oasis

        Artie pushed the Indian and Leah walked along, straightening herself. A tortoise shell hairbrush magically appeared in her hand, commencing an age-old womanly ritual. One hundred strokes. They found themselves in a fairybook meadow. A cistern, a pig pen, a log pile, and an ancient American-International pickup truck stood in the yard. A scene worthy of John Curry. Artie smiled, noticing two large gas cans in the back of the truck.
         Leah approached the front door, which was open.
         "Hello?" Her voice like a cowbell. "Hello?"
         A scent of barley and yeast touched her nose.
         "Guten Morgen. Guten Tag," came a man's reply. "Kommen sie herein! Bitte."
         A sturdy man of maybe sixty years emerged. Faded blue bib overalls, faded blue chambray workshirt, scuffed brown lace-up boots with thick tartan laces. Bright blue eyes. White bushy brows and beard. Clean of moustache, reminding Leah of Quaker and Mormon men from long ago.
         Softly from a radio: "Tannhauser."
         Leah shook his hand. "Good morning to you, sir."
         Artie came in. "This is my wife Leah. We are travellers."
         "Sit down. Here." Tannhauser motioned toward a dinner table and three chairs. Blue checkerboard oil cloth and a vase of lilac.
          Without asking, the Old World gentleman went to a reserved larder and brought forth three amber bottles of warm home-brewed beer.
           It was only nine in the morning.