 - Last login: 3 hours agoTextuous
- Textuous is a 51 year old guy from Near-N-Yondered, Texas, USA.
- Likes 6 pages • 75 fans • Received 47 reviews
- Member since Mar 30, 2006
Antique Cowboy with tarnished six-shooter, rusty spurs, and swaybacked steed. Garage kept, housebroken, and mannerful. Grammatically textuous, with traces of chivalry and dance-floor etiquette. If you read the blog...the least you can do is say hello and leave a smile or sumthin'.
Favorites » His Blog
-
-
MINI-MEYER (Volume 1)
Every last one of us had a childhood...some were happy, others best forgotten. Mine was a mixture of both...a nasty divorce when I was eight (we get started early in Texas), and subsequently, a mother who worked two jobs, leaving me to pretty much raise myself.
One would think, as did she, that out in the country, there's little or no trouble for a pre-teen boy to get in to. But it seems that way back in 1939, some obscure company in Arkansas called Daisy introduced the Red Ryder BB Rifle, thus backwards-perpetuating the legend of...me...Mini-Meyer...the roughest, toughest, handsomist cowboy this side of Roy Rogers himself.
He could ride (a mismatched, pieced together bicycle), he could rope (with an imaginary lasso, because rope was expensive), he could shoot (which we'll get to in just a second), and he had undeniable cowboy charm (well...three out of four ain't bad).
And so it was that one day, young Mini-Meyer watched as Roy, riding Trigger at a full gallop, shot the hat off every one of the rustlers and held them at rifle-point until the sheriff showed up. Dale gave him a big kiss. Piece of cake...I had to try it.
Now accurately shooting a Red Ryder BB Rifle requires steady aim...and riding my trusty steed with no hands wasn't a problem, as long as I could do it on the highway in front of the house. One hand holding the gun, the other gripping the handlebar until I got rolling, I soon felt comfortable with the routine. Then, it was simply a matter of attaching a foil pie-plate to the mailbox as the target, backing off about a hundred feet, getting the pony-cycle up to full speed, releasing my grip on the handlebar, and popping the bad guy just as my hero did. Surprisingly, I actually hit the thing about half the time.
On one particular run, just as I released my grip on the handlebar, the front tire struck a small pebble, causing me to momentarily re-grab the rubber grip for support. At a full gallop, this put a serious wrinkle in my timing, and with the angle of attack quickly widening to the point that the bad guy might actually slip away, I wildly squeezed off a shot in the general direction of the mailbox.
My dear old grandmother, having eaten a healthy plateful of fresh purple hull peas, cornbread, and boiled okra for lunch, was just making her way back from the outhouse, and I watched in youthful fascination as she grabbed the back of her old cotton skirt and did a sort of skip, hop, and jump...all at the same time. It gave new meaning to the old saying about having a catch in her get-along, and she let out a fairly respectable coyote howl which I thought was pretty cool for an old lady.
Even at the tender age of nine, I already knew that nothing will ruin the reputation of a young cowboy hero like word getting out that he's a back-shooter...it's a cowardly trait...and the fact that the victim was an elderly woman, shot in the butt, would be all but impossible to live down. I needn't have worried about reputations, because the constitution of this great nation guarantees a man the right to a swift and speedy trial.
In the next five minutes, I was charged, tried, found guilty, and sentenced. As was the norm, it was Mini-Meyer who was required to go and fetch a green switch from the peach tree beside the barn...knowing all the while that it was soon to be used to set the backside of his little Wranglers on fire.
We live and we learn...and before the sun went down over the prairie, I had that coyote howl down pat.
Meyer
|
his Favorites
Add him as a friend >
