A Soft Sweet Voice

“What in the Hell are you doing with my truck!” Huh? “What in the Hell are you doing with my truck , can’t you city boys hear?” “Who gave you permission to “steal’ my truck, and what’s with stealing the battery out of my car? I had things to do today and you guys screwed my day from here to there and back.”

“Who are you guys, anyway?”

This old farmer was really pissed off and John, Loren and I just looked at each other wondering what was going on. Buford knew that it was time to hide and he took off around the corner following Fat Jack.

John stuttered some unintelligible grunting sounds and I thought the farmer was going to have a coronary right there. The veins in his neck were bulging and ready to burst. His eyes were white with fury and it was all directed at us.

There was a long silence while we tried to compose ourselves and come up with an answer that we thought would be acceptable to him. None of us had much to say.

There was a distinct odor in the air as everyone’s sense of imminent calamity began to flood their being. Fear, it turns out, causes your skin to smell or in this case, to stink. We were tired from the bouncing and being thrown back and forth, up and down while riding in the back of the suburban and none of us had much in the way of patience left to deal with this irate farmer.

“OK boys” said a sweet voice behind us, “what’s all this yell’n and holler’n about?” My, were those words comforting. I’m not sure if it was the words or the soft sweet voice but the situation immediately changed and everyone’s guard was lowered some.

“Jim, what are you so worked up about and why are you yell’n and carrying on like a cat who’s tail is on fire anyway” she said to the farmer. “You know it was Jack and not these fine fellas that messed with your stuff. Now, get on with it.”

“JACK!” she yelled. “Where in blazes is that husband of mine. He’s always caus’n me some kind of trouble.”