It was Christmas 1977, and my aunt and uncle had given me a present. I opened the wrapping paper to find a nice pair of deerskin gloves. There was a little slip of paper on top of the gloves that I thought might be verification of some sewing checker. Upon further study, it turned out to be an ad from a lonely country-loving gal seeking romance, along with her Colorado address. I had a good laugh, and thanked my relatives for the gifts.
At the time I was 26 years old and still single. The thought of finding a nice wife prospect had crossed my mind, but I was still idealistic enough to want any potential mate to meet certain standards. First off, being a Christian was most important; then being a cowgirl, teetotaler, non-smoker, and a good dancer were next in line, in that order. It was difficult finding just such a gal when my main sources for looking were bars and honky-tonks where country music was being played. In those years, I was about the bar-hoppin’est teetotaler going down the road. From my experience, it isn’t possible to drink as many Cokes as your companions can drink beer, but after enough Cokes, you can go to the bathroom just as often as the beer-drinkers.
January rolled around and the weather got cold. One day I remembered the “want ad” and thought, what the heck. A letter was written describing my philosophies on life and my occupation as a cowboy. Licking and sticking on a 13-cent stamp, the letter was put in the outgoing mail.
In less than a week, an answer letter from the love-seeking Colorado country girl was in my hands. With eager anticipation, the envelope was opened. The girl seemed to be a nice young lady who grew up on a ranch, and was presently working in a beef processing plant in Brush, Colorado. I’d have maybe been more impressed though, had she written on stationary instead of merely tearing out lined paper from a spiral notebook. There were little frizzly hanging chads all along the left side of the letter pages. Though she sounded nice enough, I didn’t write a letter back. Calving was soon underway, followed closely by branding season. I was too busy to think much about girls, or at least that particular girl.
Though my main occupation was being a cowboy on our family ranch with my dad, mom, and three younger sisters, I was also employed part-time by Uncle Sam in his Army National Guard. My home unit was at Chadron, Nebraska, but in June we were scheduled for two weeks of summer camp at Fort Carson, Colorado. I had submitted my name early so I could take a POV (privately owned vehicle), instead of riding in an army truck with the convoy. Knowing that Brush was on the most direct route from Chadron to Fort Carson, I decided to write the Colorado gal to see if she was still available, proposing to meet her for dinner at noon on Saturday if she was interested. She fired a letter right back on the characteristic ruffled lined spiral notebook stationary, saying that would be fine with her. We made arrangements that I would pick her up at high noon, twelve o’clock sharp, at the packing plant where she worked.
A friend, John, was riding in my pickup with me on the trip from Chadron, Nebraska to Fort Carson, Colorado. He was well aware of my dinner plans, so when we pulled into Brush I let him out downtown. I told John to stand by a certain stoplight, and I would drive by with my dinner date so he could “check her out.” It was with fear, trepidation, and anticipation that I pulled up in front of the packing plant. It seemed that all of the other employees were in on the dinner plans of this young lady. They made sure that no one else was parked out front, so that I could have the premier parking spot. I casually dismounted from my pickup, and sauntered into the office. Taking my hat off, I tried to look both nonchalant and bold as I inquired about the young lady. She emerged from a back room, wearing a nice dress looking pretty spiffy, and I introduced myself. It was amazing how all the workers had urgent business in that office, checking me out as they went about their work.
I opened the passenger door, and tried to act like a gentleman as the lady climbed in the pickup. I shut the door, went around to the other side, and we drove down the street. As we pulled up to the stoplight, I waved to John and laughingly told the gal that he was checking her out just as her friends had done with me. She knew the town, so I told her to pick where we would have dinner. She recommended the Old Fort Restaurant a few miles outside of town. This gave us more driving time so we could get acquainted. We had a nice dinner and a pleasant visit. She said she had received 43 inquiries from her ad in Capper’s Weekly, including one farmer from Iowa who didn’t have time to come to meet her but would send money so she could travel to Iowa to visit him. Our time together was short, as I had to hurry so John and I could arrive at Fort Carson at the same time as the National Guard convoy. As we drove back to the beef plant, I leveled with her that this was done pretty much as a lark on my part. As I wasn’t a real serious contender, it was my recommendation that she sift through the other 42 prospects and pick out one of them instead. We said our good-byes, and parted ways. I found my friend on the streets of Brush, and we journeyed on to Fort Carson.
