My husband, Jack, could be quite a drama queen. He seems to be continuously complaining and whining about almost everything: "my coffee's cold, it's too hot today, my foot hurts," and on and on. Sometimes he can make a complete ass of himself. Although his first name fills the description, I prefer to call him "Eeyore," after the pessimistic but adorable donkey friend of Winnie-the-Pooh.

One day, while on vacation in New Mexico, we stopped to visit a historic ranch near Santa Fe. We entered one of the small rustic buildings. A friendly, yet overly zealous, docent greeted us at the door.

"Hello! Welcome to the old one-room schoolhouse at Las Golondrinas. Is this your first visit?"

"Yes. We're on vacation, traveling to California," I said.

"I hope you're enjoying The Land of Enchantment."

"Oh yes, it's a lovely state."

"Too hot," Jack mumbled to me below his breath. Fortunately, the guide didn't hear him beneath the clamor of his boisterous chatter. Or if he did, he politely ignored the comment.

It was a weekday afternoon. We were the only visitors in sight. The docent was friendly enough, but he couldn't stop talking. Maybe we were the only audience he had all day. He proceeded to lecture us on the entire history of the little schoolhouse beginning with the 18th century. The museum grounds were going to close in an hour, and there was plenty more for us to see. We were anxious to look around on our own without being held up in the doorway like reluctant customers confronted by a used car salesman.

The docent continued his lecture, "Then, in 1932..."

"At least he's up to the 20th century," I discreetly whispered to my visibly tired and annoyed husband. "How much longer could it be?"

"I don't know," he whispered back through one side of his mouth. Then, turning toward the docent, he confessed apologetically, "I'm going to sit on the bench outside if you don't mind. My feet are killing me."

"Of course, make yourself at home. No sense in being uncomfortable."

Although my husband had managed to escape, I was left alone to listen to the rest of the history lesson. I tried slowly moving toward some of the artifacts displayed in the room to better look at them. But, mostly, I was attempting to escape the ceaseless lecture. At about that time, I heard an awful moan from outside the doorway. I thought poor Jack was suffering from heat exhaustion. I had listened to my husband whine and grumble plenty of times, but I never heard him bellow so loudly and painfully. I immediately excused myself from the docent and went outside to see what was going on.

"Jack! Are you alright?"

"Yeah, why?" was all he said while calmly puffing on a cigarette and resting himself on a wooden bench.

"I heard a terrible moan..."

"Oh, that's Bart, the donkey," interrupted the docent. "The stable hand must have removed his feedbag from the fence."

Story and Cover Illustration Copyright © 2021 by Michael DeFrancesco