Spank-tiquing - Brat Party

Superstition Mountains, view from Goldfield Ghost Town

We were trying to go to a few antique malls on the east edge of Mesa , out towards Apache Junction, but as we drove past windows dark and reflective in the bright morning sun, we realized we were an hour too early. At first we thought we'd wait it out, then decided to drive eastward again, just to explore. We were on a road that ran through an expanse of cactus dense as a cornfield when I announced I needed to pee.

We knew we weren't too far from civilization, so we continued onward towards small buildings we could see past the next rise. When we got there, we discovered they weren't real, though they weren't mirages. They were wooden facades, built to look like a small western town, trailers and debris hidden behind them. We laughed and turned left, seeing buildings that looked more substantial nearby.

One of them was an Elks Lodge, closed and of course I couldn't have used it as a rest stop anyway, but on a banner in front of the building was an advertisement for their annual Brat Party. Mr. W saw it too. "Well, looky there," he said, using the cowboy twang we fall into sometimes when we get out past suburbia and into land that's still more old west than new. "A brat party." Visions of bottoms of misbehaved ladies turned over stern knees danced through my head, and surely his, too, but I was the only one to blush at the thought.


Immediately I answered, "Not like that! It couldn't be."

He laughed. "What else could it be?"

My brain was so occupied with thinking that he thought it was a spanking party that I couldn't come up with anything. "Is it short for something they use on horses? Some kind of cowboy thing? I don't know!" There'd been a cowboy on the banner but I knew it couldn't really be a celebration of naughty cowgirls.

He glanced away from the road as we now headed up a hill, seemingly now farther from anywhere I would find a ladies room. "It's not like there's another word that is spelled the same but pronounced differently, is there?" I couldn't think of one. I truly couldn't think of one. He added, "What kind of sausage party were you expecting these cowboys to have?" I thought it was a bad joke and let it go.

Another collection of buildings rose up out of the desert. "I don't know if I'll be able to pee up there," I worried aloud.

"Let's just go see," he said. A sign came into view: Ghost Town 1/2 Mile. This trip was not going as planed. Moments later, we curiously turned in to Goldfield Ghost Town.

It turned out it was a genuine mining town near the Superstition Mountains and the less genuine fabled mine known as the Lost Dutchman. Goldfield was established in 1893 but abandoned by 1926 when it was clear the gold vein had run dry. It had since been turned into a historic stop on the Apache Trail, with restored original buildings now used as museums and gift shops, a tour of the historic Mammoth Gold Mine, and, blessedly, restrooms.

On our way back, we again passed the brat party sign. "I do wonder what that could be," I mentioned.

Mr. W's jaw went momentarily agape, then looked at me with concern. "Yes, I wonder what that could be, at their barbecue. What kind of sausages they might have. At their barbecue."

He shook his head slowly, teasing me, as I turned bright red. "Braawwt," I said.

"I really thought you got it back there when we first drove by, and were just being silly," he laughed.

I started giggling. "Nope. I thought that you thought that - ohmygod. I thought you thought they were having a spanking party at the Elks and I was just like, why would you truly believe that? But I didn't, I didn't..." I was laughing so hard I couldn't catch my breath. When I finally did, I offered my brilliant excuse. "We didn't have bratwursts in New England."

He reached over and took my hand in his. "I'm sure that's a lie. You know you deserve a spanking for this, right? A long, hard spanking."

"Nooooo," I squealed, still giggling. I hadn't laughed like this in a long time. I couldn't believe how ridiculous I'd been, but it was funny and silly and now that I knew the brats at the party were bratwurst sausages, I could be the brat instead. "Pleeeease, you can't spank me for this! We really didn't have bratwurst at our barbecues growing up." I considered adding "We had lobster" but that was really going to get me into trouble for not only being a ditzy brat, but a pretentious one, too.

He returned to his twang. "Well, that's just a damn shame, now, isn't it? For you and yer bottom. I'm going to have to roast it just like those cowboys roasting their bar-b-q meat."

I giggled on and off the whole drive back into town, and by the time we made it to one of the antique malls on our itinerary, I still had tears in my eyes. "I love when I feel like my old silly self," I commented, getting out of the car. He came around and took me in his arms. "I sure love you," he said. Hand in hand, we went inside to see if they might have anything we could use at our own private brat party later on.

A few shots from our stop at the ghost town:

One of the offerings at the shop below,
taken out of context

The General Store at Goldfield Ghost Town, get your
hot sauce and fetishes here

The bordello is a women's history museum, documenting what women's lives were like at the turn of the century in "the old west." It wasn't open yet when we were there, so I didn't get to visit it or find out why there was a cage out front, though I have my ideas. The little chapel at the top of the hill still has Sunday worship services.