I gotta be outa my head; starting another fanfic while I have so many incomplete.
Over at Deviant Art, when one artist admires another, they portray them in their work. In the past, I have written fanfics based on this artist's pix. Now I want to write one based (very loosely) on the artist. I do not claim to know the mind, heart, or life of the artist, except what she has shared with us. I hope I do her justice.
I took a small unofficial poll at Dev Art: does Slim's wife /Joss's mom appear in any K.P. episodes, fan art, or fan fiction. The answers were no, no, and no.
Folks, that's jest not right. So, y'all gather 'round while I spin a yarn. It's a story sweet and sad, a tale of happiness and heartache, a tale of the glory and grief of love: the story of the other Mrs. Possible.
(Disclaimers: Nana, Slim, and James Timothy belong to Disney. Information about the bitterroot was found at Montana dot plant-life dot org. My grandparents met at a dance in a one-room brick schoolhouse, and each knew from the first moment that the other could be it. The lady's first name belongs to her.)
THE OTHER MRS. POSSIBLE
Mom Possible was proud of both her sons Samuel Nahum and James Timothy. She called them her Old and New Testament. She had even picked their names out of the Good Book. She had simply opened to the contents and chosen from the names of the books. Each name had its own cadence, its own ring; but for little James Timothy, "Samuel Nahum" was quite a mouthful. It sort of came out "Slim", which rhymed with "Jim", so it was all good. They grew up Slim and Jim, and to each other they were Slim and Squirt.
Slim and Jim both excelled scholastically: in high school Honor Society, class valedictorian, in college the dean's list, graduated magna cum laude, multiple doctorates: applied physics, rocket engineering, etc. Like older brother, like younger brother.
Slim, though, had itchy feet. Whereas Jim had gone the traditional staid middle class way: marry a lovely russet-haired med student, settle in a split-level house in the small bedroom community of Middleton, Colorado, become a research scientist at the Space Center, and started a family, Slim went the way less traveled. He joined the rodeo circuit. "A drifter, tumbling tumbleweed, a saddle bum with a few PhD's," he called himself.
It was a strange sight. A rough-and-tumble, tough-as-leather, rawboned man, corralling horses and bulls by day, hunched over his laptop by night, downloading images from the Hubble satellite, text-messaging with a German mathematician, or an Indi physicist, or an Egyptian chemist, or a Thai robotics engineer. And yet it was not so strange. He taught his fellow wranglers how to e-mail, set up a webpage, download MP3 files, and burn a CD.
The tumbleweed drifted his way up to Montana, the Big Sky Country. One night, in Thornbush River, a little town with about a dozen inhabitants, more or less--and a little church, a tavern, and a hardware-granary bin-saddlery-general store--he happened upon a genuine Saturday Night Social in the little one-room brick schoolhouse. It had the works: a side of beef turned on the spit outside, and the man with the fiddle called the square dances inside.
There was fresh-squeezed apple cider, and out in back, a few jugs of homemade hooch that the old timers passed as they gathered 'round the bonfire and told ribald stories. There was laughter and dancing and neighborly warmth. It drew Slim like a magnet. He had polished his boots until they shined. He had bathed, shaved, and even put on a dash of cologne. He had put on a freshly pressed shirt, and combed his wiry hair and drooping moustache. He stepped through the door, hung his hat on a peg, and looked about the room. Someone caught his eye--and his heart jumped like a bronco.
If she took off her shoes and stood on her bare feet, she might be all of five feet tall. She wore a dress of cotton, so white it looked like snow, so white it hurt the eye. Her arms were bare to the elbow. The sleeves were puffy. The hem of the skirt, sleeves, and neckline were lacy, like snowflakes. She twirled while she danced. The dress flared, and petticoats showed under the skirt.
The song "The Yellow Rose of Texas" described someone whose "eyes shine like diamonds; they sparkle like the dew." This was Montana, not Texas, but this little flower was as fresh as a daisy and as sweet as the fragrance of lilacs in spring.
"Lord Almighty," Slim said to himself. He nudged a man near him. "Who's that girl over yonder?"
"Her? She's old Josef MacDonald's." And he pointed to a squarely built stolid looking man across the room.
Slim's heart fell; she was spoken for.
But the man continued. "But don't even think about takin' a shine to her. Josef sets great store by her. He's powerful protective of his only daughter."
Daughter? Slim's spirits shot up. But that father...
Josef MacDonald was short and round, like a boulder. He looked rock-solid--like a boulder. He wore a denim shirt, bib overalls, and a flannel overcoat. On his bald head was a battered old felt hat with the brim turned up. On his face was a fierce walrus moustache. For a bare moment he reminded Slim of Frosty the Snowman: "with a corncob pipe, and a button nose, and two eyes made out of coal." A corncob pipe was indeed gripped tight in his hard mouth, but there was no mistaking him for a friendly snowman, a "happy, jolly soul". Frosty black eyes scanned the room, and any man who dared look at his little girl for more than a second could feel the stern glare.
