There are many little towns scattered along route 522 between Culpeper and Winchester and each of them have their own special quality; something that sets it apart from all the others. For Sperryville it would be the abundance of antique stores, Woodville for its apple orchards, Front Royal for their flea markets and Griffinsburg for its country style ice-cream parlor. But, I suppose the greatest of their attributes is their age and the quaint little village of Flint Hill is certainly one of them because a single glance at any of the town's dwellings or businesses will suggest you've been transported back in time to our Colonial beginnings.

If you're driving anything larger than a wheelbarrow through the town of Flint Hill then just a single glance is all you have time for because of the treacherously tiny and windy two-lane road that cuts the town in half. If you so much as crane your neck for the quickest of peeks, you'll be doomed to smashing into another wheelbarrow coming the other way or, worse yet, some unfortunate shopper who just stepped outdoors and was caught completely unaware a parade of wheelbarrows was underway.

On this particular day when the bus lumbered into town there was no fanfare, there were no colored banners and there was no Mayor standing on a gazebo to present the key to their village. There were, however, ordinarily calm people displaying looks of sheer horror and terror as I divvied up my half of the road straight down the middle. The looks on the faces of the town's residents, however, seemed rather bemused to me but I didn't have the luxury of a single glance to confirm it.

"Hey Brad," I squeaked as I desperately tried to maintain a constant watch on the road and a death grip on the steering wheel, "Glance at these people - do they look bemused to you?"

"Acckkk! Eeeep!"

Alas, he was too busy displaying looks of sheer horror and terror to notice there were any people at all and was doing a remarkable job keeping his hands occupied in pointing out potential crash hazards. Hours later we made it to the hairpin curve at the other end of the two-block town and as I shifted into second gear we each silently hoped the rest of our journey would be considerably less harrowing. Little did we realize that harrowing would be the least of the adjectives one could use in describing some of the experiences of this trip.

My Grandmother used to say that harrowing experiences are often just around the corner, but it always seemed to me she said that just before I did something to warrant a severe beating. So, after a while and if it was something other than an impending beating, I never bothered to pay much credence to her enigmatic and ominous warning. Coming out of the hairpin curve I shifted through the gears and was just starting to breathe easily again when I noticed a horse trailer way up ahead in the distance.

"Isn't that nice, Brad?" I smiled, "Some horse lover is going out for a ride on this beautiful Saturday afternoon!"

A scant second later I noticed the driver's hand was fluttering outside the window and it appeared to me he was pretending his hand was an airplane…you know, like when the wind takes it up and down? Since I do that all the time when I'm driving, I didn't have any reason to suspect he wasn't pretending to be an airplane.

What he was actually pretending to be was a competent motorist who learned all the proper hand signals in order to get a driver's license. Couple that with the fact he must have known the lights on his horse trailer weren't functioning because I suddenly realized the hand signal he pretended to give was actually saying…

I will slow down

Next I shall come to an abrupt stop

After which I shall make a lazy left turn.

Got God?

I must have slept clean through that part of my driving class because his hand signal didn't mean a damn thing to me but what I did recognize was the front end of my bus was imminently close to smashing into the ass end of his putrid gray horse trailer. I yelled a quick warning to Brad to hold on as I slammed onto the brakes and was shocked when the pedal went almost to the floor with no discernable effect on the bus's speed. I instantly downshifted and listened as the motor groaned with each successive lower gear and, with each of them my sweat pores opened larger until the bus came to a grinding halt just inches from disaster. When the trailer finally left the road I inched the bus a little further ahead and pulled it onto the approach of a large driveway and turned off the engine.

I sat there taking stock of my nervous system's faculties when I happened to look into the driver's side mirror and noticed a heavy dark smoke coming from the rear tire. "Brad, we're on fire!" I yelled as I grabbed the extinguisher and leaped out of the bus and ran to the rear. Halfway back I smelled the distinguishable odor of overworked brakes and, after having climbed underneath the axle, I confirmed that fact. The entire rim and brake drum were so hot I was certain a tire would burst into flames. For whatever reason, the brake system had failed and the linings were fused against the drum. It was clear we weren't going anywhere.

Brad and I began to analyze our situation and as we saw it we had two choices; call a tow truck and return to Culpeper. Or, call a tow truck and continue a little further along our route and have it repaired in Winchester. We decided the latter choice was the wisest and proceeded to walk to the nearest house and what we hoped would be a nice neighbor with a phone. I've always known that hill folk in Virginia are always ready to help someone in need. Some of them will go so far as to stare out their window in anticipation of helping someone in need. Others will sit patiently, waiting for that moment, then launch themselves out of their houses like a ballistic missile to come to your aid.

