I always wanted to be a cowboy. A while back, as I strutted through the airport, decked out in boots, jeans, a huge belt buckle, a western, snap-button shirt and wide-brimmed Stetson, a little girl tugged at her mother’s dress, pointed at me and squealed, “Look, Mama — a real cowboy!” I’m still floating on that comment.
But once I lost my enthusiasm for being a cowboy, and it was all on account of Dolly Jo. Now, a fellow can’t depend on his eyes when his imagination is out of focus, and when I was seventeen years old, I imagined Dolly Jo was the most perfect female the Lord ever created. I was determined to be her man.
Back in those days, local farmers held rodeos on summer weekends … not big, western-style rodeos, but every bit as much fun. With nothing more than a small arena, a few bleachers, and a concession stand, these events attracted folks from miles around, eager to watch calf roping, steer wrestling, bronco bustin’ … and bull riding.
It was a fine September afternoon, and a bunch of us kids were watching the bull riders when Dolly Jo crooned, “Those men are so-o-o brave! I hope I marry a man that brave.”
That’s all it took. The very next weekend I was in line with the other contestants, and drew a bull named “Die Young.”
With my ten-gallon hat pulled down tight and a bright red bandanna around my neck, I glanced over at Dolly Jo as I straddled the roaring beast. She shot me back the most perfect look of love a man’s ever likely to get in this life. I was scared stiff, but remembering that famous cowboy saying — when you ain’t got no choice, be brave — I yelled, “Let ’em rip.”
What I expected was bucking; what I got was a whirling dervish. That bull’s feet never left the ground. All he did was rotate so fast I thought both of us would be churned to butter. The next thing I knew, instead of me riding him, he was riding me!
It didn’t last long. When I staggered to my feet I saw Die Young making a victory lap around the arena with my shirt flapping from his leg, and the crowd’s laughter was rocking the bleachers.
They were laughing because the only thing I had on was the bandanna! My pants were down around my boots, and Die Young was wearing my shirt. Instantly, the bandanna and I became the same color.
As I jerked my pants up, I glanced at Dolly Jo. Not only was she howling like a hyena, but also she had her arms around Brander, our football team’s star running back.
Funny how love is sometimes. My heart was broken, and I could no longer even bear to look at Dolly Jo.
Not long afterwards, her daddy’s company transferred him to Texas, and a few years later I got the news: Dolly Jo married a real cowboy.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
