Publication of the Cow-Boy Heritage Club

     When Roy Rogers rode across the screen, millions of kids rode with him, and each kid's experience
was unique, personal.  The calendar says those kids are older now, and things aren't the same. But those
experiences are stored in memories, which can pop up any time.
     The Roy Rogers tributes and retrospectives and biographies and accolades I saw were nice and
semi-factual, but many missed the mark.  I thought Roy deserved something better. What specifically?
While I was trying to figure that out, two of the finest writers I know rode to the rescue via e-mail.
Jon Guyot Smith (who did the discography and TV log for David Rothel's The Roy Rogers Book)
succinctly sums up Roy Rogers' career (on page 16), and (starting on page 6) Don Ward tells a tale of
childhood and what Roy Rogers meant to him.

     New Years Day, Tournament of Roses Parade, we expected Montie Montana. He was an institution.    “Memories of Montie Montana” is on page 5.

     The name Jon Guyot Smith keeps popping up on these pages, mainly because we are partial to fine
writers and clear thinkers.  His knowledge of cowboys and movies and music and . . . well, he knows an
amazing amount and knows how to write about it.
     Writer and thinker Don Ward can also turn a phrase, but his sales career has overshadowed his
writing, except at Christmas letter time.
     Former lawman and current cowboy poet Mickey Dawes contributed to this issue, and he is profiled
on page 5.  We’ll introduce the other contributor , Rod Miller on page 3.  Rod came to us through our Internet site and its “Lone Prairie Poetry Page,” which is gaining in popularity, at least among poets.

 Happy Trails, Amigo.
Bruce Dillman
editor, etc.

     At the Woodside, California, Cowboy Poetry and Music event we found Western singer Kay Hansen, cowboy poet Fred Engel, and Sourdough Slim, the Yodeling Cowboy.  Fine show, a lot of fun.  If you ever get a chance to see any of these folks perform, do it.
     Bud Hemming of the B-B Ranch in Washington says he’s thinning his herd of Western books, so here’s your chance. Write to Bud at P. O. Box 151, Clarkston, WA 99403-0151 to find out if he has some books you want.
 
 

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The tributes and retrospectives and biographies and accolades are nice and semi-factual, and Roy deserves every bit of it. But I thought he deserved something better. What specifically? Well, I didn't have to decide that. Two eloquent observers rode to the rescue via email. First, Jon Guyot Smith (who did the discography and TV log for David Rothel's The Roy Rogers Book)succinctly sums up Roy Rogers' career, then Don Ward recalls special memories of when he was one of those kids and adds reflections from his present point of view? 

I disagree with the commentators who say that young adults will have no vivid recollections of Roy. Unlike Gene, Roy never left the performing arena, until health considerations made it impossible for him to continue. He and Dale appeared on every TV variety show in the '60s, '70s and early '80s. A whole new generation saw Roy on "The Muppet Show." Some young relatives visited my home a number of years ago and the youngest in the family, upon seeing Melody Cottage, asked "Who is Gene Autry? " His older sister explained, "He's sorta like Roy Rogers." The kid understood.

I always laugh when I see accounts of Roy's "owning" a chain of fast-food restaurants, when he merely received a royalty from the Marriott Corporation for the use of his image and name. Years ago, I saw (and photographed) a Roy Rogers Motel somewhere out on Route 66. Again, it was probably the same type of arrangement. Roy will live on forever because he was an extraordinarily gifted man who turned out superb entertainment. Can you imagine doing all those great trio arrangements with Bob Nolan and Tim Spencer and not being able to read a note of music!!!?? He composed cowboy classics like "Down Along the Sleepy Rio Grande" and "Ridin' Ropin'" and sang some heavenly western music, with no formal training. He overcame his shyness to emerge as an ultra-likeable film star, and yet—when he was a world-famous idol of the masses—he remained earthy and unimpressed with himself! It is no wonder he remains well-loved.

I never had the pleasure of knowing Roy personally, but I shared his values. I have a few friends who knew him pretty well, and all were devoted to Roy. Roy has enriched my life and I can only smile when I think of the wonderful entertainment and inspiration his work has provided for so long.

For several years, our pattern of life was as predictable as the town dogs howling at the noontime siren test at the volunteer firehouse. Each day the siren would scream and dogs all over town would howl into the sky as if they held the blazing sun responsible for their discomfort. Just as predictably, at precisely 1 p.m. each Saturday afternoon, Jack, Billy and I sat near the front of the Pioneer picture show to watch the Western cowboy hero of that week save a town, or a ranch, from a whole herd of evil, black-hatted bad guys.

