Since Windy didn’t need have much of a need to rummage through
stacks of doilies or record albums starring Patti Page or the
Kingston Trio, he headed for the sale barn.
You see, Alphonse “Windy” Wilson doesn’t have a ranch or farm. No,
Windy was trolling for an audience.
He tried the coffee shop there, but there were just two ranchers
there, and they were in an intense conversation. He walked around
through the waiting pens, and it was there he saw the kids. There
were three of them, teenage boys, chatting with each other, wearing
hats and boots. Leaning on shovels. Windy knew what their jobs had
to be and figured them as good audience fodder.
“Shore is a flamtastic kinda day, ain’t it boys?” Windy said,
maneuvering so they would have to actually walk over him to get back
to work. “Puts me to mind of the day we was all having a picnic up
on Thompson Ridge … you boys know what a picnic is? Oh, they still
have ‘em, eh? Hard to keep up with all the new innervations you
young people have … I’m an old timer, you know? Oh, of course you
“Wellsir, it was a day just like this, solarily speaking, with
picnic writ all over it, and there we were, just a salivatin’ along
on Thompson Ridge, looking for a ‘propiate spot to have lunch, when
the ground started to shake. It was a dad-gummed earthquake! We used
to get one oncet in a while, you know. Well boys, it shook and shook
and the trees went wobbly at the knees and so did we. Some of us
thought it was the end days, you know. But then it quit, and I can
extrapolate to you that was a mighty good thing to have happen.
[to top of second
“And we sat down and opened our picnic baskets
and do you know what? That there earthquake turned the young’uns’
ration of cow’s milk into vanilla milkshakes!”
Windy sighed. “Used to have some pretty good picnics in them days.”
[Text from file received from
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