Still not doing work.

But the hand churned peach ice cream is settling so I’ve got a minute


That is not Mr. Beekeeper, but no scandal is afoot.

Family lore holds that my parents, visiting a friend’s mom’s ranch in Wyoming in 1970 or so, stopped into some roadhousedancehall whatever because my dad thought it would be a hoot. Some cowboy tried to dance with my mom, persistently. (She was a total fox. Now she looks like Migrant Mother from that picture, which is also kind of foxy). My dad smart assily responded “the lady is spoken for,” upon which he got told something vaguely antisemitic – “big nose city boy,” or summat.

My mom lit into the cowboy: “Is that how your mother raised you to treat guests? Who taught you your manners?” and he sheepishly apologized and offered to let them camp on his land.

I told this story to my friend Melanie, whose house this is, and who is of these hills and who has dream hair and rosy shoulders. She nodded. Then said “Look, not that I put it past him, but I’m not sure that fella knew what a Jew is. Some of these cowboys don’t get out a lot. I’d give 50% on generic meanness.”

My dad does have a big nose, so.

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