In the six-and-a-half days between those matinees, Billy, Jack and I saved ourselves from mind-numbing boredom by imagining that the sticks in our hands were actually six-guns that never missed our target and mesquite shrubs were desert rocks that protected us from a hail of gunfire. As heroic cowboys of the old West there wasn't a gang of weasel-eyed varmints anywhere that could match our guns-blazing, hell-bent-for-leather charge. Most times Jack would be Gene Autry. Billy claimed to have Indian blood, so he would usually choose to be Red Ryder. I was always Roy Rogers with Trigger himself under my legs as I ran with Gene and Red Ryder pell-mell through the vacant lots and dusty streets of our quiet town.

We always thought our friendship was just like the adventure-filled relationships of Roy and Gabby Hayes, or Gene and Smiley Burnette, or Red Ryder and Little Beaver. Each pair was loyal, committed to justice, and undaunted by the unequal odds of two good guys against thirty or more bad guys, all of whom needed a shave. Those cowboys entered their battles with the slimmest chance of victory and they came out of the shoot-out together. Without a scratch.

Our own sidekicks were imaginary, but just as loyal and trustworthy. They were at our side in every fistfight and shoot-out, backing us up as we fought against rustlers or rampaging Indians.

In our geography and our time, horses and guns were a real part of everyday life, even for boys late in their first decade. So was regular attendance at church, perhaps because that environment seemed to be the social fabric of most adult relationships. While cap guns, BB guns, and horses became props for our imaginative leap into the exciting world of cowboys and gunfights, church often dampened our joy by reminding us that life was very, very serious. The free will promised to us each Sunday sounded wonderful, until it was amended by such admonitions as 'Don't make a mistake or there'll be hell to pay.' Sunday after Sunday, this seemed to be the mantra aimed at our conscience. This was a cornerstone of character that was completely unnatural for me, except when I presumed to be Roy Rogers.

Jack and I came from families that opened the doors for every Southern Baptist church service. Three, four, sometimes seven times a week we were in church for some kind of activity, perhaps Vacation Bible School, or a gut-wrenching revival. Billy, who was probably the nicest and best behaved of our little gang, didn't go to church much. His aunt and uncle were Bill and Lela Belle Wright who were among the most faithful members of our Baptist church. They lived on a ranch about five miles out of town. Their son, Will Paul, was several years older than us. The Wright's also had a corral-full of beautiful horses. One year Mrs. Wright took it in her heart to help save Billy through a Baptist salvation. Her dilemma-how to get Billy to church where his sins would be washed away-was solved with an absolutely wonderful plan. She invited Billy, Jack and I to her ranch house on Sunday afternoons after church. All Billy had to do was show up and the three of us could then spend the afternoon racing our horses across the brush country and through the orange groves. We could ride and rope calves in our own imaginary rodeo. And the Wright ranch was surely the best place in the world to be Roy Rogers. My horse was named Rocksy and was the most beautiful and faithful horse in the world, next to Trigger. So Mrs. Wright's plan worked out great for Billy, Jack and me, but it never seemed to be such a great Sunday afternoon for Will Paul who visibly suffered through his weekly assignment as chaperone.

Billy came to church nearly every Sunday that summer, although I don't believe the plan for his salvation happened the way Mrs. Wright had hoped. Nonetheless, Lela Belle Wright will surely get one bright star in her crown for trying, and another for making us so happy. Will Paul never even got so much as a "thank-you," at least not from me.

One Sunday afternoon shortly after our summer ended, Billy, Jack and I were hunting in a brushy pasture. Our BB guns were fairly new so we spent some part of everyday searching for something to shoot. A deer or javelina were worthy targets but we didn't see many of them. We settled for lizards or sparrows. As we crept through the brush we looked across the pasture to see Will Paul and his friend Kenneth riding by on their horses. Since they were moving targets and didn't know we were nearby, we decided to take a shot at the horses' flanks. At the first sound of our B-B guns Will Paul and Kenneth jerked their horses toward us and spurred them to a thunderous gallop. It was clear to me that they planned to run us down and possibly kill me dead. So I took off, actually crawled off as fast as I could, following Billy and Jack into the deep brush. Will Paul and Kenneth turned their horses to a sliding halt just as they reached the brush line raising a cloud of dust that settled slowly. I crouched low in the brush with rings of sand gathering around my neck as the sweat dried. My heart was still pounding rapidly as Will Paul and Kenneth rode away, laughing loudly at the scaredey-cat little kids hiding in the mesquite.

