Wasn’t nothing but corn fields as far as you could see. Seven - eight foot corn. Anyway, here we were, right where Georgia melts into Florida. We were looking for a giant party we had heard about that was going on at some farm. The gas gauge got low and it smelled like we needed some water in the radiator. I’d just drunk the last cold beer, so we both had a serious jones going on. We’d stayed on course while we were on the hard road, but now we were dirtbound for miles in every direction - lost as you can get. And sure enough, in about half an hour, we ran out of gas. Right there in the 100 degree heat. There wasn’t even a breeze to help out. So what else could we do? We started walking.
I was with cousin Bernie, who was three years younger than me and still had a right strong wild streak he hadn’t burnt out yet. It was him that found out about the party. Now, as we were sweating down that sandy clay road, he didn’t seem too enthusiastic. Around about mid-afternoon, we found ourselves passing a run down farmhouse that looked like it might still be occupied. A black farm truck was parked in shin-high grass. We flipped a coin to see who would do the knocking and who would do the talking. Just my luck, I had to do the talking.
Bout to have passed out when a huge black snake lunged out of the bushes. Anyway, here I was trying to catch my breath again as Bernie knocked on the old-time wooden door. Soft at first, then banging a little. It creaked open so slowly I got spooked. Sunken eyes glared out at us suspiciously. “Hello,” I ventured. No answer. “We ran outa gas.” I offered weakly. Still no answer. The door opened farther and I could see an incredibly old woman in a blue flowered dress. It had buttons all the way down the front like my grandma used to wear. She had a large, bony frame and white, thin hair twisted into a tight bun on top. I didn’t know whether to keep talking or shut up.
That’s when cousin Bernie piped up with, “Where the heck are we anyways?” I could have killed him.
She squinted at us and walked out onto the porch. She had a broom in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “Nice corn,” I said, pointing to the nearby crops. At that, she walked right over to me and looked me over very closely. I hoped she wasn’t trigger-happy. A loose-limbed dog of some kind followed her, panting in the heat. It barked once or twice, then seemed to lose interest. We all stood there in embarrassed silence for the longest time. A summer storm was brewing somewhere off to the east and her dog sniffed the air as if sensing something. I reached down and petted it’s head and was rewarded with a lick and one feeble wag of the tail.
All of a sudden the old woman looked over at Bernie and shouted, “Where’s your derned car?”
He fairly jumped off the porch, but regained his composure enough to reply, “Down the derned road.”
“Ran outa gas?” she hollered. We stood there nodding. “That was stupid,” she stated emphatically.
We continued nodding. All this seemed to placate her and I began to feel less anxiety at our situation. That’s when I also realized she was hard of hearing and probably didn’t hear me at first. And also why she was yelling. “Come on,” she commanded, so we did. Way back, almost to the corn field, she had a tar-paper shed. That shotgun worried me the way she used it as a cane, thumping it up and down.
“Don’t worry. It ain’t loaded,” she said out of the blue. After digging around some, she finally produced an almost full can of gas. “It’s for the tractor, but you can use it,” she shouted. Bernie sidled over to me and whispered, “I think she’s kinda deaf.”
“It ain’t polite to whisper,” she pointed out.
We all loaded up into her ancient pickup and went jiggling down the road. Every time she’d get over thirty, she seemed to get nervous and would slow it down to thirty. Hollered that her dog’s name was Alice and she was Charlene. After introducing ourselves and making some polite comments, we finally reached our stranded vehicle.
We all got out and Bernie went around to pour the gas while I explained to her how we happened to get stuck out here. “We heard there was a party, but got lost looking for it.” I told her in my loudest voice. Turned out she knew where the party was and told us how to get there. “It’s some of my lunatic kinfolk having a birthday party for their mule,” she grinned. “Wisht I could go, but I’ve got to take care of the old man. He can’t remember too much these days," she went on.
We thanked her and offered her money, which she declined to take. “Just drop on in next time you’re around these parts. We don’t get much company,” she said. Alice licked my hand some more and wagged her tail a few times to let me know we were welcome. Then, they took off down the road in a cloud of red dust. A few months later, I was back in the area and tried to find them out there in those corn fields. Never could, but I swear I could hear Alice barking somewhere in the ripe, green distance.
