Gwen Petersen: In a Sow’s Ear | TheFencePost.com

Gwen Petersen: In a Sow’s Ear

The tale of Debra and Jimi, two cowgal pals who breathe the air of Oklahoma ranch country, goes more or less as follows.

In a hay pasture next to an unoccupied “weekend” cabin situated several south 40s distanences from home base, a round bale sent up wisps of smoke. At nearly dark, a neighbor called to report the fire.

“Oh, geez,” said Debra. She happened to be the only one at home. Night was coming on. What did she do? She called her cowgal pal, Jimi.

They loaded four 55-gallon water jugs into the pickup and gathered up some feed buckets and brooms. The bale could explode in flames or burn in the middle till it collapsed in on itself. Either way the whole hayfield was in danger, not to mention possibly consuming the nearby cabin.

Off they went. Unfortunately, an underground creek ran through a section of the pasture. Debra drove the truck to within 50-yards of the smoking bale when the vehicle sank up to the hubs. What to do? No way could she drive onward.

Debra and Jimi grabbed a bucket each, filled them with water and hiked the 50 yards. This went on and on. Fill bucket, trudge to bale, slosh water. Repeat. They stood “hay watch” all night. (Also cougar watch as one of such kitty-cats had been prowling the area).

Recommended Stories For You

Along about 7:30 in the morning, the gals determined they’d finally doused the fire. With wet brooms, they discouraged any scattered embers from growing into flames.

The fire might be out, but they were an unholy mess. They stunk. Clothes and skin coated with soot. Hair singed. Faces raw and red. Tiredly, they plodded to the nearby cabin. They used the shower and bath and then faced a quandary. They were not about to insert clean bodies into the grungy, stinky, fire-fighting garments. Not a stitch of any kind of clothing could be found in the cabin. What to do? How could they cover their Garden of Eden birthday suits?

Bath towels, though large, wouldn’t do. What would? Answer: Sheets. Deb and Jimi garbed themselves in a sheet each – toga fashion. (Described later as having orange and white striped design). Thus modishly attired, they returned to the stuck pickup. Fortunately Debra was able to reverse out of the bog. Which meant, Jimi riding shotgun, had the privilege of opening the gate onto the county road. A passing driver nearly lost control when he saw a toga-clad maiden unlatching a gate.

This cowgal pal story is true. It was told to me by Debra. She and Jimi and Yours Truly are about to commence a “Cowgal Pals Bucket List Road Trip.”

Debra and Jimi will be “support team in the chase car.” I’ll be driving my candy-apple red motorscooter (with sidecar in which Bailout, the Cowdog, will ride). Bailout has a candy-apple red harness and bandana to match the scooter.

For the next 10 days we’re going to visit every little town, hamlet and village along a Montana back road. Debra (also a cowgirl poet) and I plan to say poems and play guitars and generally stand out wherever we go. Jimi (an expert with a camera) intends to video whatever happens. (None of us plan to wear togas). Watch this space for news of the trip.

The tale of Debra and Jimi, two cowgal pals who breathe the air of Oklahoma ranch country, goes more or less as follows.

In a hay pasture next to an unoccupied “weekend” cabin situated several south 40s distanences from home base, a round bale sent up wisps of smoke. At nearly dark, a neighbor called to report the fire.

“Oh, geez,” said Debra. She happened to be the only one at home. Night was coming on. What did she do? She called her cowgal pal, Jimi.

They loaded four 55-gallon water jugs into the pickup and gathered up some feed buckets and brooms. The bale could explode in flames or burn in the middle till it collapsed in on itself. Either way the whole hayfield was in danger, not to mention possibly consuming the nearby cabin.

Off they went. Unfortunately, an underground creek ran through a section of the pasture. Debra drove the truck to within 50-yards of the smoking bale when the vehicle sank up to the hubs. What to do? No way could she drive onward.

Debra and Jimi grabbed a bucket each, filled them with water and hiked the 50 yards. This went on and on. Fill bucket, trudge to bale, slosh water. Repeat. They stood “hay watch” all night. (Also cougar watch as one of such kitty-cats had been prowling the area).

Along about 7:30 in the morning, the gals determined they’d finally doused the fire. With wet brooms, they discouraged any scattered embers from growing into flames.

