Narrow Way Cafe

Orphangelical

“You meet saints everywhere. They can be anywhere. They are people behaving decently in an indecent society.”

Kurt Vonnegut

“Every saint has a past, every sinner a future.”

Oscar Wilde

The very powerful and the very stupid have one thing in common. They fail to alter their views to fit the facts. Instead, they alter facts to fit their views.

Dr Who.

Which Way, Cowboy?

Dgg

Which way does a cowboy put his gloves in his pockets?

  • Folded together and in the hip pocket?
  • Folded together and in a jacket pocket?
  • The right glove in the left pocket, and vice versa
  • The left glove in the left pocket, and vice versa

How many other ways can there be?

There’s a joke my father used to tell us about the business of cowboying. Real “Cowboys always have their reasons.” He said.

“There are three fellows sitting in the cab of an old truck as it pulls up to a gate in the fence. Which one is the cowboy?

To a cowboy gloves were essential kit. A pair to warm fingers and protect against wire cuts. They were just as important as a pocket knife. And a zippo.

Cowboys are particular about their essential kit. Boots, hat all that stuff is there for a reason. The hat was cheap. Or the rope on the saddle was a gift from an important someone.

“There are three fellows sitting in the cab of an old truck as it pulls up to a gate in the fence. Which one is the cowboy?

Well, boss always drives. And the one at the passenger door has to get out and work the gate.

Which one do you suppose is the cowboy?”

Back to the gloves.

I once, as a child, watched a group of men branding calves. I remember a lot of brutality and the smell of vaporized hair. Drinking and smoking, naturally.

But I also watched a real cowboy singe his fingers on the branding iron instead of using a brand new pair of buckskin gloves. We could see them one in each of his jacket pockets, poking out.

About the third time he cursed the iron for being too hot, a cousin sitting on the rail with me asked “Why don’t you put on your gloves?”

“I have my reasons.” Was all that came back in the reply.

Filling the silence, Dad ordered “Don’t bother them, OK?” A beat or two then “Or else…” (The penalty for everything was being sent back to Mom.)

And all these years later I remember. In the back my mind all these decades later, I still wonder which glove was in which pocket.

How do I stow mine? Nah. “I have my reasons.”