 That night at church my knee began to throb with pain. I raised my pant leg to see that it had swelled to the size of a modest cantaloupe. It was a pain beyond any I'd ever experienced. Since I was sitting on the back row, with Jack I believe, I quietly hobbled from the building to lay on the front lawn and roll in agony until I was found by some deacons who had ducked out early for a smoke. The next day my Dad took me to a doctor in a nearby town who dug into my knee to remove the deeply-lodged huisache thorn I'd gotten during my escape through the brush. He then used a needle bigger than a kitchen match to drain the poison from my knee. I screamed. My Dad left the room.

I was on crutches for the next few weeks which stifled my imaginary escape into the world of Roy Rogers. Worse than that, I was mired in this quicksand-like trap of Southern Baptist guilt. Hell-to- pay had arrived in the form of a poisonous thorn sent as punishment from on high for shooting Will Paul's horse. It became very hard to imagine myself as a cowboy hero.

The next Saturday was a special time for all of our town. A Western movie star was to make a personal appearance at our Pioneer picture show. It was a front-page event for our weekly newspaper since no one in town could remember ever seeing a movie star in person. A huge crowd showed up for his movie and appearance. Of course, I was there on crutches along with Billy and Jack. At first we were none too impressed with this particular movie star since we couldn't think of his sidekick's name. Or even his horse's name. And if none of us had ever played-like we were him then, what's the big deal?

After the movie and the movie star's monologue from the stage, we all lined up at a table in the lobby to receive an autographed photo. When my turn came, the Western movie star asked my name so he could write it on the photo. I told him, and then asked slowly, "do you know Roy Rogers?"

"Sure, I know him. Nice fella," he grinned as he wrote out his name. Monte Hale.

 "Me too. I know him too," I stammered out loud, "he's a hero of mine." That all came out wrong. I didn't mean to say that I really knew Roy Rogers, just that I knew everything about Roy Rogers. I had imagined that I was him. How much closer can friends be?

Billy and Jack were bending over in stifled laughter while my face turned as red as the heart of a Black Diamond watermelon. I was as embarrassed as I'd ever been, but I also felt free of that guilt. Never again would I do the wrong thing and end up on crutches. I knew Roy Rogers. I could do the right thing.

The intense imagination I experienced in childhood has had its repercussions. The memory of what play-like felt like is still there. Yet as vivid as my memories are, I can no longer jump into the actual experience. I can't be Roy Rogers of the Old West any more. Maybe I've had too many years of Vietnam, children in the emergency room, and buying life insurance to ever escape reality as completely as I once did. Maybe my years have been layered with too many disappointments and personal failures

But I also remember the courage I once borrowed from Roy's invincibility. I want to slap my hip, have Trigger appear under me and gallop into a dangerous gun battle (or sales presentation) with Roy's confidence, his purposeful confidence, to prop me up. But no matter how hard I slap, that total confidence, that purity of thought, eludes me. I suppose a country boy in his first decade didn't have enough experiences to trap his wandering mind within the confining boundaries of reality, while a city boy now in his sixth decade has too many. Roy once was a reality living in my imagination. He has become an ideal living in my reality.

Graham Greene wrote in The Power and the Glory, "There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in." When I was young a door opened for me and I saw Roy Rogers. As I grew older I began to realize that the door set ajar by such intense imagination would not always open so easily. Reality grew into my life and slowly revealed me, not as an image of Roy Rogers, but as me. Even if I have to be me, I still hope that I can ride into my future on Trigger. And if I want to be a straight shooter like Roy, maybe I can just double up in the saddle and take a little of Roy with me. Yes, I must always look behind me and ask, "Hey Roy, you still there?"

Copyright © 1998 Don Ward. All rights reserved.

Memories of Montie Montana

 Another is the picture from the Presidential Inauguration Parade in 1953 where Montie's rope is around President Eisenhower. (Montie asked Ike's permission before tossing his loop, and fortunately the Secret Service agents heard him ask. Otherwise, he would soon have looked like a sieve.) In a photograph of the event President Eisenhower and his wife, Mamie, both seem to be enjoying it. People did that when Montie Montana entertained.

 Roping the President was a one-time event. Spinning ropes and entertaining turned into a seventy-two-year career for the performer born Owen Harlan Mickel on June 21, 1910.

 Owen's first paying performance was July 4, 1924, at Miles City, Montana. He and his parents performed as The Montana Cowboys, and they called him Montie, the Montana Kid. In 1929 the announcer for the Buck Jones Wild West Show called him "Montie from Montana," and Owen Mickel became Montie Montana.

