Hailed in song and story as a symbol of carefree roaming,

A tumbleweed can be a nuisance and leave a farmer foaming

At the mouth for its proliferation as it bounds across his fields,

Scattering seeds at every bounce, decreasing harvest yields.

Called by Indians "white man's weed," unwelcome as Soviet missiles,

They came from the same part of the world, Salsola kali, (A. K. A. Russian thistles).

Now prolific on the plains, where buffalo did roam,

When cowpokes rode the dusty trails, tumbleweeds were unknown.

Then cultivation broke the sod with furrows straight and neat,

And Salsola sneaked into Dakota with Eurasian flax seed.

Along with crops, up grew weeds, resembling a ball,

Which broke free and tumbled off when dried out in the fall.

The prairie winds propel them over distances immense

Until they're stuck in some ravine or up against a fence.

Folks see them bouncing, sailing far and high on windy spree

And associate them with a life that's absolutely free.

It's also not responsible, it chooses no directions,

And, at the mercy of the wind, it makes no course corrections.

Like so many things that came since open ranges closed,

Tumbleweeds now symbolize cow-boys in verse and prose.

From W. S. Hart's flick Tumbleweeds, to Ryan's comic strip,

And Bob Nolan showed his brilliance at songwritership

When he wrote of "tumbling leaves" in 1933,

But radio listeners wanted more of "that song 'bout tumbling weeds."

He made it "Tumbling Tumbleweeds " a classic cowboy song,

Romanticizing weeds and folks who like to move along.

The song's an inspiration and has been for many years.

It helped gain fame and fortune for the Sons of the Pioneers.

The weed itself another tale. To hear the other side,

Listen to farmers and the ads for potent herbicide.

The only use for those tumbling weeds that I did ever see

Was when college students sprayed them green to use as Christmas trees.

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             June Storey sings at a child’s funeral.
             Overcome with emotion, she can’t finish the song.
             The kindly old preacher puts his arm ‘round her shoulder.
             Everyone’s silent, and  the organ plays on.
             Then, from the back of the church comes the strong, reassuring
             voice of Gene Autry to finish the song.

             “We shall meet, and we shall miss him . . .”

1998 was a big baseball year,
and during the week of September 27th
two momentous events did take place.
On Sunday the St. Louis Cardinals’ first baseman
set the Major League record with his 70th home run.
Friday the Vice President of the American League
died at age 91 plus three days.
Both were news on both front and sports page.
The editors felt readers knew Mark McGwire,
but they ought to explain just who Gene Autry was.
“Actor,” “songwriter,” “Angels’ owner” were terms used,
also “business” and the “400 of Forbes.”
But most often used was the term “Singing Cowboy,”
which Autry defined and exemplified.

The newspeople’s task was difficult, because
half the country wasn’t born when Gene cut his last disc,
and he made his last movie in 1953.
But there was a time when the name of Gene Autry
was known ‘round the world for his movies and songs.
The newspapers tried, and had some of the facts right,
but they couldn’t come close to describing the man.
  (For more details on this story see the Lone Prairie Roundup #8.)
            Like cow-boys of old, some friends got together 
             on a grass-covered hillside alongside a long trail
             to say “so long” and tell stories about a departed friend.
             These folks numbered a thousand, and those telling the tales
             included the mayor of L. A., California, movie stars,
             ball players, Joanne and Monte Hale.
             They told humorous stories and ones of compassion
             about an accomplished, astonishing man,
             who was wise, well informed, interested in others,
             respected, successful, and a real baseball fan.
             On that hillside, beside the Autry Museum
             they celebrated the life of Gene Autry, an ace.
             They told of his humor and generosity.
             There was plenty of laughter and not a dry eye in the place.
             A former commissioner of Major League Baseball,
             two Cass County Boys, Herbert Jefferies,
             and Dale Evans were there.
             World War II planes flew over in formation, with one empty spot,
             to salute a departed hero.
             Then, from the museum’s sound system, came the strong, reassuring
             voice of Gene Autry still singing his songs.

             We did meet, and we did miss him,
             and the world’s better off 'cause he was here.

Copyright © 1999 Bruce Dillman. All rights reserved.

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I watched the CMA Awards on CBS-TV,
Saw the current crop of Country stars all decked out handsomely.
They wore tuxedos and fancy gowns as if going to a dance.
Even feisty Tim McGraw had his shirt tucked in his pants.
One widely worn accessory displayed no gender gap.
Male and female wore the thing we call a cowboy hat.
Clint Black’s hat was black.  Surprise!  Alan Jackson’s white.
Shania’s was flamingo pink, matched her outfit — quite a sight.
I strained my eyes to memorize the costume to her clinging
And strained my ears so I could hear and understand what she was singing,
For in the music world today that's the Country situation,
Cowboy hats and cowboy boots and poor articulation.
Besides Shania, Dolly, and a couple of the others,
They look and sound so much alike, they’d fool each other’s mothers.
And that opinion's rather mild.  The Geezinslaws I know'll
Sing some say it's Country, "I say bad rock 'n roll.
George Strait and Alan Jackson, two guys who ought to know,
Sang of Country Music's murder down on Nashville's Music Row.
But shows like CMA Awards serve a need, despite their flaws.
That’s demonstrating once again how good Gene Autry was.

Copyright © 2000 Bruce Dillman.  All rights reserved
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