Rhymes With Fall

In Gilbert, Arizona, this is what they do for fun on weekends. They wrestle cows. No, they don't buy them dinner first. No movie afterwards.

Deep in my mind's recesses, somewhere under a pile of old Herman's Hermits vinyl records, is an early memory I have of going to Gilbert. I was a little kid, and dad piled the family into the 1960 Ford Falcon station-wagon, then only a couple-few years old, and we went for a Sunday afternoon drive.

Such a thing will soon be indeed a thing of the past, as fuel prices inhibit purely recreational motoring.

Anyways, we went to Gilbert and there was nothing there really except a ditch alongside some railroad tracks which passed by an old water tower. It's all still there, but now within the midst of about a couple hundred thousand people. People who weren't there a few decades ago. A town that was open fields those few decades ago.