It's been a wild and crazy journey...On the Way Out Series, Vol. 3, Part 10

 On the Way Out

 Vol. 3

 Part 10

My journey: Part wildness...part windmill that has sputtered, but never stopped and yet left behind a few rusty rotor blades...still kicking, but destination still unknown.

 
 

Us seniors have been around a while. 

A select few, I imagine in my head anyway, have come away unscathed on their journey through life, some of the lucky ones have bounced off obstacles in the middle of the road, but to their credit have crossed the finish line without a hair out of place. I suspect, not many.

I know of my journey. I have lived three quarters of a century. I would love to have another quarter or two, but maybe I should be satisfied with a couple of dimes and then worry about the nickel later.

I lost my favorite cousin today. A beautiful man from Arkansas with that down home accent that never wavered in the wind. Talking to my Cousin Bo in 2021 was like talking to him in 1969. The same wonderful man no matter his age. His voice alone would take me back to my early days in Arkansas, long before my parents decided to head to the southwest desert in 1952 and see just how many Cowboys and Indians we could find.

I believe I was seven years old when I escaped from the grasp of my parents and wandered down the Main Street of Tombstone.  I had just received a holster set for my birthday, complete with some shiny toy pistols -- the glow off those babies, coupled with the noonday Arizona sun would blind the best of gunslingers.

As the sun reached High Noon, I entered the saloon. The swinging doors didn't take kindly to me as my push wasn't good enough and I bounced backwards to the edge of the walkway. I tried again. This time I was successful. I rearranged my holster set and moseyed in. What I didn't know: the cowpoke at the bar, dressed in black, was a stuntman, on break from his next performance at the O.K. Corral.

There's a small crowd now interested in the proceedings as the cowpoke turned out to be a gunman. Obviously fast on the draw. He turned and made his move.

I rushed out of there, slid under the swinging doors and chased down my parents. I would live for another day.

I wish my Cousin Bo could have ventured out to Arizona, but he never did. We talked about it so many times. He would have loved the southwest.

But his home was Arkansas...his family for the most part never left the state. I always felt at home when I visited my hometown, but I didn't plan enough visits and instead I have my memories -- like at my grandparents' farm house. The mornings were cold and I remember crawling into bed and covering up with my Grandma Nancy's hand-woven quilt.

I remember, as a young boy, needing to go to the bathroom, I stopped in my tracks and urinated in Grandpa Bruce's galoshes. No cameras around back in those days, at least not handy. I got away unscathed, again.

I might have told Cousin Bo those two stories. I'll always remember his laughter.

Rest In Peace, Cousin Bo.