So it was with Robert "Protane" B-b-b-b-b-b-b-Burke.

We walked up the driveway and seen there were several houses to pick from. One was a really old, really dirty and really run down farmhouse that I assumed to be occupied by a really old and really dirty farm hand. The house on the right was much newer and much cleaner and if I had my druthers on which house to be in when placing a phone to my ear it'd be that one. We were just about on the edge of that driveway when I heard a screen door slam shut behind us.

"Heyyy!" The voice said, "D-d-d-d-do y'all n-n-n-n-need any help?"

"Ohh oh, Brad," I said as we turned around and waved, "I've bought this tee-shirt before. Trust me and follow my lead." I waved again and smiled. "If they ask if you want anything to eat or drink, say no thanks. Be sure you say Please, Thanks, Sir and Ma'am at every opportunity or he'll stab you with a pitchfork for being rude. Let me do the talking here… you don't know how these people are - if they get us into that house," I pointed for emphasis, "And we accept any food or drink we'll never get out. But, if he hands us a jug of "squeezin's" you'd best take a long pull or she'll damn quick stab you with the handle of her wooden spoon for being rude! You got me?"

"Yes, S-s-s-sir," he quivered. And, as we walked closer, I took the opportunity to slip back into my Southern ways and verbal nuances.

"Hire yew, Sir? Hot ain't it? Been hot, hadin-it?" I said in the way of a greeting as I wiped my forehead with a shirtsleeve. I offered my hand and said, "Name's Joey, Joey Johns and this man here…why he's nobody but my broin-law…Brad Lee. He ain't no kin to our greatest General I'm 'fraid, but I enjoy saying the name nonetheless. An' who might you be, Sir?"

He was every bit the really old and really dirty farm hand I had expected. He was tall, lanky and grizzled-faced and with the exception of his uniform type of matching shirt and pants and his stutter, he could have passed for my Grandfather. Later on, his demeanor and kindness sealed it and as far as I was concerned he could've been my Grandfather.

"Pleased ta meet y'all, hire yew?" He said looking us square in the eyes while shaking our hands. "T'name's B-b-b-b-b-Burke, Robert B-b-b-b-b-Burke. Maw?" He turned, yelling through the screen door, "Maw, we got cump'ny, c'mon out and meet these f-f-f-f-fine homeboys!"

"Uahhh, Brad here ain't no home…err, he ain't from a'roun…fact is, he's a Yank…" I felt a sharp pain in my ribs and got cut off.

"Huh, wha'sa matter wiff you, broin-law? Hehe, what yew talkin' about, Boy?" Brad said turning to his host, smiling, "Hire yew?"

I turned and looked to the door and saw that "Maw" is now standing just inside the screen door peering out at us like we was skeeters or somethin'. She had a wooden spoon in her hand and was wearing an apron that couldn't possibly have gotten that dirty cooking one meal.

"'Fternoon, Boys, hire y'all doin'?" She had a deep voice and talked real slow as if she was regarding whether or not we were worth it for her to continue on with the next word.

"Jes fine, Ma'am, Thanky fer askin'. "Cept for the fact our bus is broke down the road a piece." I said turning to Robert, "An' we wuz a wonderin' if it wouldn't be any trouble, mind, if we could use your phone, Sir?"

"Whaz wrong wiff it?" He asked, "Didja run outta gaz or sumpthin'? I got some gaz here if ya needs it."

It was right about here that Brad decided he'd been around homeboys long enough and that he was perfectly suited to strike off on his own and thereby figured his three cents was absolutely necessary for the conversation to progress any further.

"No, it didn't run out of 'gas'," Brad corrected, "Fact is, it runs on propane."

I turned to stare agape at my insolent brother-in-law and gave him a look that clearly showed how much I disapproved of being skewered by the tines of a pitchfork.

"Yew say yer bus runs off protane, huh. What kind of m-m-m-m-mileage you get wiff protane, ennyways?

"No…" Brad chided, "I said it runs ON prota…er, propane! When an engine runs OFF something then, technically, the fuel tank has been emptied and..."

I cut him off.

"Ughh…not enny better'n we'd get wiff gaz, Sir." I said, stomping Brad on the foot. "Say, would it be alright if I used your phone now, please?" And with that Mr. B-b-b-b-Burke led us into his home.

