I guess after being semi-isolated for the past two years or so, Sandi and I just aren’t used to having visitors in our home. Or, for that matter, just passing people around for a few minutes to visit either. Jim and Jan come by a few times a year, and other friends come from time to time. It used to be that a Seventh Day Adventist or Jehovah’s Witness would drop by to proselytize and visit and once in a blue moon a wayward Baptist preacher or a pair of very serious Mormons trying to bump up their congregation’s numbers would drop by to explain their version of the gospel.
When we lived on Line Creek, visitors were even rarer. Our house was so off the usual tracks and the roads leading to our house were so miserable at the time that very few of our friends or acquaintances visited us. Nacona Joe (Nacona is Comanche for vagabond, which he was, both Comanche and vagabond) popped in once in a while for a Pepsi, or lunch, but he lived just across the creek. We hunted small game and such with our handguns.
Granted, there were over 40 miles from Cody to our front door, so rather than make the effort, most of our Cody or Powell friends didn’t. Traveling steadily on the dirt road to the forest, before the flood washed it out and the county rebuilt it and replaced it with a paved road to the mailbox bend, was a real horror. Climbing up and down would eventually destroy even a military-grade Humvee. Cleverly enough, some friends waited for us to come to town to visit. Or came home just for special events like rifle and handgun shooting.
As I had set up a 1000+ meter range (I had several miles of BLM terrain adjacent to my back forty) and various shorter range challenges, we sometimes had shots varying from the bison hunter style to black powder cartridge rifle and often traditional long range muzzleloading rifles (chunk guns), or even more modern shooting tools like large caliber revolvers, antique persuasion lever action rifles and others. Usually, these parties were accompanied by the ladies who broadcast a meal that satisfied everyone. Those were fun times, those.
The thing is, Sandi and I aren’t used to having friends over at our house these days. It doesn’t usually come. Truth be told, our little house here in Cody really isn’t made for that. Unless you have no problem sitting at our small kitchen table, there really isn’t a place in the house where two people can have eye-to-eye conversation while seated.
So I was slightly surprised when Ron Dube stopped by the other morning. Ron lives in Wapiti and, for those recently granted Cody Country citizenship, was, prior to his retirement, one of the main providers of elk, sheep and other big game to the Wyoming hunting community. We had what some would call a “casual acquaintance” for several years.
The other morning, when he came by to offer Sandi and me a bag of homemade wild turkey nuggets to taste, he caught us off guard. Either way, he was welcome. His wife had prepared the nuggets, I think, and they were pretty good. He even gave Sandi the recipe for them, so who knows, maybe I’ll enlist my son’s help and chase a wild turkey one of these days. It would be a win-win, whatever the outcome of the hunt.
So why did Dube do this for us? Because he had read in this column that I had stopped hunting wild turkeys (a hobby that I really enjoyed) because I don’t hunt what I don’t eat, except vermin, and unfortunately I discovered years ago that I don’t like eating wild turkey. Too hard and too dry among other things. Not too crazy about supermarket butter balls either, unless someone who knew what they were doing smoked the bird. So these are top notch croquettes, but I’ve never smoked turkey and John Butler, who was a master at it, has since left Cody.
I feel the same about ducks. I don’t like any of them unless they are smoked except the teal. Thinly sliced, teal breast marinated overnight, then thinly sliced and sautéed in garlic butter and served on lightly toasted rye bread smothered with (what else?) garlic butter, drizzled of steaming cups of cowboy coffee, is one of my favorite breakfasts. Like brook trout sizzling in a cast iron skillet alongside several slices of smoked bacon, while homemade blueberry muffins warm gently by the campfire and the aroma of strong coffee wafts in the breeze from the morning.
But again I digress. So when Ron visited, we munched on his turkey croquettes and stood in the “sort of” living room to discuss whitetail deer and blue tongue and other relevant topics. To my shame, it never even occurred to me to invite him into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Or even offer him a chair. As a redneck, my social inclinations are surprisingly lacking or very narrow in scope. If you’re reading this, Ron, I sincerely apologize, you’re welcome anytime and we’ll make the coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.
If my mom was still around, she’d probably give me “The Look” for this transgression against civility. As a child, I remember my stepfather and anyone else who would always show up sitting in the kitchen at the table, emptying a coffee pot while swearing and discussing the news. Mom always kept this pot full even if sometimes the visitor stayed there for several hours. Do people still do that?
If not, that’s a shame. It’s like the disappearance of the old porch where everyone sat in the evening after supper and, as the neighbors walked past the house on summer evenings, walked around, calling out to them and exchanging pleasantries. It’s all gone now I guess, destroyed first by TV and now by video games.
Or maybe just bad manners?
