By WR Jones
Real cowboys sleep on the open range under the stars. If they had a little too much cactus juice the night before, they may sleep through the morning under these clouds.
When I was a young boy, cowboys were the heros. One Christmas I received a very handsome white faux leather rhinestone studded holster with 6 shooter cap pistol. Included in the set were some awesome rhinestone studded spurs that jingled. You know, real cowboy gear.
My father was dead set against children wearing cowboy boots thinking they were bad for young growing feet. This was Iowa in the 50′s. My mother had a pair of fur topped black rubber boots to go over high heels. This pair of rubber boots was for walking in the rain/snow.
They looked semi-cowboyish to me. So I put on a pair of my mother’s high heels and the rubber boots over them. Strapped on the six shooter and attached the spurs to the boots. Looked pretty good I think. At least it looked more authentic than wearing a pair of spurs on some lace up brown oxfords worn only on Sunday.
I started through the house looking for bad and/or evil cowboys to slay. As I recall they didn’t ever kill people in those days; they shot the gun out of the bad person’s hand. And the bad person held his hand like it hurt.
Unaccustomed to high heels as I was (at the time), my ankles wobbled like the front wheels of that soap box derby car I made just before they came off entirely and rolled independantly down the road. That project made me realize I liked reading about making things a whole lot better than actually making them.
So anyhoo, I wobbled through the house firing my cap pistol at everything until those spurs latched together and I went down like the proverbial rock causing me to bite my lip and start crying, you know, like a real cowboy
This was an epiphany – I decided against being a cowboy. I would be a librarian; in high heels.