FactorFiction

Strait Fact or Strait Fiction #1

The Shirt Off His Back

It was one of those hot sultry Texas mornings. He finished his coffee, stomped into his boots, and put a long sleeve shirt on over his t-shirt. He walked outside, squinting his green eyes from the brightness of the sun. After a glance around he walked over, and looked at the trucks. There was the brand new one, but he walked around it and chose to drive the old truck. It got him around okay he figured, and it felt comfortable and brought back alot of old memories that he liked to be reminded of nowadays. The door complained as he opened it and slid behind the wheel but it started right off. "I'll be damned." he said softly, surprised he didn't have to argue with it. He took off down the road, and instead of taking the paved highway to his Dad's ranch he chose a dirt country backroad. He looked forward to these times when he could just be himself. With things being so busy for him he didn't get to see his Dad much and he liked to sit and talk and get his opinion on things.

He was daydreaming about things he wanted to accomplish yet when the old blue truck gave a sputter and coughed and quit. After it rolled to a stop he gave it a minute then turned the starter. It choked and died. "Oh man don't do this." He tried again, and knew he was getting no where. He got out and opened the hood. He had grease and oil on his t-shirt and face by the time another truck came by.

The driver stopped, walked over and offered his help. When he looked up at the man he watched recognition come to the man's eyes, and the embarrassment at his predicament crept up the back of his neck. Here he was, big time Country Star caught out in the Texas brush with about the oldest baddest looking truck around. "I'd sure appreciate it if you could get me to a phone, this old truck isn't moving on it's own anymore today." He walked with the man and got into his truck. It wasn't a long drive to the man's ranch, and after using his phone to call one of his ranch hands he thanked him. The man grinned and looked at him. "Mr Strait, I'd sure like to be able to tell my woman about this and have her believe it. Would you mind giving me that t-shirt you've got all greased up?" Chuckling about giving him the shirt off his back, he took off his long sleeved shirt, pulled the t-shirt off, and handed it to him. He put back on his long sleeved shirt and buttoned it up. After rubbing his dirty palms on his thighs he put his hand out to shake. "Just do me one more favor?" The man looked at him, took his hand and said, "Well sure."

The embarrassed star looked into his eyes, and sheepishly grinned. Don't tell anyone about me being stuck in that old truck out in the brush. I'd never live it down."

Strait Fact or Strait Fiction #2

The Fan

He had just about finished his meal when the waitress came and poured him another cup of coffee. He thanked her but she continued to stand there and he felt her looking at him. Glancing up, he saw she was embarrassed and was trying to work herself up to saying something. He had felt her staring at him off and on for sometime. "What is it?" he said softly, with his lips curving back from his white teeth with a slightly crooked grin. She smiled shyly at him. "Well, it isn't often I wait on such a big star sir. I wonder if I could have your autograph if you don't mind." There were times he wished he looked like somebody else, times when he could just be like anyone else, especially when he was out eating.

But knowing he had wanted success for so long, and owed it all to his fans he smiled at her and said "Sure." She ripped off a ticket from her pad and handed it to him along with her pen. As he wrote she started talking, and gushed for about five minutes on how much she loved him, how handsome he was, how talented, and what her family was going to say when she told them about meeting him. He brought the cup to his lips and over the cup his emerald green eyes sparkled and smiled into hers. His handsome smile made her blush even more. He stood up, and she moved back a little to give him room, but she was still awful close, and looking him up and down taking in all of him, wanting to remember what he was wearing and how he looked. She even took a breath and tried to smell his cologne. He handed her a large bill, and said "Keep the change." As she took the money from him she let her hand touch his long fingers and said "It's been a real great pleasure." He could feel the excitement in her, and her eyes were literally devouring him.

As he moved towards the door he was aware of her watching him, then heard her talking to the other waitresses, and as the door swung shut behind him he could have sworn he heard her say "I did it, I just talked to Al Pacino and got his autograph." The blown up cocky feeling left him like he was a balloon losing air. Then he started laughing, and continued to laugh as he drove away.

At times he had come close to giving up but in his heart he knew he had what it took to make it as a singer. The fact that he was stubborn might be good or on the other hand it might be bad. But he always tried to be honest with himself and he knew he would know when to quit trying to make it as a singer because his family came first.

After a quick breakfast he pulled his Wranglers on, stomped into his boots, tucked his shirt in, ran a comb through his hair and settled his hat on his head. He left a kiss on his wife's lips then he tried to tip toe out in his boots without waking her up.

