My father had a thing about cowboys and the Old West. He loved Western movies, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour novels, and Marty Robbins’s Gunfighter Ballads album. He did Western-style crafts like working leather. (Once his car blew a gasket on the road. He just happened to have some leather in the car and fashioned a new gasket from it with his pocket knife. But I digress.)
He wasn’t an authentic cowboy, of course. He only ever lived in Kentucky and Ohio, neither of which has any cowboys to speak of. (Kentucky has lots of horses, of course, but they need trainers and jockeys, not cowpokes and wranglers. But I digress again.)
Through most of his life, Dad (we called him Melvyn, though his name was really James) worked in a government job as an Industrial Engineering Technician. (I never quite got over the fact that I was never going to be able to write a country song that went, “I was born an Industrial Engineering Technician’s daughter.” But I digress yet again). He did time and motion study and had a clipboard with a stopwatch, and also a slide rule, which he tried to teach me how to use. Fortunately, he kept his work at the office and never tried to improve the family’s efficiency.
But he was a cowboy at heart. When the family was on a road trip, he liked to pretend that we were in a covered wagon or buckboard pulled by horses. He’d shout, “Get up, Smoky! Yah! (whip-cracking noises and whistles)” and similar encouragements, particularly if we were going up a hill. As kids, we loved this and played along. He sometimes called my mother “Old Squaw,” which she didn’t take as an insult, though these days it would be considered culturally inappropriate.
(My husband sometimes calls me “Old Boot,” which is a term of endearment between us. We have many other peculiar ways of referring to each other, like “Thing” or “Doodle,” which we tend not to do when there are other people around. But I digress some more.)
When he retired from his government job, Melvyn went back to (or invented) his cowboy roots. He wore Western or plaid shirts, old jeans, and a cowboy hat wherever he went. (Once, when he was thus arrayed and leaning on a cane, he went into a Ponderosa restaurant and a little boy looked at him and asked, “Did you get shooted by an Indian?” Dad loved to tell that story. But I digress even more.) For some reason, he never got cowboy boots, preferring sneakers instead.
Dad was a gun collector who bought and traded pistols and rifles with his buddies over the years. He left them to me when he died. (Once, when I went shooting at a gun range with some of my fellow martial arts students, I brought along the revolver. All the guys (who had automatics) wanted to try out “the cowboy gun,” but only one, who knew me well (my eye doctor), dared to ask me directly. But I digress still more.)
Even with all that, my father wasn’t the oddest member of our family. That honor belonged to Uncle Sam (yes, he really was named that; we also had an Aunt Jemima). Sam was a sharecropper in the hills of Kentucky, and it was said that he was a moonshiner. I don’t know if he made the stuff, but he used to keep a jar of it hidden in his barn.
There aren’t any horse thieves in the family. At least not that I know about.
I officially retired last year, when my birthday hit the federal standards, and I’m here to tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.
But I Digress . . . 