Ah hankered bein’ a cowboy.
No sissy girl me–
plaid shirt,
metal six-shooter
with explodin’ caps–
‘n chaps!
Them chaps smelled
‘n itched.
They looked like
real leather
‘n wuther they wuz
or wuzn’t
ah reckon made no differnce,
fer once ah suited up,
ah wuz Tom Mix,
Roy Rogers,
the Lone Ranger.
Me, jest a wrangler,
a stranger in town.
Ah’d mosey on down
to the Palace Theater
fer the Saturday matinee,
‘n there they wuz–
‘ol Roy, Tom,
Kemo Sabe,
Trigger, Silver, Scout.
Sumtimes ah’d chew on
licorice ’n spit it out
like ah seen them cowboys do,
bitin’ off a chaw
‘n aw, muh horse–
Red were his name.
An Irish Setter, but nothin’
better t’ a six year old
fer he were bigger’n me.
A helluvva lot bigger.
We’d hunker down
‘n ah’d tell ‘im stories
‘bout the Wild West
‘n how we ‘scaped the Injuns.
Sing cowboy songs,
‘n mebbe yodel.
Ah had a bruther ’n nuther
of his friends liked me none.
They’d tie me
t’ a oak tree ’n tell me
ah wuz strapped there
by a Injun,
‘n ah’d spen’ the day
jest tryin’ t’ break free.
‘Ol Red, with his
tongue hangin’ out
never left muh side.
Ah knows he wuz thirsty.
Me tied t’ that tree
workin’ t’ get free
‘n Red not leavin’ me–
Those wuz gooood days.
Lemme tell ya ‘bout
muh cowboy hat:
Pure straw with a feather
in the band.
Pa tucked it in
‘n it were from a pigeon.
Ma braided me a
lariat out a ball
a string she collected.
Big as Pa’s fist
that ball,
‘n sumtimes ah looped
that lariat ’round ‘ol Red,
cuz that’s whatcha you do
with your horse.
Ya lead ‘im ‘t pasture,
ya lead ‘im ‘t drink,
‘n he allus heps
ya ketch the bad guys.
Ah ‘member that hat
with Pa’s feather
in the band,
Ma’s string lariat
braided by hand,
muh six-shooter
with explodin’ caps,
the leather chaps
that made me itch,
the chomp ‘n spit
a licorice.
Ah ‘member muh Ma,
ah ‘member muh Pa,
ah even ‘member
muh bruther.
But if’n ah had muh druthers,
it’s ‘ol Red ah’d pine t’ see.
He long since dead ‘n buried
b’neath that Injun tree.
‘ Jan Chapman–Recollections from my childhood
April, 2011
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