Incidentally, later that summer I started dating John’s younger sister. She and I got married in late June of 1979, and you all know her as “Peach.” She fit my ideals to a T. When Peach and I returned from our honeymoon in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and Glacier Park in northern Montana, there was a letter waiting from the girl in Brush. By this time it took a 15-cent stamp to write back that I was no longer available.
At the time I was 26 years old and still single. The thought of finding a nice wife prospect had crossed my mind, but I was still idealistic enough to want any potential mate to meet certain standards. First off, being a Christian was most important; then being a cowgirl, teetotaler, non-smoker, and a good dancer were next in line, in that order. It was difficult finding just such a gal when my main sources for looking were bars and honky-tonks where country music was being played. In those years, I was about the bar-hoppin’est teetotaler going down the road. From my experience, it isn’t possible to drink as many Cokes as your companions can drink beer, but after enough Cokes, you can go to the bathroom just as often as the beer-drinkers.
January rolled around and the weather got cold. One day I remembered the “want ad” and thought, what the heck. A letter was written describing my philosophies on life and my occupation as a cowboy. Licking and sticking on a 13-cent stamp, the letter was put in the outgoing mail.
In less than a week, an answer letter from the love-seeking Colorado country girl was in my hands. With eager anticipation, the envelope was opened. The girl seemed to be a nice young lady who grew up on a ranch, and was presently working in a beef processing plant in Brush, Colorado. I’d have maybe been more impressed though, had she written on stationary instead of merely tearing out lined paper from a spiral notebook. There were little frizzly hanging chads all along the left side of the letter pages. Though she sounded nice enough, I didn’t write a letter back. Calving was soon underway, followed closely by branding season. I was too busy to think much about girls, or at least that particular girl.
Though my main occupation was being a cowboy on our family ranch with my dad, mom, and three younger sisters, I was also employed part-time by Uncle Sam in his Army National Guard. My home unit was at Chadron, Nebraska, but in June we were scheduled for two weeks of summer camp at Fort Carson, Colorado. I had submitted my name early so I could take a POV (privately owned vehicle), instead of riding in an army truck with the convoy. Knowing that Brush was on the most direct route from Chadron to Fort Carson, I decided to write the Colorado gal to see if she was still available, proposing to meet her for dinner at noon on Saturday if she was interested. She fired a letter right back on the characteristic ruffled lined spiral notebook stationary, saying that would be fine with her. We made arrangements that I would pick her up at high noon, twelve o’clock sharp, at the packing plant where she worked.
A friend, John, was riding in my pickup with me on the trip from Chadron, Nebraska to Fort Carson, Colorado. He was well aware of my dinner plans, so when we pulled into Brush I let him out downtown. I told John to stand by a certain stoplight, and I would drive by with my dinner date so he could “check her out.” It was with fear, trepidation, and anticipation that I pulled up in front of the packing plant. It seemed that all of the other employees were in on the dinner plans of this young lady. They made sure that no one else was parked out front, so that I could have the premier parking spot. I casually dismounted from my pickup, and sauntered into the office. Taking my hat off, I tried to look both nonchalant and bold as I inquired about the young lady. She emerged from a back room, wearing a nice dress looking pretty spiffy, and I introduced myself. It was amazing how all the workers had urgent business in that office, checking me out as they went about their work.
I opened the passenger door, and tried to act like a gentleman as the lady climbed in the pickup. I shut the door, went around to the other side, and we drove down the street. As we pulled up to the stoplight, I waved to John and laughingly told the gal that he was checking her out just as her friends had done with me. She knew the town, so I told her to pick where we would have dinner. She recommended the Old Fort Restaurant a few miles outside of town. This gave us more driving time so we could get acquainted. We had a nice dinner and a pleasant visit. She said she had received 43 inquiries from her ad in Capper’s Weekly, including one farmer from Iowa who didn’t have time to come to meet her but would send money so she could travel to Iowa to visit him. Our time together was short, as I had to hurry so John and I could arrive at Fort Carson at the same time as the National Guard convoy. As we drove back to the beef plant, I leveled with her that this was done pretty much as a lark on my part. As I wasn’t a real serious contender, it was my recommendation that she sift through the other 42 prospects and pick out one of them instead. We said our good-byes, and parted ways. I found my friend on the streets of Brush, and we journeyed on to Fort Carson.
Incidentally, later that summer I started dating John’s younger sister. She and I got married in late June of 1979, and you all know her as “Peach.” She fit my ideals to a T. When Peach and I returned from our honeymoon in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, and Glacier Park in northern Montana, there was a letter waiting from the girl in Brush. By this time it took a 15-cent stamp to write back that I was no longer available.