THE USUAL NOTE FROM LB: From the summer of 2002 to the spring of 2010, Gwen the Beautiful and I were the proud and often exhausted owners of a beautiful Ozarks property we called Cloud Creek Ranch.
In many ways, the ranch was paradise. But it was a paradise with a price that started going up before we even knew it existed. Here’s another Monday musing about our adventure and the lessons we learned.
Oh, and if y’all detect any irony, please believe me when I say it comes straight from the universe and not your kindly Uncle Larry B.
by Larry Brody
One of the good things about getting older is that I get to relive some of my youth.
It’s a self-indulgence thing.
Immediate gratification takes on a deeper, more positive meaning when you reach the age where if you don’t indulge yourself now you may never have another chance.
My latest indulgence is clothes. No, I’m not buying out the Wal-Mart Mens Department, or spending thousands on silk shorts made in France. I’ve been casting my net online—and getting The Clothes I Always Wished I Could Have But My Mother Said No delivered to my door.
I took the first step in this operation several months ago, buying Harley Davidson harness boots, complete with embroidered flaming eagles on their leather sides. I’d wanted boots like these since 7th Grade, when I saw Brando wear them in The Wild One. But you know mothers.
“Oh no you don’t,” she said to sad little Junior High me. “Nobody buys motorcycle boots without buying a motorcycle. And nobody buys a motorcycle without crashing, burning, and dying. And I intend to keep you alive, sonny, just as long as I can.”
As I think about it, my mother always was concerned about keeping me alive. “I know you love horses,” she said more than once during my younger days, “but can’t you just read about them? Or pet them? Do you have to ride? If you stay off the horse’s back it can’t throw you and smash your brains on the ground.”
Well, as soon as I could afford the right kind of place, I stopped reading about horses and got myself some instead, and have raised, ridden, and enjoyed them for over 30 years. And so far so good on the brain smashing thing.
But outside of a Hopalong Cassidy shirt when I was four and some cowboy hats—a Stetson, a Bailey, a Resistol—over the years I haven’t had the kind of Western wear I always craved.
Till now.
My first new purchase was a cowboy hat that wasn’t as sensitive as those expensive ones. Plop a Stetson down wrong and the brim gets more bent out of shape than my mother did when I asked for those motorcycle boots. And while the smile would return to Mom’s face after a few minutes, the original shape never reappears on those fancy Stetsons.
I found exactly what I wanted online. A deep brown baby that’s not only totally crush-proof, it’s reshapeable too. I can mold it into the hat of any cowboy hero I ever admired . And not only is the hat as practical as it is beautiful, it only cost a quarter of what my others did and comes with impeccable breeding—the Jack Daniel’s brand.
The acme of western clothing came next. Ever since I saw the film The Ox Bow Incident I’ve wanted a genuine cowboy duster. One of those long coats trail hands wore. Also the Earps, at least in every version of Gunfight at the Okay Corral I ever saw.
I found the duster model that was worn by Wyatt Earp in the most recent telling of the tale, took out my credit card, and a week later there was the box, on our front porch.
The coat’s just a tad darker than the hat, and made of genuine oilskin, which is sailcloth waterproofed by a layer of tar. And, believe me, this is the real deal. I can smell that tar.
Wearing the duster is like walking along a country road while its being resurfaced. Rain, dust, temperatures from 50 to 75 degrees, hey, compadres, I’m covered.
My new wardrobe being based on childhood fantasy, I’ve welcomed it just as I would’ve when I was a kid. By wearing it every day. Pulling on my boots. Throwing on all 7 pounds of the duster. Topping everything off with my Jack Daniel’s hat.
My new look hasn’t gone unnoticed. Just the other day, Gwen and I made the long drive to Fayetteville and stopped at Best Buy. As we were checking out, the young man behind the counter gave me a close-up look that made me so sure he’d found something to hate me for that I moved right on.
He gave Gwen a shy smile, nodded my way. “I’ve got a Jack Daniel’s wallet,” he said, and dug into his pocket to hold it up proudly.
I’ll bet when he bought that, his mother didn’t complain.
