It was Doc’s idea, of course. That’s what made it sing. That’s why it took off in gales of laughter and fun.

  He knew we needed the money for the children in our area who might be without warm clothes this winter, so he brainstormed among himself and came up with the golf tournament.

  He went to Delbert McLain, who is our local chamber of commerce. Delbert’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, but then suddenly clouded over with doubt.

  “But Doc,” Delbert said, “we don’t have a golf course.”

  “Leave that to me, Delbert me lad. Leave that entirely to me.”

  And so our medical leprechaun talked to two farmers whose land adjoined each other, and after they quit laughing, they agreed.

  Doc rounded up Dud and Herb Collins and laid out an 18-hole golf course in about an hour. They used steel t-posts for flags (with bandanas tied to the top) and dug a hole with a shovel. They put smaller flags at the tee-off spots, and there you go! An 18-hole golf course that was one hundred percent hazard.

  No fairway, just hazard. Rocks and trees and Lewis Creek and the occasional cactus and yucca. Doc figures if you make it around all 18 holes without encountering a poisonous snake, you should get bonus points.

   “This course,” said Doc, “is so bad, everyone will want to play, because everyone will have a terrific excuse for having a terrible game.”

   The cattle were moved to safer locations before the tournament began, and enough money was raised to keep the kids warm this winter.

   “Life,” said Doc, “should be ridiculous and fun. So let’s do this again next fall.”

                                                    ———–

Brought to you by Saddle Up, A Cowboy Guide to Writing by Slim Randles. On the internet and from Rio Grande Publishing in Albuquerque.

                                                   -30-

  I don’t mind Boots. He just curls up quietly against my belly and stays put. But sleeping with Desdemona can be a bit unnerving. She snores. Sometimes she gets little bad dreams and scratches me, too. But hey, I get to come in out of the cold and sleep with Aunt Ada’s cats on her sofa, and a guy can tolerate a certain amount of cat snoring for that.

  I was glad when I heard Aunt Ada puttering in the kitchen because I knew it was time to get up. After she let me out, she fed me, and let me tell you … that kibble was just as good this morning as it was yesterday. And then she petted me, called me her dear Billy, and let me out to do my rounds.

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY:  I don’t mind Boots.” →

Don’t look at me … Steve started it. Oh yes, it’s still us, the supreme court of coffee and anything ridiculous. And yes, we’re ensconced once again within the hallowed halls of the Mule Barn coffee shop. Just about like every morning. But today, Steve, our beloved ranch cowboy and fine-feathered farrier, broke into song to bring back memories of high remote camps, log-sitting around fires, and trips to town and whatever girls we might scare up.

  From his end of the counter, Steve began, “Oh, you don’t know what lonesome is, ‘til you start herdin’  co-o-o-o-o-ws!”

    And there has to be at least five o’s in cows or it doesn’t count. Yep, that lack of attention to detail would automatically brand this as coming from someone on the radio, but with a long-drawn out cows ….. most of us knew the source. Not Doc and Herb, as they didn’t share the same history of bunkhouse life the rest of us shared some 40 years back.

   The rest of were laughing so hard at the memories that we couldn’t swallow coffee. Windy spilled his all over the sugar packets.

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY: Don’t look at me … Steve started it.” →

  It just happened, you know? One of those serendipitous coincidences that occur when planets line up or you foolishly store oily rags together. It just … happened.

  Ardis Richardson was looking through the Soup ‘R Market for an egg beater for her mom. Not the electric kind. The turn-the-handle kind. She picked one up and tried it out, causing the friendly little metallic whir that good egg beaters make. What was serendipitous, however, was Anita Campbell not six feet away in the next row thumping pumpkins. As Anita thumped and Ardis whirred, they got in time with each other and Sarah McKinley was checking out kitchen timers and gave one a friendly ding. This got the thumper and whirrer going even more enthusiastically and caused the market’s owner, Annette George, to walk over to the three percussionists, grin, and pick up a brand-new stainless steel funnel, purse her lips, and begin to blow a blues tune on it. It was okay, since she owned the store.

  Annette, it turns out, played trombone back in high school.

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY: It just happened, you know?” →

One of the problems Marvin Pincus discovered about running the Fly Tying Love Center here in the valley is that there appeared to be more fly tying than love counseling going on.

