BARTLETT, NEBRASKA

My dad, Wally, would scoot his chair back and light up either a cigarette or a cigar, depending, to officially call an end to supper. It was after milking, so maybe 7:30 or 8:00. Time for a story.

He enjoyed telling stories that amused him which would, in turn, amuse me as the youngest member of the family. One of my favorites, first heard perhaps 70 years ago, was about a trip that ended safely at home on the farm, but had a stop in Bartlett, Nebraska, a small village of about 100+ residents on the edge of the Sandhills. Cattle country.

Wally and a couple of friends had been to the cattle sale barn in Burwell. They were on the hunt for steers to fill out their lots, had done well and were on their way home in the evening when they decided to stop at the bar in Bartlett to grab a few beers and maybe a cigar or two.

Bartlett was off the highway and as I remember did not have a paved main street. They headed west, the bar proved to be on the south side of the street, and without really considering alternatives, Wally turned across the street in the middle of the block and diagonally parked in front of the bar. Upon getting out of the car, they were greeted by an old pickup with a flashing red light and out of it got a Santa Claus-shaped lawman wearing a cowboy hat, bib overalls with a star pinned to the bib. He seemed upset.

“What you boys doin’?”

“We just stopped to get some beer and cigars.”

“You know you made an illegal turn to park?”

“Well, I didn’t think there was any harm and it was the quickest way.”

“Sure, the quickest way, but illegal. Where the hell you think you are, OUT IN THE COUNTRY?”

Every time he told that story, he would repeat the punch line, “…Out in the country?” in grand amusement.

Somehow, he escaped a ticket, but gained a favorite story. If you have a chance, visit Bartlett and see if they have paved main street and whether it really isn’t “Out in the country”.