Even Cowgirls Get The Blues
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General) North American (US South)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
The brown paper bag is the only thing civilized man has produced that does not seem out of place in nature. Crumpled into a water wrinkles like the fossilized brain of a dry add looking, weathered, seeming slow and rough enough to be a product of natural evolution. It's brown nous, the low key brown, a potato skin and peanut shell. Dirty but pure. It's kinship to tree to not and nest obscured by the cruel crush of industry absorbing the elements like any other organic entity blended with rock and vegetation as if it were a burrowing animals doormat or jackrabbits underwear. A number eight Kraft paper bag lay discarded in the hills of Dakota and appeared to live where it lay now. Empty and leathery, wrinkled, the bag had been twice full Once, long ago, it had born a package of buns and a jar of mustard to a kitchenette rendezvous with fried hamburger. More recently, the bag held love letters as a hole in an oak hides of squirrel families, jewels. The bag. It had love letters in the bottom of a bunkhouse trunk. Then, one day after work, the button nose little cowgirl to whom the letters were addressed, gathered bag and contents under her arm slipped out to the corral past ranch hands, pitching horseshoes and ranch hands flying Tibetan kites. Saddled up and trotted into the hills a mile or more from the bunkhouse, she dismounted and built a small fire. She fed the fire letters one by one, the way her boyfriend had once fed her french fries as the words such as sweetheart and honey britches and forever and always burned away. The cowgirl squirted a few tears. Her eyes were so misty she forgot to burn the bag.