With one last sip of coffee he was out the door into the morning darkness and into his waiting truck. Martindale Texas was not too far to drive and the ride gave him time to think. If the Record company did what they had promised he might hear his song on the radio before long but he wouldn't believe it until it happened. He settled into his daily job of ranch Foreman, accomplishing quite a bit for the day.

It was beginning to get dusk and as he headed some chosen cattle to different pasture he was thinking of the gig they had to play that night. His attention was captured by movement in the next pasture. It was one lone wild turkey strutting his stuff. Those beady eyes looked daringly back into his own and the cowboy grinned. He pulled his horse up, took off his hat and wiped his brow. "You're lucky I don't shoot you Mr. Gobbler, Thanksgiving is still too far away." As though understanding him the turkey wandered closer to the fence.

George walked his horse and swung his rope at a few more lagging cows heading them to the gate then looked back at the turkey as it flew over the fence. "Dadgummit, you sure are tempting me." He turned his horse and followed the turkey, taking a few swings at it with his rope but the turkey would bounce out of the way at the last minute. Then it would turn and look at him as though it were laughing at him. He got off his horse, took a few steps closer and the dang turkey looked at him like it was daring him. Well George let loose with his rope and the loop settled nicely over that Turkey's wings and he pulled it tight and had him. He watched him bounce around trying to get away and laughed at himself. What was he gonna do with the dadgum thing now that he had it. He was satisfied enough that he had been able to rope him. He looked around to see if anyone had been near and seen him, but he was all alone out there, just him, the cattle, his horse who was staring at him, and that durned Turkey.

"Well Mr Turkey, I guess I taught you a lesson. This time you're lucky." As he walked over to the turkey he hauled his rope in, and careful of the turkey's claws and beak he loosened the noose and lifted it off. Mr. Turkey flew back over the fence and headed for the woods at a turkey run and the cowboy watched him, laughing the whole time and shaking his head at his own foolishness. Walking back to his horse he stood there for a moment stroking big red's neck, then he swung easily up into the saddle. "Horse don't you tell no one about that turkey." With that the handsome smiling Texan spurred his horse after the cattle.

Strait Fact or Strait Fiction #4

"Christmas Cookies"

(Have you heard this awesome Christmas song by George Strait?)

"Christmas Cookies"

The Texas sunshine filtered through the curtain painting golden dabbles of light on the sleeping cowboy's handsome face. Slowly the left side of his lips curved up in a crooked half awake grin as his nostrils widened and his senses began to decipher the delicious scent drifting upstairs into the bedroom.

He turned onto his belly burying his face into the pillow, a part of him not wanting to get up yet. Stretching his legs out, kicking off the sheet, he moaned a little. He had roped too long and too hard last night keeping up with his son, and his 53 year old legs were complaining.

It was impossible to sleep with that aroma floating over his head. Rolling onto his back he took a deep breath from his diaphragm and filled his lungs with the smell that was assaulting his senses, and bringing an end to his sleep. Stretching, sinking deep into the center of the large bed, he sighed, and one eye opened, peering up at the ceiling. He could hear birds, the whinny of a horse, and his son's laughter as he kidded with one of the hands.

The familiar rattle of pans and dishes came from the kitchen. He opened his other eye; and gazed at the ceiling as he listened to his son. The curve of his lips spread into a white smile, and he giggled at his son. His intense laughing green eyes were heavy with sleep, but filled with the sparkle of who he was. He got another whiff of fresh baking and ran his tongue across his lips in anticipation, and then his flat belly rumbled with hunger. "Cookies!" It was Christmas Eve day.

Drawing the sheet aside he sat up, swung his long legs to the side, and wriggled his toes into the rug. He ran his long fingers through his dark wavy hair, yawned, and stretched. Glancing out the window he saw his son riding out with a friend to practice some roping. It was a beautiful day, and in his mind he started thinking of chores, things he wanted to get accomplished before the day was done.

After a shower he gazed in the mirror. Mirrors don't lie he thought. The man looking back at him was likable he decided, and not bad looking for his age, but he needed a shave. When his cheeks were smooth, and his hair combed back he slipped on a pair of worn comfortable jeans. Opening the closet he chose a long sleeved shirt, a red one for the day, and left it unbuttoned. He reached for his socks and Ostrich Quill boots and held them in the crook of his left arm. Humming softly to himself he barefooted it and followed that delectable scent that had awakened him.

