Documenting the Pros and Cons of Mint Jelly with Lamb
We crested the small hill and there, in the valley, was a fence. It stretched for miles in both directions. Down the fence line a ways was an entrance gate, and over it arched the sign, "Mint Valley Ranch." A small sign below said "Mint Jelly for All Occasions." An even smaller sign listed the fine print, "...especially for use with lamb," but CW was so hoppin` mad by then that nobody had a chance to read it. Several of us voiced a few not-so-carefully-chosen epithets, some of `em downright pithy and earthy. Make that, curth words. No! ...curse words. No sense dressin` `em up in fancy words. ...lisping, either.
""Looks like we gotta go around, huh?" I asked our mentor, leader, and beloved (but steamed) moderator.
"...or how about we tear out a couple of sections of fence, build us a fire, and camp rat-cheer," Sammy suggested.
"...a section being defined as 640 acres? ...or the length between fence posts, which averages..." Mannie the accountant added. He would have interjected it but, this being a grammatically challenged crowd, worried about his own hide instead of that of the fence. ...not to mention that the word "interjected" sounds... well... down right dirty.
"...awwwww, shaddup!" came the chorus from off-stage, and it was rather loud, the nearest stage being several dozens of miles away, a mile being defined as... Well... you know.
"Mint Valley, huh? Must be some gol-durn dude ranch. ...and fences, to boot. Don`t these people believe in the concept of free range? Why, how can there be free-range beef without free range?" Chuckwagon, sage that he was, made a good point. And, surrounded by sage brush as we were, it made good sense.
"Darn is the most common euphemism, with dang and durn as regional variants. Just as..." Mannie launched again, only to be met with more audible hostility. ...that`s `Bronx cheers` to us un-washed-multitude-types. Of course, he would have retorted, "...a rude sound indicating disapproval, made by sticking the tongue partly out between the lips and blowing air out in a simulation of flatulence," but we wuz all ready to lynch the idiot at this point...
At which point the editor stepped back in. He must have wandered up during the night, rejoining us on our trek southward and westward and rewarding only in that it brought us closer to home.
"Gentlemen," the editor noted, "the use of the word `idiot` is demeaning to those who are mentally handicapped. You should instead use... Hey...! Cut that out...!" He was referring to the rain, make that hail, of cow chips that were being hurled in his direction. Evidently many a herd had crested this same hill, only to be stopped by the fence ahead. While our herd was adding to the supply, many a cow chip had been donated by earlier passers-by as they stopped to figure out what to do next.
Obviously, we couldn`t go through unless we destroyed sections of fence. Some had taken that option, as evidenced by several freshly-painted sets of rails. Others, either put-off by the fence itself or arguing over the semantics of the act, chose to go either left or right, seeking a way around the durn... uh... dang... uh...
So we camped, gathered our thoughts, and tried to figure out how to curse the thing (first things first) and then get on with the task of getting over, under, around, or through the fence. Somebody asked the most Zen of jokes: "How did the chicken cross the road? We could try that." The question was met with puzzled looks, as if these idiots hadn`t heard (or thought out) the joke before. ...but, being no longer able to use the word "idiot" in a retort, nobody said anything.
The editor, looking self-satisfied, sat back down on his log and stretched his hands toward the campfire, his usefulness as part of this story at an end.
"How `bout a snack?" I suggested. "It`ll pep us up, clear our wits, help us think..."
"CW`s got some Landjäger, over there in the wagon. How `bout it, huh?"
To nods of approval and a few... well, we won`t go back into flatulence, let alone flatulence jokes... ol` CW passed some of the snack sausages out.
Mutters of "Now yer talkin` " came from the group as they happily settled down for a bit of rest and a chaw. Somebody made the rounds of the guys standing "sentry duty" to keep the herd together, and soon we were all deep in thought, Landjaeger being an excellent stimulant for mental activity.
...or sleep. It must have been an hour later when I suddenly sat up and looked around. There was a thunderstorm gathering to the southwest. If it had rain, great, but it usually had high winds, thunder, air-to-ground lightning, and hail. Out here in the open, a lightning strike can be deadly.
"Hey! We oughta drive the cattle into that draw over there!" I yelled, and pointed toward the south, forgetting all about flash floods. "Lightnin`s a-comin`!"
We rode off to our positions and started the cattle movin` in that direction, when somebody else yelled "Hey! We done completed the cattle drive already. What are we herdin` cattle fer, now? These ain`t our cattle!"
And in fact, this was another herd, moving northward toward the railhead. Thanks to us idiots ridin` down on `em from the direction in which they were going, the cattle got confused. Cattle not bein` the brightest of critters, and those of us who handle `em not bein` the brightest of critters either, they started going in every direction but the one we wanted, which was toward the draw.
