Sentimental Journey by Jill Barnett

took a second to stick her headgear inside the zipper of the flight suit, then felt she could face him and not say something ugly. “Ever heard of Amelia Earhart?”
    He gave a snort of laughter. “You’re not Amelia Earhart. She disappeared last year.”
    “I didn’t say I was. But she flew planes.”
    “I know who she was and what she did. I’ve seen her picture in the newspaper.”
    “I bet you have. I bet you look at all the pictures in the newspaper.”
    He gave her the once over. “You from California ?”
    “No. Why?”
    “You know what they say.”
    “No, I’m not certain I do.”
    “Well, that women from California do all kinds of stupid things.”
    “What does that mean? That men from California never do anything stupid?”
    He didn’t say anything, but looked away for a moment, his hands deep in his pockets, and he rocked on his heels.
    “Maybe you meant that only people from California do stupid things?”
    “Well. . .” He paused, then nodded. “I suppose so. They make movies there. It’s a made-up world in California . You know what I mean. This isn’t California . This is Texas .”
    She crossed her arms and nodded slowly. “You know, I think I do understand what you’re saying. Because they make movies in California and movies aren’t real, people there do stupid things, yet people in Texas never do stupid things.”
    He said nothing, just looked at her.
    “So that would mean . . . logically speaking . . . that people everywhere outside of California never do stupid things, unless of course they make a movie. Then suddenly the cameras and actors arrive and the whole state goes off half-cocked doing all kinds of stupid things. Like letting women out of the kitchen.”
    She had him now. “It’s really funny, the way we can be so small-minded. Like it comes to us naturally.” She tapped a finger on her temple. “From somewhere inside our heads. We don’t want to take risks. And it’s our willingness to accept the ordinary that keeps us from reaching for our dreams.”
    Let him think about that. She turned away. She couldn’t stand people who were too afraid to be different. They tried to make the world more difficult for those who weren’t. It was a fact that if you chose the harder road, people threw boulders in your way instead of waving you on.
    He still wasn’t talking, this kid who was throwing his own rocks.
    The wind was blowing hard. She needed to push the plane into that garage. She was annoyed enough to push a whole train clear to Dallas . She placed one hand on the fuselage, then the other on the wing, near where they joined.
    Luckily for Redneck Walker, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder before she gave it the old heave-ho.
    He was standing in front of the left wing, staring at the Cub, lost in thought and oblivious to the fact that he was in the way.
    “Look, that wind is whipping up like crazy. If you’re not going to help me, then get out of my way.”

“IT’S AN OLD SOUTHERN CUSTOM”
     
    They barely made it inside the house before the hail fell. Balls of ice the size of your fist hammered the roof and hit the ground so hard they bounced up as if they were made by Firestone Rubber.
    Red had his back to her. He stood at the kitchen sink washing his hands.
    “My God . . .” she said. “Would you look at that hail?”
    He didn’t need to look at the hail. He was born here, right under that water tower with the word Acme painted on it. He knew the Texas weather by the sound and the feel of it. If you lived here, you could even taste a storm before it hit. It tasted like the crops the local farmers were growing: wheat, alfalfa, hay, or maize. And the air always got thicker than potato soup.
    He turned back around, leaning back on the counter and drying his hands on a dish towel.
    She stood at the front window, her back to him, her hands braced palm-down on the sill. He took a gander at her figure, which from the way she was standing, you’d