 Wild West shows, parades, rodeos, movies, television, radio–Montie did it all. He was a superb trick rope artist with a likeable personality, tastefully colorful outfits, and a lot of showmanship.

 From 1945 to 1965 Montie was spokesman for Weber's Bread Company in Southern California, and in that time he entertained more than eight million school children.

 The PRCA Hall of Fame, the Rodeo Hall of Fame and the Cowboy Hall of Fame in Oklahoma City recognized Montie Montana's achievements. He got the Golden Boot Award for his movie work and the Wild West Arts Club's Lifetime Achievement Award. He was even an honorary Texan.

After a series of strokes Montie Montana died on May 20, 1998, and 700 people attended the memorial service in Chatsworth, California.

 Respected by his peers, admired by his fans, beloved by those who knew him, Montie Montana loved what he did, and it showed. He said, "I must have been born a cowboy, because I never thought of being anything else."

 He was. The movie wasn’t about cowboys or poetry. It was a law-enforcement training film on self-defense against knives.

When Mickey was a deputy sheriff in upstate New York a knife-wielding perpetrator attacked him from behind and inflicted several wounds before Mickey could draw his weapon and dispose of the assailant. Mickey says the incident “ruined my day.” He described it in the film, Surviving Edged Weapons (Caliber Press). Thousands of law enforcement people have seen it, and it is credited with saving lives all across the country.

 After recovering from his wounds, Mickey moved to Florida and took up the same line of work. Later he went into a less stressful line of work.

Mickey claims he was born at least a hundred years too late. He inherited a love of all things Western and an overactive sense of humor, so about two years ago he set out to keep the tradition of the West alive by writing and performing humorous cowboy poetry.

As a founding member of the Working Ranch Cowboys Association, a life member of the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, and a member of the Director’s Circle of the Autry Museum of Western Heritage, Dawes promotes our Western heritage whenever and wherever possible.

Mickey gets around. He has performed at the Montana Cowboy Poetry Gathering, the National Cowboy Symposium, the Gene Autry Oklahoma Film and Music Festival, the Sagebrush Western Folk Arts Festival, and regularly on WQYK radio in Tampa Bay, Florida.

 Mickey and his very understanding wife, Brenda, live on a little Florida ranch called Hich Lonesome (named by Monte Hale). They are “surrounded by horses, cats, dogs, armadillos (possums on the half shell) and any other critter that decides to come over for supper.”

 Mickey Dawes, who perpetrated a book of his humorous cowboy poems titled Smacked in the Saddle Again, says the goal of every one of his performances is the same, “Start out with a room full of strangers and leave with a room full of friends."
 
 

What will they think of next, I pondered

As I set there astride my ol' Kack

The government says these old saddles aint' safe

They've passed legislation regarding our tack.

Now, I bet I know what you're a thinkin'

Cause I've told you a story or two

But I'll betcha my brand new riata

That this story's entirely true.

It seems that some Federal inspector

Who thinks he knows better, of course

Says, "we boys are in danger in case of a wreck

While we're out there a ridin' our horse."

During unscheduled meetings with the old saddle horn

There's no safety equipment to help

When the Wranglers slide forward and momentum is stopped

It'll likely result in a yelp.

At this point in time, with a flying dismount

Even the Russian judge gives us a ten

As the dust starts to settle, the swelling begins

For a moment, we regret that we're men.

So, in order to stop all the pain

And avoid wearin' jeans that are torn

The government says all new saddles must have

An airbag inside of the horn.

The next time that we blow a stirrup

And get sideways while ridin' like fools

The horn cap will pop, the bag will inflate

Thereby, protectin' the old family jewels.

When I told all the boys this here story

As we sat in the White Elephant bar

Old Charley got mad, turned red in the face

Said, "this time they've gone way too far".

Knowin' that I had him hooked

I decide to reel em' on in

That aint' all, I started to say

While I stood there a sportin' a grin.

The next thing we need is a back up alarm

That warns folks that are off to the rear

And a mirror that's hung on the headstall

Saying, "cattle are closer than they really appear."

All the boys started laughin', Old Chartey was silent

As he sat there just like an old mummy

I said, "Don't worry Old Pard, look at er' this way

You'd be perfect as a saddle crash dummy."

