My mother’s father died when I was very small.  My grandmother dated (I think that’s the right word) a man named George for many years until he passed away.  He’s the only grandfather I knew on my mother’s side.  George was a cowboy.

He smelled like a pipe.  His voice was raspy and low and his hands were just about as bad off.  His legs bowed and he moseyed around slowly in boots and a stetson.  He called me “boy.” He took me to rodeos and taught me how to pee like a cowboy (standing up, onto the ground, no tree, no bushes, no nothing, no shame.) He taught me to rope and bought me a pair of Wranglers.  He cursed often but always said “excuse me” afterwards.  He took me to visit a nephew of his in the hospital – speared by a bull in a rodeo.  I sat wide eyed listening to their tales of rodeo exploits.  He showed me his own scars earned working around horses and other rough men.  When I think of a cowboy I think of George.  And I think good things.

I’m playing a “cowboy church” in Athens, Texas tonight.  I don’t know what that is or why they’d want to listen to me for 90 minutes.  But if it’s a room full of people like George I’ll feel right at home, spikey hair and tennis shoes and all.  I might even rope something.

See y’all there.