When I was a little girl, I thought – for some reason – that my father was normal. So he wore cowboy boots. That was okay because we were Southern and lived on a farm.
And he watched Gunsmoke. A lot. And John Wayne movies. Fine.
He always wore plaid shirts and blue jeans. He played with his cows in his free time, even though he really made money in construction. And he had a Colt revolver. And horses – ornery ones. And Western saddles. Still not too strange.
It wasn’t until the day I saw him decked out in chaps and sheepskin vest with a ten-gallon on his head and a whip at his side, headed out for roping practice on the horse he’d recently broke, that I realized: my daddy was Not Normal.
Like many his age, he’d been caught up in the cowboy mystique when he was young. Too much Howdy Doody and Red Ryder on television, too many singings of Happy Trails and Red River Valley, had affected his brain. He thought he was a cowboy.
My mother didn’t think very highly of it, particularly when he filled the gun rack in the hallway with Western rifles. A gunbelt hung casually on one side of it, each little slot filled with a bullet and the pistol weighting it all down; on the other side, two different hats and a whip increased the clutter factor, as did the brown leather chaps and the Western vest. Shotgun shells and bullets littered the shelf at the bottom, and little drawers were filled with gun-related implements. The whole thing must have been worth thousands of dollars.
Mom was sure my brothers and I would get into it. We just ignored it. We were used to my dad’s eccentricities.
And so I grew up watching him learn how to rope calves, then cows; seeing him train the dogs to herd so they could help him out; watching him ride around nosebleed cliffs to get to the newborn calves in the winter, when ice coated all the rocks.
When he started out, he was a wannabe. There’s no doubt. Chaps and a horse do not make you a cowboy.
A cowboy is made by being ground across the rocks and thistles of the wilderness – sometimes literally, when the horse tosses you. A cowboy is shaped and moulded through backbreaking labor in the still mists of morning, by delivering the breech calf in the dead of night. When you’ve broken ice around the dying baby calf, carried it into the barn with its lowing mother following, and lit the kerosene stove to warm it up and watch the life rise back up in it, that’s when you start being a cowboy.
I was never a cowgirl. Though it was me who held the bucket for the messy-mouthed babies to nurse from, I didn’t like it. I disdained the hard work in the sun. The horses didn’t like me much; one of them bit me on the shoulder when she first came to us, leaving a bruise that took a month to fade. And guns – forget about it!
But over the years, I watched my dad build his skills, growing better every day, keeping his cattle under control and selling them off for extra money. He bought more land for the farm he could barely afford at first. He sold off the tobacco base, focusing on having land to wander, and never allowed hunting for fear one of the damn slickers would shoot one of his animals instead of a deer. More than once, he ran off encroaching hunters. Men with two-shot deer rifles won’t cross an angry mounted cowboy with a gun and a whole bunch of bullets.
He doesn’t do that stuff any more. He did something stupid involving a non-filed sight, a loaded gun, and quick-draw practice, and I guess the hole in his foot soured him on the whole real-cowboy concept. But he still has the horses, though they’re aging and swaybacked, and every so often there’s a new baby calf to take care of.
But he’s always going to be a cowboy. He’s always going to have that thread of America running through him, the refusal to back down, the determination to succeed through hour upon hour of fruitless practice, willing life out of stony land and frozen baby calves.
A cowboy isn’t Gene Autry or even John Wayne. Most cowboys never got into a gunfight. But when you’re finding someone who defines who and what America is, that’s the cowboy: grit and determination and hard work and love for freedom and what you have. Being a cowboy isn’t about possessions or money. It’s about finding that toughness at your core, the moral structure, the work ethic, and growing that fibrous root into a cactus flower, prickly and remarkable. It’s about making the desert within us bloom. And it’s about just existing, being as much a part of the world around you as it is a part of you.
We need more cowboys.
The Celebrity Cowboy switches on his serious mode and publishes a 
