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The Smack Dab Middle by Kathe Campbell Welcome to 2TheHeart's Funny Friday, to start your weekend off with a chuckle!
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This week's Funny Quotes:
"I think quotations are very dangerous things." - Kate Bush
"Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit." - Oscar Wilde
"I quote others only in order the better to express myself."
-Montaigne
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Funny Shorty:
Roz and I went to a prayer breakfast a while back and the speaker was Meadow Lark Lemon. He called a young boy up on the stage and was throwing him a basketball and showing how he used to spin it. After he finished he leaned down and asked the boy, "Are you a Christian?" The lad replied, "No, I'm a Methodist." Need less to say, this cracked up the 1000 plus people in the audience. The boy's minister was sitting a few seats away from us and he just dropped his head on the table.
~Chuck Dishno
dishgov@mcn.net~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
THE SMACK-DAB MIDDLE
Kathe Campbell
Come sunshine or blizzard, we two ol' Montana duffers love working throughout much of our beloved state. We're on the road nearly every other day inspecting warranteed autos, taking digitals and home again to download and upload our work. At 76, Ken loathes the word "retire" and I'd probably crown any ol' buzzard that did nothing but sit about the house emitting disgusting sounds all day.
So there we were in the month of June off the beaten path on a narrow secondary where the giant motorhomes and travel trailers miss the old west charm and pristine landscapes of bygone days. Where broad valleys and rolling hills are dotted with acres of cottonwoods and pines. Where a meandering stream turns the grasslands green and lush and where deer and the antelope play. Where elk and buffalo and predators roam at will and where untold numbers of raptors soar and hunt all manor of rodent against the backdrop of snowcapped peaks.
One blink of the eye and we nearly missed a charming old country hamlet hidden amongst massive lilacs. At last some semblance of civilization! The sign read, "Ringling," it's only claim to fame being two showman brothers who made good in a world quite apart from whence they were conceived and reared.
They say if you wait a half hour in Montana, the weather changes. It did. We nearly froze our gizzards and wore out the windshield wipers plodding along through slush and headwind. The cows and calves were hunkered up against barbed wire in misguided anticipation of relief. Nary one other living thing would be seen until the assault was played out. When visibility became zero we pulled off onto a grassy shoulder to wait out the peculiar wrath and then made another run at it.
Swiftly and thwarted, our old west daydreaming was halted by a grim ambush. Down a long curvy hill into bottom country there appeared something out of a western movie, something far from our romantic notions of the old west. This must be the place where the cowboys of yesteryear whooped it up after the trail drive. Where a tattered sign stretches across the road announcing a rodeo. Where the post office competes with an old timer's cabin. Where a half dozen dingy and moldy-scented hotel rooms remain idle and dusty. Where one cold water-stained sink/bath/toilet is shared at the end of the hall. Where there stands one gas pump and a general store full of trinkets and stale bread. Where the only diner is attached to a smoke-filled saloon reeking of stale beer. Where 40's and 50's country platters plop down on the jukebox turntable . . . sometimes . . . and where the sound of cue sticks are poked at balls atop a raggedy pool table covered with mysterious and ancient stains.
It was noon. The blizzard had gratefully headed south and although the scene was grim, we were curious and hungry. The diner facade sported a huge Conestoga wagon wheel adorned with a deco art neon sign. How tacky, I thought. I would have preferred gas lanterns, but what do I know! There were even a few Cayuses tied to the hitching rail. We entered to the laughter and drone of men's voices and then abrupt silence. I felt compelled to belt out a chorus of "Lonesome Polecat" as the waitress rushed past carrying overlapping plates stacked precariously up both arms.
"Just have a seat anywhares folks," she roared. We found a table next to a window which I doubt had ever been washed. We waited for menus and water until a voice in the crowd yelled, "Ain't no menus, jest the chalkboard!" Sure enough the board read, "DINNER" followed by "pea soup, slaw, roast beef, taters & gravy, slim beans or brussles, biscuts, homemade strawberry pie and milk or coffee." We were about to take a gamble and go for a gen-u-ine ranch style noon meal. There weren't no other choices!
