Basement Bingo

Bingo was the vice of choice for Himself's grandmother. She was a lovely elder, who had the "sight" and could drink you under the table any day of the week. When she moved closer to family so we could keep a caring eye on her, the vice came with her.

Volunteering to be the one to take her to the church basement weekly bingo seemed at the time a kind thing to do. How much would it take for me to drive in from the ranch, pick her up, and take her for a few hours of bingo? In my inexperience I hadn't realized how deadly serious the whole thing was to her.

She always met me at her apartment door, nicely dressed, and carrying a cane and a huge handbag. The huge handbag contained several sweet little ol lady hankies, her bingo money, a dozen or more brightly colored marker dabbers, her special cushion, a wallet for identification, her smokes, a propane fire stick lighter, her mace, her palm pistol, and her flask. Most of the items were not allowed in the church basement, but she said that was between her and her God.

She would hustle into the basement while I was parking the car, and was usually settling in by the time I got down there. There was a whole lot of prep before the bingo games started. A certain place to sit, a certain order to the placement of all her paraphernalia and a few comments to the other elders (usually of a derogatory nature).

One particular evening she commented to me that she had just about had it with the ol crone setting next to her. Thinking to divert her attention I asked if she had spoken to an elderly gentleman in a wheelchair that she had previously seemed to be fond of. "No, and don't be trying to change the subject." Having put me in my place, she continued her game.

Things got a bit worse when the ol crone won the next game, Gran thinking she won first. The elder gentleman wheeled over to congratulate the ol crone. He no sooner got the words out of his wizened mouth than Gran was on him like a bad rash. She took to him with her cane, at the same time trying to keep up with the dobbing of her multiple bingo cards, and giving the ol crone what for. After I pulled her off the elder gentleman, righted his wheelchair, picked up all her paraphernalia, apologized all around, and hustled her towards the door, the sirens sounded. She had set off the fire alarms with her smokes.

I got a call from the Priest a few days later, Himself's gran was banned from bingo, and would be expected at confession and mass frequently. Good luck on that one, Father!

wall chicks

Chicken Wrangling

a stacked chicken

batty barred rock

Just a few of the chicks I made from a basic pattern in a Country Threads quilt book. Altered the design a little and put them in homemade barnwood frames.

No Bull

One fine day for working cattle Himself loaded up the horses and me to move some bulls on the other ranch. He was riding his favorite bay, and I was on the aptly named Whitey. Whitey was an excellent gate horse, but was a really rough ride in the field. Who every got him for the long days afield referred to him as the kidney killer.
The boss had been on a fishing trip to Texas and ended up buying a load of Brahma bulls. They arrived in due time, and went to it, but were a bugger to work. If you got them the tinest bit hot they blew up on you, and anything else handy. Or they just blew up for no reason at all.

Himself sent Whitey and I way around to bring in the bulls from the far corner. I gathered a bunch and pushed them into the corrals, then circled back to pickup the one that had slipped away from me. He had decided that he liked it were he was and didn't plan on moving anytime soon. Thinking to trick him into seeing it my way, I picked up a few cows on the way back to him. The cows were showing him a little interest so he went with the flow for a while. About a half mile from the corrals he decided not a step further was he going.

Off in the distance I see Himself waving at me to get it in gear, we had a lot more cattle to gather. The bull wasn't seeing it that way. I tried the cow trick again, but no. As I sat atop Whitey eyeing that son-of-a it occurred to me that he was red eyeing us back. He decided that he didn't want us there. He charged Whitey, who spun at the last minute, and the bull went whizzing by. He was a big bull and fast, he kept trying. The more he missed the madder he got. Once he came so close to nailing Whitey and busting my leg in the process that he blew snot all over us. Enough already.

Himself finally seeing that I was making no headway rode over with fire in His eyes. Now the bull was trying to take him. Big mistake, after the third time he tried to dump Himself off his favorite bay, Himself pulled out his shotgun took aim and waited. Sure enough the next time that crazy bull tried to take Himself he got a face full of bird shot. Stepping back the Brahma shook his head, looked around with his now one good eye, and took off for the corrals at a fair clip. Whitey and I could have told him, don't mess with a cowman, but some just learn the hard way.

gopher stomp'n

Tis the season for the Cali gopher stomp'n scarecrow women.

My Compadre

This is my Fergus, just call him "Gus". Actually it doesn't much matter what you call him, he won't come unless he wants too. He is 3.5 months old and a holy terror.