This particular morning he was whipping up a nice fluffy Adams dry on a number 12 and wishing everyone’s love problems were as easy to solve as tying one of these. He realized he’s a pioneer in the field of combining fly tying and romance solutions, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t quietly hope for his neighbors to have more love problems. His advice had worked well with Dewey (a lead-wire-wrapped wooly bugger leading to the suggestion he showers before he asks a girl out on a date), and with Randy Jones (a pheasant-tail nymph and a Parmachene Belle sending him on his way to girlfriend happiness with Katie Burchell). But there were others out there. There had to be others.

  Other advice counselors, the ones who just sat there taking notes, managed to find any number of unhappy potential love victims, but the Fly Tying Love Center was noticeably short of them at the moment.

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY: There appeared to be more fly tying than love counseling going on.” →

Down at the sale barn Saturday, the think tank had coagulated there with coffees to go to celebrate life. Doc and Dud had their dogs with them, while Bert and Dewey and Steve went stag.

  Dud tried to start a conversation, but the loudspeaker soon drove them outside, where they arrayed themselves on dropped tailgates and waited to hear what Dud had in mind.

  “I thought about it a lot,” Dud said, “and I wondered what the favorite part of my job was, and wondered if you fellas ever gave that any thought, too.”

  They nodded. Yes, by mutual consent a worthy subject.

Read more: HOME COUNTRY: Down at the sale barn Saturday

  “With me,” Dud continued, “it wasn’t so much my job as it was my hobby. You know, writing that book. I’m claiming it as the best part of my job, anyway.”

  The assembled were still waiting to read “Murder in the Soggy Bottoms,” as it had yet to see print, and was really a work in progress.

  Then Bert picked up the conversation thread. “Of course I’m retired now,” he said, “but when I was running the pawn shop, my favorite part of the job happened when a customer found something in there he really needed and ended up paying much less for it than he thought he’d have to.”

  Doc laughed “And you made more on it than you thought you would, too,” 

Bert grinned and nodded.

  “Yep. That was good too. And you, Dewey?”

  Our accident-prone pharaoh of fertilizer got a serious look on his face. He finally said, “The best part of the fertilizer business is seeing the difference it makes in the flower gardens around town. Now maybe it’s just my imagination, but I kinda like to take a little credit for a prettier town.”

  “You deserve it, Dewey,” Doc said kindly. “Well now … with me it’s a little different. I have doctoring skills, of course, and it’s good when I can help someone, but these days the most satisfying part of my job is to check someone out thoroughly and find there’s absolutely nothing wrong with them. Now that’s special.”

  They all looked over at the tall cowboy, Steve.

  “Digging postholes,” he said.

  “What?” they said.

  “You know,” he said, “the favorite part of my job.”

  “Digging postholes?”

  “Sure,” he said, grinning. 

  “It’s the only part of my job where I start at the top end work down.”

Brought to you by A Cowboy’s Bucket List. Available online and from Rio Grande Press.

  Delbert McLain smiled at the sign in Marvin Pincus’s yard as he walked briskly up to the front door and knocked. Marvin had seen him coming and opened it with a big smile and a handshake.

  “Delbert! I’ve got to tell you I’ve really been looking forward to seeing what kind of flies we can tie up to improve your love life. You want some coffee?”

  “Love life?” Del said. “Oh not today, Marvin, not today. I’m here on chamber business. Yessir.”

  Delbert McLain is our Chamber of Commerce. We have all designated him … well … okay, I guess Del kinda designated himself to let the world know we adore progress, our community is the healthiest, safest and most prosperous place to raise children or crops or make widgets. 

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY:  Delbert McLain smiled at the sign in Marvin Pincus’s yard as he walked briskly” →

   It’s natural to mumble nasty things about the cold weather. We all do it from time to time. But even the cold has its merits.

  One big plus is that it makes fireplaces a reasonable addition to our lives. In cold weather, we can build a fire in our home with a clear conscience. This is something that doesn’t translate well to summer heat, but when it’s cold, here comes the fire.
  Strange, isn’t it, our love affair with a fireplace? Makes absolutely no sense. Today, we can make houses so impervious to cold that every time we light a candle, the temperature goes up ten degrees. So what do we do? We cut a hole in this sealed anti-cold unit so we can sit and look at the flames, the way our ancestors have done since they learned to walk upright and invented kindling.

Continue reading “HOME COUNTRY:  It’s natural to mumble nasty things about the cold weather.” →