Poetry and Stories by Dixie
"Where do you suppose she'll take us this time?" "Relax, Dix knows what she's doing."
New Adventure -- A Yuletide Yarn
Fresh from the grueling schedule of his stint as Scrooge in the cartoon
"Christmas Carol," the heavy workload of "Doomrunners" (its set in Australia
having been overrun with Oz-based Timbos, Tim is still nursing nibble-marks on
both ear lobes), and the nefarious cancellation of his new sitcom, Tim is
morosely wrapping gifts in the living room of his Hollywood home. Dix and
Rowan are ministering to him with bits of fruitcake and an occasional nip of
rum...
Frank, Tim's border collie, is happily eating the blossoms off a large
poinsettia plant, having finished the mistletoe wreath carelessly left on the
coffee table.
Tim applies the last satin bow to the gift he is wrapping and tosses the
package onto the pile by the sofa. He moans softly.
Tim: Just look at my tongue.
Dix: Looks fine to me...come a little closer so I can umm, see it better.
Tim: It's practically raw from sealing Christmas card envelopes and licking
stamps.
Dix: What happened to that sponge I got you for the job?
Rowan: Frank probably ate it. Ah, would you like to examine MY tongue? It
has put in its share of hard work, let me tell you.
Dix: You poor boys. Who did most of the shopping, clawing her way through
mall-mobs and getting mauled in the process? I don't suppose either of you is
up for another round of carol-singing in the neighborhood then?
Tim [flinching and cringing simultaneously:] After last night?! Ha!! When we
got to Arlene's house, she came galloping out with an armful of OTT scripts
for me to sign. Then at Jamie's *she* wanted me to autograph her bare
shoulder so she could have it tattooed later...And Christine Z behaved
like,--well, all I can say is that no really wellborn lady would ask a
gentleman if she might have his underpants as a souvenir...
Dix giggles.
Rowan: Why fight it? You're obviously God's gift to the fairly mentally-
bereft...
Dix: Don't be jealous, Ro. Remember the five thousand Bean fans who showed up
in Montreal that time, in freezing weather?
Rowan: Oh, God. I was fortunate to escape with my virtue intact...
Tim: You mean that Dix has left you some?
Dix: Not intentionally...
She has been holding something behind her back and now she shows her hands: a
fan of bright-colored travel brochures.
Dix: I think we all could stand a little vacation until the holidays are
safely over... pick a spot.
Tim: Hmmm, Bermuda, Bali, fun in the sun sounds appealing...
Rowan: Aspen, Sun Valley...do either of you ski?
Tim and Dix: Nope.
Rowan:...Arizona, New Mexico...
Dix: Why don't we just put them all in a basket and choose one at random?
Tim: Because we don't want to end up in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. Or Devil's
Island. How about this one? .
Rowan looks dubious.
Rowan: In my experience, it is not the feet which suffer the most.
Dix: I can ride. And I know that you can, Rowan,-- you looked like part of
the horse in Blackadder I.
Tim: Yes, indeed,--the part behind the saddle.
Dix: Boys, boys. Erm, do you ride at all, Tim?
Tim: If you pin me down, no. But I wouldn't mind learning. It would be
another skill to add to my resume'.
Rowan [sotto voce:] Yippee-ki-yay...
------------------------------
A Yuletide Yarn, Part Two
Night has fallen and somewhere in the Western states a passenger train is
meandering its way through the darkened landscape. A lone coyote is heard to
voice its lament to a frosty silvery moon hanging in the velvet sky above the
mesas (say, that isn't bad...ahem).
Inside the train in Compartment A, we find our friends. All three of them,
fighting over the covers in an upper berth...
Dix: All right,--I'm getting squashed here, you guys!
Rowan: Well, you wanted to be in the middle.
Tim: If you'd like to trade spots, I'll accomodate you -- half my body is out
in the aisle here...
Dix: This would work if you'd both lie still. We want to be bright and alert
tomorrow, don't we?
Rowan and Tim: No!!
Tim: Umm, Dix, when you picked up our tickets didn't you specify that we are
three adults?
Rowan: And that we take up the space of three adults?
