Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Gail Cushman, a Cowboy Bob Blog
Montana plumbing
My favorite writer of senior adventures is a gal over in Idaho, who I enjoy reading every week while I finish up my night calving chores here in the mountain valleys of central Montana, about as far away as you can get from the adventures of subdivision life that she eloquently writes about.
Her last stories of her alligator-sized hole, (who knew gators lived in Idaho, but it is south of here) in her bathroom and her ruminations about passwords caused me to laugh out loud, which caused my dog Cody to start barking at some unknown enemy as the winter wind blew the snow around the bunkhouse. He gets nervous whenever I start talking to myself, and the terrier in him senses an unknown enemy, and he reacts to his phobia by loudly barking at the door. I digress, for her writing caused me to think I have to do something about my bathroom. It is still winter here in Montana, and even for those who like the big changes in weather and how our mountains change from season to season, I am tired of winter, which brings me to the issue of my outhouse. It is outside, nothing fancy, a one-holer, only about fifty steps from the bunkhouse. It needs relocation, but the ground is frozen, and it will probably about a month before I get old Jeramiah from Red Lodge to help me accomplish the job.
My thoughts go often to that writer in Idaho, who moans about finding help to fix her alligator hole. It reminds me that I met a lady about my age at a Super Bowl party a month or so ago and that silver-haired vixen sure caught my eye. I flirted as much as I could, but she was with some big old boy, sorta a drug store cowboy, but I had to get back to the heifers. I still remember her touch when she handed me a cup of coffee as we sat in the kitchen, and I wonder how that city gal liked Montana. She said she was from Idaho.
I didn’t sleep much this week because I got a strange feeling when I thought of those two Idaho gals. It was kinda like when those teenage hormones kicked in so long ago. You know, a man alone by himself in this high mountain valley can let the wind and snow drive him crazy, but when you add in some spice of two delightful fantasies, it sure juiced up this old brain and caused me to kick off the covers and open the window. I wondered why it was so hot in there.
So, it’s dark and time to head back to the heifers and their calves and shake off my visions of loveliness. As the wind blows, and I pull on my pacs and overhauls (Montana lingo for boots and coveralls), fight the snow drift blocking the door, and head out to see my late arrivals.
I have only a couple of weeks before this job plays out and I will return to my shop and cabin on the Stillwater. I think I will fire up my old computer, check out my password that I wrote last year in white chalk on my shop wall, and do some looking. I saw some mighty fine eye candy on a dating site called “OldRanchers.com,” lots of country girls, and I need to get my mind off those Idaho gals before I go loco.
My old boss said, “Never look at your back trail, whatever is back there might be gaining.” So, as the spring crocus break through the snow and I feel the chinook wind, this old cowboy is now ready for spring, flowers, green grass, and perhaps love. Wahoo, boys, this has the makings of a good year!
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