Million Pines with Angie

[Howard4567@aol.com]

We got there on Thursday, late in the afternoon.  Early Friday morning, I 
awoke and came out of my tent.  I couldn't help but notice a group of riders 
all looking up, towards the sky.  The Witch had arrived earlier than 
expected; Susan had told me last night to expect her around noon.  It was ten 
AM.

I looked up and the words BEWARE HOWARD were boldly printed in the sky above 
me.  I watched the witch finish skywriting the letter D, then I followed her 
flight downward and marked the location in camp where I saw her land.  I 
grabbed a cup of coffee, stiffened it with a shot of Crown Royal, and marched 
towards her landing zone.  That song "Eye of the Tiger" played in my head as 
I walked towards the abyss.  My nemesis, Angie, aka Witch Alabama, from Rocky 
Mount, Tennessee, currently living in Georgia, had just arrived.


I hadn't seen the Witch since October, a lot of bad blood had  passed between 
us and under our separate bridges since then.  I figured I'd approach her to 
see how things were going and to, maybe, extract some information from her.  
There were things I wanted to know.  I'm not all together a brave man; in 
fact, most of the time I'm proud of my chicken heritage.  But for some 
reason, today, I thought confrontation would be a healthy goal, an objective 
that had to be met.  Looking back on it now,  I was never more wrong.

Approaching and talking with Angie is more like addressing the Pope or 
Valerie K.  All three have an entourage and an adulating public.  This is a 
problem that I've never had, my horse is my best friend, and most people who 
know me well understand I'm a little strange and on the quirky side.  Thus, 
too much popularity, for me,  is never a burden.  But for her Highness, The 
Witch of the South, it seems you need an appointment just to get in a few 
words.  I had no appointment and I dared, but she had no plans on making it 
easy for me.

She saw me approaching and even acknowledged my presence with an almost 
friendly "Howdy."  I had the feeling that was just a ploy to lure me closer 
inside her den.  A few riders looked from afar, realizing that the two 
enemies were within gunshot of each other and closing in.  Historic Peace 
Talks might be taking place.  That was my intent; but it wasn't Angie's. She 
had gone over the edge, and I didn't even know.

I tried to ask her what I wanted to know, but others constantly interrupted.  
And Angie, obviously, had no problems with this.  If she had wanted to talk 
with me she would have spoken.  I think she rather enjoyed my frustration at 
waiting and trying to find the time to speak to her.  Imagine trying to speak 
with a popular Mayor during a busy and crowded parade.  It's just not quality 
time and there can be confusion and misunderstanding.

I finally got her attention.  I did have to knock a few others over and bark 
at a dog to accomplish this, but some days I have no patience.  I finally 
blurted to her, "So how did you like my last story?"  I was talking about 
"Death Visits Ridecamp," an almost sad tale that she had never commented on.  
And I knew her not commenting on it was intentional cause she comments on 
everything; from bra size to easy boots, except my one story she chose to 
ignore.  

She said to me, without batting an eye, "You know, Howard (emphasis on the 
"Howard"), I like you better in person than I do on the computer."  
Intentional pause here.  Then she says, "And that ain't saying much."

She's not done.  I don't utter a sound.  She says, "You know, not many people 
bother Bill.  It takes a lot to bother Bill (Bill, is obviously her husband). 
 He's here with me today. (I find myself wondering if her broom has a 
passenger seat.)  Howard, you bother Bill."  Another intentional pause.

"Now why don't you just skee dattle (it might have been "skoot") on down the 
road there, before Bill sees you."

Well, I skee dattled, like she instructed.  And I guess she has good reason 
to dislike me.  But a long, long time ago, she had told me it was all fair, 
nothing would be taken personally, and if I could take it I could dish it 
out.  I guess one of us went too far, or we forgot to include Bill into the 
equation.  My wife, and even my daughter, who rides, has no idea who Angie 
is.  But Bill seems to know me rather well.

So, that was it.  Probably the last conversation I'll ever have with the 
woman.  My point is, now, do I take her out of all my stories?  Do I stop 
writing about her?  Is the deadly bantering between us over?  Or will it 
continue on till one of us dies?

I've spoken to my clone brother, Truman, on this issue and he informs me 
apologizing is way too late and too little and a waste of time.  War has been 
declared, battle lines have been drawn and separate camps are being built 
right now.  I do believe she's related to either the Hatfield's or the 
McCoy's (pick one), so I don't expect it to be over any time soon.  

cya in the trenches,
Howard 

PS.  I'm counting votes on whether I should extinguish Angie from my previous 
and future stories.  I think just one bucket of water should do the trick.  
Let me know.