Dix: Gripe, gripe, gripe. This was the only available berth in first class.
I knew that you wouldn't want to ride coach, especially after seeing those
Timbos casually wandering up and down the platform eyeing the passengers.
Tim shudders and the blankets slide off our friends.
Dix: I really like those pajamas, boys...real silk in Oxford and Cambridge
blues. You must be freezing.
Rowan: And I like your...outfit.
Dix: Oh, I've had it for ages,--since my birthday actually.
Tim: Well, it certainly suits you.
The train gives a sudden jolt as it rounds a curve and Tim loses his grip on
the berth edge and falls into the aisle.
Tim: @#$%!!!
Dix: Pardon?
Tim: I *said*,-- say, this lower berth is empty.
Dix: Umm, really?
Rowan: And since I'm the tallest, I believe I'll be needing a whole berth to
myself (he nudges Dix, who tumbles off the berth and lands on Tim in the aisle
below).
Tim and Dix: @#$%!!!
. . .
Next morning our somewhat whiny little group is standing on the station
platform at Centipede Springs, New Mexico, complaining.
Tim: Of all the Godforsaken bumps on the backside of creation...
Rowan: *I* wanted to go skiing.
Dix: Oh, shut up. And you both snore, by the way.
They look at her indignantly but before they can respond their attention is
attracted by the creak of harness and the jingling sound of a --
Dix: Buckboard! That must be the transportation they mentioned in the
brochure...
Tim: Oh, my God.
Rowan: Tell me that isn't Baldrick driving...
------------------------------
A Yuletide Yarn, Part Three
After a bone-shattering 20-mile buckboard ride, driven (badly) by Baldrick who
has had difficulty staying on or near the road, our trio of adventurers
disembarks at their destination -- the "Bouncing Buckaroo" dude ranch.
Tim climbs down and gives Dix a hand; Rowan tosses down the suitcases and gets
down also.
Tim: Where's the infirmary in this place? I think I have a dislocated coccyx.
Dix: Hmm, the photos in that folder must have been taken before the tornado.
Rowan: Before the colonies seceded, I should say.
They gaze in dismay at the rickety-looking ranch buildings, the fences with
broken rails, the corral with its pathetic array of six or seven gaunt-looking
nags.
A man in a sombrero, wearing denim work clothes, hurries across the yard to
greet them.
Man: Hi there, pardners...I'm Bo Maxwell, owner of this spread. Glad you
could make it. Come right on in and meet my wife, Perdita. {yelling toward
the house:} Perdie! Our guests are here!
With growing misgivings, Tim, Dix and Rowan allow their host to lead them
indoors. The hacienda interior is pleasant, however, decorated in comfortable
Southwestern style: colorful Indian blankets as wall hangings, striped ollas
holding cactus plants, a museum-quality Spanish trestle table and benches in
the dining room.
Perdie Maxwell is a short, plump cheerful woman with black hair and eyes,
wearing an apron over her orange cotton dress. She wipes her floury hands on
a dish towel before shaking hands.
Perdie: So nice to see you folks. It's the off season right now, so you can
have first choice of everything.
Rowan {sotto voce:} Oh, good. I'll have the chateaubriand with a nice '28 Dom
Perignon...
Dix elbows him. There is a broad fieldstone fireplace along one wall and she
strolls over to take a closer look at the row of photos and old tintypes
displayed on the mantel.
Bo (noticing her interest:) That's mostly relatives...nothin' particular
interesting. Maybe you folks would like to come out to the bunkhouse and start
getting settled.
Our friends, stunned into submission or just overly tired from lack of sleep,
follow Bo across the patio in the rear of the main house and down the path to
the bunkhouse. Bo opens the warped door and a rat scurries out.
Tim: A departing guest?
Bo: Sorry, folks. Since our cook left, the rats are sorta edgy.
Dix: Can't blame them. I get edgy when it's too long between meals...
Bo: Oh, we're havin' a nice feed today -- Perdie's doin' all her specialties:
frijoles, tortillas, tamales, real genuwine home cooking.
Rowan: My God, but I'm getting homesick...
After Bo leaves to feed the livestock, our friends look around the bunkhouse.