Buck Benny Rides Again
(Continued from Sixth Issue)
Recap:  The movie review section in the sixth issue ended with.  “There’s one more movie on my
list of want-to-see comedy Westerns, Jack Benny’s Buck Benny Rides Again, and it has not been
released on video.”  Periodically, on cable, American Movie Classics shows Buck Benny Rides Again, and March of 1998 was one of the periods, so I finally saw the film.
    In the late 1930s and the ‘40s “The Jack Benny Show” was the number one radio program.
Benny established his stingy, egotistical character strongly in the public mind.  When a robber told
him, “Your money or your life;” the longest laugh in radio history ensued.
     Radio star Jack Benny became a movie star, mostly in light comedies based on that radio
personality.  His films were OK, some of them pretty good, and To Be Or Not To Be is outstanding.
In 1940 “The Jack Benny Show” cast included Rochester, the butler-chauffeur, etc., played by
gravely voiced song-and-dance man Eddie Anderson; Phil Harris, the wise-cracking, hard-drinking
(that was funny in those days) bandleader, played by bandleader Phil Harris; Dennis Day, the dim-
witted tenor, played by tenor Dennis Day; Buck Benny, the hard-riding, straight-shooting Western hero,
played by Jack Benny, Buck’s sidekick played by gravely voiced Andy Devine; Benny’s decrepit
Maxwell automobile and a polar bear named Carmichael, both played by mult-voiced Mel Blanc.  All
those characters appeared in Buck Benny Rides Again (although the movie used a real car and a real
bear).
     The plot resembles Abbott and Costello’s Ride ‘em Cowboy (also 1940) but then original plots were ever a big issue in Hollywood.  This is also a story about an easterner who gets himself into a situation
where he goes Out West and pretends to be a cowboy to impress a pretty girl.  In this case the guy is
Jack “Buck” Benny, who is maneuvered into going to Nevada by Phil Harris, who wants to be near a
woman who is getting a divorce.  (In those days New Yorkers with money moved to Nevada for six
weeks to get their divorces.  Then the Silver State had a bigger reputation for divorces than for
gambling.)
     Ellen Drew spurns Jack’s attentions.  She’s from The West and believes only Western guys are
worthwhile, although she and her sisters are Back East trying to make it in the show business as a trio.
After a lot of setup, the entire crew, including Carmichael, the bear, arrive in Nevada.  Benny pretends
to own Andy Devine’s ranch, which is being plagued by bad guys, to impress the girl, who has a gig at a nearby dude ranch, which looks like a fancy resort hotel (but accuracy was never a big issue in Hollywood).
     The movie has some great moment, such as Benny’s stepping out of the bunkhouse for a typical day
on the ranch wearing Ed Bohlin’s best parade outfit—chaps, vest, and gauntlets dripping with silver—
Benny’s wild horse ride, his reciting “My Kind of Country” (a poem so great I added it to my
repertoire) at the barbecue, Rochester’s song and dance numbers, and the final fight between Buck
Benny and the two bad guys, one played by Ward Bond.
     TV listings give Buck Benny Rides Again three stars.  That’s about right.

Paniolo O Hawaii

If you get a chance to see this film (it may be on PBS), do it.
     Coincident (or not) with The Year of the Paniolo in Hawaii, this documentary traces the history of
cows and cowboys in the islands.  Informative and entertaining, the film shows some fascinating early
footage of Hawaii as well as recent shots if spectacular scenery and ranch life.
     Paniolo is the Hawaiian word for cowboy.  Legend has it that the word comes from espaniol after
vaqueros from Spanish California came to the islands in the early 1800s.  They spoke Spanish,
espaniol, so to Hawaiians they became paniolo.  There is another idea that it is a combination of two
Hawaiian words, so take your choice.
     How did vaqueros happen to head 2000 miles out into the Pacific?  Let’s go back to 1793 when
Captain George Vancouver (a seafaring man) presented King Kamehameha I with some sheep and
longhorn cattle.  Then he persuaded the king to leave them alone so they could multiply.  Well, as in
Texas, they did multiply.  They also destroyed crops and forests and terrorized the people.  Remember,
to wild longhorns people on horseback might be respected, but people on foot were targets, and horses
didn’t come to Hawaii until 1803.
     It got to the point that people in Hawaii built stone fences around their towns and cities, including
Honolulu, to keep the cattle out.  So in 1832, not a moment too soon, King Kamehameha III invited
vaqueros to come over and teach the locals how to handle the critters.  The vaqueros brought their
know-how and their special equipment—horses, saddles with the all-important saddle horns, and la
reata.
     Eventually they and their Hawaiian pupils controlled the critters, and cattle ranches have been a part
of the scenery ever since.
     Producer-writer-director Edgy J. Lee has done a first-rate job of telling the story of what Hawaiians
call “America’s first cowboys.”  She put together a fine film.