The fire might be out, but they were an unholy mess. They stunk. Clothes and skin coated with soot. Hair singed. Faces raw and red. Tiredly, they plodded to the nearby cabin. They used the shower and bath and then faced a quandary. They were not about to insert clean bodies into the grungy, stinky, fire-fighting garments. Not a stitch of any kind of clothing could be found in the cabin. What to do? How could they cover their Garden of Eden birthday suits?

Bath towels, though large, wouldn’t do. What would? Answer: Sheets. Deb and Jimi garbed themselves in a sheet each – toga fashion. (Described later as having orange and white striped design). Thus modishly attired, they returned to the stuck pickup. Fortunately Debra was able to reverse out of the bog. Which meant, Jimi riding shotgun, had the privilege of opening the gate onto the county road. A passing driver nearly lost control when he saw a toga-clad maiden unlatching a gate.

This cowgal pal story is true. It was told to me by Debra. She and Jimi and Yours Truly are about to commence a “Cowgal Pals Bucket List Road Trip.”

Debra and Jimi will be “support team in the chase car.” I’ll be driving my candy-apple red motorscooter (with sidecar in which Bailout, the Cowdog, will ride). Bailout has a candy-apple red harness and bandana to match the scooter.

For the next 10 days we’re going to visit every little town, hamlet and village along a Montana back road. Debra (also a cowgirl poet) and I plan to say poems and play guitars and generally stand out wherever we go. Jimi (an expert with a camera) intends to video whatever happens. (None of us plan to wear togas). Watch this space for news of the trip.

The tale of Debra and Jimi, two cowgal pals who breathe the air of Oklahoma ranch country, goes more or less as follows.

In a hay pasture next to an unoccupied “weekend” cabin situated several south 40s distanences from home base, a round bale sent up wisps of smoke. At nearly dark, a neighbor called to report the fire.

“Oh, geez,” said Debra. She happened to be the only one at home. Night was coming on. What did she do? She called her cowgal pal, Jimi.

They loaded four 55-gallon water jugs into the pickup and gathered up some feed buckets and brooms. The bale could explode in flames or burn in the middle till it collapsed in on itself. Either way the whole hayfield was in danger, not to mention possibly consuming the nearby cabin.

Off they went. Unfortunately, an underground creek ran through a section of the pasture. Debra drove the truck to within 50-yards of the smoking bale when the vehicle sank up to the hubs. What to do? No way could she drive onward.

Debra and Jimi grabbed a bucket each, filled them with water and hiked the 50 yards. This went on and on. Fill bucket, trudge to bale, slosh water. Repeat. They stood “hay watch” all night. (Also cougar watch as one of such kitty-cats had been prowling the area).

Along about 7:30 in the morning, the gals determined they’d finally doused the fire. With wet brooms, they discouraged any scattered embers from growing into flames.

The fire might be out, but they were an unholy mess. They stunk. Clothes and skin coated with soot. Hair singed. Faces raw and red. Tiredly, they plodded to the nearby cabin. They used the shower and bath and then faced a quandary. They were not about to insert clean bodies into the grungy, stinky, fire-fighting garments. Not a stitch of any kind of clothing could be found in the cabin. What to do? How could they cover their Garden of Eden birthday suits?

Bath towels, though large, wouldn’t do. What would? Answer: Sheets. Deb and Jimi garbed themselves in a sheet each – toga fashion. (Described later as having orange and white striped design). Thus modishly attired, they returned to the stuck pickup. Fortunately Debra was able to reverse out of the bog. Which meant, Jimi riding shotgun, had the privilege of opening the gate onto the county road. A passing driver nearly lost control when he saw a toga-clad maiden unlatching a gate.

This cowgal pal story is true. It was told to me by Debra. She and Jimi and Yours Truly are about to commence a “Cowgal Pals Bucket List Road Trip.”

Debra and Jimi will be “support team in the chase car.” I’ll be driving my candy-apple red motorscooter (with sidecar in which Bailout, the Cowdog, will ride). Bailout has a candy-apple red harness and bandana to match the scooter.

For the next 10 days we’re going to visit every little town, hamlet and village along a Montana back road. Debra (also a cowgirl poet) and I plan to say poems and play guitars and generally stand out wherever we go. Jimi (an expert with a camera) intends to video whatever happens. (None of us plan to wear togas). Watch this space for news of the trip.