Vocabulary 19

aegis 

avuncular

billious

bloviate

boondoggle

cretinous

diaphanous

exculpatory

fetid

fulsome

gobbledygook

hegemony (bonus point for pronouncing correctly)

incontrovertible

jocund

kleptocrat

lapidary

Bear Country (F)

Gun talk is serious business around here.

I carry a 4-1/4” S&W 629 loaded with 240 grain Keiths holstered on my draw-side thigh when out and about, maybe to the barn or down to the gate or messing about in one of the equipment sheds.

That’s what a retired park ranger who lives in Bridger always carried—carries—and I figure he knows what the hell is what.

Duane Evans, my nearest neighbor, will tell anyone and everyone about how he stopped a charging sow with two shots from a 9-mil. Hang out at the Triangle Bar on weekends and odds are good Duane will be roaring on and on about his kill.

Duane’s a bit of an ass, but when the snowfall is deep he comes on out and plows my road in and clears the parking area without making a fuss about it.

The family home sits on a slight rise 500 yards from the state road and on the other side runs the park boundary. The hill north of the house is still heavily wooded and there is where I see bears drifting out along the tree line, nosing berry bushes and scratching their big furry behinds against aspens.

My father lives in a condo half a mile from the university in Logan. He most days walks over to the campus where he teaches Applied Mathematics. Somehow he always manages to mention he’s less than a mile from the Walmart Supercenter and how the student body keeps him feeling a part of the world.

“That’s good, Dad,” I say.

“Got a good high school here, you know.”

“Yep, I know. Like it where I am.”

“Okay, son. I’m just saying. Take care of yourself out there.”

“Always do.”

The Walmart in Billings is around 90 minutes north give or take. Bridger High School is less than an hour, light traffic, easy drive—except when it’s not.

Sometimes a wolf pack of a dozen or so animals will come up from the park and lope down the road. Usually in the evenings. Of course I hear them howling all the time.

Our parcel to the south and east is over twenty-four hundred acres of prime grassland. Elders—two or three—come to see me in April and we handshake on a few hundred bison grazing it until being moved in late September to the lower reaches of the valley. I split the money with my kid sister, my father, and my mother who lives in Boulder.

The money’s not fair market value as my neighbors complain, but seems to me there is a sort of fairness as far as that goes.

My sister and mother both agree my life is wholly incomplete. Casey is married with 3 kids in Sacramento.  My mother works as an interior designer in Boulder and is the most vocal about selling the ranch.

“You’re not meeting anyone. You need a companion. You need a life,” she complains.

“I’m doing just fine, Mom.”

“You’re going to be 30 next year.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be curt. Casey and I think you ought to either live near me or her. There are more opportunities.”

“Mom, I sure as hell am not moving to Sacramento.”

“Tone!”

“What else do you want me to say?  Dad said the ranch is mine to live at until I don’t want to. I know you liked Nicole, but she just couldn’t handle it out here.”

“Is she still teaching with you?”

“No, she’s up in Bozeman now.”

“Well, that’s a shame—“

“A big bull elk strolled into the yard last Saturday.”

“How is that relevant to your future?”

“Might be relevant to what’s in my freezer in a couple of months.”

“Well, son, I suppose you think that clever. Call your sister soon, and you might call me sometime soon.”

She will call back in 3 or 4 days.

Meanwhile, I’ve got firewood to haul and I need to change the oil on the Mule.

Lyman 2022