Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Page B

was accepted. The lunch counter now clean, Deb turned to the flattop and scratched the tip of her nose.
    “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Buzz smiled. “Understand we’re doing some aerial photography. Meet Erin, photojournalism major, she works with us part-time.”
    Firmly in charge, Robinson stated, “My secretary must not have been clear. We always use our own photographer.”
    As Buzz tried to speak to the young photographer, Robinson shifted his feet slightly, blocking off his photographer into the background with his shoulder.
    Buzz leaned to speak around Robinson, asking, “Spent much time in the air, son?”
    Ever quick on the trigger, Robinson retrieved a money clip, peeled off a hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Erin saying, “This should about cover your time.”
    Erin’s eye’s about fell out of her sockets. She had seen pictures of Ben Franklin in her history books. She knew all about the kite flying, the pot-belly stove, and had even heard of Poor Richard’s Almanac. But here he was, on the bill, flashing her that Ben Franklin grin. With hope in her eyes, she pleaded, “Okay by me. Buzz?”
    Scratching his chin, Buzz smelled a skunk. He looked at the three strangers, then surrendered to Erin’s wishful plea, “Sure, why not.” Directing his attention to the replacement photographer, he said, “Don’t throw up in my brand new plane. Took me three weeks to get it.”
    Now that Ben Franklin had a new home, Buzz turned to Robinson. “Tell me about your objectives again.”
    “We sell folks aerial photos of their farms. Mostly an ego trip when they see their own barn, framed on their living room wall.”
    The skunk smell lingered. Mercedes. BMW. Has his own photographer. Buzz knew something didn’t add up. He had been asked to fly all kinds of missions. This one would not involve any carpet bombing or napalming of chickens on area farms. What’s the harm? Buzz dismissed the angel on his shoulder and said, “Let’s do it.”
    Buzz flew around three counties, dipping wings, responding to directions from Robinson. The photographer snapped pictures. Robinson pointed to properties. Sam Butler got airsick and threw up. Now over Highland County, the next county to the east, the plane banked hard over the Murphy farm. The barnyard, white picket fence around the white frame farmhouse were clearly visible. A white paint blob on the hood of an old black pickup truck conjured images of a psychedelic rock band on tour. Or a Rorschach inkblot test. The photographer clicked away. He got so many shots of so many farms, it was not obvious which farm was of most interest. Mission accomplished.
    ☁ ☁ ☁
    Trip, lying on his back, applied one last fix to the broken gate on the white picket fence. He rose, pushed the gate open-and-closed. It worked, but it squeaked. Miracle-of-miracles, Trip only sported three Band-Aids. Johnson & Johnson either had run low on inventory or Trip was slowly becoming less clumsy. The white picket fence was also freshly painted. While Trip’s work clothes might have had a smudge or dirt here and there, he was mostly paint free.
    The gate squeak was annoying. Trip retrieved a can of 3-In-One oil from his toolbox. He tried to squirt the cure on the hinges, but failed. As he started to look into the end of the oilcan for a blockage, he pulled it away, furrowed his brow, smirked as if not that stupid, again. He shook the oilcan and succeeded. The newly painted fence now had a fully operational, non-squeaking gate.
    He assembled his tools, pulled his spiral notebook from his pocket and crossed another task off his list. Heading toward the barn, he paused in the middle of the barnyard and looked skyward. He saw a low-flying plane. The plane circled the farm, banked hard, and flew away. Trip’s gaze followed the plane over the horizon as he thought, miss me Buzz?

Chapter Twelve
    Farm work had a lot to offer. Outdoors, sunshine, cool breezes, fresh air, the smell of new-mown hay.