The trophy wife and I recently made a quick supply
run to Billings and because it was a nice summer
evening we stopped at a nearby tap room to enjoy a
This meant we never returned home until the
ungodly hour of nearly nine o’clock.
Rather than putting on my sleepers and going
straight to bed, I put on my irrigating boots and
set a couple dams while Druann watered the flowers
on the patio.
As I walked back in the house Druann asked,
“Who pulled into the driveway?”
looked and didn’t see anyone in the driveway or over
at my hangar so I suggested a summer driver must
have been “driving the countryside, discovered their
error and then drove back to the main road.”
“No,” the trophy wife shot back.
“They came up the driveway twice.”
“Well, that is odd,” I thought.
I waited a few minutes, but still no car
Curious, I fired up my four-wheeler and
slowly rolled towards my hangar.
I crossed the Cove Ditch while gazing towards
my shooting range thinking the vehicle might have
been an acquaintance headed out for some plinking.
Once over the bridge, I looked towards the
hangar and there concealed behind the willow patch
were two cars parked head-to-tail.
Both were small, boxy, SUVs of similar color;
hence the illusion one car had motored up our
I approached unsure what I would find, as I
could see no occupants in either car.
Suddenly, there was activity in the back seat
of the first car, but at a distance of fifty feet,
the tinted windows occluded my view.
As I rolled up, the rear door on the driver’s
side flew open and a young man sprang from inside.
I suspect he must have had military training
because he snapped to attention while frantically
tucking in his shirt.
As you never get a second chance to make a
good first impression, he wanted to be at his best.
“Can I help you with something?”
“Uh…no,” he stammered while continuing to straighten
“I am from out of state and was looking
for…uh…a farmer friend’s place.”
“Oh really…what farmer are you looking for?”
I asked having tended critters on nearly
every farm in the valley.
Being helpful is just my nature.
He bent over, stuck his head back into the car to
consult the other occupant and returned mumbling the
“I’ve lived in these parts three decades and I don’t
recognize that name.” I answered.
“Do you have an address?”
He stuck his head back in the rear seat, emerged
with a not-so-smart phone and explained, “I am not
getting a good internet signal here, but I think it
is 3865 Saddleback.”
“That’s it, blame it on Siri,” I wanted to say, but
ever the Good Samaritan, I said, “you missed
Saddleback two roads back.
Head south, then turn west about 100 yards
after you hit the pavement.”
Ignoring the rear seat occupant so as to
protect her virtue, I fired up my four-wheeler,
turned around and headed home.
The moral of my story is this:
If you ever lose your farmer, look in the
back seat of your girlfriend’s car.
Apparently, farmers like to hide there.