didn’t expect it to be so big.

  I looked down the edge of a wall that descended straight down into an abyss several thousand feet deep. The men were trying to spear a huge grouper about twenty feet beneath us.

  They didn’t notice a dark shadow rising under them and rapidly growing in size. I banged my dive knife against my tank to get their attention, but the hunters were too focused on their prey.

  Things happened pretty fast after that. Clueless Kim swam beside me to see why I was signaling. Her blood cloud encircled us just in time for the pelagic predator to get a good whiff and zero in on its prey—us.

  I didn’t think tiger sharks could grow to twenty feet. I spied its tell-tale stripes as it streaked past the men the moment they shot their spears into the grouper. With one look at the giant shark, they released an explosion of bubbles (not just from their mouthpieces), dropped their spear guns, and bolted to the other side of the reef, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

  I’d been told sharks won’t attack if you’re facing them; they prefer to strike from below and behind. Dive partners should position themselves back-to-back so someone is always facing the shark. That seemed reasonable until a monster the size of an SUV was bearing down on me. What if the face-to-face theory only applied to smaller sharks?

  So I decided, to hell with this! I put as much distance as possible between me and sister shark bait.

  Not really, but I was tempted. I spotted a crevice in the reef just big enough to admit Miss Disaster Cloud and me. I shoved in Kim and squeezed into the narrow cleft. The biggest set of teeth I’d ever seen missed me by inches. Kim’s blood cloud drifted out and whipped the shark into a frenzy. It rammed its big head repeatedly against our hideout.

  It was difficult not to gulp air as giant jaws with rows of sharp teeth snapped at my face. If we were lucky, our air would last twenty minutes, assuming we stopped sucking it in. But then we still had to swim up eighty feet and climb into the yacht without the monster eating us. I prayed for a miracle.

  We got one in the form of a physiology lesson.

  Turns out when a menstruating female is in life-threatening peril, adrenaline shuts down all non-essential functions. Kim’s blood cloud dissipated into the vast ocean. The monster circled over us and then targeted the wounded grouper, thank God. The spear guns were still dangling from their tethers connected to the spears embedded in its bloody sides.

  We made a break for the boat while the shark shredded the grouper. It took major self-control to not rise faster than our bubbles. I had to restrain Kim. Even so, our survival depended on skipping the customary five-minute safety stop.

  Kim and I climbed into the boat just in time to hear the captain call in our deaths to the Cayman authorities. Nice.

  Needless to say, that was my last date with Mike. Kim couldn’t understand why. Being an airhead isn’t easy, poor thing.

  In February, I enjoyed the Daytona 500, which is always on the same weekend as my birthday. My brother, Larry, flew me to Daytona Beach in his airplane with three of his friends and his drop-dead gorgeous thirty-five-year-old daughter, Hollie. She bought my race ticket for my birthday.

  I love watching live NASCAR races. The air is literally filled with testosterone, fuel vapor, and electromagnetic energy. The race is like a mighty battle involving multiple aircraft carriers. The race-car drivers are the fighter pilots. The spotters are combination radar intercept officers/snipers, positioned on the highest point above the track to call out targets (nearby race cars) and warnings.

  The crew chiefs are like CAGs (carrier air group commanders), perched atop their pit boxes, planning battle strategies and directing drivers and pit crews. The pit crews work in dangerous environments similar to the decks of aircraft carriers, striving to change four tires, fuel their race car, and adjust the chassis, all in less than twelve seconds, while cars speed past inches away.

  The race isn’t just about speed. The fastest car with the best driver may not win. NASCAR racing is cerebral, and often the smartest crew chief wins with the best pit strategy.

  Men should consider bringing dates to the races because after women breathe in all that testosterone for hours, sex is all they think about when the race ends.

  The pre-race had a party atmosphere. Hollie and I strolled through the race market where we bought cute T-shirts and sipped frozen margaritas in the warm sunshine. While waiting in line for the next tram to our grandstand, I complained that the shirt buttons over my bra kept popping open. The men
in front of us turned around and said, “Bad for you, good for us!” We all laughed and became fast friends as we sat together on the tram.

  They had grandstand seats in our section at the very top and invited us to sit with them. Their jokes kept us laughing all afternoon. They had just sold their business for millions, so they were celebrating. Then we discovered it was the company my brother had started years ago. Hollie brought Larry up to meet them, and they had fun discovering all their mutual friends.

  The air traffic after the race was worse than the busiest hours at a major airport. Shortly after takeoff on the flight home, a private Boeing 737 almost crashed into our Piper Aerostar as the jet overtook us and roared a few feet over us in the clear night sky. The controller hadn’t allowed enough separation between takeoffs. My heart hammered my chest, and it took a few seconds to recover from the shock of almost getting killed.

  Then we were hit with an invisible horizontal tornado, known as a wingtip vortex, generated by the jet that had barely missed us. Good thing my brother was an aerobatic pilot. Rather than fight the violent roll induced by the vortex, he allowed our airplane to continue all the way around, and stopped it right side up. Foul odors filled our cabin, and no one spoke during the rest of the flight.

  In April, my brother asked me to fly an old biplane to the Sun’n’Fun air show in Lakeland for his friend. “It’ll be fun,” he said. “The sun on your face, the wind in your hair—you’ll love it. The old engine runs like a top.”

  I should mention nothing bad ever happened to my brother. That’s probably why he feared nothing, except maybe an angry woman with a loaded gun in her hand.

  So I set off for Lakeland in the 1938 Bücker Jungmann open cockpit biplane with the original antique engine.