Each of them has selected a bunk and the mattresses seem surprisingly
comfortable.
Dix: We may as well stay for a few days, at least. I feel sorry for the
Maxwells -- it can't be easy making a living in this desolate area.
Tim: Don't kid a kidder, dear. I saw the way your eyes lit up when you
noticed those photos. Let's have it.
He folds his arms and gazes at her commandingly.
Rowan: Tim's right,--you were practically salivating.
Dix: Can't get anything past you two, can I? All right. The small tintype
just left of center looked very familiar. I saw a copy of it last year in
Smithsonian Magazine -- it's supposed to be a recently-discovered likeness of
Billy Bonney. The Kid. And the Maxwell family were intimately connected with
him.
Tim: And you've been researching the Kid legend for the past five years. I
see. Did you ever finish that movie script about him?
Dix: Oh, yes. I got access to 70 or 80 books about his life and times and
sifted out the main facts without much trouble. But for over one hundred
years, there has been only *one* authenticated photo of him...
Rowan: And you're going to hang around here and try to pry information out of
our concierges,--who seem a bit close-mouthed on the subject,--come hell or
high tarantulas, eh?
Dix: Now, fellows...
Tim suddenly rolls his eyes.
Tim: Oh, no. I can see it all now. It's the old 'the-homestead-is-going-
under-the-hammer-for-want-of-funds' chestnut!
Rowan: Since none of us resembles Judy Garland or MIckey Rooney, I presume
that you are NOT going to suggest,--
Dix: That we put on a talent show and help these nice people? Of course not.
Let's let them go bankrupt...watch as the sheriff hauls away their pitiful
threadbare belongings...
Rowan:...their spavined steeds, those damnable frijoles, their playful
sheep,--no, wrong script, sorry.
Baldrick's head appears suddenly at the open window.
Baldrick: Frijoles is beans, my lord.
Rowan: The millenium has arrived -- Baldrick has become bilingual!
------------------------------
A Yuletide Yarn, Part Four
It is the following day and after a hearty breakfast our friends are enjoying
an early morning ride along one of the picturesque trails in the foothills
near the ranch. At least Dix and Rowan are enjoying it -- Tim's horse is
giving him a little trouble...
Tim: Whoa, you reject from a mucilage factory...do you think this is the Grand
National?
Rowan rides forward and heads off Tim's stubborn nag.
Rowan: You have to show the animal who's in charge. Use the whip if
necessary.
Tim: What whip? All I got were these silly leather thongs.
Dix: Um, that's the bridle. You can neck-rein him by laying one or the other
along his neck.
Tim: I'd rather string him up by them...
Rowan: Oh, you're doing very well for a first attempt.
Dix: So, have you boys thought over the plan to stage a little entertainment
in the Maxwell's barn this weekend?
Tim: By then I'll be lucky if I can *walk,* much less entertain anyone.
Rowan: Won't it be a bit sparse, just the three of us? I mean, if you hope to
raise a goodly sum for our hosts, shouldn't we have more than one act?
Dix: Don't worry -- I've sent an emergency message to the Timbos. If I know
them, and I do, they'll break their necks getting here to pitch in.
Tim: Not to seem apprehensive, but you did order that chain-mail underwear for
me, didn't you? I didn't like the gleam in Christine Z.'s eye the other
night.
Dix: Don't worry -- the Timbos are all perfect ladies and gentlemen...once
their tea has been appropriately drugged, that is.
Rowan: Oh, fine.
. . .
The day before the performance has arrived -- and so have dozens of eager
Timbos. Dix is handing out their parts and there is the usual amount of
griping, to which she pays the usual amount of attention...
Dix: Here, Maria, you'll be taking tickets and selling balloons...
Maria: But you said that I could dance!
Dix: If you have any balloons left over, you may improvise with them.
Dix: Let's see, where's our chorus line, the Sugar Gals? Dina, Deana, Dani,
Betty T, Betty B and Brie, pick up your costumes in the barn. Your dressing
room is stall number one.
Linda F: Say, I've been reading my part and I'll tell you right now: I am NOT
going to hang by my teeth from a thirty-foot rope and do acrobatic spins for
anyone!!
