Free Barnstorm by Wayne; Page

if sniffing.
    “Sure, one more cup won’t hurt. So. . .”
    “Pull in the radar, Maggie. He went to bed early, had a rough week. A bit confused. He’s gettin’ better every day though.”
    Maggie took a seat and set the pie on the table. “Now, Gerty, I came here ‘cause I know rhubarb is your favorite. Any idea how stressful it is to walk a pie through that screen door, knowin’ you’re the best darn cook in the county?”
    Gerty finished writing one last sentence. Maggie went to the Hoosier, removed two pie plates, placing them on the table. She returned to the Hoosier, grabbed another journal from a stack of half-a-dozen. As Gerty cut the pie, Maggie waved the student notebook as if seeking permission. She joined Gerty at the table.
    Responding to Maggie’s request, Gerty agreed, “Fine by me, just us girls. Reams of personal stuff no one really cares about.”
    Maggie crossed her heart promising, I’ll never tell. “You still doin’ this?”
    Gerty took a bite, shook her fork acknowledging that the pie was good. “Yep. There’s a trunk in the attic full of these wayward musings. Good pie. Come in second to mine at the county fair.”
    “Musings?” Maggie said as she flipped through some pages. “I’m embarrassed to confess that’s a new word to me.”
    “Musings. Mind journeys,” Gerty responded.
    “Hum, musings. Don’t hear hifalutin’ words like musings ‘round these parts,” as Maggie faked a dumbed-down hillbilly accent.
    Even Gerty had to chuckle. Maggie and Gerty had been neighbors for five years. Maggie had returned to her father’s farm when he died, thinking she would get things in order and settle his affairs. An only child, one thing led to another with Maggie staying for the long haul. She couldn’t bring herself to sell the family farm. Gerty was a kindred spirit who helped Maggie negotiate the pitfalls of running a farm. They had grown close, become confidants. Maggie continued to thumb through the journal, eating pie.
    Gerty nodded another compliment about the rhubarb as she continued, “After college, thought I’d write a book. Then Lester, the farm, Luke. One thing, then another. Before ya know it, all of today’s tomorrows slip into yesterdays.”
    “Musings.” Maggie turned the pages slowly and read aloud:
    There’s an old covered bridge back home,
    Where we carved our names in wood.
    Where the stream of life flows by,
    Where I’d dunk you if I could.
    Ten thousand miles away,
    A soldier so far from home.
    Where freedom takes a stand,
    Where we feel so all alone.
    I’m fishing in my dreams, from that bridge so far away,
    I’m really not alone, ‘cause I hear you as you say:
    Come home and we’ll stroll along the meadow past the ridge,
    And the slow, cool stream to that old covered bridge.
    Back home, back home, back home.
    As the chaplain said some words,
    I no longer felt alone.
    Someone took me by the hand,
    To finally take me home.
    One last time, to that old covered bridge back home.
    Maggie stopped reading and swallowed twice to gather her emotions. Both ladies avoided eye contact.
    Toss my ashes to the wind,
    On that lazy stream below.
    I’m home again to rest,
    By that old covered bridge back home.
    Home, to finally rest at home.
    Maggie sifted through more pages and asked, “Mind if I take this, read some more?”
    “Fine by me. Kind of boring stuff actually.”
    They silently finished their pie, enjoying the company.

Chapter Nine
    Hillsboro, Ohio had those maple-shaded streets that cooled the soul. The kind of small, Midwestern town where, if someone forgot his bank balance–ask a neighbor–he knows. Everyone knew about Gerty’s pending foreclosure. A church on every corner and small shops struggling ever since Walmart came to town. In the Highland County seat, the town square courthouse sported a clock-tower spire.
    A new Mercedes pulled in front of the First National Bank, parking in a handicap space. Mr. Wiley Robinson, a mid-forties, arrogant,