After a moment of reflection, Miss Providence spoke her first words of sound, thoughtful romance advice for a lonely heart.
“Bloody hell.”
Scott’s prankish grin bounced off the top of his little cousin’s head and visited Johnny. So much for chapter twelve, page fifty-two.
Miss Providence continued with a request for additional information. “Who is the uneducated baboon that penned this close-minded caveman nonsense?”
Uneducated baboon? Harlan Garrett would certainly disagree with that description. His grandson’s years of schooling had cost a pretty penny, by God.
Johnny leaned in for closer scrutiny of the author’s name. “Says right there at the bottom, Half-pint. Butter-churned Husband. I’m bettin’ his friends call him BC at Henry’s. Whadda think, Scott? The man answers to BC at Henry’s?”
“BC would be a fine handle for a man when ordering a nice cool beer.”
“There’s your answer, darlin’.” Johnny rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “This advisin’ is damn easy if you ask me.”
Reaching over his cousin’s shoulder, Scott pointed to the newly purchased box of stationery. “Best start steering this poor, lost, romantic baboon to a safe harbor. His stomach’s growling.”
“Yes, of course.” A selected piece of writing paper waited for guiding words to grace its page. “Dear…” The pen hovered as if adrift in the sea of romance.
“BC.” Johnny’s smile was one of a student receiving high marks for an excellent memory.
Kinsey’s sigh belonged to a weary schoolmarm. “Thank you, John.”
The pen resumed its mission as Miss Providence read aloud her response.
Dear BC Husband,
As with most men, the primal need to churn is powerful. Falling victim to churning at the drop of a hat can be quite detrimental, but unavoidable due to the male intellect influencing his anatomy. To encourage your wife to be less of a temptress and leading you astray, I suggest the following: she steadfastly withholds the offering of her biscuits from your daily mealtime menu. Although, please note that during this time of biscuit denial you may desire to try your own hand at churning.
Sincerely,
Miss Providence.
Scott’s eyebrows arched to question what his ears just heard. Withholds the offering of her biscuits? Try your own hand at churning?
Had Johnny caught the young lady’s innuendos? Studying his brother’s narrowed eyes, it appeared her oblique remarks had hit the target.
Allowing a minute for the pen ink to dry, Miss Providence held up the piece of stationery to admire her written words. “You were right, Johnny! This advisin’ is damn easy.”
Back and forth. To and fro. Over and under. Where did she go? With her written reply, Kinsey had placed an imaginary finger on the Queen of Hearts.
The next envelope opened.
Dear Miss Providence,
I’ve been sweet-talking a gal since calf birthing in the spring.
Confusion gave rise to a query. “Can someone explain to me why a man… any man… would choose calf birthing as a time reference for his romantic encounters?”
“Have you ever witnessed the birth of a calf, Freckles? The event is rather memorable.” Scott struggled to maintain a serious tone, knowing Kinsey held in her hand a creative composition Johnny had been particularly proud of. “Sounds like this man is waist-deep in the Creek of Courtship.”
“Sea of Romance.”
“I stand corrected. Please continue.”
The little cousin adjusted her seat and waded in.
I have tried more times than should be necessary in asking my gal to marry me. But she’s as skittish as a water skidder skipping across a stagnant pond when giving a straight answer to the matrimony question. Cattle branding’s starting up, so I’d like to get tying of the knot done and over with. I’ve been thinking with all the female talk lately about this women’s suffrage, I could solve my problem if I allowed her to vote on getting married.
Requiring a brief pause to express an opinion, Kinsey mirrored Scott’s often displayed mannerism by pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Flummadiddle.”
Drowning in the Stagnant Pond of Passion carried on.
Of course, we all know God didn’t see fit to give women the common sense to make important decisions when voting like he did the menfolk. However, letting my gal vote this one time will make her happy and get me hitched up.
As you can tell I don’t need any advice on romance. But you can kindly pass along my voting idea to other fellas that find themselves waiting on a female to make up her mind when there’s a herd of cattle mooing in the pasture.
Signed,
A Sly Suitor
Kinsey placed the written letter aside as if it suddenly emitted the aroma of an overflowing outhouse on a hot August day. “And I thought Will Jenkins was the only blooming idiot in Green River.”
“Now, Miss Providence.” Scott wagged a scolding index finger. “Should a proper young lady refer to her employer in such a fashion?”
“Of course not. Forgive me.” A hand glided fresh stationery from the box. “My lack of patience with male ignorance overcame my sensible emotions.” A quick review of the latest correspondence confirmed its author’s name. “A Sly Suitor.” Pen touched paper.
Dear ASS,
The brothers’ Artful Dodger grins dissolved.
