It was 2009 and I was London bound. Dixie Dynamite, a screenplay that I wrote a few years before, had been made into an animated feature “Shotokan Man” and was premiering at the Portobello Film Festival in London. So, by hook and by crook, I managed to sell enough blood plasma to get a ticket and I’m left for the big show.
There were lots of things that I had to get in order before the trip. I had to go down to the courthouse to apply for a new passport. I had to go in and see my doctor to make sure I didn’t need to get any shots. Dr. Gentry laughed when I asked him and said no.“Darlin, you’re not going to Borneo.”
I’d been working on costumes for the actors that were playing some of the cartoon characters during the press conference…a couple of white-trash geishas and an evil Redneck Samurai. I also packed my own clothes…raincoat, umbrella, and shoes for bad weather. For “give-aways,” I had ordering t-shirts and posters, hats and fliers. There was an awful lot to do to get ready.
But the most important thing? I had to get a tan. After all, nothing says, “USA” like saddle-brown skin. Now, ordinarily I would have had to combine all my freckles to count as a tan. I was so pale that I had to register my legs with NASA so that when they picked the glare up with their satellites, they din’t think I was some sort of plutonium leak. I had become famous for my pallid skin and with the exception of my brother in law Ken, who has Norwegian genes; I was usually the palest person in Carroll County.
But I decided. I was going to be tan for my trip. This called for extreme measures. First I had to find my bathing suit. You have to understand- I don’t like the beach. I don’t like to swim. I don’t like to lay out. So I don’t keep a bathing suit on hand. I dug through several drawers and searched my closet. No luck. Finally I found it, stuffed in the back of the closet. I pulled it out and had a look. But my hopes were dashed. Moths had eaten through the knees and elbows of it, leaving it unwearable.
I thought about buying another one. It might come in handy if I ever wanted to immerse myself in water. But my practical side won out. I’d never use it. Besides, I’m saving money for my trip and a bathing suit is definitely not a necessity.
I put on shorts and a t-shirt and opted to work on my farmer’s tan.
I cut the grass and weeded a flowerbed and was in the middle of putting fish fertilizer on my ferns when I heard a ruckus down in the goat pasture. Little dogs barking. Cranky geese fussing. I looked around and saw Biscuit sleeping close by in the sun. He’s deaf as a post so didn’t hear the uproar. Big Sophie heard it, though, and headed down to see what was going on.
I crept quietly down, scanning the tall grass for the interlopers. I saw a black and tan blur dash by. Then another. There were a pair of unidentified puppies in my goat pasture and the geese were about to eat them. I called to the pups. “Come here, you babies. Come here to me.” They stopped in their tracks and cocked their heads, then raced up the hill toward me.
They stopped at a distance and sat down, regarding me with button-black eyes. They were little dogs, a Heinz-57 variety mix of Chihuahua, Beagle, and wiener dog. Maybe a little min-pin thrown in for gouger. Their coats were black with tan markings. Their ears were enormous and sticking straight up, like bats. Each had one white paw, on the front right foot.
“Where did you babies come from?” I asked. But I knew the answer. Someone had put them out. They didn’t look hungry and their coats were clean and free of burs, so they hadn’t been on their own for long. They sat and regarded me solemnly, a little afraid to approach a stranger. I knelt down. “Come here you babies.” They squirmed and wiggled, twisting their tails and rolling their eyes in submission. I held out my hand. The littlest one came up and licked it. Then the bigger one. Then they jumped on me, happy to meet me, happy to be safe again.
Well, you know what a hard case I am. I wasn’t raising somebody else’s responsibility. I was going to take those puppies right to the pound. But as I made my way around the yard, as I finished up my outside work for the day, I watched them playing. One of them found an old goose feather and the two of them were fighting over it, growling fiercely. They rolled around and chased and ran. I found myself growing more and more fond of the little beggars. I was overcome.
The long and short of it? I never got my tan, but I found a couple of black and tans. I’d say it’s a pretty fair trade.
This column was originally printed in the Times-Georgian. Mimi Gentry’s stories can be read every Thursday in the Times-Georgian.