But the girl--a sweet little button nose, dimples on her cheek when she smiled--which was all the time--dark brown hair, the color of finished mahogany, like Mom Possible's old dresser, cut in a short bob, to the nape of the slender neck--and a pink bitterroot blossom behind her right ear.
Slim knew the lore of the flower. Every true Montana-bred did. It was a wildflower, a perennial that grew on the hillsides. The plant was hardy. It could live for a year without water. it was catalogued by the Lewis & Clark Expedition in 1805. It was adopted as the Montana state flower in 1895. In spring, when the plant bloomed, the Native American tribes gathered in the Bitterroot Valley to dig up the root. When cleaned, dried, cooked, and mixed with meat, it was delicious and nutritious. It was popular with both the Native Americans and pioneers. It was a valuable trade item; one sackful could be equal in value to a horse.
Slim watched carefully. No man had the nerve to come near her. She chose her dance partners. The girl had sass--and spunk. She squared-danced like a ballerina might dance, with grace and lightness of foot.
The man next to Slim smirked. "Just don't sing--or hum--'Old MacDonald Had A Farm' around him." He added cautiously, "And for sure don't let him catch you staring at her."
Not stare? How could he not? She was the sweetest thing there!
She did a double-take when he entered the room. She couldn't take her eyes off him. He towered over every other man there. His boots were so polished that it hurt the eyes. He wore a bright red western style shirt with pearl buttons. A turquoise bola was 'round his neck and a turquoise buckle on his intricately tooled leather belt. He took off his wide-brimmed Stetson and she saw hair longer than hers curling on his collar. Piercing dark eyes, bristling eyebrows, eagle nose, thick drooping mustache, strong chin; he was a son of the plains. He was the image of Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickock, and every other folk hero, come to life.
The time came in the course of the evening when she had danced with every other man there. A man was needed to complete the square dance set, but all the men she approached declined, glancing nervously at her imposing father. She looked around with a forlorn and helpless expression. The square dance caller waited patiently. Josef MacDonald folded his arms smugly. And then every mouth dropped aghast...
Slim approached, gallantly bowed, and took her by the hand. "Miss--would you do me the honor of this dance?" The words rang in his mind: she shore is a purty little thing--I do b'lieve I could marry her.
She smiled and curtseyed. The words rang in her mind: what a big handsome lug--I do b'lieve I could marry him.
The square dance caller belted out his instructions: honor your corner, honor your lady, grand right and left, take the lady home. Slim felt like he was walking on clouds. His heart tried to fly out of his chest. After five square dance sets was the the Virginia Reel--then the Two Step. They lost count of the dances.
Her gentle rose fragrance filled his nostrils. He was afraid his huge boot would stomp that little slippered foot flat, but she was as nimble as a butterfly. And the way the delicate little hand gripped his surprised him. There was surprising strength in those fragile looking little fingers--and calluses on the palm of her hand. This was a hard-working country gal!
The last dance of the night was a slow dance--a waltz. Slim hardly dared...
She looked so petite, as delicate as a snowflake. She was like a little glass figurine Mama kept, a gift from Papa on their anniversary. as he approached her to dance with her, he very cautiously put his right hand on her waist (and then nervously moved it up a couple inches) and with his left hand took her right hand as though it were as fragile as an autumn leaf, afraid that it would crumble.
She laughed, and it was the tinkling sound of wind chimes. "Don't worry, Hoss. I won't break." She pulled him close. He gulped. The lump in his throat felt as big as an apple. He could feel the eyes of Josef MacDonald staring hard, burning a hole in the back of his shirt.
Slim dared to broach conversation. He tried to sound casual. "Filly--what's yore name?"
Teasingly she shook her head. "You first, Slim."
He smiled broadly and almost laughed. "That's just it, Missy. Would you b'lieve I'm--Slim Possible?"
Her smile faded and she pouted. "Mister, I might be just a poor country girl, but at least have the decency not to make fun of me!"
Slim panicked. "Ma'am, I swear before the Almighty--my birth name is Samuel Nahum Possible! Folks call me Slim!"
The smile returned to her face and the twinkle to her eyes. "Honestly? You're not joshin?"
He was desperate. "Miss MacDonald, the Good Lord bear me witness! I meant no disrespect!"
Her smile was like--he didn't know what--a cheery fire? a sparkling diamond? a blazing sun? "I accept your apology, kind sir."
The fiddler and banjo player concluded the closing strains of the waltz. Oh, the keen ache. Slim felt himself leaving heaven and coming back to earth.
She curtseyed again. "Thank you, Hoss--Mr. Possible, for a lovely evening." Such a sweet dulcet voice.
Slim hesitated--and on the spur of the moment kissed her hand.
She hesitated--and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Good night--Slim," she whispered.
Slim felt himself totter, and a warm flush suffused him down to his toes.
Josef MacDonald glowered and waited by the open door. "C'mon, gal! We gotta git home! Chores in the mornin'!"
She started to walk out the door.
"Miss MacDonald?" called Slim pleadingly.
She turned and smiled teasingly again. "It's Ivymae--my name is Ivymae." And she left hastily after her father.
Slim stared transfixed. "Ivymae," he whispered, "The name of an angel--Ivymae."
TO BE CONTINUED