By all means, implement your unique solution to female indecisiveness. But please be aware if you and your sweetheart vote upon the marriage question, you for it and she against it, do not flatter yourself and call it a tie.
Enjoy your status as a single man during the branding season.
Sincerely,
Miss Providence
Back and forth. To and fro. Over and under. Where did she go? Scott’s prediction of a lit stick of dynamite fizzled as his cousin once again placed an imaginary finger on the Queen of Hearts.
A correspondence sporting a red wax seal captured Miss Providence’s attention. Handling the letter opener with the style and grace of a musketeer, Kinsey slit open the envelope and released its paper captive.
Dear Miss Providence,
May I first commend you and your quest to bring culture and enlightenment to the citizens of Green River through the humble pages of the Gazette.
Kinsey’s smug persona calmed the rough waters of romance. “Finally! A refined, intelligent gentleman with a firm grasp of the King’s English. Perhaps you boys will find this man’s request for insightful guidance beneficial in correcting your own hapless amorous experiences.”
The pleased confidante continued.
My fiancée talks too much.
Scott crossed his arms. “I think you’re right, Freckles. Us boys will find this man’s cri de coeur extremely beneficial.
“Cree-da-care?” Johnny’s brow creased. “Harvard talk?”
“French, little brother. It means cry from the heart.”
“Hell, if this man’s been listenin’ to a magpie it should mean bleed from the ears.” A grin returned. “Sorry, Half-pint. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Kinsey’s tightened jaw squeezed the letter’s spoken words.
I firmly believe anyone who wishes a conversation to be pleasant to his neighbors as well as to himself, should not speak more than two or three sentences at once. My fiancée is incapable of achieving this rudimentary task. I have tried to explain to her on several occasions that however much one may have to say, it will be all the more agreeably said when giving others the opportunity of assessment, illustrating, qualifying or even contradicting. Unfortunately, the concept of a woman’s proper place in a civilized conversation eludes her.
I suggested a conversation is like a child’s game of catch. A pause for the ball to be returned by the opposite player makes for a livelier game. Even when my request was presented in the simplest terms, the woman’s mind could not comprehend it. She continues to ramble on about the arts, current politics, poetry and stock prices when a nod of her head would have sufficed.
I await your assistance to solve my dilemma of a chatty wife-to-be.
Loser of Patience in Green River
Silence.
“Kinsey?” Stepping to the side, Scott placed a hand on his cousin’s forehead. “Perhaps you should lie down, little one. You look a bit feverish.”
“I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. I needed a moment to gather my thoughts. I wish to respect this gentleman’s conviction of proper conversation etiquette.”
Pen and paper were called upon to serve.
Dear Loser,
Break off your engagement.
Acquire a dog.
The beast rarely speaks realizing a wag of his tail suffices.
Miss Providence
Back and forth. To and fro. Over and under. Where did she go? Scott watched his younger brother casually hold a finger gun to his temple and fire.
Falling victim to a silver letter opener, envelopes continued to surrender their questions from the lost and lonely hearts of Green River.
Dear Miss Providence,
My wife can obey my wishes eight times without question but then miserably fails twice for no good reason. It makes me irritable.
Advice flowed from the pen.
Your irritability is a result of your poor marks in mathematics as a boy. Return to your alma mater for additional schooling.
Dear Miss Providence,
This gal I’m keeping company with has several suitors but said she’d consider marrying me, so I took her home to meet my dear mother. Now the damn ungrateful girl won’t give me the time of day.
Puzzling situations received prompt reasonable solutions written on newly purchased flowery pink stationery.
It’s apparent the young lady wishes to choose her mother-in-law first.
As Scott observed his little cousin work her way through romances gone astray, Shay McLoughlin’s words came tumbling back. Things aren’t always as they seem so don’t let The Old Switcheroo ever take ye in from a shiftless shyster like me.
Scott couldn’t help but accept his unfolding grin. Shay would have met his match with the astute Miss Providence.
*******
As the supper hour approached, Kinsey’s cock-a-hoop smile anointed her tied stack of questions and answers - a satin ribbon replacing the old piece of twine. “Well, this experience, although challenging, has been quite exhilarating.” Miss Providence rose. ”I’m quite capable of traveling to town on my own tomorrow to deliver these to William, but if you both wish to quench your thirst at Henry’s, you may tag along.” With The Old Switcheroo in hand, bouncing steps carried the cousin inside the hacienda, leaving the two authors engaged in a silent stare down.
Johnny placed a hand on each knee, leaned forward and stated the obvious. “Things couldn’t get much worse right now, brother.”
“Where’s the damn Gazette? Did somebody take my newspaper?”
Scott squinted in the direction of his father’s booming voice. “I beg to differ.”
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