Now, generally I'm an excellent noticer. I notice all kinds of things…especially if they're strange or so out of place that alarm bells begin to ring in the deepest corners of my cortex. But, I'll have you know that during the entire time we stood outside on the porch shooting the breeze, I hadn't noticed that every single window of their home had been boarded up. In fact, I was so caught up in rekindling my Southern heritages that if a Bible salesman had been filleted and nailed on one of them boarded up windows I wouldn't have noticed him.

The moment we stepped inside Mr. B-b-b-b-b-Burke closed the door and the entire place took on an eerie, dark and dismal environment. Oh my God, I thought, backing away to allow some space and time for my eyes to become accustomed to the darkness before he could lunge at me with an axe. When at last my eyes could focus, I looked around for anything that could be considered dangerous to my health and was then able to see why the windows had been boarded.

There wasn't a single piece of glass in any of the windows!

That's what I'd do, I thought - bust out every window then board it up - who the hell wants to look outside anyway?

"The p-p-p-phone's in the sittin' room," R-r-r-r-r-Robert said, "Foller me."

He said 'foller me' as if the sittin' room was clear on the other side of the house and he wanted to be sure we didn't trip over anything half-dead along the way. We were led to the room right beside where we'd been standing and upon entering it, I reflected upon his definition of sittin' room because, as near as I could tell, there wasn't a square inch where anything other than a postage stamp could sit without being invaded upon by something else. Boxes and bags of forgotten garments were occupying all the furniture and Tupperware full of someone's lime salad left over from last spring's family reunion were wedged here and there. There were places on the wall where the paint hadn't yet discolored because someone had recently taken down a picture to reveal a spot much lighter in color than the surrounding area. It forced me to ask a question not so much as when they took it down, but why? I mean, it wasn't as if the place underwent a thorough disinfecting every week!

"Why, Great-Grandma! Them sure are some bright spots on the wall for you....Ta have!"

 

All in all, the entire place gave me a "Psycho" type of feeling as I became aware that the younger hairs on the back of my neck were beginning to stand up. The older ones sprouted legs a long time ago then ran down my back and were now erecting mailboxes in the folds of my handkerchief.

"Ummmm, Sir, where'd ya say the phone wuz, ennyway?" I asked, rubbing my hand against the back of my neck.

"Why, izz right over dere," He pointed. "Ummm, well dang…thaz where it's always ben. Maw!? Honey?!? Where's da phone at?"

"It's sittin' right thar where it's always been Paw," She drawled, "Right there in the bowl what's sittin' on the chair!"

I watched as Robert moved over to the chair and slid a few things onto the floor. Sure enough, the phone was nestled on a bed of ancient newspaper in a chipped porcelain bowl, underneath an assortment of Tupperware lids. I don't know why I was so surprised. That's where I keep my phone.

As I suspected it was particularly dirty. "Ummm…Sir," I said as I eyed the pestilent phone, "D'ya reckon y'all gots a phone book handy?"

"Maw!? He moved out into the hallway…

"Ohh oh, Brad," I whispered, "He's trying to draw our attention…watch for Maw to come running in from the other room - I'm gonna follow Paw and see what he's up to."

"…D-d-d-d-do y'all know where the p-p-p-p-phone book's at?" He said as I stared at him from the doorway.

"Why, it oughta be sittin' on t'other chair, Paw!"

When the phone book was finally located I said a silent prayer for us to find someone willing to work on the bus on a Saturday afternoon and began to flip through the pages. Two calls later I talked with a man named Wilson, owner of Interstate Truck Service, Inc., in Winchester, Virginia. I told him of our situation and where we were going and the importance of our getting back to Montana by a certain day lest Brad's employer firing him for not being back to work on time and my Sister thus killing me for their sudden reason of having to live outdoors.

Wilson was extremely receptive to our emergency and said he'd call a tow truck friend of his and that "Brian" is someone he relies upon on a regular basis and that Brian would call me back.

"What's the phone number where you're at, Joe?"

"Ahhh…hang on a second, Wilson, let me look," I said as I looked down on the phone and scratched at the buildup of grime, "It's…ahhh…," It wasn't there! Aww, Christ, I thought. Not this again! "Ugghhh, hang on a minute…or five, will ya Wilson? I gotta find out."

"Mr. Burke…ahhhh, Sir, what's your phone number here?" Then, I braced for the oncoming deluge.

"Honnney?! Maw!?…What's our phone number?

Ten minutes later Brian Omps of Brian Omps Towing and Repair, LLC in Winchester, Virginia called me back. And, when the phone finally rang I knew one thing.

Neither Mr. or Mrs. B-b-b-b-Burke would answer their own phone.

Continue to CHAPTER TWELVE