I Think He Always Wanted to be a Cowboy

I think he always wanted to be a cowboy, but to most he looked more like an Indian. He must have been pretty confused trying to play Cowboys and Indians as a kid. To me, when I was a kid, he was both. We were proud of our Indian Heritage. Dad used to talk about Great Grandma Algiers, the Indian Squaw who married my Great Grandfather and got him kicked out of the family. Yeah, Dad was a proud Cree Indian, but when he strapped on that six-shooter and bowie knife, he was cowboy.

His walked changed with Big Iron hanging on his right hip. There was a relaxed lilt in his step—that confident walk telling the world you have no worries. No worries, because you’re the fastest gun in town. He was pretty fast too. With a smooth quick-draw, he’d shoot soup cans out of the air. Clint Eastwood has nothing on my dad. Then again, I don’t know if he had my dad’s ingenuity. Dad created his own kind of skeet by using ice-cream buckets, soup cans, and firecrackers. He’d put a firecracker two-thirds the way into the bottom of an empty soup can. Then he’d put the can into an ice-cream pail containing about an inch of water. He’d light it and step back. Bang! Redneck Skeet.

I remember that old 22 Long Barrel being really heavy. I could barely lift it, but it with a little help from my dad, it became the first weapon I ever fired. I was 5 or 6 at the time, but you have to start your training early if you’re going to be a great cowboy. And I wanted to be just like dad.

Many years have passed since that day. My dad may not have actually been a cowboy, but like many of the quickest gunfighters of the Old West, Dad didn’t meet his fate at the end of someone else’s smoking barrel. No it wasn’t a bullet that killed him. I can’t say if it was the whiskey or the tobacco, but I can say that he followed the tradition of many a gray haired gunfighter and died alone.

I no longer dream of being a gunfighter or even cowpoke. I don’t think I’ll ever be one of those characters from one of Dad’s Louis L’Amour novels, but today (for a moment) I was a cowboy. Instead of the Old West, I walked across the sandy, dusty ground of Iraq. Feeling the weight of the 9MM Beretta strapped to my left hip I began to walk with a bit of a lilt. Recognizing that walk, I smiled. I was transported back in time. For a moment, I was both my Dad and that little wide-eyed boy who worshipped him. No I didn’t quick draw my 9 mil and shoot soup cans from the air, but in that moment I felt close to my dad. The moment began to fade and was reminded that I wasn’t a cowboy… and that dad was gone, but I wonder. Was Dad there, checking up on me? Making sure I’m doing alright?

"Dad, just in case you weren’t sure…I’m doing fine and I hope I’m doing you proud."