MTFCA Forum

Anybody who was around Stan for more than a few minutes knew that he was a great story teller. I'm going to take the liberty to repeat a story that he told me at the Bakersfield swap meet about four or five years ago. The story wasn't recorded, so I can't give it to you word for word. But I'll tell it just as accurately as I can.

Stan related that one of his local Montana friends called him around dinner time and asked if he was doing anything special that nite. No, Stan was free. The friend said, "Good, I'll be right over to pick you up."

Stan came out to the car when his friend arrived. "Get in."

And they were off. When Stan asked where they were going, the friend tossed a newspaper in his lap. The paper was folded to show the obituary section of another small town some distance away.

Stan said, "So the asshole finally croaked ?"

"Yep, and none too soon. Plenty of beer in the back."

They drove into the night, drinking beer and never stopping. Seems to me they drove four or five hours to the little town mentioned in the newspaper. On arrival, they drove out to the small local cemetery, walked around until they found the fresh grave, upzipped and emptied their bladders of all the beer that they had stored up.

The friend finally ran dry and, addressing the grave, said, "You SOB, I promised you if you died first I'd piss on your grave."

I think the moral to Stan's story was that ranchers support their fellow ranchers whenever assistance is needed, and ranchers do hold a grudge.

Not exactly my preferred sort of behavior. However, in this case (and having known some ranchers like that, my dad was raised on a cattle ranch in Northern Nevada), I loved it!

"Not exactly my preferred sort of behavior."

No, nor mine Wayne. But it did give some insights into another time and another place, where Stan's environment was a lot different than ours.

Dick

Hell, that had me roaring... guess I was raised in a different era, as I found the humor in it...

Had one relative who wanted to be buried face down so everyone could kiss his, er, "posterior". (Unfortunately for him it wouldn't happen as he was cremated... which would have really burned his, um, yeah, posterior.)

Like the irishman who gave his friend $20, and said "When I die, I want you to take this, buy a fifth of the finest irish whiskey, and pour it on my grave", to which the friend replied "Of course, my friend, but I'm sure you won't mind if I filter it through my kidneys first"...

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My point, my friends, is this: We can either remember our friends, the stories they told (either on tours or around a campfire), and revel in the memories... or we can be righteoulsy indignant and offended by them. I prefer the former over the latter.

Happy Monday...
Susanne @ the Forge

I would like to hear Stan tell the TT story again. Buzz, buzz,------, buzz. Had me roaring with laughter. Among other things he could really tell a story.

Or what about the one where Stan and a friend went to a big actin' fellows funeral. Big deal. They pulled the hearse with a six or eight horse hitch. Stan and the other fellow agreed that a manure spreader would have been more appropriate.

Or the one where his big actin' cousin from Chicago and was tricked into taking a leak on the model T coil fired electric fence. It lit him up pretty well, and Stan wondered if he ever had family after that.

I'm sure there are others, but that's all I can remember.