A Real Cowboy

I always wanted to be a cowboy. A while back, as I strutted through an airport, decked out in boots, jeans, a big belt buckle, western, snap-button shirt and wide-brimmed, ten-gallon 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.

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But once I lost my enthusiasm for being a cowboy — all on account of Dolly Jo. Now, a fellow can’t depend on his eyes when his imagination is out of focus, and at age seventeen, I imagined Dolly Jo was the most perfect female the Lord had ever created. I was determined to be her man. Back in those days, a group of farmers in the Mississippi Delta held rodeos on 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, the rodeos 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.”

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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 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 had trampled my hat to shreds. Instantly, the bandanna and I became the same color. As I jerked up my pants, 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.

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