by Bryan Ridenour

Created on: August 14, 2010

Several stomach churning curves lay behind. The driver scanned the shoulders for highway markers but no signs indicated the distance to the nearest town. At this point, Morris could care less what town, village or burg materialized on the horizon next, he just needed a convenience store for his ailing wife to buy pills to quell her motion sickness.

“Where are we Morris?” his wife moaned from the passenger seat. She angled forward and shuffled through the glove compartment for a map. When her husband ignored the question, she asked again, “Morris, where are we? And don't tell me somewhere in southwest Missouruh,” she warned.

Harold glanced at his wife's frustrated efforts to unfold the map and then fastened his eyes on the winding road. He remembered spying a sign, Highway K, a few miles back and knew this road was the scenic route to the historic Civil War Battlefield at Pea Ridge, Arkansas. However, he was not aware civilization would be almost impossible to find on this passage. His jaw set firm, he wished for a global positioning system.

His wife's moan and herky-jerky lurch for the door handle interrupted his contemplations. “Honey, hold on 'til I the get th' car stopped.” The car screeched to a halt, and Ernestine bailed, expelling her lunch. “Don't splatter on the tires,” he encouraged.

“What?” she growled through another stomach spasm.

“Never mind,” he commented, monitoring the rear view mirror.

Ernestine stumbled back into the car and slumped in her seat. The door slammed shut and Morris realized Ernestine's color fluctuated between asparagus and moss green.

“Feel better?” he inquired, gently clasping his wife's hand.

“Don't touch me,” she seethed, through gritted teeth.

“What?” he questioned, easing back onto the highway.

She pointed a wagging finger in her husband's face. “Morris, I wouldn't be sick, if we didn't have to go to this Civil War re-enactment. Let me remind you, the Union wins. The South ain't gonna shock you this time!” She smacked her head back against the headrest in frustration. “Look at me, Morris, I could be on the Rebel's side without wearin' the gray uniform.”

“No,” Morris responded, shaking his head. “But maybe you could be the mascot for the Peas at the Ridge.”

Silence greeted Morris' attempt to lighten the mood. She moaned quietly, her hand clutching the door's handle, readying herself to pull the trigger again if necessary.

Relief spread across Morris' face as a Conoco Station appeared as a blessed mirage in the desert. He eased into a space and turned off the ignition. “Ernestine, I'm doin' something I love. Besides, we've been able to see a lot of these here United States that we wouldn't have seen otherwise. Isn't this the best vacation ever?”

As she plucked out a tissue from the box on the console, her features softened. “I'm sorry Morris. I'm just havin' a very bad day and I can't think of another time in my life I've felt so mis'rable. This didn't even happen to me after eatin' your mother's meat loaf durin' the ice storm of '99.”

Ernestine opened the door and swung from the seat. “I'll be right back.”

A few moments later Ernestine skipped from the station waving a white stick in the air. “There's a plus sign!” she squealed.

Morris examined the sign and lunged from the car, a shade of green rushed up his neck.

“What are you doin' Morris?”

“Joinin' the Peas, Ernestine. Joinin' the Peas.”

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