This isn't Va. hills but its buggies and courting. E-Mail Dougpol1@oasisonline.com Passing Wind By Douglas G. Pollard Sr. "Now, young fellow, my daughter will soon be descending those stairs so what I have to say will be said quickly. My daughter's a lady. Her mother and I have sheltered her from the vulgarities of life. She is innocent and without experience. Do you understand my meaning"? "Yes I"... I bent slightly as my intestines growled and I grabbed my stomach. Looking at me sympathetically, Mr. Johnson said, "There's an out house just down that hallway and through that door. "Thank you, Sir," I replied, turning and heading down the hall. "Oh," I said, turning back. I do understand, sir, about Mary I mean." "Fine. Your father and I were the closest of friends at the Citidel. I know your father to be a gentleman and I'm sure he'd stand for no less from you." As if for emphasis, he reached in a drawer and pulled out the biggest hog leg I ever saw. He handed me the old muzzle loading pistol saying, "You and Mary ought not to travel through these Carolina low lands without a weapon. These piney woods are inhabited by escaped convicts, catamounts, bears, turpentine workers and all manner of unsavory characters." I stood hefting the gun trying to figure out what the heck to do with it and feeling very awkward. "Poke that down in your britches," he said, pointing to the pistol. I sucked in my stomach and pushed the monstrous weapon under my belt as ordered, thanking God for it's long barrel. If it went off it would only blow my leg off. In that very moment I forgot my mission. Mary descended the grand stairway even more beautiful than she had been at the Virginia Governors Ball where we met. My heart quickened even as my knees trembled and I, nearly overcome by my feelings of love, stood transfixed. Mary moved regally, dressed in a lace overlaid, yellow outfit complete with a veiled hat, which altogether, emphasized her tiny figure. Her mother, right behind her, patted Mary's hair clucking adoringly. They giggled like sisters at some private joke, drowning out the roaring and growls emanating from my abdomen. Hands on hips and fingers pressing into my stomach I stood, looking, by some accounts, as if I might spin off in a pirouette at any moment. "Why, John Pucket, I swannee, your face is absolutely vivid. Are you ill?" Mrs. Johnson inquired, all the while studying my rather peculiar stance. "Ugh, ah, no ma'am, I'm fine, just a little warm is all," I answered, doing my best not to gyrate in some unmanly manner. After a few terrifying minutes of conversation we were seated in my buggy and headed to the county social. Old Dolly's hooves pounded the unyielding roadway. Her ears turned to and fro assailed by the crashing and groaning of iron tired wheels smashing over the oyster shell road. The sounds, loud as they were, instantly disappeared into the surrounding live oaks that lined the road. Hanging silver green moss soaked up noises that would announce our presence to the surrounding forest. We did not talk. To shout above the noises our buggy made would be to further broadcast our presence. I squirmed as my innards churned and groaned. Not far away a bull gator bellowed and thrashed in the black water in pursuit of some hapless prey. At the same time, a frightened heron squawked flapping across the road under my horse's nose. Dolly shied, whinnied, then bolted into a full gallop. Flying hooves showered oyster shell over the dash and in our laps. There it was again; a cramp bent me over. By now I was reduced to a withered, drawn little man. Hitting a bump, we left the seats. Mary screamed, pressing herself far back into the corner of her seat while I, recovering, reared back on the reins. "Grab the gun," I yelled as her father's old forty-four-caliber pistol slid toward the edge of the seat between us. She took the huge side arm in both hands as her bonnet left her head. Mary held the gun eyeing its site all around and across Dolly's head, as we charged on at break neck speed. "Don't shoot," I begged, wrestling the weapon from her. With one hand on the gun the other roughly sawing the reins back and fourth, I managed to further terrify Dolly. A gentling of the reins and loving words mattered not at all. Thoroughly frightened by now, she dashed head long in the only direction possible, straight down the road. Dolly pounded on toward an upcoming bridge across the Waccamaw River. Now, she had one failing that I was sure would work to our advantage. Dolly would not cross a bridge unless I got out and led her. We came to a stop. The old horse stamped nervously, her eyes wild and frightened. I eased myself down, pistol in hand walking out in front of Dolly, thighs clinched tight together. I'll crack one and blame it on Dolly, I thought. Mary jumped down and ran to walk beside me, ending any chance to blame my horse. Then I spied my salvation. An alligator swam toward us, only his eyes above the water. I raised the pistol and shouted, "Want to see me shoot that gator?" Not waiting for an objection, I jerked the gun up, pulled the trigger and broke wind. There was a loud click and a squeal not unlike the sound of a pig caught in a fence. Mary's eyes opened wide, hands covered her face, she turned away doubled over in screaming hilarious laughter. The old pistol had misfired, paying silent tribute to my red-faced flatulence. The End