Don’t always follow your dreams, was advice for those about to graduate in an article on Monday’s editorial page. The point was maturity and circumstances often intervene.
Don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys, was one admonition. That’s exactly what I wanted to be for several years when Roy and Gene and other guys in white hats were my idols.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad to have a tangled mop of grizzled hair, leathery skin, bowed legs and calloused hands. Especially after I got to know A.L. Daughtery, a fellow down Roswell way who spent 50 years cowboying on Lost Lake Ranch, most of them as foreman. Early to bed, early to rise may not have made him healthy, wealthy and wise, but he sure did have a lot of tales to tell.
When I got a little older, astronomy was sure to be my focus. I’d spend many evenings kicked back in our backyard, soaking in celestial wonders. I could never rattle off the names of particular groups, other than the dippers, but found my little twinkling friends amazing.
In high school I was introduced to chemistry and biology by Frank Hemphill, and for a time I wanted to be just like him, bright, organized and a teacher whom everyone respected. A little later it was math, which came easily at that level. May Stange encouraged me and when I enrolled at Pittsburg State I was bound for a career based on numbers. Calculus and differential equations changed my mind.
All the while I worked evenings at the Pittsburg Sun, a morning paper. First as a proofreader and then a sportswriter. I enjoyed putting words together in what I thought was a somewhat interesting fashion. When Bud Roberts, the Register’s wire and sports editor, quit, I was given opportunity to come to Iola.
That was in 1964 and with a year of college left before graduation, I thought it would be for a year or two. In 1965 Beverly and I married and until Brenda was born in 1969, the option of returning to school was on the table.
Now, nearly 52 years later I have no regrets. I’ve made a multitude of friends and have had the pleasure of writing about many of them, as well as goodness knows how many other things that affect our little corner of the world.
However, tucked away in a box somewhere is my old Red Ryder neckerchief and six-shooter. I wonder if there’s any demand for an over-the-hill cowboy wannabe.
