Read the Fine Print

I should have read the fine print on our marriage contract. Was there a clause that included explosions, picking berries with thorns in the hot sun and an amendment that demanded enthusiasm while shivering in wine cooling cellars on Napa Valley wine tours?

Of course, I never had any negative feelings about my husband's hobby of wine making during our courtship. In fact, when he escorted me to fine restaurants, I felt proud that he often knew more than the wine steward. Relatives and friends clamored for his neatly labeled bottles; "Chris' Private Reserve." We attended wine festivals where he chatted with local vintners and I happily perused the craft booths and ate cheese and smoked salmon plates.

Alas, my honeymoon with wine ended one morning not long after the nuptials. The perfect summer day before, we had ridden our bikes into the country. Alongside the road an orchard of cherry trees made me think of pie and Chris of wine. The farm owner allowed us to fill our knapsacks and bike baskets with cherries and we labored home under the extra load. Soon our kitchen filled with the aroma of pie baking mixed with the yeasty smell of wine beginning to ferment. I went to bed blissfully unaware that this peaceful domestic scene would turn into a war zone.

At 5:30 am, Chris hauled himself out of bed to get ready for his truck driving job. Two five gallon car bouys of wine of cherry wine complete with pits sat lined up on our padded window seat. He saw that the wine had worked its way up through the air lock, so he loosened the cork at the top of the bottle. Blam! The wine blew up, bombing the kitchen, pits peppering the ceiling like shrapnel. I leapt out of bed thinking we were under attack by a madman. I ran to the kitchen yelling. "What was that?"

The handsome bridegroom had turned into a ghoul from a horror film. Red liquid dripped from his head and down his chest. Thankfully his glasses had sheilded his eyes. Shucking his clothes, he walked across the sticky floor to the bathroom for a second shower.

Meanwhile, I assessed the damage. My curtains looked like an abstract painting, a white lace background with bold burgundy strokes splashed across them. The window seat cover had an additional pattern of polka dots spread over the flowered cotton. Pits plopped on my head. The cabinets, counter and stove were covered with goo. I didn't know the half of it until I started cleaning.

My formerly considerate husband ran out the door in clean clothes claiming he had to get to work.

"Sorry, Hon," he said, sheepishly.

"He'll be sorry for some time to come," I thought, as I used a toothbrush to clean the louvered doors to my pantry. I mopped the floor twice, washed the walls, ceiling, counters and stove. I poured bleach into my washer over the curtains. I shampooed the cushions, but the fabric was permanently stained.

It was nearing one o'clock by the time I glanced in the mirror on my way to the bathroom to get cleaned up. The bride of yesterday didn't look too ravishing either. My uncombed hair was streaked with red strands, my rumbled nightgown and ratty robe flapped around my kness rouged with cherry wine. I laughed.

I stopped laughing the minute I stepped into the bathroom. A scene from "Pyscho" greeted me. The shower walls and tub appeared to have witnessed a grisly crime. I scrubbed and the debonair wine enthusiast I dated fell from his pedestal.

After restoring my former splendid appearance, I sat down to a well deserved glass of backberry wine minus the thorns. I'd compromised on some things already in this marriage, like allowing a wine cabinet to take up a whole corner of the living room, but from now on I've firmly decided all wine making will be relocated. If it bombs in his shed, far from the house and its furnishings, so be it.

"Actually, this disaster might be a good thing," I mused. "Anytime I make a mistake like losing my car keys, running out of gas, forgetting my cell phone or buying that dress that was on sale, I'll just mention the wine incident.

After all, I doubt he read the fine pint either.

A Green-Eyed Cat

Since Peggy Winters was a "cat person," she couldn't understand how she had become part of the eternal triangle, a man, a woman and a cat. How could she be jealous of a tiny kitten with big green eyes?

Missing Scooter, her black, sleek tom, who had taken on a mama possum, Peggy had been the one who had brought the minx home from the Humane Society. However, when she set the cat down in the living room, it surveyed the comfy recliner with Harry Winters sprawled out in front of the TV sleeping and ran full speed like a pole vaulter and leapt into his lap. Harry woke up.

"Well, well," he said, "What have we here?" He began petting and rubbing the kitten under it's chin. The bonding had begun. Peggy was demoted to the maid who should have kitty's food and fresh water dish filled and the door opened promptly for outside feline forays. After two weeks, Peggy realized the situation was permanent.

"Aren't you going to name your cat?" Harry asked, one evening.

"My cat?" she thought. "Why don't you pick a name?" she said, aloud

"How about Marilyn, after Marilyn Monroe?"

