Today, Ray and I went with our friends Ronnie, Art, and Joseph to the Reagan Library to see the Cowboys: History and Hollywood exhibit. There, we saw photos of real cowboys, a bona fide chuck wagon, examples of guns, rifles, hats, chaps, and jeans of the cowboy era, a map showing the cattle drives, rodeo memorabilia, a cattle railroad car, various examples of Hollywood cowboy movies, and an explanation of how barbed wire was the real enemy of the cowboy.

While the exhibit was underwhelming overall—Ray and I saw a far superior photo and sculpture exhibit at the Amon Carter Museum of American Art in Fort Worth several years ago—it did point out to me that of the five of us there, I was the only one with any real experience with the life of a cattleman and actual cowboys. None of my four compadres, including Ray, had any exposure to sale barns like my father’s Bonham Livestock Commission Company, which ran a weekly livestock auction for area ranchers selling cattle, pigs, and horses. And not one of my four fellow exhibit-goers had any idea what it was like to have cowboys who worked at the sale barn saunter by and tip their hats to me and say quite kindly, “Howdy, little lady,” when I happened to be at the barn with my father.

While I enjoyed the Cowboy exhibit, it didn’t hold a candle to my Texas experience with real cowhands. As my dad might say, “They were the real McCoy.”

Here’s a poem I wrote about my dad:

My Dad was a Cattleman, Through and Through

He wore a Stetson and cowboy boots
He owned an auction barn where livestock was sold every Monday
He had a nice car, but also an old pickup truck
He took me out with him to feed our cows

With a bale of hay in the back of the old Ford
We’d bounce through the pasture
And the cows they’d follow us
To the salt lick near the pond

My father was a proud Texan
He loved the fields full of cotton and alfalfa
He’d drive me crazy, driving so slow
“Now that’s a good crop,” he’d say.

My father could dress up and cut a fine figure
He wore tailored suits from his brother’s upscale men’s wear store
He could travel to Dallas and look right at home
A farm boy from Fannin County who was comfortable in his own skin.

My dad loved his cattleman friends
Men who called me “a little jewel.”
Men with kind eyes and starched blue jeans
Who would have knocked anybody silly who said one sideways word to me

My dad drank Jack Daniels and smoked filterless Camels
He was gentle and fierce; decent and solid
A man connected to his community
A good man with a love of the land, people, and home

My dad was a cattleman, through and through.

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Here’s a photo of my dad at the sale barn the day he announced that he’d be selling the business due to his diagnosis of terminal lung cancer. You can see and feel the somber mood of the men there at the ring, where cattle were brought in one at a time to be sold. My dad is the only man there not wearing a hat

And here are some photos of our day today: