Cowboy movies will get you killed.
Posted: Thu Jul 01, 2010 9:21 am
Cowboy movies will get you killed.
I was about seven years young when I entered my cowboy phase. Big brother Ike took sister Angel and yours truly to see a western movie. Gene Autry. I was hooked. I pestered Ike into taking me to more western flicks, read western comic books and went around singing cowboy songs. As I got more westernized, I talked dad into getting me a pair of real cowboy boots. They were my combination Christmas/birthday gift, he said. My bike, an old Hawthorn from the Montgomery Ward store in our town, was my trusty mount. I named it "Flash". At supper time I asked dad if he would replace the bike seat with a real saddle. I guess all the laughter was a "no". Gramps came through with an old fedora type hat. He lined the inside with newspaper until it fit, more or less. Mom pinned up the brim on both sides and I was set.
A length of clothesline became my "lasso". In the back yard I practiced trying to rope a fence post. Gramps watched my clumsy attempts, went into the house and returned carrying a real manila lasso. Then the lessons began. "This is a lariat. If ya calls it a lasso, I'll thrash ya with it". Then gramps showed me how to coil my rope, hold and spin it gradually into a loop, then make my toss. I learned later he had been a real working cowboy in New Mexico, before an unfortunate incident sent him northeast.
Anyway, I got pretty good at roping stationary objects. Clearly, I needed moving targets. Daryl would suffice. He was clueless. As many times as I roped him, he still ignored me as I moved into position, waiting patiently for him to walk or run so I would have a moving target. I also learned when not to rope Daryl. Like when he was on his way to the outhouse.
I graduated to roping from my bike. Tying the end of my lariat to the handlebar stem, I would peddle along with no hands, holding my coil and throwing my loop around posts, Daryl, and once Angel. She grabbed the rope and pulled me off my bike. Note to self. Don't rope Angel.
When you spend as much time and energy practicing something, you just have to try it for real. So, one morning I mounted ol' flash and peddled off for the back pasture where we had a small herd of Herefords in need of roping. Gramps watched me ride off singing some cowboy song.
Cresting a small hill in the back pasture, I stopped and looked over the herd. I chose a nearby cow and pedaled down the slope toward the grazing bovine. By the time the critter looked around and thought "Here comes that crazy Hoppy brat. I better git", I was near enough to toss my loop. It was a perfect throw. The loop slipped over cow's head and onto the neck, cow mooed and started a sluggish gallop. But wait. Cow was supposed to run ahead of me, not off to the side and back. My coil of lariat, still tied to the handlebar stem, Jerked my bike and me around and to the ground. At some point my pants leg got caught in the bikes chain. Cow ran, dragging bike and tangled hoppy with it, through every thistle and briar it could find. Eventually my overall leg tore off and I was free.
Gramps saw me limping across the front pasture. When I got close enough he saw how dirty and torn up my clothes were, how one overall leg was missing. So was one boot, one hat, one bike and one lariat. Gramps sent me into the house to our kitchen table first aid operating room, Where my new crop of cuts, scrapes and bruises were looked after. Gramps took the truck and headed out to the back pasture. When he returned he had my busted up bike and hat, which he pulled down over my eyes. He never found my other boot.
One would think that would be enough to make a kid forget about cowboys. Not so. All those Western movies I saw were permanently burned into my brain, to pop up on occasion and cause me misery all through my life.
I was about seven years young when I entered my cowboy phase. Big brother Ike took sister Angel and yours truly to see a western movie. Gene Autry. I was hooked. I pestered Ike into taking me to more western flicks, read western comic books and went around singing cowboy songs. As I got more westernized, I talked dad into getting me a pair of real cowboy boots. They were my combination Christmas/birthday gift, he said. My bike, an old Hawthorn from the Montgomery Ward store in our town, was my trusty mount. I named it "Flash". At supper time I asked dad if he would replace the bike seat with a real saddle. I guess all the laughter was a "no". Gramps came through with an old fedora type hat. He lined the inside with newspaper until it fit, more or less. Mom pinned up the brim on both sides and I was set.
A length of clothesline became my "lasso". In the back yard I practiced trying to rope a fence post. Gramps watched my clumsy attempts, went into the house and returned carrying a real manila lasso. Then the lessons began. "This is a lariat. If ya calls it a lasso, I'll thrash ya with it". Then gramps showed me how to coil my rope, hold and spin it gradually into a loop, then make my toss. I learned later he had been a real working cowboy in New Mexico, before an unfortunate incident sent him northeast.
Anyway, I got pretty good at roping stationary objects. Clearly, I needed moving targets. Daryl would suffice. He was clueless. As many times as I roped him, he still ignored me as I moved into position, waiting patiently for him to walk or run so I would have a moving target. I also learned when not to rope Daryl. Like when he was on his way to the outhouse.
I graduated to roping from my bike. Tying the end of my lariat to the handlebar stem, I would peddle along with no hands, holding my coil and throwing my loop around posts, Daryl, and once Angel. She grabbed the rope and pulled me off my bike. Note to self. Don't rope Angel.
When you spend as much time and energy practicing something, you just have to try it for real. So, one morning I mounted ol' flash and peddled off for the back pasture where we had a small herd of Herefords in need of roping. Gramps watched me ride off singing some cowboy song.
Cresting a small hill in the back pasture, I stopped and looked over the herd. I chose a nearby cow and pedaled down the slope toward the grazing bovine. By the time the critter looked around and thought "Here comes that crazy Hoppy brat. I better git", I was near enough to toss my loop. It was a perfect throw. The loop slipped over cow's head and onto the neck, cow mooed and started a sluggish gallop. But wait. Cow was supposed to run ahead of me, not off to the side and back. My coil of lariat, still tied to the handlebar stem, Jerked my bike and me around and to the ground. At some point my pants leg got caught in the bikes chain. Cow ran, dragging bike and tangled hoppy with it, through every thistle and briar it could find. Eventually my overall leg tore off and I was free.
Gramps saw me limping across the front pasture. When I got close enough he saw how dirty and torn up my clothes were, how one overall leg was missing. So was one boot, one hat, one bike and one lariat. Gramps sent me into the house to our kitchen table first aid operating room, Where my new crop of cuts, scrapes and bruises were looked after. Gramps took the truck and headed out to the back pasture. When he returned he had my busted up bike and hat, which he pulled down over my eyes. He never found my other boot.
One would think that would be enough to make a kid forget about cowboys. Not so. All those Western movies I saw were permanently burned into my brain, to pop up on occasion and cause me misery all through my life.
