I said goodbye to the old timers in the bar. One is writing a book, or was it a short story, about a local B52 crash. He thought I was an inspiration, but failed to mention the magic 'angel' word. Well, he's just a bloke: blokes don't do that, do they? I will just have to assume he was thinking it. He claims to be half-Assiniboine, half-Irish, so when he finally knuckles down to the writing, he will no doubt speak with a loquacious forked tongue. He's eighty-eight, so he'd better do it quickly. I hope my angelic touch has been enough.
Telling them I was off to Kalispel, south of Glacier National Park, on the other side of the Continental Divide, had one wistfully telling us that when he retired, he wanted to take his horses (he claimed to have three) there and go trekking in the Rockies. I told him he ought to be able to do that in Scotland. I was just guessing, but that's got to be true, hasn't it?
Another is a railroad engineer. He operates out of Minot, ND. He and I developed a wonderful theory about the nature of friendship, as the evening progressed. We decided that Montana was more friendly than anywhere else, that Eastern Montana was more friendly than Montana, North-Eastern Montana was more friendly than Eastern Montana, Glasgow was more friendly than North-Eastern Montana, and that this bar was more friendly than Glasgow: a kid of inverse Ghostbusters, with friendship gushing out of her in glutinous gallons. Which it kind of was by then. So I toddled off to bed feeling as good as I've felt for a long time.
Perhaps I'll just stay another few days, milk this a bit more: a whole week of farewell appearances. Then they'll probably run me out of town.
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