Peggy pressed her lips together. She hated Marilyn Monroe even if she was dead. Probably it had something to do with that old pin-up Harry had in his workshop.

"Ok," she said, and walked back into the kitchen.

Harry put down his paper in disbelief. He'd only been teasing to rise out of her. Maybe she wasn't jealous anymore.

"Face it, Winters," he said to himself, "You've let yourself go and lost all that curly hair she was so wild about."

When Harry came home the neXt evening, Marilyn scampered out to meet him.

"Hello, pretty baby," he said, as she circled his legs.

"Hi Peggy, what's for dinner?"

"Meatloaf with strychine sauce.

"M-m, sounds good."

Harry pulled something from his pocket, bent down and showed it to Marilyn. "Look what I got you. See, its even got your name engraved on it."

Harry was holding a rhinestone studded red collar with a heart dangling from it.

Peggy stomped into the kitchen and slammed an open cupboard door. She wanted to be "Pretty Baby" and recieve random gifts without any occasion. She wanted Harry to listen to what she said.

The next morning she called her beautician, Margy. "Can you get me in today?"

"Sure, Sweetie, one o'clock ok? What you want done?"

"The works, cut, hair color, facial, whatever you have to create a miracle."

"I'm writing down miracle for one o'clock," Margy said, laughing.

By four o'clock, Peggy looked in Margy's mirror and saw the redhead she used to be. The color was a bit softer and the short contemporary style flattered her small face with jagged wispy bangs. The eyeliner, which she never wore, made her brown eyes look huge.

"Wow," the customer in the adjacent chair said, "I want whatever she got."

The Humane Society closed at five. She could still make it.

While she listened to the attendant, the Vanna White of the cat world, reel off the virtues of each cat, Peggy felt a claw snag the back of her blouse. A tiger striped tom had claimed her.

Back home, Harry called from the kitchen. "You're a bit late, I don't suppose you've had time to cook anything."

When Peggy didn't answer, he came out munching a cracker, "Got kinda' hungry. so I..."

He stopped. "What have you done to yourself?"

"You don't like it?" She touched her cropped head.

"No, I mean its not I don't like it, its just so different, you look so...well, sexy."

Peggy's bright red lips stretched into a smile. He hadn't even noticied the cat.

"This is Pierce," she said, holding up her languid bundle of relaxation, "after Pierce Brosnan."

Pierce glared at Harry, stiffened and hissed. "I don't think he likes me. Should I be jealous?"

"Well, maybe now you can understand how I've felt about Marilyn."

"You've been jealous of Marilyn?"

"Yes, I'm embarrased to say so, but you've given her so much attention, I've felt neglected."

"I'm sorry, I had no idea. How about if we go out to dinner? That is, if a fox like you wants to be seen with an old balding guy like me."

"You're feeling a little insecure too?"

"Yep, men just don't talk that much about their feelings."

Peggy put Pierce down and put her arms around Harry. "I love you just the way you are, Hary Winters."

Just then, Marilyn sauntered in. Staring at Pierce, her back arched and her fur went electric.

Later, when Peggy and Harry snuggled on the couch watching a movie, the two green eyed cats vied for space and attention.

Bird Catcher

Weren't librarians supposed to be mousy and dull? Michael was checking out more than his usual stack of birding books. The woman at the reference desk reminded him of a pileated woodpecker he'd seen once at Forest Park. He doubted she would appreciate being compared to a woodpecker, but her hair blazed like the flame red crest on the bird he'd only glimpsed once. She spoke with a clipped Russian accent and when she smiled his heart fluttered as fast as hummingbird wings. He found the book he'd been searching for on the computer, so what could he ask her? How does an average bearded, bespectacled biologist and free lance writer get a date with you?

Boldness wasn't his forte, patience was. Hours of sittiing in duck blinds or remote forested areas crouched, cramped and cold waiting for the perfect photograph for his next book, that was his particular talent.

"May I help you with something?" The lady asking for the location of the ship's manifests had walked away form the rare bird lady's counter and left him standing in her line of sight. There was no blind to hide behind.

"I, er, no, I don't..."

"Pardon me," she said, "but you look so familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Well, ah, I come to the library quite often."

"No, that can't be it. I just started working here this week."

He couldn't imagine ever seeing her anywhere without noticing her.

"I'm Michael Zimmerman."

"Hm-m, Michael Zimmerman, maybe you just look like someone I know."

Nondescript, yup, that was him all right.

"Maybe so," he said. He turned away and then turned back again.

"What is your name, you know, in case I make a connection?"

"Natasha Orloff." No ring on her left hand.

"Have you lived here very long?"