Dix: Complain, complain (crossing out a couple of lines in Linda's script).
There. Now you and the rest of the Flying Timbettes had better make it look
good on those trapezes -- show biz is no place for amateurs.
Cuz Carol, Maria and Cindra, the remaining Timbettes, curtsey and hurry off to
get into costume for the dress rehearsal.
Tim: Wonder where Josh and the others have gotten to? Didn't you want to see
them practice the rodeo act?
Rowan: There they are, over behind the corral. My, that's a big, healthy-
looking calf they seem to be trying to lasso...
Dix: Josh is going to attempt to beat the world's record in calf-tying (she
takes out a stop watch). Let's go time him...
Moments later, a cloud of dust obscures the action in the field.
Dix: That was remarkable!! (She checks the stop watch.) Only 18 seconds!
Tim: Yes. Now let's get the calf to untie him so he can try again...
------------------------------
A Yuletide Yarn, Part Five
The dress rehearsal for the "Farmyard Follies" is in full swing, as are Cuz
Carol, Linda F and their fellow Flying Timbettes, busily practicing on their
trapezes. On the improvised stage at the rear of the barn, the Sugar Gals in
dance-hall attire are dancing in unison as Cap'n Martha plays a rousing
honkytonk piano accompaniment.
In a corner of the barn, Bryan is rehearsing a magician's act with Grant and
Tamina as assistants. Tamina is being levitated, rather against her will as
Bryan is new to the process and has dumped her on the floor a few times...
Dix, Tim and Rowan have found a quiet retreat in one of the empty stalls and
are cuddled,--um, huddled together, working on their skit...
Dix: Rowan, you're Edmund Blackadder of course. And Tim is Lord Melchett, the
Queen's Bishop and your arch rival. I'll be Queenie.
Edmund [reading from script:] "Lovely day, Your Majesty. Even Melchett can't
cast his usual black cloud over this marvelous weather."
Queenie: "You're in a good mood, Edmund. Did you get rid of your animal
then?"
Melchett: "Lord Blackadder IS an animal, Your Highness."
Edmund [ignoring him:] "I've sent Baldrick to the country for a change of air.
London needed it."
Melchett: "As do we. Pity you didn't accompany him."
Edmund: "Melchett, one fine morning you shall awaken and in that first fair
glimmer of dawn when the birds are caroling and the honeysuckle scent wafts
through your open window, you will wish to open your bleary eyes and greet the
sunrise. But you won't be able to, because your severed head will be lying at
some distance from your ungainly body." (He bows.)
Queenie [confused:] "That WOULD be inconvenient, wouldn't it, Melchie?"
Melchett [with a scornful laugh:] "And I suppose that YOU think yourself
capable of besting ME at swordplay? I was skewering Spaniards when you were
naught but a miserable mewling infant!"
Edmund: "The only Spanish object you've ever skewered was an omelet. You go
green at the sight of sheeps' heads in the market place."
Queenie: "Oh, lovely!! We haven't had a bit of entertainment since last week
when I had Lord Ponsonby beheaded and the executioner was so befuddled that it
took him eight slashes...Lord Ponsonby was shortened inch by inch. The
suspense was so thrilling."
Edmund [aside:] "Baldrick's maiden effort. Oh, God."
Queenie: "All right, boys,--take your places, and DO put up a decent fight.
The loser's estate will be assessed a thousand guineas as the purse."
Baldrick pokes his head into the stall.
Baldrick: "My lord, shall I be your second?"
Edmund: God knows you'll never be anyone's 'first.' Oh, why not? Here, go
strike Lord Melchett with this --" (he pulls off a heavy gauntlet and hands it
to Baldrick)
Baldrick walks over and manages to backhand the Queen in the process of
smacking Lord Melchett in the chest, being too short to reach his face.
Edmund and Melchett square off and draw their swords. After a few preliminary
cuts, Melchett's point rips away the collar of Edmund's shirt, exposing a
birthmark on his shoulder.
Queenie: "Stop!"
She steps between them and looks closely at the small mark.
Queenie: "That birthmark...it looks like two tiny doors. Two doors...Tudor!!
