Ask Yourself . . . Do You Feel Lucky?

I did not realize, until this weekend, that this year was the 50^th anniversary of the classic Clint Eastwood film, A Fist Full of Dollars.  This is the epitome of the spaghetti westerns . . . the standard for all the others to follow.  This was the movie of the “man with no name”.  Wow!  I am getting old . . . I never realized how long ago that movie came out.  It was the movie that launched a career.

I am in that generation that caught the tail end of the great westerns.  The movies and television shows with John Wayne, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers . . . Gunsmoke, Rawhide, Bonanza, Rifle Man, and the Lone Ranger.  Trust me, as a kid, those movies and shows made an impact on me . . . my imagination ran wild as I created western after western in my daily play.  I longed to be a cowboy . . . still do. 

Of course, I did not want to grow up to be a singing cowboy like Roy Rogers or Gene Autry . . . first of all, even at a young age, I realized I could not carry a tune in a bucket much less sing; second of all, it didn’t quite seem realistic to see some cowboy sitting on a horse singing to a bunch of cows.  Seems kind of wimpy to me.  At first I really wanted to be like the Lone Ranger and have a side kick like Tonto . . . but that seemed silly to me . . . to be riding around with a mask . . . and, where in the world would I get all of those silver bullets.  John Wayne . . . well, what can I say?  What youngster didn’t want to grow up to be the “Duke”?  John Wayne was the epitome of the cowboy . . . at least for a generation raised on being a good guy; but then there came “the man with no name” . . . the spaghetti western . . . and, Clint Eastwood.  John Wayne was supposed to be the strong silent type of cowboy, but compared to Clint Eastwood, John Wayne was a regular jabber mouth.  Clint Eastwood was who I wanted to be.

Years ago, Willie Nelson and his buddy, Waylon Jennings, sang the song that explained it all about being a cowboy . . . Mamma, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.  They got it right.  They told the truth about cowboys.  Remember these lyrics:

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks

Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

They'll never stay home and they're always alone

Even with someone they love

Cowboys ain't easy to love and they're harder to hold

And they'd rather give you a song than diamonds or gold

Lonestar belt buckles and old faded Levis

And each night begins a new day

And if you don't understand him and he don't die young

You'll probably just ride away

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks

Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

They'll never stay home and they're always alone

Even with someone they love

Cowboys like smoky old pool rooms, clear mountain mornings

Little warm puppies and children, girls of the night

And them that don't know him won't like him and them that do

Sometimes won't know how to take him

He ain't wrong, he's just different but his pride won't let him

Do things to make you think he's right

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks

Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

They'll never stay home and they're always alone

Even with someone they love

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Don't let 'em pick guitars and drive them old trucks

Make 'em be doctors and lawyers and such

Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys

I wanted to be a cowboy and I wanted to be a cowboy like ol’ Waylon and Willie sang about . . . I wanted to be a cowboy like the man with no name . . . like Clint Eastwood.  Eastwood was the more realistic cowboy.  John Wayne was good, but John Wayne was . . . well, he was more civilized.  John Wayne lived among people . . . had a ranch . . . socialized . . . talked . . . even had a wife in a lot of his movies.  He was an extrovert.  Clint, well . . . he stayed away from people because people always seemed to mess up his life . . . if he had a ranch someone always seemed to take it away, thus he was a loner . . . he socialized when he had to socialize, but for the most part he pretty much stayed to himself . . . talk, that is a laugh.  If he spoke more than a hundred lines in a movie I would be surprised.  A wife?  Has hell froze over?  Clint Eastwood was an introvert.  He was a real cowboy just like Waylon and Willie sang about.

I transitioned from the “golden age” of cowboys into the more realistic age of cowboys.  Now, don’t get me wrong, the “golden age” of cowboys caught my heart and imagination, but it was the beginning of the spaghetti westerns that stole my heart.  It was the era of the introvert as hero . . . or, should I say, anti-hero.  That was the sort of cowboy I wanted to be . . . and, in all honesty, still long to be. 

Since John Wayne and Clint Eastwood there have not been a whole lot of new role models for being a cowboy.  Oh sure, Kevin Costner attempted to put out a couple of westerns (Dances Like Wolves and Open Range) that were pretty good movies, but he couldn’t bump the two big boys off the pedestal.  I guess we humans have a tendency to gravitate towards those things that are the most like us . . . John Wayne, the extrovert and shining white knight—I mean, cowboy, was nice; but, being an introvert . . . Clint Eastwood was a loner!

I am beginning to get a little too old to be a cowboy . . . but, I have moved to Montana.  Montana is pretty close to being a cowboy haven . . . maybe not in actual cowboying, but in attitude.  There are not a lot of people . . . there is a whole lot of empty space to get lost in . . . and, the people here are pretty darn independent.  Sounds a whole lot more like a cowboy than a state like California.  The wife, years ago, acknowledged my desire to be a cowboy . . . she gave me a children’s book about cowboys, and then told me—more or less—to get over it.  Yet, the longing is still there.

I feel lucky.  I feel lucky that I can go and get in my pick-up truck and drive off into the landscape . . . out into the open country . . . to view God’s handiwork up close.  I feel lucky that I can stop at some small town’s local restaurant/bar and grab a quick lunch and beer among some real cowboys.  I feel lucky that I can . . . well, imagine that for a few hours out in the country, driving my pick-up, feel like a cowboy . . . feel like Clint Eastwood.  Sometimes I even put in the sound track from a Fist Full of Dollars by Ennio Morricone just to feel like a Clint Eastwood sort of cowboy.  Who would have ever thought that it would be an Italian, Sergio Leone, who made the epitome of the classic American cowboy?

Mostly, though, I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to dream . . . to dream of being a cowboy.  Lucky to be around to celebrate the 50^th anniversary of the classic spaghetti western, A Fist Full of Dollars . . . and, to have that dream rekindled.  I am not sure the wife will be ready for this revival . . . but, hey!  She should have known better . . . I warned her.  As I told her . . . “Go ahead, make my day!”  I feel lucky.