"She thinks she's gonna get it all done before I get up" he said to himself, and grinned. Well, he was going to spoil her plans. His compact body moved quietly down the stairs, as he stepped lightly to keep her from hearing him. The door to the dining room was closed, and as he slowly opened it the grin on his face grew as anticipation made his belly growl again. The kitchen door was closed too. He took a moment to look around to make sure she hadn't laid out some fresh cookies. He set his boots and socks down and then tip toed to the door, changing his normally easy stride into a caricature of a cowboy hunting for food. His long fingers closed around the knob and he opened the door slowly.

She stood at the sink, her blonde hair tied back from her face, and flour on her neck. The wonderful smell of fresh cookies mingling with that of hot fresh coffee hit him full in his senses. He spied a fresh pan of cookies lying on the table. There was a big bowl half full of dough on the cabinet, several bowls of different colored frosting, some cookie cutters that looked like Santa Claus, Christmas trees and bells and stars. Next to them were different colored bottles of those little sprinkly thangs she liked to put on top.

Quietly he inhaled, and his mouth watered. Slowly he crept towards her, trying to keep quiet on the spanish tiled floor. Waiting until she had her hands out of the water, he slipped his arms around her, spread his hands on her belly and pulled her to him. She giggled and smiled, completely unsurprised by his attack. He laughed and put his mouth over her neck, tasting the flour there, getting some on his nose, then kissed her on the neck. "You did that on purpose didn't you."

Leaning against him, feeling his familiar lithe body warm against her she reached around and took a hand full of his still-damp hair. She pulled him to her and kissed him, tasting the flour left on his lips. Grinning at the flour on his nose she dusted it with her finger then smiled at him. "It was time you got up."

He kissed her again, firmly pulling her tighter against him, then reluctantly let go of her and poured himself a cup of coffee. "You want some coffee honey?"

"No, I've had enough coffee, but there is something else" She glanced at him. His lean frame was leaning against the cabinet, one hip stuck out in one of his familiar stances as he sipped his coffee, and she approved. No matter how much she watched him or how well she knew him she never had enough. He hadn't buttoned and tucked his shirt in yet, hadn't even put on his belt and buckle, and he was barefooted. He wore an old comfortable pair of his Wranglers. His hair was still damp from his shower, clinging to his forehead, and he was freshly shaven. She watched his eyes study the cookies on the table as he sipped the coffee, and inwardly laughed when he licked his lips.

Leaning against the cabinet, studying the cookies on the table, he swallowed another sip of coffee and watched as she put oven mitts on and took another batch of cookies from the oven. He deftly stole a warm cookie from a dish with his long fingers and popped it into his mouth, then finished his coffee as she put another prepared batch of dough into the oven.

She set the timer and turned to him, smiling. He looked into her eyes and smiled back at her. Something started working it's way through his thoughts, and he got warm in all the right places as she looked him up and down and giggled at his barefeet and the cookie crumb on his bottom lip.

Smiling back at her, he said softly in his best baritonal drawl.. "Now there's 15 minutes for some kissin' and a huggin'..." He set his cup down, took her by the hand, and led her through the kitchen door. For a moment they stood and kissed, their love wrapped around each other.

Watching him, learning him through the years, and loving all that he was, she was grateful for their trip through life together. He had matured into a man she depended on without hesitation, without fail. She knew him so well, and she smiled as he led her upstairs where she wanted to be. Her baking had produced results exactly as expected. She anticipated a wonderful morning.

He hadn't noticed that she had turned the oven heat down on that batch of Christmas Cookies, and turned off the timer for his mind was on other things.

Strait Fact or Strait Fiction #5

Satisfaction Can Come in Small Packages

He felt his horse's muscles surge as they bounded out of the chute. Unaware of the concentration on his face, and totally oblivious to the flashes of hundreds of cameras and screams his lean body moved with his horse. His mind and body fell into the habits he had acquired in years of practice for this moment. He swung his loop once, twice, then threw and watched it float as though in slow motion falling perfectly over the steers horns. He gave his horse the cue and they spun as one to the left and turned the steer perfectly for his heeler. He watched, his heart daring to feel success, as his partner's rope spun and fell looping up for the heels, and totally missed.

