We stopped for lunch on the road from Great Falls, maybe it was Big Sandy, at a diner where I caused confusion asking for a "frosty" when what they sold was called a "soft serve".
Many terms were foreign. Montana had never been part of Mexico, so instead of canyons they had "coolies." There were no "malts", only "shakes", and the baby cows I expected would be "calves" were instead "doggies".
Heat, mosquitos, the unique musty smell of the attic room where I slept. Rifles, outhouse, kittens and crows. My grandfather, a real cowboy, affectionate but uncommunicative, even a little distant, very much like his daughter, who from these moments forward became ever less present to my life.