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 beverage.  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?” 

I 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.”  It happens frequently. 

“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 appeared.  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.  Nothing.  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 driveway twice.  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?”  I offered. 

“Uh…no,” he stammered while continuing to straighten his attire.  “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 name “Calhoun.” 

“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.