He let the rope slip from his long fingers, letting the steer head for the chute and pens. Slumping in the saddle, his head down, he felt the disappointment right to his bones and allowed himself a few seconds. He had done his best, and it would have been a fast time if only... He rode over and gathered his rope, then tugged his hat down over his eyes so they wouldn't see his disappointment. As he rode back towards the other end of the arena he waved at the crowd and smiled. He disappeared into the crowd of horses, and cowboys wearing white straw hats. A few moments later he made his way towards the office, and trudged up the stairs with his rope. His spurs jingled softly with each step. He was vaguely aware of more camera flashes. He opened the door, threw his rope and hat on the table, and fell into the plush chair in the corner out of sight.

Norma looked at him and said softly "Sorry honey." A moment later she walked over to him and handed him a brown envelope that a fan had sent up to him. He ran his fingers through his hair, opened the envelope, and read the card. Smiling, he looked at the fine large cigar as he rolled it in his fingers. One cigar... a special one for just such a moment. He reached for his knife, cut off the end, and with one eye on his wife lit it. Smiling broadly he puffed away, and leaned back in his chair. So what if he hadn't gotten his time on that run. There would be other chances to compete with the professional ropers.

"Ohhh nooo... George that stinks!" Norma made a face at him.

"Daaaad" Bubba whined, and held his nose. Laughing, they both headed for the door and left the office in a hurry leaving the man to his cigar. They stood safely outside the door watching him happily puff away. Smoke filled the room and large puffs of smoke could be seen by those who were watching the office instead of the roping competition. Bubba continued to hold his nose, and laughed at his Dad. He glanced at his Mom as she laughed with him and waved at the air around her, attempting to get rid of the cigar smell by the door.

Mr Strait looked down into the audience and saw only a few fans that had noticed his cigar break, and his family's antics. One of them in particular smiled back at him, satisfied.

Strait Fact or Strait Fiction #6

Only In Texas

The minute I walked into the room I felt a rush, and knew I was being watched. As the hostess asked me to follow her to a table I self consciously adjusted my clothing. It wasn’t that there was a lot of people in there. A glance around confirmed that no one was paying me any attention. I didn’t see anyone that I knew. So why was my neck getting red, and my stomach fluttering with hummingbirds?

I took a deep breath as I recalled the only time I get that physical reaction. A few hours before a Strait concert it starts building, without fail, and by the time I’m standing in the semi-darkness listening to the Ace in the Hole play the familiar “Deep in the Heart of Texas” my hands are cold and my stomach fluttering. A moment later I am enwrapped in warmth just as sure as if it were arms surrounding me. I watch that slim Texan take the stage, and warmth flows through me, beginning with my heart pumping like crazy. The hummingbirds fly away, and I engross myself in my ”addiction;” oblivious to pains and daily problems, lost in experiencing the Man, thee voice in my life.

Coming back to the present I lay my belongings beside me, and settled into my chair. “I’d like some coffee.” I told the waitress, as I glanced at the menu which showed typical south Texas fare. Enchiladas or a rib eye sounded good.

There it was again, someone watching me, creating that familiar feeling. I was in the brush country of south Texas, driving back from a visit with my Family. The possibility and then realization struck me so hard I gasped. Glancing up slowly I looked to my left, right into a familiar pair of amused green eyes. He was sitting in a booth by himself, an almost empty plate pushed aside. In the darkening dusk there was a shaft of sunlight coming thru the window playing on the table where his large tanned hands rested. The sparkle in his eyes and intenseness were calmed only by the kindness within.

My heart leapt into my throat as I remained calm on the outside, and quickly ordered something – anything - to eat. The waitress poured me a cup of coffee, and as she did so I slowly shook my head in amazement and smiled at him. He was running a hand through his wavy dark hair, grown longer then he usually wore it in the summer. His lips parted slightly, with that crooked grin making an appearance. Raising his cup, he nodded. “H’lo” he crooned softly. I replied, managing to sound pretty calm, considering. “Well, good evening.” Later in the car I laughed at myself, thinking I sounded maybe a bit Dracula-ish.

The waitress got in my way as she walked over and filled his cup. I heard him drawl softly “Just half a cup and leave the check.” As she made small talk I took the opportunity to lean backward a little so I could see his boots… yep, dusty. My guess was that he had been roping, and was on his way home. I had noticed a good looking Silverado parked out front with a matching horse trailer hitched to it as I had pulled into the parking lot. There was an awesome sorrel and a star faced bay inside that reacted to my talking to them with a comforting blow and snort.

