I am pretty far out [of town], but Progress will catch up someday. When I am bumbling around in a wheelchair, a sharp real estate salesman will drive up and offer to buy and sell my outfit. Not for cash, of course. Who would want to give an old woman cash? How about trading for peace and comfort in some nice clean house in town with a porch and rocking chair?
"Young lady," he'll say (that's what you get called when it no longer applies), "you can't make it here any longer. Your fences are down. Your corrals are falling to staves. Your pipeline has rusted away. Your trees are dying for lack of care. Your house is too much for you. You cannot cope with a place so large. I'd like to see you resting easy. You could have a little house in town and be comfortable. No hard work to do. No insoluble worries. Let me have your little ranch for my client, and you..."
"Just a minute," I'll interrupt. "This nice quiet home you want me to trade for-- is it located where I can hear a cow bawl?"
"Oh no. It's near the doctors and the hospital and..."
That's the moment I'll lower my ear trumpet and sic the dogs on him.
-Eulalia Bourne, rancher. From "Women in Levis"
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