Old Fashioned

Cigarette smoke hangs in a thick layer at the ceiling, dimly illuminated by neon beer signs and weak bulbs struggling to cast their best glow on the lone pool table.  Overplayed country songs echo from the aged jukebox while voices murmur and the crack of clashing pool balls add to the atmosphere of the small town tavern. Stale beer from old spills mixes with the wood conditioner from the aged wooden bar and challenges the acrid cigarette smoke for champion odor. 

Suddenly, the front door swings wide open and there he stands in all his glory, Mr. Slick Willy.  Eye brows are shaped and moustache is waxed while heavily starched, nut-huggin' Wrangler jeans are creased from the dry cleaners.  A gigantic, store-bought silver belt buckle is attached to a custom leather belt that, to no surprise, has his name tooled on it. His pant cuffs rest on a $750 pair of custom Lucchese cowboy boots and his fancy pearl snap, button-up shirt is topped off with a brand new silk wild rag.  A perfectly shaped, black 100X Stetson cowboy hat finishs the ensemble. His big mouth provides a grand entry as he proceeds to tell everyone what a rough day he had at work. 



(Poor quality, sorry.  But, oh so good.  Cartoonist is Gary Larson.)

 

 

I sit at the end of the bar, alone in my baseball cap, t-shirt and jeans.  Being a loner by nature, I find solitude a comfortable companion while sipping from a bottle of beer. 

 

"Knowledge never enters one's head through an open mouth," Grandma used to tell me and I cherish the comment.  So, I have ears that listen and Mr. Slick Willy wanted everyone to know how he was the real McCoy; the real, legitmate cowboy of the valley.  He had gathered cows, cured cancer, roped and branded calves, saved a maiden in distress, doctored injured horses, slayed a dragon, fought with a rogue bull, rescued a princess, and even tracked and found an orphan calf that had wandered off into the high country.  All before lunch...all by himself...and he never left the saddle, of course.

 

A part of me almost felt sorry for him.  Everyone knew he was the token "errand boy" for the ranch and he kept the highway warm rolling his fancy ranch truck to and from town for supplies. 

"I dare the man who would touch my hat," he drawled while strutting around the bar making sure everyone noticed the jingle-jangling from his spurs that he "accidentally" forgot to take off.

I raised an eyebrow and found the comment far too inviting, so I had to go.  All his nonsense had poisoned the air and, besides, I had to get busy with chores.  Irrigation water needed changed, fences needed mended, corrals needed cleaned and all the other chores to do on the ranch that are never ending --with my saddle never leaving its stand.

 

Cowboy.

The simple word conjures up a wild assortment of images.  Some involve whiskered, tobacco chewin' men swinging a lariat on horseback while others might see a man on horseback in a feedlot of 30,000 head identifying and doctoring sick stock.  Some flash to the bright lights of rodeo cowboys while others see a loner in the middle of the night, grasping a lantern while bottle feeding an abandoned calf.  Then, there's those that play cowboy dress-up like Mr. Slick Willy. 

There's so much tradition and value I attach to the word that I view the cowboy hat being an item that is earned, not a flashy decoration that simply is tossed on the head like the vulture in the cartoon and becoming an "Instant Cowboy."  Howdy, howdy, howdy!

 

But, I'm old fashioned...