I glanced around the room, and saw that nobody was paying him any attention. He was getting away with it, again. Many times I had seen him walk right through crowds of people without anyone noticing him. I knew of him sitting in a popular family restaurant with Norma, having dinner, and then walking out with no recognition interfering with their dinner. Maybe it was the fact that so few saw him off stage, and without that Resistol, or with his glasses on. It was hard to put into words, but I knew that on stage he was bigger then life. In his town most people gave him his privacy and left him alone. Perhaps that’s what was happening here, and I determined to allow him his privacy, as I always had.

The waitress walked away. There was nothing between us now but a shaft of red-gold light, years of memories, and good feelings. I glanced over, trying not to stare, and watched his long fingers wrap around the cup, that thumb of his sticking out like he was thumbing for a ride. Good old Dusty came to mind from the breakfast scene at Harley’s ranch where none of her family would talk to him. I grinned to myself remembering how many fans had decided to have bacon again after his infamous line “Shure is good.” How many times had I grasped that hand as he passed along the stage thanking his fans? I had gotten hold of that thumb more then a few times, and his little finger, which I had grasped onto for dear life one time and would not let go of. Not until he stopped trying to move away and turned to look, smiling knowingly.

I followed his hand up to his arm, for he had rolled the long sleeves of his blue shirt up to his elbow and the corded strength in his arms from roping was apparent. I went further, seemingly in a dream, and followed the arm up to his treasured throat, and his slow crooked smile. His eyes gazed into mine openly, letting me for a moment see into the mirror of his soul. One of my favorites of his older songs quickly came to mind, “Mirrors Don’t Lie.” All the feelings and emotions passed between us without a spoken word. He has meant so much to me for so long, and I care deeply that he continues to be happy, and healthy. He had always known, and he understood; it was there in his eyes for me to see. A feeling of deep contentment filled me. Even if I could have finally thought of the words to express myself, there was no need, for he knew. He raised his cup to me and I toasted him back.

We sat quietly for a few moments, he finishing his coffee, a few times making some notes on small sheets of note paper. I left him alone to his notes, and took a few bites of my dinner.

A young lady sitting with friends in another booth let out with a yell and laughed with her friends. I saw the alert look on his face, and watched him grow still. After a moment he glanced around at the back of the room to see that nobody was paying him any mind. I felt it coming, I knew he was leaving. As he folded the small sheaf of note papers and put them back into his shirt pocket I dreaded the next few moments.

He slid to the end of the booth, and stood, pausing to pull some bills from his pocket which he dropped onto the table. He leaned over and reached onto the seat picking up his Resistol. As he moved by me he paused, standing close by my side. “It was real nice running into you, you have a good evening. I’ll see you,” he paused, and added “next trip.” I smiled up at him, beaming I’m sure, and met his eyes heart on. “It was awesome seeing you. You take good care, and thanks, thanks for everything.” His left hand rested on my shoulder for a long second, his fingers squeezed, and then he walked away.

I heard his boot heels on the wood floor. I had caught his scent; and tried to catalog the mixture. Even with dust and the smell of horses on him he smelled clean. Noting that not a soul in the restaurant was paying the dusty looking rancher any mind I turned my head to watch him walk over to the register. Those Wranglers had seen some wear, and by his loose walk I could tell he was tired. I had seen that walk before at the Mirage in Vegas at midnight when he strolled right by the line of fans waiting to get in (without being recognized), and entered the showroom for the final filming of “Pure Country,” where he sung "I Cross My Heart."

I heard his soothing voice as he quietly spoke to the hostess, but could not make out what he was saying. He turned on a heel, glanced back at me, reached up with a hand and settled his hat onto his head. In one smooth movement he raised his hand in good-bye, leaned back against the door to open it, and was gone.

The waitress came by a few moments later to pick up his cup, stopped and asked me if I would like dessert. I smiled up at her, “I've already had it, thanks.” She grinned broadly, knowing exactly what I meant. She left my bill, and me alone with my thoughts. I stayed there, lingering for a while, wanting to remember the feeling. The booth was empty now, so empty.

A few moments later I went to the register to pay, and the hostess looked at me with a smile. “Your check has been paid by the gentleman that left a few minutes ago.” She handed me the receipt, marked “paid.” I carefully folded it and put it in my wallet, safekeeping another sweet memory. “Thank you, he’s a nice man.”

After one look back at the booth I strolled out the door, and stopped by my car for a moment to pause and take in the sunset. The Silverado with it's trailer and horses was gone. It was a perfect evening in South Texas, and at that moment I was feeling no pain, and smiling like a Cheshire cat. Only in Texas.

