The Old Blog in the Desert

In the warm glow of the afternoon, the thermometer nudged a pleasant 73 degrees—a fine day for late October. With a satisfied sigh, I took my cherished 1913 Liberty overalls, those sturdy bibs that have seen me through many a day, and gave them a good wash. I never trust the machine to dry‘em; instead, I hang them on a low-hanging branch of our aspen tree, letting the sun soak into the fabric and the warmth, embrace them like an old friend.

But this morning, I woke with a nagging sense that something was amiss. As I turned to reach for my trusty bibs at the bedside, my heart sank—I had left them out overnight, exposed to the chill of the night.

With a groan, I pulled on my boots and stepped outside. The air bit at my cheeks with a brisk 30 degrees, and there, in the aspen’s branches, my bibs hung like a forgotten memory, frozen solid, stiff as a board, and to my utter disbelief, a crafty old crow had commandeered a button from one of them.

The feathered rascal with its glossy black eyes, seemed way too pleased with its prize—a half-ripped button from the one side of my bibs. As I shooed the crow away, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony.

Guess, I’ll be donning my Wranglers until I can patch up my favorite overalls. Even a greenhorn knows better than to leave his bibs out overnight.