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Roy Rogers

Cowboy Up!

August 23, 2019 by Peg Leave a Comment

Before October 4, 1957 when the Soviet Union launched Sputnik 1 American boys knew who they admired and what they wanted to be, cowboys. From the days of Hoot Gibson and Tom Mix to Hopalong Cassidy and the Durango Kid until Gene Autry and Roy Rogers boys of all backgrounds dreamed the same dream. Then America watched as our global boogeyman leapfrogged over us and put us in fear of destruction from above. Cowboys’ six guns became obsolete and American boys, girls too, dreamed of being astronauts. John Glenn orbited the earth aboard a new fire-breathing steed and from 1957 until Clint Eastwood’s movie The Good, The Bad and The Ugly that came out in 1966 during the throes of the Viet Nam War American boys left cowboys in the dust. However, since this is America, a sense of emergency and panic can only be maintained a short while before we revert to our roots.

As a one-time American boy I made the same progression. I fell back from my completely unrealistic dream of becoming a physicist to my only somewhat unrealistic, albeit subdued and hidden yearning, to be a cowboy. Returning to the days of Gene Autry was much easier than facing the reality that I will not be helping to settle Mars. However, the declining dreams of a young boy are themselves sometimes painful to reconstruct when one is separated from them by time. But the fates did recently allow me an opportunity to kind of revisit those thrilling days of yesteryear. I got to herd one cow.

Now, when I was playing cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood boys in Pawhuska, Osage County, Oklahoma in the 1950’s several of my friends were, in fact, real Indians and several of them were, in fact, the sons of real cowboys. Of course, since we boys had not yet had the advantage of adult myopia we were unaffected by the niceties of who was supposed to be what. We all were whatever the scenario we thought up called for. Alas, we grew up, sort of.

However, let me return to my recent opportunity to turn back the clock to the dreams of grade school days. When Peg and I bought a cabin in rural Osage County a few months ago we not only found a new home but also a new friend who was the prior owner and a real cowboy. How lucky was that? Anyway, Johnny runs some cattle on our place and those cattle are like the rest of us; they do not always stay put. Occasionally a cow will find its way out onto the public road. Such was the case yesterday. So, as my brother and I were heading to Bartlesville about 20 miles from our cabin to run errands for Peg, we encountered a large black cow with a white face happily munching on the right-of-way bluestem grass. I saw my chance to live that five-year-old boy’s dreams.

I jumped out of my pickup and approached that cow with a confidence that can only come from ignorance. As I got closer and closer to the bovine behemoth, instead of her fearing me as I anticipated she took the attitude of a large animal upset by someone interrupting her dinner. Having neither horse nor rope nor the ability to use either had I had them I retreated and called for backup on my cell phone.

“Johnny, it’s Jim. One of your cows is out.”

“Jim, I’m in Oklahoma City.”

“Johnny, what the devil do you want me to do?”

“Why, nothing Jim, unless you want to. I’ll be back in The Osage in a few hours and I’ll deal with it. This is cowboy work.”

Well, Johnny is obviously a true psychologist as that last statement cut deep into my boyhood psyche. I just clicked off my phone and girded my loins up about me as I ran towards Miss Bossie and waved my arms. Apparently she was so amused she decided to amble back into her pasture and I shut the gate behind her.

Now I know some of you Gentle Readers are probably thinking this event may not be quite as impressive as The Lone Ranger cleaning out a nest of rustlers. But to me it’s just a matter of degree. They both qualify for cowboy status. My dreams have finally come true. I’m going to buy a hat and boots and find a drugstore where I can prop my boots up on the bar rail, tip my hat back and sip a sarsaparilla.

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Filed Under: America, Gavel Gamut, JPeg Osage Ranch, Oklahoma, Osage County, Russia Tagged With: Astronauts, bluestem grass, cattle, Clint Eastwood, cowboys, Durango Kid, Gene Autry, Gentle Readers, Hoot Gibson, Hopalong Cassidy, Indians, James M. Redwine, Jim Redwine, John Glenn, Johnny Kelley, Oklahoma, Osage County, Pawhuska, Roy Rogers, sarsaparilla, Soviet Union, Sputnik 1, Tom Mix

Two Bit Seats

August 8, 2016 by Peg Leave a Comment

Dad would give my brother Philip and me 25¢ each on Saturday morning. This was money well invested. It got us out of the house so Mom and our older sister Janie and brother Sonny could clean it. Plus, for only 50¢ Mom and Dad could concentrate on chores we kids were not trusted with, such things as paying the weekly bills and preparing for Sunday’s church related duties.

Phil and I would walk the two miles to the picture show which opened at 9:30 am. 10¢ of our quarter would purchase a black and white double feature of black hat/white hat cowboy movies that started with a serial starring Rocket Man or some wobbly paper mache dinosaurs.

Popcorn was 5¢, a pop was 5¢ and a candy bar one could actually make breakfast of was 5¢. The floor was cement and sticky. There was only one exit. And the sounds from 50 screaming kids made the bare brick walls quiver.

You might think because I grew up on the Osage Indian Reservation my friends and I would root for the Indians. Nope, you see while many of the kids were Indians many of them also lived on cattle ranches. Everybody cheered for Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Lash LaRue, Jimmy Wakely and especially the Durango Kid.

Although we kids on the main floor did not see or mix with the Colored kids in the balcony, we could occasionally hear an approving murmur from above when an Indian won a skirmish. We paid no attention.

Life was good on Saturday mornings in Pawhuska, Oklahoma for my brother and me in the 1950’s. Movies for a quarter assuaged all worries, even shoe soles that stuck to the floor.

I recalled those halcyon days last weekend when Peg and I went to a movie in Evansville, Indiana. Although I truly am a romantic guy I had not taken Peg to the theatre since Rocky lost to Apollo Creed. We were both amazed at the changes.

Peg had ordered our tickets online so I could not find some (any) reason to be somewhere (anywhere) else. Can you believe people do not even use the monetary system that has served us well since the Phoenicians were trading around the Mediterranean? Peg did not tell me what the tickets cost before we went and I assumed it was an act of wifely love when Peg said she’d get the popcorn and Cokes. She told me to find which of the ten or so screens our movie was playing on.

When Peg came up with our refreshments we entered our venue and found a carpeted floor with woven directions to our row and assigned seats. We sat down on and were enveloped in deep, plush recliners with electric controls. Some other customers were already reclining so far back their only view was their toes. I heard a couple of people snoring.

The movie was of the action genre. In fact, the plot appeared to be one long car chase broken up by intermittent motorcycle crashes. After two hours of deafening destruction, mercy arrived with the credits. However, as we were struggling to rise from the den furniture, Peg told me we had to stop by the theatre’s office before we left.

When we got to the office I casually referred to the cost of my childhood movies. The manager smiled condescendingly and pushed a legal size document toward us which had a listing of the cost of our tickets and refreshments. I thought it unusual that it asked for our Social Security numbers, birthdates and employment history. Then I saw the caption: Credit Application.

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(Thanks to Cindy & Jeff Smotherman for the use of their photograph of the new theatre seats.)

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Filed Under: Gavel Gamut, Personal Fun Tagged With: action genre, Gene Autry, Jimmy Wakely, Lash LaRue, movie, movie theater seats, Oklahoma, Pawhuska, Roy Rogers, The Durango Kid

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