Turn About

A blast of Arctic air brought a blizzard across the Nebraska Sandhills this late winter morning. The temperature is lower than anything I can recall. Maybe I shouldn’t blame Ol’ Ned for not cooperating. He balked and threatened to bite me when he saw me bring a harness into his stall. But he knew he was destined to leave his warm abode, and he eventually allowed me to harness him up and hitch him to the buggy.

How long had it been since we’d been to town for supplies? I wasn’t sure, but it was long enough that Lincoln run for president had not yet begun. In preparation, Barb heated four bags of shelled corn and we put the bags around out feet, drew a buffalo robe over our laps, tucked our scarves more tightly around our necks, and then set Ol’ Ned into motion. Usually, he farted knowing that it blew back into our faces. He knew we hated the stench. This morning, however, he seemed to have turned over a new leaf. He didn’t distract us from anticipating the warmth of Collier’s General Store and the opportunity of chatting with old friends we hadn’t seen since September.

After our supplies – flour, sugar, bacon, coffee, tea, and other items too numerous to mention were loaded on to the buggy Barb suggested we should swing by McDonalds’s Drive Thru for some coffee to sip on the way home. We drove the buggy there and got in line and eventually we worked our way to the window.

Ol’ Ned must had been holding back and as the lady opened the shutter to take our order he let one rip. The wind direction was such that the stench was carried to the window and into her face.

Without further ado she slammed the shutter closed with great force. We were forced to return home without our McDonald’s Coffee. But turn about is fair play. Ol’ Ned didn’t get his fistful of sugar.

I’m sure he knew why.