Barnstorm by Wayne; Page

but the gift boxes were much appreciated. Wisely, Trip had selected something from the two boxes labeled ‘farm clothes’ rather than the boxes labeled ‘go-to-town clothes.’
    The day had started poorly with as much paint going on his shoes and pants as on the fence. As the day wore on, more paint hit the fence. Gerty had decided to hibernate in the kitchen snapping beans. She didn’t want to over-supervise Trip. Frankly, she thought that her frequent laughter and patented chuckle-snort were not confidence builders for Trip. She left Zack in charge. He would periodically bark out some instruction that probably didn’t build much confidence either. Zack appeared happy, lying in the shade of Gerty’s black pickup truck.
    This black pickup truck was not just any black pickup truck. It was a classic. GMC 1951. Gentle slope to the front hood was as regal as a patrician’s nose. A synchro-mesh, three-on-the-tree gear-shift transmission that Gerty could nurse through its paces without ever engaging the clutch. Husband Lester almost wore the paint off the hood as he coaxed a shine that could blind a nearsighted pigeon. After Lester died, Gerty couldn’t bring herself to wax the old GMC. She knew her efforts would pale by comparison and she didn’t need Lester tumbling ‘round in his grave any more than necessary. To say that Gerty loved this old pickup truck was an understatement.
    Trip had promoted himself to painting the fence closest to the barn. Its wide boards offered larger targets than the narrow pickets around the house. He was kneeling, working on a lower horizontal board when he saw someone’s feet on the opposite side of the fence.
    As he rose, he stared directly into Maggie’s heavy cleavage. Startled, he jumped back, stumbled away from the fence. Only Gerty’s pickup truck kept Trip from crashing to the ground. Zack might have been half-asleep, but he was alert enough to quickly scurry out from under the truck. Trip’s paint bucket went skyward and landed ‘plop’ on the hood of the truck. Gravity rolled it down the stylish slope of the hood. It bypassed the grille, bouncing on the front bumper, and finally came to rest on the ground. Empty. A huge, white blob now adorned the pickup truck hood. It was good that Gerty missed this. Her laughter and patented chuckle-snort would have been replaced by a mixture of words not appropriate for a chronologically-gifted Sunday School teacher. Lester had definitely nailed a perfect half-gainer in his grave.
    Struggling to hold back her own laughter, Maggie offered a morning greeting, “Hello there, Picasso.”
    Caught staring at Maggie’s ample breasts, he stammered, “H-H-i. You must be M-M-aggie.”
    Seductively, Maggie glided her finger from Trip’s shoulder, to his Adam’s apple, then weaved down his sternum toward his belly button. Licking her lips, she said, “And I’ll bet you’re Buzz.”
    “Ugh,” was the best that Trip could summon.
    “Not a farm boy are you?”
    “Evidently not. I’m no expert, but this seems like a nice little farm. You’re next door, right? Is your place this nice?”
    Maggie tilted her head, licked her lips again, and tossed her hair. Her boobs jiggled, once again tempting Trip’s gaze. She reached across the fence once more, hooked the top of his shirt with her index finger and pulled him closer. Employing a breathy voice barely strong enough to extinguish a candle, she teased, “Stop by, I’ll give you a personal tour.”
    Leaving her temptress routine aside, she let go of Trip’s shirt and answered his question, “Gerty’s place is okay; needs a little work.”
    Trip took his first breath since he encountered Maggie. He could feel the blood leave the blush in his face and return to normal circulation duties throughout the rest of his body. If he could avoid panting like Zack–who had returned to the shaded safety under the newly painted pickup truck–he might have had an outside chance of surviving this first