Friday May 22nd 2009 – and a Nice Lady Stamped on My Hand

I thought I would make an effort to see the Amtrak's famous 'Empire Builder' going through.  Although lots of freight trains trundle through, people seem to refer to the Amtrak as 'The Train".  "The train" chose today to be three hours late.  A nearby bar seemed a suitably inappropriate place to wait.  The owner had a car entered for tonight's Demolition Derby, and was keen to show it off, all newly painted.  He is driving it himself.

A lady comes in: "You want a beer?"

"Might as well, got a lot of time to wait.  They say train left Williston 2:04."

"Their time?" (Williston is in North Dakota, about 120 miles away, and on Central Time.  We're on Mountain Time.)

I got distracted by a farmer who had come in to kick the Government, in this case the state water management.  The farmers, I think by some kind of property tax, pay for irrigation water.  Water is a big issue here.  This farmer wanted to work Memorial weekend.  He runs about 2,000 acres with, it seemed, just him and his grandson.  But the Government wouldn't let him have any water yet.  Nobody has much good to say about the government here.

 

I was tempted to go to the Demolition Derby, but I had promised myself a bit of culture.  The Fort Peck Summer Theatre was showing 'Greater Tuna' for one night only, with a couple of past artistic directors playing the two/twenty parts.  The play is very famous in America, and is an affectionate satire on small-town life.  The two players play all twenty parts, so there is lot of quick-change, and a lot of quick-change mishaps.  The audience found a lot of things very funny, things which I totally failed to understand (sometimes not even managing to get the words).

The Fort Peck Summer Theatre is held in the cinema built for the dam workers back in the thirties.  It is a thousand-seater, and well looked-after, still in its original condition.  They even have the old projector as a talking point in the lobby.  The seats are moulded plywood.  Some regulars bring their own cushions, but you can rent one. 

As I parted with my ticket on the way in, a nice lady looked into my eyes, took my hand tenderly in hers, and, to my surprise, stamped 'FPST' in indelible red ink on the back of it: it's still there.

 

Back in Glasgow, the bars were humming with the aftermath of the Demolition Derby.  A young lady wanted to do a bit of business with me.  I'm tempted: she's from Wells Fargo.  A man with a Stetson ought to bank with Wells Fargo, oughtn't he?