Wrinkly Bits
A Blog by Gail Cushman and Cowboy Bob
For the past seven days, I’ve been shuffling birds, all kinds of birds, trying to figure out what to do with them. Getting rid of four dozen, more or less, fine feathered friends, can take its toll on you, but swapping swans for a day of rest helped. The other gifts were okay, although a little strange. We now have the start of pear orchard. He threw some perfume into the deal, and I appreciate not having so damn many birds, eggs or otherwise. He did stop at the Wild Bird Store in Billings, and bought a bird feeder, but no birds.
I am not so sure about this package of maids a-milking that’s supposed to come a-calling today. In Montana, now a very modern state, dairies have all kinds of milking machines and tools so milk maids could be freed up to become bar maids or baristas.
Traditional milkmaids wore milking uniforms, cute little white caps, and dresses with full-sized aprons so they wouldn’t splash milk on their dresses. Baristas wear Levis in the winter and short-shorts in the summer and I haven’t seen any of them wearing aprons and cute little milkmaid caps. The female bartender at the local watering hole dresses just fine, in my opinion, but she doesn’t remotely resemble a milking maid.
Late this afternoon, Cowboy said he was headed out for Day Eight of his twelve-day quest and he’s not back yet. I was getting a little worried about his finding eight maids a-milking. A neighbor said he saw him headed over toward Molt pulling his flatbed, and, oh boy, what have I got myself into this time. Must be some mighty hefty maids.
About 10 p.m. he pulled up the drive with a tarped load and I couldn’t wait. It was dark, but I could see him smiling under his Cowboy hat, his teeth sparkling in the yard light, bright as a train engine coming down the line. “Look at this beauty!” he exclaimed, as he pulled off the tarp to show a rusted mass of wheels, gears, levers, and pointy pieces of metal. “I kinda knew about this thing last year, but never thought you would need it till this Christmas thing came up. Ain’t she grand?” Cowboy was giddy with excitement.
“What is it?” I asked, shivering in my nightgown and standing slightly behind Cowboy in case this thing fell off the trailer.
He looked at me with a puzzled look, “Any farmer knows this is a horse-drawn road grader.”
“I don’t understand,” I answered, as a bunch of pickups pulled into the driveway.
“Well,” he said, “before the maids could go a-milking, the roads had to be cleared so I just thought why not start with a road grader.”
I didn’t get it, but he says a lot of things I don’t get.
I shook my head and decided to go back into the house. “Good night, Cowboy.” Maybe this 8th day was a bust, but he sure is proud of that grader. Then I counted. Larry L., Roy, Ralph, Larry C., Dan and a couple more I didn’t know had gotten out of their pickups and were admiring the load on the flat bed. Eight crazy cowboys standing around this grader at 11 o’clock at night, just like a bunch of eight-year-olds around a shiny bicycle in the old days. He didn’t give me eight maids a-milking, rather eight cowboys a-jawing.
I retreated to the house and returned with the Wassel and brandy and joined the party. “Merry Christmas! I didn’t want those eight milking maids anyway.”
Thank you for reading my blogs! Wait for it! Nine ladies dancing! What in the world will show up tomorrow?
People often ask what my favorite Maggie Monroe book is. I like them all, but Murder in the Diocese holds a special place in my heart. All of my books are available on Amazon.com or my website: gailcushman.com