The first winds hit, moving in from the southwest, sweeping storms along as the front moved in on us from the northwest. These storm systems are actually cold fronts, the leading edges of high pressure cells that circulate counterclockwise in the northern hemisphere and move across the northern Great Plains. In the wintertime, they collide with moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, kick up dust and heavy rain which turns to sleet, then snow. Temperatures can fall fifty degrees Fahrenheit in that many minutes. In the summertime, they kick up dust and heavy rain which turns to hail and tornadoes. Temperatures can fall fifty degrees in... Well, you get it.
You can imagine the scene- - limited visibility, thunder and lightning and wind, cattle running this way and that, cowboys riding that way and this, Chuckwagon`s chuckwagon heading toward the draw right through the middle of the chaos, a-yellin` "You ***** idiots! It`ll **** flash flood yore *** if you`re not **** careful!"
Well, we finally got most of `em off the high ground and gathered down by what used to be a dry gulch but was now a raging torrent of a stream, where we sheltered as best we could. We were soaked, caked with mud, cold, and if it hadn`t been for that landjaeger, we would have been hungry. The other group made their way over to our hastily-prepared campsite, which didn`t amount to much, seein` as how we were huddled up against the rocks. Everybody looked toward our fearless leader, Chuckwagon. If anybody were to have to take the fall, we were more than happy to grant him that honor. On the other hand, if anyone were to be nominated for hero of the hour...
We were too miserable to think of that angle. We watched as one-by-one, in groups of two or three, or was it... Well, to be honest, nobody was counting. Suddenly it dawned on us idiots... Well, our group, that we were not only badly outnumbered and surrounded, but infiltrated and diluted and any number of other numerically-augmented adjectives as well. ...meaning, we wuz whipped, no matter what.
We collectively forced a smile. There`s bound to be a Bronx saying for that but none of us were from the Bronx, and besides, nobody has seen a New Yorker smile since the days of the World Trade Center 9/11 tragedy. ...nor before that, either, except maybe briefly after the Yankees won a World Series.
The other group looked to their spokesman, who walked up to CW and said the standard greeting in them thar parts: "You boys ain`t from around here, are ya." [editor`s note: this is a statement, rather than a question. If it were a question, it would indicate that the speaker isn`t from around there, himself. ...or herself. ...but we`re not going there.]
Standard answer, voiced by CW: "Nope."
At this point, standards fall into place and either
- (1, situation comedy) mayhem ensues,
(2, the 1950`s western) a gunfight ensues,
(3, 1960`s civil rights/anti-war protest) a sit-in occurs, Federal troops arrive, a riot ensues
(4, Nixon years) apathy sets in, or is that, ensues
At this point, whatever is spoken or done next largely determines the outcome. Either the other guy or our own Beloved Moderator, CW, says one of the following:
- (1) "Why, if it isn`t my long lost friend, Bilbo Baggins!"
(2) ♪"Aren`t...you...the Starbucks Boy? ♫Give me java; Give me joy! ♪"
(3) "Who put the `bop` in the `bop sha-bop-sha-bop? "
(4) "Go ahead, Punk- - Make my day."
At this point, groups usually draw apart into Clint Eastwood fans, Arnold Schwarzenegger fans, and those who are ready to head for the lobby and exits. I, for one, opted for the exits. I`m not much use in a fight, especially if the combatants are armed with pistols, rifles... or popcorn, for that matter.
Our un-duly-elected, Beloved Moderator stood his ground. The other foreman forged his way forward. "Thanks fer helpin` us out," he said. "Last bunch what was here done boycotted that Mint Valley crowd as long as they could. ...had ta move the sheep onward, once lamb season done past. ...mint jelly issue, ya know."
"Yeah, Ah heard. ..dag-nab mint jelly! ...plus, the lambs is a problem, once summer sets in," said CW.
"Well, ya come jes` in th` nick-a-time. We`s a-runnin` outa dashes an` apostrophes too. Thanks fer helpin` herd the herd ta safety. Them lightnin` strikes kin be brutal. ...much obliged"
"Happy ta he`p," ol` CW said, then added a modern twist: "No problem, Bro`."
"Always hafta git the last apostrophe in, huh?" the other guy said. "Iff`n ya wasn`t mah long lost brother..."
"Yeah. ...funny how that works, ain`t it? ...mus` be genetic," CW said, and having studied all the genetics and microbiology and all that unpronounceable stuff that he has, who were we to contradict him? In fact, most of us hadn`t used "contra" since the Ronald Reagan "Iran-Contra" days, and we only used it back then because he had appeared in so many western movies that we were bound by contract to use `em.
Well, kiddies, the storm had blown through by then, leaving blue skies, cool winds, and mud where the dust had been. ...did I mention dust? Well, things dry rapidly in the west, and soon we were back ta ridin` in the blowin` dust and flyin` apostrophes again, headed home from the cattle drive. ...jes` another day in the Old West.
...and that`s the truth.
Woo Hoo my gluteus maximus! 