Joseph M. Madda
In the 1950s little American boys wanted to be cowboys. I was one of them. Like TV’s Marshal Matt Dillon in Gunsmoke (1955-1975, a total of 635 episodes!) or at the movies, like John Wayne’s character in The Searchers or Cary Cooper’s in High Noon, I was ready to ride the range, nab the cattle rustlers, save dance hall damsels in distress, and all the while ensure the western march of US Manifest Destiny.
But to be an honest-to-God, rootin-tootin cowboy, you needed the right outfit. I may not have had my own horse (no thanks to you, Dad) but as the old photo attests, I most certainly did have the look down pat. (Thanks, Mom!)
Let’s start with my feet firmly on the desert dirt, in high top, chunky healed, pointy toed, genuine Leather cowboy boots. Black with contrasting decorative, white leather inlays. In those babies, you could guide Old Paint faithfully on the trail…or with equal aplomb quickly crush that sneaky rattler over there by the three-arm cactus.
Next, sprouting from my footwear, the western trousers, stylish yet comfortable. Black with white side leg and trouser top striping. If you look closer, there’s a western scene on the front of each pant leg - a horse and rider, undoubtably imagined amigos of mine riding amidst the purple sage.
Then the black western shirt with wide, round, floppy collar, again with contrasting white edging. A loosely tied, white necktie with ornamental, silver holder pulling it together. It is important here to state for the record, I was not playing an all-black clad villain. Hence, the white necktie, indicating I was on the right side of the law and frontier society.
That hat. Oh that western hat! Big and beautiful, black with interlaced white ribboning for an elegant frame to my confident visage. Instant shade anywhere, yet still admired by the ladies. Undoubtably, I used the drawstring as needed. Evidently it was a bit windy that day.
Now for the controversial part of my ensemble, my weaponry. Yes, a cowboy needs a gun, and open carry of course. The white leather holster with silver rivets and matching belt are elegant. Like most buckaroos, I wore it low to my right, even though I was born left-handed. The handgun itself that I am casually cradling is a little hard to identify. I suspect it is the usual reliable (toy) six-gun revolver, with faux pearl (plastic) handle. Maybe like a Colt 1851 Navy Revolver, very common on the late 19th century frontier. Anyway, I was proclaiming my Second Amendment rights.
Today, I am not so proud of that part of my gear. But, you know, times were different back then; I mean there were dangers lurking at every turn. Well, at least in my visions of desolate wastelands. So I am sure you will understand, I had to be prepared. At any rate, all things considered, as a seven-year-old cowpoke, I looked damn good!