It Can Only Happen in Montana

Ol’ Norman has been gone a long time, but his stories linger on.

The old gent nodded his head toward a man ascending the massive staircase in the county courthouse. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I replied, thinking that a rather unusual question. The distinguished figure with black overcoat and silvery hair was quite recognizable.

I knew I was on to one of those tales that only Norm could spin. Norm considered himself a real died-in-the-wool Montanan. His parents of fond memories, homesteaded south of Malta, having arrived penniless from Nebraska to the bustling town of Glasgow.

An old cowhand, Norm could be relied on for a tale of indisputable truth; wit was added, a whisper of spice to Norm’s unique brand of tale-spinning. Authenticity was his hallmark; THAT we all knew.

“Yes,” he drawled, “I knew that man when he was a struggling young lawyer.” One summer day he found me out south on my ranch. He held a list of names in his hand.” He said to me, “I’ve been told that you probably know nearly everyone in the county!”

“Yes, I could say I do at that. If I don’t know them personally, I’m at least acquainted with his/her parents and often even grandparents!” With a big grin and a twinkle in his eye, he continued. “The young lawyer said, “I have a client who’ll be on trial, and he wishes to know who on this list are church-going citizens; also, who are teetotlers!” When the lawyer mentioned the name of his client, I recalled the incident; it happened on a street in Malta. A pedestrian had been run down and killed by a drunken bar owner ... naturally the driver (defendant) I knew he wouldn’t have a fiddler’s chance if he had to appear before a straight-laced jury.

“You know how it turned out, don’t you?”

“I suspect I do,” I replied.

He ended his yearn with, “Spose we should ask him if he still conducts business that way?”

Helen DePuydt is a regular contributor to the Courier and a member of a homesteading family in the Saco area. All of her stories are true.