About to get off from my crazy shift and have a few days off to catch up with life, and recharge, and write. Sorry for the skips on posts.
I've always been fascinated with old Western movies, I think it was mostly because my father would pick them out at the rental store nearly every time (if there wasn't a good Arnold Schwarzeneggar flick). Sure it was all action, but it wasn't the bullets or the cuss words (which I learned the day after not to use) that got me, it was the little scenes depicting frontier life and the unspoken code of honor back then, even among the villains (unless they were nuts-O).
Of course we'd re-enact the High Noon scenes with our G.I. Joe toys, little plastic pretend cowboys speaking in childish immigrant english. It didn't feel right if we pretended to be cowboys for some reason. We were different. We let our toys pretend for us instead, after all, Sergeant Slaughter sported a mean moustache.
Even though we were different, it was that strict code of ethics and honor that called to us--to our childish eyes it seemed as if they were penned by heroes to guide them, us.
It's just too bad we had to grow up and learn the truth.
*picture is originally from http://www.dansadlier.com/2012/07/on-cowboys-beavers-and-witches/
04/21/2014 (Tuesday)- Cowboys and Immigrants
I met a cowboy at the corner of Main and Norwich, it was high noon and yet his shadow stretched out reaching all the way West. He looked familiar, but then all memories tend to look familiar after many years, yet we never acknowledge or say hello to them.
So I said nothing as we stood at the corner. Him on his horse. Me in my red converse. Both watching for the yellow walking light to change. Waiting.
He tipped his hat and smiled as he crossed, I knew if I followed I’d remember.
I waved good-bye, heading East.