"Yes, my family moved to the Willamette valley in 1992 when I was ten." His brain actually still worked. She was twenty-six to his twenty-eight. He loved the way her accent turned the word family into "Fomily."

"Well, I'll probably see you here again, then."

"Yes." She smiled again and he suddenly felt too weak to carry this many books.

The library's computerized slip said his books weren't due until the 25th. He wanted to bring them back the next day. He remembered though, that birds often fly away if you are too persistant. So he plunged into his research, edited and had enormous difficulty concentrating.

He walked into the library one week early and his shoulders slumped when he saw a spiky haired brunette at the reference desk advising an older couple on where to find maps of Belgium. Where was Natasha? Had he picked the day she had off?

He kept out a sharp eye for a glint of red as he made his way to the 598 section. No sighting of her. He pulled out several books on nest building. Maybe she was on lunch break in the cafe downstairs, it was close to noon. The smell of tortilla soup met him as he walked down the stairs. Loud chattering came from the lunchroom when he looked in. He sighed and sat down at a table. Might as well have some soup and peruse his books.

He purposely walked through the main lobby on his way out. The same dark haired woman sat at the reference desk. He was just about to walk out the front door when he heard a distinct call behind him.

"Micheal, Micheal." Natasha was living proof that redheads can wear pink, especially a pink fuzzy sweater that showed off her figure.

"I figured out where I know you from. I saw your picture on the back of a book I checked out some time ago on backyard bird watching. I put up a bird feeder and I look out my window every morning before work and watch them. I have chickadees, cowbirds and a noisy one note stellar jay that I've named Rock Star."

Was it possible that she could look even prettier when she was excited?

"Ah, have you ever gone bird watching out in the woods?"

"No, but I'd love to go."

He focused and clicked on a mental picture of them hiking in a conifer forest. "I belong to a bird watching group, there's about ten of us, you would be welcome to come with us sometime."

"When?" she said.

A Cowboy in Love

Slim Jim was a size five cowboy in a ten-gallon hat. At the age of twenty-one, he was small, short with a wide square jaw and skin browned and toughened by the blazing Southwest sun. He spoke when necessary, his voice soft and pleasing. Mostly though he was silent as he herded cattle through the red rock and desert of New Mexico. At night, the chill sage scented air sent him to his bedroll laid out on the hard ground in front of his campfire. Coyote howls, cows bawling and an occasionaly Spade Cooley tune heard up at the cookhouse on a wind-up phonograph were his music.

A large hole in his boot and a torn leather hackamore bit strap drove him into town. While the repairs were being done, he moseyed over to a restaurant off the dusty street where love smote him like a branding iron.

His waitress was as fresh faced as a newborn calf and had a smile as sweet as apple pie. She served him hot cornbread and a bowl of pinto beans laced with fiery hot sauce. His stomach and heart burned.

Jim perched on his stool and swiveled around to observe cowpokes tucking in at wooden slab tables. The men banterd and bragged, hoping to catch the eye of the winsome waitress. He must do somthing and fast. However, he couldn't think of a single clever thing to say. He knew he wasn't much to look at in his worn western shirt and Levis. His dark hair was all creased down where his hat had sat.

He scraped the last bean from the bottom of his bowl and in honor of her smile said, "Miss, could I have a piece of that apple pie in the case there?"

"Why sure," she said, "Are you from around these parts or just passin' through?"

His tongue grew large in his mouth. "Um, ah, I'm a hand at the Morley ranch just south of here."

"I'm Elaine," she said, smiling directly at him.

"I'm Jim, but the men call me Slim most of the time."

She turned to retrieve his pie and he looked his fill at her round womanly body. A checked apron circled her trim waist and tied in the back like a bow on a lovely package.

"Hey, we're runnin" outa' coffee over here." one of the burly men at a table shouted at Elaine.

"Hold your britches on, I'm serving Slim Jim here." She set the plate in front of him and poured him a second cup of coffee.

"Anything else?" she asked.

He cleared his throat and swallowed. "I saw a poster up at the saddle shop about a barn dance. I was wonderin' if you were goin'?"

"Are you askin?"

He nodded his head.

***************************************

At Jim and Elaine's 40th wedding anniversary, they were asked about how they met. He recounted their initial meeting. Then he said, "Here's the funny part, when we went to that frolic, I had absolutely no idea how to dance." We all laughed. Then he turned to Elaine, took her hands in his and said to her,... "but she taught me."

