Two weeks into September and the weather still felt like July, version 3.0. Cowboys sat as far away from the campfire as they could to escape the withering heat. Even the nighthawks were sweating as they swooped above.
“I sure miss them ol’ time Septembers.” reminisced Sourdough, wiping his face with his sodden neckerchief. “Back then the weather actually changed, and things cooled off a tad bit.”
Cowboys fanned their faces with their Stetsons and nodded, remembering Septembers of yesteryear.
A wistful Rimrock pined, “I can remember walkin’ from the bunkhouse to the barn on that white frosted grass. It crunched under yer boots like cowboy bubble wrap. Mighty satisfyin’. This year, we’re dodgin’ rattlesnakes that still ain’t denned up fer winter yet.”
“I blame them Russians fer this here lack o’ fall weather,” opined Sweetwater Slim, “sprayin’ us all with them commie chemtrails, an’ makin’ our climate hotter’n a woodstove. Cold War, my ass!” Stetson dipped to acknowledge Slim’s truism.
“I miss them ol’ time Septembers when the horses would start to hair up for winter.” Little Joe the Wrangler was an admirer of shaggy horses. “Hell, last winter was so warm, we coulda shaved ‘em bald and they’da done just fine.”
Rawhide Ricky from Rawlins chuckled and said, “Y’all ‘member when the first frost would hit, an’ we’d hide Panhandle’s longjohns? He’d tear the bunkhouse apart in a blind panic lookin’ fer his union suit. I shore miss Septembers like that.”
Hot vacqueros snickered at the memory, and unbuttoned top buttons to try to stay cool. They might cuss winter up one side and down the other when they were driving a herd into the teeth of a January whiteout, but they sure seemed to miss it when winter made itself scarce.
Goshen Gus broke the Currier & Ives mood by offereing, “Hold yer horses, cool fall mornin’s ain’t all festive. Septermber’s when yer neighbors harvest their garden, an’ leave gunnysacks o’ zucchini on yer porch, an’ ya gotta figure out what to do with ‘em. Them things ain’t edible!”
Rimrock laughed and said, “My uncle made zucchini moonshine once, an’ it gave everyone the runs.”
Latigo Lou caught Gus’ drift and said, “Septermber’s huntin’ season, too. My neighbor always invites me over fer antelope steak, an’ I gotta sit there an’ try not to gag. Ain’t no way to cook them stinkin’ speedgoats so’s the meat don’t taste like the gutpile smells.”
Our sweltering waddies tried to cool themselves off with autumnal memories of temperate days and banter about crisp leaves and apple cider.
They reminisced about the trees turning yellow in bright alpenglow, gathering cattle in jacket weather and the fall sunlight getting softer and milder. They hadn’t seen their breath on a cool morning for over a year and they cussed global warming.
They mourned the loss of autumn, when little kids would dress up like cowboys and go trick-or-treating on cool evenings.
Cookie interrupted the revery by banging his skillet and announcing, “I hear ya, fellers. I miss fall weather, too. So I cooked up a reminder fer dinner. I made a big pot o’ my famous pumpkin spice frijoles. Dig in!”
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
