A Land of Grass Ranch

With the two-for-one days of summertime, my husband, Steve, and I often head in different directions, trying to accomplish all we need to do during Montana’s short warm season.

Those different directions intensify our love-hate relationship with technology. We use cell phones to stay in touch, but sometimes we wonder whether we would be better off with a different communication tool. Like maybe smoke signals.

We were on our way to serve concessions at Choteau’s July 3 concert in the park. Steve and my cousin were pulling the concession trailer while the kids, another cousin and I planned to bird-dog a route into the tree-lined park and a prime set-up spot.

This was our cell phone conversation:

Steve: “Scritch, scritch… antifreeze pouring… scritch…don’t know…scritch”

“What? I can’t hear you!” I yell into my phone, as if higher volume will clear the airways.

“Scritch.. passenger side…scritch…”

“Where are you?”

“Almost to … scritch.”

“I’ll turn around and find you.”

“No, keep going.”

So we kept driving toward Choteau. Until the cell phone rang again.

“Scritch… heating up…scritch…heater core….scritch… get the … scritch… truck.”

“I’ll go back to the ranch and get the red and white truck, okay?”

I turn my truck around and head home, knowing I can unhook the horse trailer from the red and white Ford and be ready to switch trucks before Steve limps home with the heavy concession trailer. We would be late, but could still make it to the concert.

“Scritch.. meet you…scritch… teau. We’ll keep .. scritch, scritch… ranch.”

“I’m going back to the ranch.”

“No, go to Choteau.”

He must have topped a hill and received service right there. The cell service didn’t last long. His phone disconnected before we could make a viable plan. I turned around again to drive to Choteau.

Then my phone rang again.

“Scritch… have to cancel…scritch.”

“I’m not cancelling. I’m going back to get the red and white truck,” I yelled into that black metal unreliable link to my husband and our enterprise.

We met back at the ranch, switched trucks, and pulled into Choteau’s city park only an hour and a half later than we had planned, just in time for the music to start. We had a great time, with no long-term negative consequences from interrupted communication.

Unlike a couple of summers ago.

I still deal with the repercussions of a cell phone conversation between Steve and me that will probably haunt our marriage for the rest of our lives.

Steve was driving to the hay field while I was coordinating a plan for something that I don’t even recall now. Steve tends to focus on one job at a time while I juggle several at once. Together, our different to-do styles create a pretty efficient team, but sometimes those styles collide.

“You’re single-minded,” I yelled into the phone just as Steve found non-coverage in our phone plan.

“Wha…” he hollered.

“Single-minded,” I hoped he could catch my message if I spoke shorthand.

“I’m not simple-minded!” his voice came through loud and clear. Then the call was lost.

To this day, he still thinks I insulted him.

And then messages – or the lack thereof – come into play. Several times, Steve has left a message that I need to receive immediately. Three days later, I find out that he needed a ride from town. Oops. Darn cell phone.

Still, we keep using those black metal boxes that link us to each other when we are physically apart. We even buy new ones when we lose the old ones – one in a bale of wool plus two out on the prairie. Sometimes we call one another just to chat.

But we try to stand in an island of decent cell coverage when we do. Otherwise, I would have to learn how to say “I love you” in puffs of smoke.