Cowboys

For the last 5 days I was in DC and pleased to experience a few, small indulgences.

Like the weather.  It allowed me to test the durability of my new boots.  In this exact color.

And Joe surprised me by taking Friday off of work. 

Then, his roommate had a biography about President Theodore Roosevelt.  Like I had secretly been yearning to stumble across.  I really wanted to like our former President and Edmund Morris had me on page 19 of the prologue:

But Roosevelt had never been able to turn away the friends of his youth.  After assuming the Presidency he sent out word that “the cowboy bunch can come in whenever they want to.”  When a doorkeeper mistakenly refused admission to one leathery customer, the President was indignant.  “The next time they don’t let you in, Sylvane, you just shoot through the windows.”

I was ECSTATIC! 

I LOVE COWBOYS!

What can I say?  “Teddy” and I became fast friends.

Cowboys huddle around blazing campfires, blanketed in layers of flannel.  Their strained muscles relax as the fabrics against their skin absorb the heat from the flames.  They gulp beer that has turned warm and crane their necks back into the brisk night air to gauge the nearness of the stars.  True stories of acquisition and venture swirl in the atmosphere and fraternize with the smoke.  There is no fear of the unknown.  Tomorrow could be met with aggressive wildebeests or ruffians who want to steal their horses, but tonight.  Tonight there is only the fire, the cool air, the sky, and the beer.

These folks are welcome at my house too.

 

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s