Through attire, they pay homage to cowboy way of life

The lady and I had just finished a second trip around the dance floor at a local watering hole. As is my tendency, I had been taking murmured jabs at the numerous, young, Stetson-wearing “cowboys” on the floor.

“I don’t know what you’re being so sarcastic about,” she said as I escorted her to her table. “I think you’ve got a lot of cowboy in you, too.”

“Yee-haw,” I said.

“No, really,” she persisted. “You really do.” She looked at me with what I perceived as a modicum of interest, so I wasn’t about to argue, but I nevertheless remained pessimistic.

I don’t own a Stetson, I quit wearing cowboy boots when my mother quit buying them for me, and most of my jeans are black. Furthermore, I think horses are terrible, devious creatures bent on doing me harm, I like cows on the barbecue only, and I’m much too old to be considered a “boy.”

I also recalled a song from some time back titled “Mammas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.” Twangy Willie and Waylon warned of cowboy aloofness, smoky poolrooms, and, if I remember correctly, “girls of the night.” Those didn’t seem like things my mother would want on my resume.

I’d been in enough “cowboy” bars to know pointy-toed boots didn’t make the wearers dance any better. Their violent, jerky moves, in fact, seemed more likely to wrest arms from sockets than provide pleasure to their partners. They seemed to favor longneck bottled beer over glasses of Merlot, usually looked as if they had a big wad of cotton stuffed between their teeth and lower lip, and were almost comical as they attempted to sit down in their tight jeans.

Real cowboys I’d observed – the ones like Gene Autry and Roy Rogers – who actually knew something about horses and cattle, were a bit dusty, drove old pickup trucks when not aboard a friendly horse named Trigger or Champ, and had a good singing voice. They rescued damsels in distress, and when they were feeling really wild and crazy, had sarsaparilla. Those in the Spokane bar wore shiny boots, pearl-buttoned shirts, belt buckles the size of garbage can lids, and perfectly pressed Levis. Some carried cell phones. I mentioned some of this to my dance partner.

“They may be cowboys, and they may not,” she said. ” ‘Cowboy’ is an attitude. Cowboys are independent. They treat you like a lady.”

“If these guys are so independent,” I said, “why do they dress like all their friends?” I looked across the room to where a “cowboy” was asking a lady to dance by grabbing her arm and jerking her onto the floor. “Is that the way ladies like to be treated?” I asked sarcastically.

I sensed a waning passion in my dance partner, so I figured that with nothing to lose, I might as well continue. “Ninety-eight percent of the ‘cowboys’ in here have never been on a horse. They’re probably afraid of cows. They work in supermarkets and retail stores and service stations. They’re in costume, for cryin’ out loud!”

The lady sat down at her table, and ever hopeful, I pulled up a chair across from her. She looked at me, and her eyes flashed. “OK, most of them live here in town. Many of them have never branded a steer. But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” I asked.

“Cowboys,” she said, “are men who long for a free, rugged lifestyle. And even though the cowboy life has changed, even disappeared in most places, it is still necessary for some to at least hold onto the dream. If they could, they’d go back to the land, to a simpler era. They know cowboys are part of our heritage – a defense against these crazy times.”

She swept her hand about the room. “These guys,” she continued, “are nourishing their souls. They wish for a time that can’t be reclaimed. You think they are in costume, I think they are trying to hold onto an attitude. I feel sad for them. But I also admire them.” She looked at me and smiled. “And I still think you have a lot of cowboy in you.”

“Are you a cowgirl?” I asked cautiously.

“And proud of it,” she said. She was beautiful.

“Giddyup,” I said. I was more confused than ever, but I also was wondering where I could get me one of those big buckles.