Uncle Buster
The rolling hills of Eastern Montana were laden with sage brush and prickly pear. The summer grasses were just as dry as the parched cracked ground in which it grew sporadically. Rocks sprouted up randomly in unlikely places. You could top a hill and have an unobstructed view for miles and miles. A clump of the trees marked where a spring bubbled out of the ground or the home place of a neighbor. A line of trees was indication of a creek or irrigation ditch. Fields in the distance looked like patchwork quilts. The sky was deep blue with occasional clouds casting long dark shadows on the barren hills below. A stand of weathered windblown willows stood close to a house barely protected by the wind on one side. A small wire fence separated the yard and house from the rest of the world. That is where Uncle Buster lived.
Uncle Buster said, “You girls want to go on a sheep drive?” My sister and I were ready and out the door in a flash. We headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. Uncle Buster followed us out and said, “We’re not taking the horses.” He grinned and pointed to the old beat up car, “We’re taking the car.” I couldn’t believe nor imagine driving sheep with a car, unless he was going to stuff them in the car with us. My imagination formed a picture of caricatures of sheep hanging out of the trunk, windows and hood of the car.
With Uncle Buster around, there was always an adventure. We jumped in the car, drove through the open gate and headed across the pasture. It was a scene from an animated cartoon. Uncle Buster was behind the wheel. There was no steering needed. He merely grabbed the wheel to keep it from jerking suddenly to the right or left when we hit a prairie dog hole or big rock. We girls hung out the windows whooping and hollering and slapping our knees just as if we were riding bucking broncs, sheep flying everywhere.
Uncle Buster had one speed – fast. We flew through the pasture leaving sage brush, dirt and rocks flying all around us. We’d hit a bump and were airborne until the car took a nosedive into the brush. It was obvious from the knocks, clanking and scraping sounds that the mud on the underside of the car was getting cleaned off. The sagebrush and prickly pear seemed to suffer no ill effects other than tire tracks. I knew then why that car was so dented and beaten up.
Sage brush hills 
Prairie grass
At first, the sheep kept their heads to the ground pulling dry prairie grass with their teeth. They were oblivious to the approaching one car circus on wheels. The sheep scattered and ran toward safety. If some strayed during their flight from the flying maniacal car, Uncle Buster would move in that direction to get them back with the flock. I can’t say if they were in their right mind, but all the sheep made it to their destination unscathed.
When we finally skidded to a stop, a trail of dust still lingered in the air. Uncle Buster got out, straightened his hat and walked off dragging his bad leg behind him. We girls got out, adrenaline still rushing, and managed to stay upright after the drunkening ride. We walked away, bowed legs and all. What an adventure!