The Dream Edged Cowboy

Inspired by Beta Radio‘s Waiting for the End to Come… start at the beginning.

I vaguely remember that evening when my dad came in from the cold and was frozen. He had been out on Rebel, his sorrel gelding, looking for a few head of steers that had found their way out into a storm that had become a blizzard. I was ten years old, and I don’t remember most of that night, but I remember the steam coming off my dad’s body as he sat by the wood stove trying to thaw out. The next morning, we heard on the radio that last night’s temperature was minus thirty-five with the windchill dipping to seventy below…. I do not know how either my dad or Rebel survived that night, but they did.

I cannot imagine the bond my dad had with Rebel. He had had him since Rebel was two, a gift from my mom’s brother. He always had him, until Rebel passed at an old age in eastern Oregon, far from the plains of Montana, but still very close to his cowboy.

I have several recollections of the dudes that tried to ride Rebel, and my dad would just laugh and climb on another horse and go get them. Rebel liked to run, and they could never stop him. My dad could if he wanted to, but he liked to run just as much as Rebel did.

On July 3rd, 1930, Don’s voice came into the world and would forever breathe cowboy. He dreams cowboy, he is a cowboy, and he is my dad.

My dad was one of seven boys and three girls, raised through the depression and two wars. All seven of the boys were shipped overseas to fight in two different wars… all of them made it home, some more damaged than others. Dad is the last of all his siblings now, and it makes him a little dimmer when he talks about that.  They all gave him pieces of joy, much like my siblings have given me. After my dad and his closest brother Wayne got home from Korea, they rode the rodeo for a bit while looking for work in the northeastern corner of Montana. They both got married and found religion, all around the same time.

In the early 60’s, Don and Shirley made their way to Portland Oregon, where they both attended Bible School and contrary to my sister Roxanna Lou’s plans, they made me. After Portland, dad did a stint with the Forest Service in the Gifford-Pinchot National Forest and after the arrival of Roberta Lynn in 1964 we headed back to Montana where my Dad worked in the oil fields for a few years before finding that ranch in the shadow of Birdtail, that is where he lived his dream of being the cowboy.

That blizzard… and the stories of Indian Jake. These were the days that I was the little boy who believed his dad had the answer to everything, because he did. He taught me to respect the world around me. and gave me reverence for what a firearm was for. He taught me to whisper to horses, and he taught me that my sister probably could do anything I could, which she did. My dad instilled so many incredible pieces of knowledge in me and my love for all that he taught me, will never grow stale.

My dad is a dreamer, just as deeply as he is a cowboy. He moved us from place to place as he took one job after another, looking for the dream he finally found on that ranch of the seventy below, but it was short lived. My dad made almost no money on that ranch, and in a few years, we moved to eastern Washington, where mom’s brother could help my dad find better paying work.

In many ways that was the end of my dad’s dream of being the cowboy, and in a few years, my parents split and I never lived with my dad again.

“You know me, I’m always halfway in a dream
You know me, I’m always halfway imbetween“

There have been so many peaks and valleys in my relationship with my dad… Anger at so many pieces of rejection and being left alone… but we walked through that.

It started with small steps, always being nudged along by my Susan…

It took years of driving across the state to Seahawk games and bonding over that silly sport…

It took moments of realizing that he is me.

My dad gave me the gift of dreaming, and he gave me the gift of writing…  and he hears the magic in music.

“Our bodies wanted to go under
Before we knew that we could walk on water“

Dad is ninety-four and counting. A few weeks ago, I had the joy of bringing him over to stay with Susan and I for a few days. We watched some movies, and I saw the romantic I understood… we listened to some music, and I slammed headlong into myself. I saw my dad melt when I played Jim Reeves and Marty Robbins and so many other artists he asked about… Dad and I will never agree on religion or politics, but we have common ground in a very hard to describe yearning to hear that song… and that song and that song. Again and again and again…

Both of us have spent a great deal of time trying to find out who is talking to us, and we have both found great joy in singing hallelujah. Sitting with my dad for a few days was like looking in a mirror and basking in being home. I saw a man who is kind and who’s spirit is so much like mine. I suppose this should be of no great revelation for me, but it is. I have spent a great deal of time focused on the negative things about my dad, but the moment I let that slip away, I see myself. I see all the things I have considered the best of me, right there in that hopelessly romantic dreamer.

My dad taught me to seek out that voice, I think we all want to chase something. If it isn’t one god, it is another. The need for people to find a deity in everything astounds me, but I am guilty. Music is arguably my deity, and I can live with that. Music carries the energy of the voices who sing it, and the instruments that play it, and that energy persists.

My dad still dreams, just as hard as ever has. He dreams about the upcoming visits and trips he will be taking, and I saw the wisp of wonder and awe when he talked about riding horses and wandering the plains of Montana.

He still has stories that I have not heard before, and yet, quite a few I have…

He believes he will see one hundred and I do to, I love this man dearly.

“Hari Krishna, hallelujah
Ayahuasca, wheel of wonder
At St. Peter’s, holy water
Veil of wonder, Holy Mother

Hari Krishna, hallelujah
Ayahuasca, wheel of wonder
At St. Peter’s, holy water
Veil of wonder, Holy Mother“

On July 19, 2024, Beta Radio released the absolutely stunning, Waiting for the End to Come. You need to listen to this album from the begining with The Grief Of, through to the end with Waiting for the End to Come, at least once in your life. I found joy and sadness and so much magic. I listened to this album on repeat when I drove the two-and-a-half hours to pick my dad up and again after I dropped him off a few days later… There is something deeply magical about this album. I have said countless times, music finds you, right when you need it and these last few weeks I needed this album. I am so grateful to these guys for letting us live in their energy for thousands of repeats.

This album crept into my dreams and painted the picture my dad and I were trying to describe with our lives. Can you go too far away from what you know?  If you get too far away, I hope you have some nuggets of memories like I have with my dad, and they call you to stay.

We are all searching and we are all so badly flawed, yet we are all so perfect.

Float through this album and lay back into the idea of how we seek, and we seek, waiting for the end to come…

My dad loves the story of Will James, The Gilt Edged Cowboy, and in 2009 I wrote a song for him titled, “The Dream Edged Cowboy“. It was right around the time I started to understand how devastating it must have been to look at your only hope of a career drifting away like a weed in the wind. I wanted to show him my grattitude for giving me the gift of being a dreamer.  I really don’t like my voice at all but appreciate my badnamtes at the time, Fran and Tim for giving me their support in recording it for my dad. I think he liked it.

I have never had the impression that he was blown away by my singing prowess, and he is not wrong… maybe I can get Beta Radio to cover it.

Learning, listening and growing…