Tales from the O-NO Ranch
Gentle readers, I have “fessed up” many times before that patience is not one of my stellar virtues. We got to talkin’ baseball at the T-Bar Inn the other morning because the Colorado Rockies may be headed to the World Series (at this writing.) I complained that watching baseball is like watchin’ paint dry on a wet, rainy day.
The pitcher leans forward on the mound to get a signal from the catcher. He then leans back, ball in glove and looks off Athe mound toward first base. Then he decides to kick a little dirt in front of him and then he rears back again as if to throw the ball and the batter decides to call time out and step away from the plate. The batter then pulls at his crotch area, taps the bat against his shoe, adjusts his batting helmet and steps back up to the plate. By now I’m wantin’ to scream “JUST THROW THE COTTON PICKIN’ BALL!” He does throw it and it’s not a strike or a foul or a hit so we start the same process all over again.
It’s sort of like the guy when everyone is saddling up in the early morning to go gather cows. You know the guy, ole Careful Carl, he has to brush and brush and brush his horse. Then it takes 10 minutes to get his saddle blanket in the correct position. He adjusts his saddle several times before he pulls the cinch. Then while everyone else is a’horseback, waitin’ on him, he takes a hoof pick and checks all four feet, cleaning each one to perfection. Makes a feller just want to ride off and leave ’em behind, and you would if he wasn’t the boss’s son.
I pulled in to gas up the truck not so long ago. I pulled in behind a feller in a little car thinking it wouldn’t take very long for him to fill up. Silly, silly me. I had a date and was runnin’ a little late, which is unusual for me. This fellow, while his little car was filling up, cleaned every window and the mirrors to perfection. His car had long since shut off the gas. Finally, finally he’ll get the heck outta my way, I thought.
Wrong! He then got out his tire gauge and began to check the air pressure in every tire, including the spare in the trunk. No, they didn’t need air; they never do with a guy like this!
Is he done? Are you kiddin’? He gets in his car and pulls out his little green record book and begins to write down his gas mileage, tire pressure, etc. I am so mad by now I have moved to another pump and I glare at him as he pulls out, all the while smiling at me.
“Take yer time, Jack; just take yer time,” I told myself as I pulled out of the station, reminding myself not to rush and get a ticket. I’m sad to say as hard as I work on my faults, I don’t seem to be gettin’ anywhere at times. How about you?
Stay tuned, check yer cinch on occasion, and I’ll c. ya.