“And that’s another thing,” Herb said, with
finality, “Changing that dang year on everything we write, every
January. Goes against human nature.”
“Well I might just have an answer to your problem, Herb,” said Doc,
sipping and dunking and stirring. “Why don’t we, here at the
philosophy counter, pick out a year we like and stick with it? Date
everything we do with that year. It might start a movement, you
Steve looked up from his coffee and twitched his voluminous mustache
then twitched it again to make sure he got it right the first time.
“So Doc,” he said, “you’re saying we should just pick a year and
live with it? Okay, so which year would you pick?”
“I think it would have more of an effect if it would be the same
year for all of us here. My choice of year might not agree with
yours, you know.”
“I was thinking of 19 and 87, myself,” said Steve. “Won the team
roping that year. Got it on my belt buckle.”
“There you go. You got the right idea, Pard. Herb, how about you?”
“Dog died. In ’87, I mean. Just woke up one morning and there she
was, dead. I couldn’t do ’87.”
[to top of second
“Sorry, Herb. Dud?”
“Haven’t got to that year yet,
Doc,” Dud said. “It’ll be the year I finish that darn book.”
We all nodded.
“If that there favor-ite year comes in the bowels of the chicken
yard, like it says in the Farmer’s Almanac, that’d be good, doncha
Doc nodded. “And which year would that be, Windy?”
“Ain’t sure. Don’t have no Farmer’s Almanac at the moment.”
“Let’s get some more coffee and give it some thought,” said Herb.
“I’ll second that,” said Steve.
“Can’t,” said Windy. “Ain’t been firsted yet.”
[Text from file received from
Brought to you by the
genuine cowboy music and musings of Steve Cormier up in New Mexico’s
Sandia Mountains. Check him out at stevecormier.net.