It was a cold morning as I remember it. The snow outside had settled but the wind was a brutal son of a bitch, carrying ice and desert snow along the highway in heavy waves. Wrecks began to build along Interstate-80 between Cheyenne and Laramie as they so often do when the weather has gone all to hell. Happy Jack Road was a winding column of black ice, with no one upon it as happy as the road itself. Thanksgiving passed with the regular hitches and full bellies. The Cornish hens tasted phenomenal and I’ve never had a bad thing to say about garlic butter biscuits. The Sunday before returning to work was a sad day as it so often is. No more late sleeping, back to the bump and grind to someone else’s lousy rhythm in an office high in the sky. That’s the day I’m telling you about.
When I pulled myself outta bed I stretched lazily, trying to unbuckle the sodding nerve trapped somewhere in my neck between my shoulder and my metal ear. I didn’t prosper in my attempt, the infernal thing is plaguing me still. Jack had started the coffee pot as soon as he roused and the smell, though I don’t drink the stuff, was welcoming. He usually always gets up before me. I’m lazy as a retired bloodhound truth be known and weekends are for sleeping. We sat for a while in front of the tv while I tried to catch up on my knitting projects and Jack nursed his Arbuckle’s. It was probably King of the Hill we were watching or some form of Disney Imagineering documentary. Regular old pair of boots we are, and antisocial.
The night before we’d discussed trying to grab breakfast at the Chuckwagon, a local mom and pop place on the outskirts of town with peculiar working hours, to which we struggle to abide. Several times we’ve endeavored to go for lunch or dinner only to find it closed before seeing hide or hair of 2pm in the afternoon. However, it being the Lord’s Day to laugh, it was open around 7am ready for the church rush. Thus we ventured into the snow and got the car out of the garage, hungry as London paupers.
It’s a great place for a writer camp with a cup of coffee, if they drink it, or an unsweet ice tea in my case; to write the next bestseller about some fella with a hitch in his step and an ugly wife that feeds the cows in her birthday suit during the dead of winter. The place has character and a cozy little ambience about it. I wish it was open more often and that I had the freedom to go and write at a favorite table as a first name basis regular, however, unless I become a full time paid writer within the next few months I don’t see it happening. Never say never and never say die… unless you put it in a poem.
I ordered the cowhand classic breakfast with scrambled eggs, a griddle loved pancake and seasoned hash browns with a tall iced tea full of ice. Now the bacon was almost a little too sweet for me personally but it’s tough to compare to the Jalapeno bacon I cook at home. The eggs and the pancake were nevertheless on point. We sat at our table talking about buffalo Bill and what errands we needed to run that day – I probably mentioned Calamity Jane too as I’m apt to do. We got excited about our upcoming travels and a potential get away to Deadwood in the spring. About us were good o’l boys reminiscing about girls they loved and hardworking sons moving into the family business, they hovered over their coffee mugs like gummy vultures trying to chew a tough steak. I half expected Craig Johnson to walk on in and sit by the window. He didn’t.
A few authors say that if you wait for conditions to be prime before you write, you’ll never say a word. I guess I’m the lonesome exception. I truly struggle to write at home unless I am alone. I can write for 8 hours a day at work and feel accomplished and know I’ve done well. Whereas if I stay home, not only do I have distractions and things I feel must get done, but it’s harder to get into the mindset. At work I write to drown out the everyday office scenario but I need to buck up. I have to set aside a little time each week to force myself to also write at home whether I’m with Jack or not. After all that’ll be where I write my other novels if ever one sells. Having said that, as long as something is written I shan’t complain.
I hope December finds you well my friends.
Your keeper, Bella.