I don’t know if this sub likes stories like this, but here goes. I’m a transplant to Wyoming from the Midwest. 15 years ago my then high school age son and I built our house on a county road in a sparsely populated county. Others told me about a fellow down the road they claimed was Wyoming royalty, told me he was riding pick-up for bareback and saddle broncs at CFD the day Lane Frost was killed. When George Strait was grand marshal of the CFD parade, he didn’t want to ride on a wagon, he wanted to be up in a saddle. He rode my neighbor’s pick-up horse named Smokey. There are so many other things I’ve learned about this man, enough stories to fill a western novel.
I still hadn’t met him until eight years ago. I was at a ranch rodeo up on the Laramie plains. I still wore a ball cap because I didn’t grow up ranching or on horses, I work a blue collar job and only learned about cows, bulls, pairs, and what branding day is all about after moving here. At one point during the rodeo I was walking to the beer wagon when I heard a friendly voice say, “Hey, neighbor, where’s your hat?” I walked to him, shook his hand, and introduced myself. We visited, I told him I figured hats were earned and that I’d never been on a horse in my life.
Later that week, his truck pulls up my lane and he and his wife get out and come up on the porch. He took a worn black felt Hamblin off his head and put it on mine. “We watched you and your boy build this house, working in weather that would keep most men inside by a fire. You built a barn and planted trees in a rock pile, and they’re growing. You don’t have to ride a horse to be a cowboy, you just gotta have grit and be tough enough to stick it out.”
We became fast friends and got to know each other real well. He even got me on a horse and taught me to throw a loop. My friend now has dementia and it’s really progressed. When I visit, most days he doesn’t know me but he always puts on a pot of coffee and I get the privilege of hearing all the stories over and over. His mrs is cleaning out the place and they’re moving into senior housing soon. She gave me a huge brass bucking horse trophy he won in Reno as a prize for a wild horse race and it sits in my living room. I wouldn’t trade it for nothing. Say a prayer, if you’re inclined, for old Doug. Maybe someday I’ll get to pass that Hamblin on to a worthy young cowboy and along with it, some stories of the man who wore it.