Precariously jammed into jeans jest a weee bit too tight, Opal swished around between tables filling coffee cups. She was big in the little and bottom at the top, if you know what I mean. Them thighs was jest a fightin' like a couple youngin's under a blanket with her every move. She often stooped low over a table for a few seconds and then rose up in uproarious throaty guffaws. Twice she leaned low and told a "colorful" story within hearing distance and then gave us a wink as she went about her chores. Poor ol' Pops turned beet red while I took quick notes. Surely no one had heard anything this good on the internet.
Ken went first to a door marked "Pointers" from whence he finally emerged trying to keep a straight face. As I entered the "Setters" door I could hear the men roaring with laughter amongst themselves. Attempts at shaking this ol' blue-jeaned Montana gal up failed as I'd been there, done that, in stranger places. Meanwhile a bunch of the old timers had drawn up chairs and were deep into inquisitives with Ken. It was old home week in The Wagon Wheel Diner. Ken was enjoying them thoroughly but I was anxious to hear of their
adventures recited in characteristic drawls between courses. Them ol' boys shore had a hankerin' fer new folks to jaw with.
"Say thar girlie.......whern deed ya git that purty red har?" And of course the usual, "How'd ya lose that thar arm, Missy?" And my personal favorite, "You married to that ol' fella, or you his daughter?"
The meal was copious and scrumptious, the creations of the grizzlied and bewhiskered old Swede sweating his heart out in the sweltering kitchen behind the counter. I simply could not finish the entire fare but felt duty-bound to save room for his fresh strawberry pie piled with mounds of real hand-whisked whipped cream.
As long as the good Lord keeps us a travelin' pair, we'll never run out of adventures. These folks is a disappearin' fast and I have to work quick. Course, that's what the youngin's is sayin' 'bout me! Ya gotta be a willin' ta jaw and laugh at the spinnin' of cowboy yarns. It's what ya call an old timers cowboy happenin' smack-dab in the middle of Montana.
Kathe Campbell
bigskyadj@in-tch.com
You might find my Montana stories in the www.2theheart.com archives as well as various writer websites. In mid-March you can find me in Chicken Soup For The Grandmother's Soul and this fall in Chicken Soup For The Sister's Soul. Please enjoy my Montana stationery at http://www.outlookstationery.com.
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http://www.qksrv.net/click-404250-55515~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Letter Box:
Hi Cora,
Thank you for the beautiful story about remembering your grandfather. I have many fond memories of my grandfather too. He lived to be 104 and taught me many things, some of them through my dad. Grandpa was a cattle rancher in Montana and one day he said, "Son, what ever you do, don't ever leave your wagon tongue on the ground." When I asked why, he said, "Because a cow would walk 10 miles just to poop on it." I took me many years to realize what this choice bit of information meant. My interpretation is: When you start something, like un-hitching a team of horses from your wagon or what ever you do, finish the job. If you don't, the next morning you are sure to end up with cow dung on your hands. I have always tried to follow his advise and there were not many times that I had to wash my hands as I usually finished what I was doing. Love your story.
Chuck Dishno Yuma, Arizona and Dillon, Montana in the summer.
dishgov@mcn.netCharles,
I could not help but think a memory as I read "Gaggle". It was October 17, 1989, I had just picked up my son from his job at the stain glass shop. We drove less than a block and stopped for a red light, suddenly our car started jumping around like "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" or the fire chief's car in this story.
I started yelling at my son, "What's wrong with this stupid car?": Andy just looked at me with very wide eyes. The pedestrian crossing in front of our car fell down on the street, the trees were all swaying, other stopped cars were bouncing around the same as we were.
And that, my friends, is what it was like to be in a car during the The Loma Prieta 7.1 earthquake. It wasn't funny then - but Andy and I do get a "gaggle" out of the memory.
Aleen Rockwood
aleenr@juno.com~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
www.2theheart.comMaking a difference, one story at a time!
Funny Friday archives: www.2theheart.com/funny_friday/Submit story: Editor@2theheart.com
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