Then you are of my royal house! Sweet Coz!!" (She kisses him ardently while
Melchett stands aside, looking worried.)
Queenie: "And Lord Melchett has shed royal blood. Look, there's a prick on
your collarbone."
Baldrick [brightly:] Funny place for,--
Edmund clouts him over the head and he slumps to the straw-covered floor.
Melchett [now very worried:] "I can explain--"
Queenie: "Silence!! Your traitor's head is forfeit!! Oh, I do love saying
that."
Baldrick [getting up:] "I'll fetch the axe then, shall I?"
Edmund: "I thought you'd never ask."
Melchett: "Madame, I appeal to you!!"
Queenie: "No, you don't. Not really. I prefer men with muscles...Oh, well,
it's nearly Christmas. Pay Edmund his thousand guineas and I'll let you off
with a decade or two in the Tower."
Melchett falls to his knees and begins kissing the hem of her gown.
Melchett: "God bless Your Sweet Majesty!"
Edmund: "Oh, damn."
[Curtain.}
-------------------------------
A Yuletide Yarn, Part Six
The "Farmyard Follies" have been a huge success, thanks largely to the
wholehearted participation of hordes of talented Timbos. The Maxwells,
overcome with gratitude, plan to renovate the dude ranch and Tim, Dix and
Rowan are pleased that their efforts have paid off.
Tim: By the way, Dix, did you ever find out why the Maxwells have that photo
of Billy the Kid?
Dix: Yup. Perdie Maxwell is the Kid's grandniece. It's been kept very quiet
but the Kid had a son by Paulita Maxwell in 1881 -- he didn't live to see the
boy, and she was married to a man named Salazar a couple of months before the
child was born.
Rowan: What's that package Mrs. Maxwell gave you?
Dix unwraps it and takes out a faded hand-woven serape...
Dix: It's...Deluvina's shawl!
Tim: Well, that tells us nothing.
Dix: Deluvina Maxwell was a Navajo woman who grew up in the Maxwell household
and was their housekeeper. She idolized the Kid, her "Billito," and once when
he was in jail she brought him this shawl...it was cold and he had no warm
clothing. He gave her the tintype -- it was all he had to repay her kindness.
Tim: Ah. A historical souvenir then.
Dix: Yes. Of course, I can't keep it. I'll send it to the Lincoln Courthouse
Museum for their collection.
Rowan: What a good girl you are.
Dix: I have my moments...
Tim: I see that Perdita has created another of her sumptuous "feeds." Perhaps
we'd better get something to eat before the tables are mobbed by hungry
Timbos.
They fill their plates and settle down on the benches outside in the patio.
Tim: I thought that the program went down well with the audience.
Rowan: Yes. Are all the tortillas gone? Good.
Dix: Wasn't Josh and Bryant's horsemanship exhibition interesting?
Tim: Very. I wonder if those horses ever stopped running.
Rowan: They're probably in Alamagordo by now.
Dix: I enjoyed Christine Z's banjo solo, "Roll Me Over in the Clover." I
didn't realize, until too late, that she knew all the words...
Rowan: Ah, that pleasant old hymn...
Tim: Um, I don't want to seem anxious, but shouldn't we be heading for the
station to catch our train?
Dix: Plenty of time, Tim. At least we won't have to fight off an onslaught of
overly-stimulated Timbos.
Tim: That's what worries me. Look at them, lolling around limply against the
fences, sprawled carelessly on the grass...
Rowan: And none of them *touched* the tea.
Dix: I tucked tranquillizers into their tortillas. Don't they look tranquil?
. . .
Later, on board the train headed back to LA...
Dix: Tim, you look rather preoccupied.
Tim: Well, I could have sworn I had my favorite black briefs with me...
Dix: The ones made of pure Egyptian cotton with your initials picked out in
gold thread on the waistband and the day of the week embroidered across the
rear?
Tim: Yes, those.
Rowan: Did you check your valise?
Tim: That's the odd bit -- I was WEARING them when Christine Z came over after
the show and shook hands with me...
The End. Really. ;-)
"The END?" "Really."
Back to Dixie's page
Thanks to Christine Z for providing the Shakespearean picture
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