Love is not an Age

Most of Herb's adult life he had been a baker. He got up at 3 am every weekday morning and drove to Beechwood Bakery and made bread, rolls, and cookies. Now that he had retired, the habit of getting up early never left him. He plunged his hands into bread dough each morning and felt worthwhile. Lil, his wife would wake to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, baking bread and cookies. Later, they would distribute goodies they didn't eat to lucky friends and relatives.

They sat at their small kitchen table by the window in their mobile home and said
"I love you," in different ways.

Herb would open the morning newspaper and began his daily rant.

"Bet this new fellow they put in raises the taxes again."

"You're probably right," Lil would say, even though she couldn't care less.

"Did ya' take your blood pressure medicine, Lilly?"

"What would I do without you?" Lil said, shaking out two pills in her palm.

Herb and Lil were not used to being separated. They'd been married for sixty years and had been apart for only a handful of nights. When Lil fell down and broke her shoulder, her doctor insisted that she move to Holly Haven, an Assisted Living Facility.

Since the couple had no children, it fell to friends and neighbors to drive Herb across town to see Lil and since people get busy, his visits were infrequent.

One morning, he called me. "Can you take you take me over to see Lil today?" He sounded very agitated.

"Yes, I can take you this afternoon. Is anything wrong?"

"I'll say there's something wrong. Some young guy is tryin' to make time with Lil. Everytime I call its Bill this and Bill that."

I wanted to laugh, but I could tell he was dead serious. "I'll be there at one o'clock then,"

When I arrived, Herb was drssed in his Sunday suit and sported a rakish multicolored tie. His silver hair was neatly brushed and his shoes gleamed with polish.

"Let's go," he said, "I got to set this fellow straight."

"When we reached Lil's room, she looked up from her comfortable chair and saw Herb in his splendor.

Lil pushed herself up slowly. "Oh, oh," she cried, extending her good arm. She was trembling with anticipation.

I'd never seen an eighty-four year old man run before. He stopped short in front of her and tenderly took her in his arms so he wouldn't hurt her.

"You look beautiful," he said, when he stepped back.

"Well, you're not so bad yourself, all gussied up," she said smiling.

Lil patted her bed. "Sit down and tell me enverything, what horrible news stories have I missed? The coffee here is just awful and the cookies are out of a package."

They sat down and then Herb remembered I was there.

"Oh, Lil, Pam brought me, wasn't that nice?"

"Thank you, Dear," she said to me. "What lovely neighbors we have."

"I'll walk around a bit while you visit," I said. "Take your time."

I went to the nurses station and asked for the number of Bill's room. I peeked in. He didn't look much like the"whippersnapper" Herb had complained about. Bill, who looked to be about seventy, was sitting in a wheelchair watching a baseball game. I went back to the lobby and picked up a magazine. I thought maybe Herb had forgotten about his vendetta since Lil had greeted him so enthusiastically, but I was wrong. Some time passed and I turned to see Herb trottong purposefully down the hall toward Bill's room. I got up and stood outside the door shamelessly eavesdroppping.

"You Bill Lesley?"

"Yes, how nice to have some company. Come and sit. I'm watching the Dodgers. You like baseball? Where are my manners? What's your name?"

"I'm Herb Siefield." He sounded stiff and unyielding.

"Oh," Bill said, enthusiastically. "Lil's husband, I'm so glad to meet you. Sorry I can't get up to shake your hand, but my legs gave ut on me and my kids hauled me off to this place. Lil talks about you all the time."

"She does?"

"Oh, yes, she brags on how you bake, how you fixed up your place and made that fish pond for her. I'm afraid I wasn't much of a handyman. Mechanics was my profession. Had a small shop over on Park Street. Well, this guy's no pitcher. Remember Sandy Colfax?"

Yeah, I watched him pitch a no-hitter back in...can't remember the year, my memory's gettin' really bad.

"You too? Its a wonder I can keep my kid's names straight."

On the way home Herb said, "I guess Bill is just lonely for some company and you know how friendly Lil is."

Herb had a stroke that spring and moved into Lil's room at Holly Haven. When I went to visit, Herb, Lil and Bill sat around a table playing cards, talking and laughing. I noticied however that Herb kept one arm draped over the back of Lil's chair claiming her as his own.

.

"Oregon Rain"- a short story romance

From Ramona Scarborough- Author of The Autograph Book and Stranger Friends

To read one of my short stories, Oregon Rain go to

http://www.bookrix.com/_title-en-ramona-scarborough-oregon-rain

Hope you like it, please comment!

--Happy Reading!

--Ramona Scarborough

Stay Tuned....

From Ramona Scarborough, Author of The Autographbook and Stranger Friends
ambiancewoman@peoplepc.com

I will be posting short stories on a regular basis for your enjoyment....