The Last American Cowboy

If a Soldier cries in his trailer in Iraq, and there is no one around to hear it...did he really cry?

I know I have written before about Heroes. I use the word; probably a little more than most...I get that. It's just that in my mind, if I truly look up to someone, and strive to be like them someday, that defines them as a HERO in my book. I've mentioned the Soldiers that go out on patrol and how I feel like they are Heroes for doing what they do everyday. I have talked about my Dad, and how he is a Hero to me for all the things that he has ever done. He has been an example that I hope to live up to. I guess, that must run in the family...because I can't imagine he didn't feel the same about his Dad.

I was blessed, growing up, with the special fact that I had "Three sets of Grandparents." (In reality it was Family Dysfunction through the generations...but I liked to think of it as special.) Of the three sets, I had my favorite. I know. You aren't supposed to have favorites when it comes to family...but I couldn't help it. Besides, how could you not have a favorite when your Grandpa's name is "Babe?"

There are several standard answers that a young boy gives when asked, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" These answers include, but are not limited to, "Fireman, Policeman, Astronaut, Doctor, and Cowboy." If you ask my son, he wants to be "A Power Ranger, or a ninja...or a veterinarian." I guess he's leaving his options open. I wanted to be all of the above...including the ninja. But, of those...Cowboy had a special place in my heart.

I want to clarify something at this point. When I say "COWBOY"...I am not talking about some big, goatee wearing, Mullet sporting guy in a Stetson singing about a 'Honky Tonk Badonka Donk.' Neither am I talking about some baby boomer with too much money that spends his spare change buying horses and ranches and wears 'Designer' cowboy hats in between trips to the country club. When I say "COWBOY" I mean the tough son of gun who, at age Sixty-something, was still working Rodeos...got kicked in the chest by a Bronco...and got back up and kicked the horse right back. I'm talking about the man who never did things the easy way, because if was worth doing, it was worth doing right. I'm talking about my Grandfather.

I want to talk about him...and the relentless son of a bitch that is stealing him away from us all.

To me...he is the epitome of "MAN." He was tough, but not mean. He was compassionate, without being weak. He was complex, without being complicated. He was the type of man that I think any young boy...or man...would want to strive to be like. I think that is why my Dad turned out to be the man he is...and in turn, that is the type of man I hope to one day be.

I remember going to visit him as a young boy...and riding a horse for the first time. It was my Dad's horse, "Shorty." Grandpa got him ready to ride...saddled him up and all that. Then I remember another trip...we were older, and my brother and I wanted to ride horses again. This time it was a bit different. Shorty had long since passed, and the new horses were not quite as 'docile.' We had to go 'get them' from the pasture and bring them into the corral so Grandpa could saddle them up. Being the stupid 'city kid' that I was, after we got them into the corral I let the reins go.

Woops.

The horse I was holding decided that at that precise moment it would be a perfect time to 'do some laps.' He reared up and backed away from me and Grandpa, and then started sprinting (I found out later that horses GALLOP...not sprint.) around the pen. Grandpa looked at me, a confused and sympathetic look across his face and asked me ever so gently..."What the hell did you let him go for, ya' Idiot?" I watched in amazement as this man amongst men took his hat in one hand and boldly walked toward this obviously agitated animal. He waved his arms, and stepped in front of the horse. The horse kept running straight at him. I watched as he slapped the horse's hind quarters as it ran by, at the same time grabbed the reins and stopped the animal in its tracks. It was absolutely amazing. He then taught us how to ride...for real. How to 'steer' the horse, and make it go faster, and make it stop. I loved it...every second of it.

I have not been on a horse since then.

I remember going with him and Grandma to one of their weekly get togethers. Grandpa played the guitar and would sing with a small group of his friends. They performed at homes for the elderly...and what I saw in the people they played for was pure joy. He would get up in front of the crowd in his best jeans and his fanciest shirts, his 'good hat' hanging on the rack behind him...and he would pick out some of the sweetest old...classic...cowboy tunes ever written. To see him up there playing and singing, and the joy it brought to those people moved me. It moved me so much, actually, that I then proceeded to move myself all over the floor. I danced with every lady in those homes and loved every second of it. The ladies, I think, were probably more frightened than anything...but they smiled and laughed and danced with me to Grandpa's music.

Grandma still talks about it every time I call her. She says they all miss my dancing...though Grandpa doesn't play the music anymore.

I remember going to a little family reunion at Grandpa's house out in Walsenburg, CO. (If you are wondering where that is...find the middle of no where...then keep driving. It is just left of lost.) At this reunion we talked and shared pictures and stories and just had one of those really good visits that you don't want to end. It was one of those rare times when four generations of the family were together. I was able to get a picture of Grandpa, Dad, Me and My Brother, and My Son...all together. We had not gotten too far down the road afterwards, when my Wife would tell me something that would forever impact my life.

"Grandma told me that Babe is sick," she said. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. All the worst case scenarios ran through my head. What she said next would make my worst nightmares seem more appealing. "It's Alzheimer's."

I have this image...this persona in my mind of who my Grandfather is. To me he is larger than life...and for a guy who is nearly six and a half feet tall and weighs 225 lbs (it's hot here...I've lost weight)...larger than life is HUGE. I wanted nothing in the world to ever change that image of Grandpa in my head.

For selfish reasons, I was a bad grandkid...and avoided calling after a while. I did not want to have the conversation that proved he did not know who I was anymore. Because I didn't think I could handle it, because I was afraid it would make me upset...I let too much time pass. It was selfish...the absolute wrong way to think.

My parents went out to Colorado this past week. It was time to start looking for a home for Grandpa. I know it wasn't easy on either of them...Dad especially...nor was it easy on Grandma. But, they still did it because it was the right thing to do. So, understandably, I have been thinking of Grandpa all week...and fighting back tears every time I do.

It was last night...alone in my trailer...that I lost it. I cried for all time that I had let pass without talking to him. I cried for all the good memories that I have of us together, that were stolen away from him. I cried for not calling sooner and being selfish. I cried, because I had decided that it was time to call...and I was scared.

The call went well...he and I talked for a while. I still don't know if he knew "WHO" he was talking to, for sure...but at least we talked. Mom says that there is something about Dad that makes Grandpa remember him...and perhaps there is still something there with me as well. I can only hope. One thing is for sure...I will call again. I figure that out of every dozen or so calls, he's bound to have a good day and remember me at least for part of one of them. I will continue to call, because if I was going through it...I would not want to feel any more abandoned than I'm sure he already does most days.

My image of him will never change. He is now and always will be the biggest man amongst men to me. He is what a Hero should be. I just wish you had a chance to know my Grandpa the way I did. The way he touched lives...the way he inspired others. He was a tough man...and a big teddy bear all at once. If you knew him the way I knew him...you would see why I believe he is the Last American Cowboy.



I Love you, Grandpa.

SFC NEWMAN
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