By John Hiler

Bruneau, summertime. The tiger lilies in bloom. In Uncle Wid’s front yard, evening would be coming on and I’d hear a horse walking up the road. An old buckaroo would tie it off to the gate and come on down the path, his high-heeled boots and bow legs slow and careful. Wid would be sitting out in his wheelchair.

“Sit a spell,” he’d say, and the guy would pour some of the cold coffee into a blue granite cup, dose it heavy with Sego and a big spoon of sugar.

Pretty soon there would be five or six or more come in and some women too, and some of our aunts and uncles, sitting around on the old couch, or the car seat, or the bunch of saloon and kitchen chairs held together with baling wire. They’d roll up their Bull Durham, and the big sulfur matches would pop and flare, their yellow flame like a signal for night.