Hangovers are called mornings, and mornings go well with diners. So with Sunday mornings, we took the long way through the high ground in Bozeman to get to an institution, a spot for ‘recreational restauranting’ that’s only open twice a week. The Stockyard’s owner has a firm smile, a backbone of solid steel, and she cares less than Challenge cadre about people’s feelings. Naturally, we all love her and wish it were requited. In the meantime, her acceptance of us, and our mornings, is much appreciated.
So she walked up with her smile. And slid a note my way, and then I got another smile. The last shot (below) I snuck in is probably the last photo I’ll ever take from the Stockyard. And I’m not ashamed to say I was a little nervous when I did.
haha The Way of The Stockyard sounds like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld
nice post… that note makes me think she would fit right in driving a challenge with you sick fuckers 🙂
Haha, busted by the Bean!
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The absence of interior photos actually reinforces the point of the story: some places survive through shared memory and a few imperfect records. I work on RestorePhoto, and posts like this are a good reminder to preserve captions and firsthand context alongside old scans. Repairing an image can recover visual detail, but it cannot recreate names, dates, or the reason a place mattered.