The first time I saw Bald Eagles in the wild I was on a trip to Montana to celebrate my wedding with future ex-husband No. 3.
The eagles and the Montana landscape were amazing.
Once we met up with Hubbie’s relatives, we found out that our wedding celebration had been trumped by an aunt’s funeral. It was held in a beautiful meadow surrounded by mountains. With Native Americans singing and dancing. Apparently the aunt was connected to a Native community.
Not ones to dwell on unfortunate circumstances, we met up with No. 3’s good friend, Bob, for skiing in the Tetons. Wake or skiing? No choice. Skiing hands down.
Bob was an excellent skier who took outrageous risks. Neither Hubby nor I could, or wanted, to keep up with him. He skied on cross country skis, taking leaps of confidence off cornices that seemed to end in a flurry of deep powder.
Skiing was incredible. I had never skied in so much virgin snow. It was knee-deep in some areas.
At some point a CEO (or COO, or was he an accountant?) for Anheuser-Busch hooked up with Daredevil Bob to ski the mountains. Too bad for him as his time skiing with Devil Bob he ended up with a wrecked Achilles tendon.
The accountant invited the three of us to a party at August (Augie) Busch’s ranch. Still in our ski clothes, we made the drive to the ranch – after Devil Bob produced a joint, “To smooth out our vibes,” Bob said, in a sing-song voice.
The ranch was a vast snow-covered slice of heaven with a stream winding through it. Magnificent white swans floated on the stream as if playing a part in a Disney film. Or perhaps it was the pot that made it all so beautiful.
Once inside the sprawling ranch house, guests greeted us (warily). The accountant was happy to see us, even though he was wearing a cast and crutches. Everyone walked around holding plastic Budweiser cups. It wasn’t easy to keep a straight face facing a large room of strangers with the women dressed Mad Men style; tight bodice, knee-length flared skirt, high heels, holding their plastic cups as if they were crystal wine glasses. Were they drinking Budweiser beer or martinis?
Augie Busch took the award for best dressed as he made his entrance wearing his “duckers.” Black velvet pants covered in yellow ducks. What do you say to a man in Duckers? I think I mumbled something like, “Hello. Nice pants.” Original.
Too bad cell phones weren’t around back then. I could have blackmailed the tycoon with a picture of those silly pants.
When we left the party, I remember the three of us burst out laughing, wondering how bizarre it seemed making small talk with such strange strangers. These many years later, however, the party reminded me of some of my parents’ parties where the women dressed similar. My favorite of my mom’s dresses was a leopard print shirtwaist and matching fur high heels. (I hope they weren’t real leopard fur!)
I appointed myself the welcome party for their soirée, taking everyone’s coats upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. At the end of the evening, I would bring everyone’s coats down and handed them to the rightful owners. My parents’ friends were so impressed. They didn’t know that I had made notes on whose coats were whose). Some even gave me a tip, which of course I accepted!
I guess the people at Augie Busch’s party weren’t so strange. They were just a different generation with different ways of entertainment.
What’s a girl to do?…hmmm, perhaps I can find a photo of “duckers” on the internet.
Lucy Llewellyn Byard welcomes comments and shares. To contact her, email lucywgtd@gmail.com
