Friday, April 5, 2013

Campfire Ladies Sing Your Song

Doo-da Doo-da
Sassy come to mind? Precisely why Sisters on the Fly have rules:  

Rule #2  No Kids

T'aint no tellin' what sorts of harm might be inflick-ted to the tender little minds of innocent baby chirrn when subjected to a gang of rowdy cowgirls. I don't know, but I would guess many a SOTF patch has been earned after a few cans of courage around a roaring campfire. This ain't yo mama's Girl Scouts.

With a picnic table full of makings for s'mores and SOTF signature lemondrop martinis, this ol' gal could finally take a load off. I wasn't propped up in a penthouse overlooking the skyline, but it was doable. Once I learned that Sister Sister-in-law Cindy had informed the other Sisters of my hearing, or lack thereof, I was ready to kick back and cowgirl up.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a COWBOY, y'all, on a REINDEER horse ha, he was just there. And he brung a gittar.
Which leads me to one more rule: 

Rule #1  No Men

Whoopsie on that one, ha. No worries. They were as harmless as Festus Haggen in Gunsmoke. Rest assured, *Sister Misters, we were crooned and serenaded all in good fun.


After ditties and drinks, the cowpokes were ready to blaze a trail back to their camp. Before they bid us adieu, they extended to us an invitation to join them the following morning in a pre-cookoff good luck tradition. 

Legend has it in order to have a successful cook-off with bellies stacked to a fill, the gut robber, greasy bell, biscuit shooter trail ride cook and his buckaroos must partake in a good luck ritual beforehand. This ceremony typically takes place in the wee hours the morning of, jest before the cook fire is lit. We cowgirls were all in until those Missurra cowpokes said they'd see us at the asscrack o'dawn.

Not so fast, I thought. I had had my coupla cans-o-courage and if I was going to go all cowgirl and shet by golly I was gone durit rite. Then it occurred to me (sometimes my brain sparks like that) ha shet...we can have a pre-ritual ritual. By now, most of the Sisters had resigned themselves back to the party at hand for last call before a much-anticipated jump into their down-filled beds.

I don't think there's a patch awarded for following strange men back to their camp in the middle of the night, but if there is, well, I earned it. We gathered around as "Doc" told the story of how many a cook-off ribbon was lost by wagon teams not abiding by the sacred rite.

Doc of Still Hangin'

We listened intently as the grand poobah of chuck wagon sacraments presided over our secret rendezvous.

What happened next had me exclaiming, "Mercy!"

Our part was done. Now it was up to the chuck wagon gods to shower them with luck.

We stumbled wobbled walked back to our camp for a nightcap of Krispy Kreme marshmallows and roasted doughnuts.  Lawd, 6 a.m. was gonna come early.

Let's hear do it for the boys!

*A Sister's husband or significant other