A Blog by Cowboy Bob
My Idaho lady, Miss Gail, and I are of a generation that stretches into a time that many people don’t remember. My early bath memories are of a tub in the middle of the kitchen where the only water in the house came from a pump with a handle and the water was pumped from the well into a metal bucket which was heated on the stove and then poured into the washtub, a galvanized round tub. Mama got to bathe first, then the four boys and my daddy was last. This was Saturday so we would be clean for church. We thought it was grand, drying off in front of the fire. I still remember that warm feeling of being clean and standing unclothed in front of the fire with my three brothers, me, the oldest at six, the others at five, four, and two. Miss Gail talks of visiting relatives in Nebraska about the same time frame with the same rituals, only her bathing adventure was with her four girl cousins. Same water pump in the kitchen and same wash tub, same pecking order of bathing, Mama first with fresh hot water. Miss Gail further tells about the Nebraska outhouse and using the mail order catalog as toilet paper. Nostalgia both taints and tints our memories, some of the old ways were not so good, but I think we should remember the pleasant part of that life. I admit that the years may have tinted the past a bit rosier than the truth.
To make my point, on a trip a couple of years ago I took three grandsons to Ingomar, Montana, and it showed me how some of the simple things from the past were indeed pretty dog-gone nice. We sauntered in to the famous spot called the Jersey Lilly. Ingomar was known as the sheep shipping capital of Montana 50 years ago and was now trending toward being a ghost town. It had a great restaurant which specialized in Basque hors d’oeuvres and steaks. Basque hors d’oeuvres, for those of you not being from sheep country, is an orange slice and a white onion slice between two saltine crackers.
The men’s bathroom at the Jersey Lilly, called the bull pen, was a rather utilitarian affair. An open-air urinal had a shiny metal pan bent into a U-shape running across the back wall, starting about three feet high on one end and sloping down toward a hole in the ground on the other. This was a genius design that it allowed younger cowpokes to stand close at the one end and the other end was for taller guys, so that six to eight hands could use this “necessary room” at once. It was idyllic because one could stand on the dirt floor and stare up into the blue of Big Sky country while doing your business. I looked over and saw the four of us lined up, stair-stepping from oldest to youngest. All in a row.
Those boys giggled and peed and made several trips from the dining room just to see this fascinating invention. When their grandma asked what was so funny, they would start to giggle and explain and I said, “Boys, there are some things men need to know that women will never understand, and this is one of those things, so eat those cracker sandwiches and get ready for the steak.” They gave me sly looks, their young minds packing away this talk and nodding as they understood the first story about being a man.
They asked many questions that day as we drove back to our place on the Musselshell. It seemed like the man-subject of peeing gave them a bond to ask Grandpa questions. Like what is a vigilante knot on a kerchief? And why is 3-7-77 on the Montana Highway Patrol cars. They asked others and as I answered, I also explained there are some questions to never ask: You never ask a man the size of his spread, how many cows he has, and if he is a “real” cowboy. I explained a few more necessities, like, always open a door for ladies, never lie, and never take the first punch. A cowboy should take off his hat at the dinner table and he always places his hat upside down, to catch good luck, Lord knows we need it.
The subject kept coming back to peeing, and my last words, I said slowly, as I looked in the mirror at the six eyes staring from the back seat, “Never p**s into the wind.” It was a good day.
Cowboy Bob will be involved in the Lewistown Cowboy Poetry Gathering, telling his stories, including this one!