I have so many visions of him in concert, his "baby" face in the 80’s as he was still finding his way, then in the 90’s as Dusty when he was oozing sex appeal without hardly trying. His maturing in the new millennium is graceful and fine, and with a relaxed touch of humor. He is a steady and mature male but "the little boy" still resides within, and sometimes makes an appearance. His strongest characteristics; he is settled, comfortable, content with his life, and intent on keeping it as he wants it. He is still striving to be better at what he loves doing. He knows who he is, and has nothing to prove. He finds happiness in God's simpler creations, and deeply appreciates them.

Like a warm south Texas breeze flirting with live oak leaflets memories of him filter through my brain even as my fingers complete my work. Usually I conjure up images of his compact figure riding horseback or strolling across a stage under a four-inch brim cowboy hat wearing those Wranglers that comfortably hug and hold him. They fit his walk; a slight strut filtering down to his slim hips from where his ego truly lives, his brain. Today, along with that buttery baritone, it was recalling the image of his face and piercing green eyes that had penetrated my attempts to get my work done. The crack of thunder out in hill country, and the fast moving dark clouds led me to believe it was about time to pack up and get to my car. I wanted to cruise by what might become my new abode, then go home to cuddle with my kitties over a glass of wine. I leaned back in my chair and stretched for a moment studying the ceiling tiles. I relaxed, and listened to the voice in my life, the soothing comfortable crooning of George Strait.

The dark quiet of the empty building eased my soul. As I left the elevator closed behind me, and as I opened the outside door hot humid air greeted me. In a matter of weeks my job here would be over and I would be moving on to a new company, a new job, and new people. I hope for the best. So much of our lives are out of our control, making destiny an unknown. The one clear, concise thing for the last twenty some years has been the respect and love invoked by the Strait Man, and the rock solid pleasure and enjoyment that slim Texan provides in my life.

The last concert was most alive in my mind. As I drove northwest to a house I was thinking of making a home I remembered his solemn expression as he walked onto the stage, and the look on his face with the first recognition of our faces. There we were again, familiar friendly faces wearing t-shirts with his image; showing our love, support, and respect. Strait fans proudly standing in a sea of "parrot headed" Buffett and AJ fans. He waved at us, noticing his t-shirts, and walked across the stage in front of us. A huge picture of his face was on the big screen above the stage. Fine lines of remembered laughter were showing at the corners of his eyes as he received Texas yells, waves, and big smiles. I continued to watch the big screen with one eye. At the corner of his mouth his lips began to congregate and curve. I got a glimmer of his fine white teeth as a familiar crooked smile began to crack the solemnity of his face. His eyes warmed, his face crinkled, and laugh lines showed at the corners of his eyes where they had been sleeping all the time. How I love the warmth of his smile, matching the comfortable tone of his voice. What a wonderful concert that was.

I have come to realize that no move is wasted with him on stage or in life; that little in his life is left to chance, that all of his constant awareness is so much a part of him that he no longer even thinks of it.

Louis L'Amour's words come to mind when I think of George. "You can know a man if you follow his trail, if you follow long enough, by his tracks on the land. The ways of a man are plain – his kindness or his cruelty, his ignorance or his cunning, his strength or his weakness." Back in the days of the old west many a man who could not read a word of print could read character, story, and plot from a pattern of tracks, and the building of fires; the habits of a lifetime. George has descended from such men; he is such a man. His quiet kindness and sensible ways are well known to those closest to him. Never have I heard a discouraging word from those who know him the best, and for so many years.

Pulling my thoughts back to the future I glanced around me at what might be my new home. Lots of work to do here. Lots of room for a couple kitties in that house, and maybe another big ol’ Boxer dog eventually. Maybe a horse or two if my dream came true. There was enough wall space in the house for pictures of my family, the large portraits of departed four legged friends, and the continuing wall to wall ballad of Straitfever.

I walked back to my car, past the main ranch house. Back of the barn an old hen cackled, and somewhere a pump began to complain rustily, drawing clear water from a deep cold well. Such is my life I thought.

My old Taurus started with a complaint, and tires crunched on the gravel road. Right on cue, "Here’s George.." said the DJ on the radio. I turned the volume up and headed home… "Cowboys like us sure do have fun, riding the wind, chasing the sun..." Bless you Cowboy, wherever you are at this moment, whatever you are up to.

"There’ll be no regrets no worries and such for Cowboys like us." That song was definitely written for George, it fits him so well.