..that your babies will grow up to be cowboys
August 4, 2010 (Wednesday)
The song says, “Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys. Don’t let ’em pick guitars and drive them old trucks.” What kind of cowboys is the song talking about? Certainly not real cowboys, most of whom have disappeared like an extinct species.
I have met some real cowboys from time to time in my treks from church to church across Texas. Most of them would not answer if you called for “cowboys,” for they never called themselves by that name. The one that really stands out it my mind was a fellow named, “Slim.” He took care of my father-in-law’s property and cattle. I guess you would call it a “ranch” today, because there were a lot of acres, many cattle, some horses, and, from time to time, other live stock and sometimes crops, mainly used as feed for animals. And fences. All made from scratch with hard work.
Slim’s designation, like so many others of his kind, was “hand.” He was the “hand” that took care of the “place.” He didn’t wear fancy alligator boots, rhinestones, a blocked hat and designer rodeo clothes. His hat was half felt and half sweat, and fit just right from years of use. His jeans were more than likely whatever was affordable. His boots were well-worn and reached high up on his calf to protect him from occasional trips through the brush. He never strummed a guitar and he never sang a song of any kind. He just tended to the place, looked after the cattle, took care of the horses, and himself. He always had a cigarette he had rolled himself. He was the real thing. Oh, and he never drove a truck. Or a car. As far as I know, he never knew how to drive. If he went anywhere, it was always at someone’s invitation and they did the driving.
The modern idea of a cowboy who drives a pickup truck, rides mechanical bulls, drinks as much beer as he can hold, plays guitar and sings country songs is our invention. Genuine cowboys came into being because they were needed. There are still some to be found, but most are gone.
