Bad guys wore black hats, good guys wore white ones. Ranch houses were clean and spacious, unlike the familiar cramped, gray coal-town houses. Good always won over evil, and Dale, Roy, and their friends were always well and happily singing at the end of every episode. A tidy life and I wanted it.
I started planning to steal a horse and go Out West when I was seven. My family lived on a knoll with a good view of the hills, roads, coal tipple, and river surrounding us. From our front porch, I could see a lone horse grazing in a distant field. While it was hard to be sure at that distance, I imagined a sleek, shining palomino with flowing mane and tail, fast as the wind and smart enough to answer questions with a pawing hoof.
I made discreet inquiries of my mom and dad: "How long do you think it would take to ride a horse Out West? Are there still wild Indians? How about cattle rustlers? Do you think Dale and Roy have any extra rooms in their ranch house?" None of their answers discouraged me, so I began making plans.
That was the year I learned to read and write, and I made a list of everything necessary for a ride Out West. I wouldn't need a saddle -- I could just leap onto my horse and ride it bareback. I'd take my favorite food -- cans of Campbell's chicken noodle soup, a pillow, blanket, pots and pans, matches to light the campfire, apples and hay for the palomino, a flashlight, a jug of water, Kool-Aid, a bag of sugar for the Kool-Aid, candy, cookies, a few toys. I already knew all the words to "Happy Trails To You," and I had a cap pistol and holster. That left only one other necessity -- a cowgirl outfit.
The problem was, in a community with a population of around 500 and one general store that sold groceries, furniture, dry goods, gasoline, guns, Bibles, and served as the post office, how do you get the perfect cowgirl attire a la Dale Evans? Where could I find the fringed skirt and vest, checkered shirt with bolo tie, boots, and a white hat to wear hanging down my back the way Dale wore hers?
Months went by with no solution to my problem until the Christmas catalog arrived.
There was no overestimating the importance of this book in my life. Looking back, I see my childhood in shades of coal dust gray with a single splash of color brightening every year -- the arrival of the Sears and Roebuck winter catalog. I learned to read and add columns of numbers at a young age with this book as my text. My early dreams and fantasies were fueled by its pages, and the disappointments of earlier Christmases did little to dull the excitement of its arrival.
The winter I planned to steal a horse and go Out West, I quickly turned the pages past the clothing, furniture, bedding, appliances, and livestock and found the toy section.
Flipping right through the dolls and train sets, I came to the dress-up clothes. There, among the costumes and tutus, was a photograph of Dusty Rogers, Roy's little boy, dressed in cowboy hat, vest, checkered shirt, bolo tie, guns, chaps, boots and spurs -- everything a cowboy needed. The little girl of the 50s didn't entertain even the possibility of owning a boy's toy, and my heart had begun to sink when I saw the smaller picture of a little girl on the same page. She was wearing a genuine cowgirl outfit, the hat hanging just the way Dale liked it. She had a little fringed vest and skirt and perfect little cowgirl boots.
I had found my cowgirl outfit, but the problem was far from solved. Trying to look casual, I sat at the kitchen table and opened the catalog.
"Look at this, Mom. This is pretty nice, isn't it?"
She barely looked. "Too expensive. We don't have that kind of money." She had long ago explained that Santa had to be paid by someone.
Daddy would be no help. His role was pretty much the same as most miners. They went to the mines, worked hard, brought the paychecks home, gave them to their wives, and then repeated the process. Mom made all the decisions about spending.
There was one hope left. My grandma. She sent presents every Christmas, and that year, I figured I'd help her make the hard decision about what to get me. I looked at it this way -- if she was going to buy me a gift anyway, why not just get me the thing I wanted most? The logic was inescapable, and since I could now write my own letters, I decided to make my grandma's life easier and tell her what I wanted.
Dear Grandma,
I would like a cowgirl outfit. It is in the Sears and Roebuck winter catalog. It costs $5.99. Thank you very much.
Love, Sue
P. S. Don't forget the boots.
I didn't know about addressing envelopes yet, so I asked my mom to mail my letter, which she promptly read. I had been so polite, I was surprised by my parents' reaction.
Daddy was as upset as Mom, which was pretty unusual. "We don't ask anyone for anything! Not even Grandma! No one! Not ever! Do you understand?"
Mom threw my letter in the stove and there went my last hope for a genuine cowgirl outfit. How could I go Out West without one?
Nothing else in the Sears and Roebuck winter catalog held any appeal for me. Other years, I'd looked it to pieces, but this year it hurt to see the page with the picture of Dusty Rogers and the genuine Dale Evans cowgirl outfit. I spent a lot of time looking out the window at my palomino horse in the distant field.
The old frame house we rented was cold and drafty, and we were always reluctant to crawl out from our warm covers in the mornings. Daddy would get up first to build a fire, but that Christmas morning, my little sister was up before everyone else.
"Santa was here! Santa was here! Get up, everybody!"
The sight of the bubble lights on the Christmas tree and the wrapped presents brightened my mood, and I forgot my problem for a while. Santa had left each of us a toy -- mine was a Tiny Tears doll, and my sister got a Smokey the Bear with removable hat and shovel that I secretly liked better. Daddy read aloud the names on the presents, using his idea of a hearty Santa voice. We all got underwear and socks -- even Mom and Daddy.
Grandma's gifts were a lot more interesting. She gave my sister a little suitcase that she immediately filled with Smokey and his accessories. Mom got Evening in Paris perfume and Daddy got after-shave and cigars. I held my present for a while, trying to gauge whether the long box would hold a genuine cowgirl outfit complete with boots.
I opened the package slowly, hopeful that Grandma had somehow divined my urgent need. She hadn't. The lacy party dress I lifted from the box was about the prettiest dress I'd ever seen. I felt like crying, but I didn't.
I was taking the clothes off Tiny Tears when my Daddy said, "Susu, this one has your name on it." He shoved a big box toward me. "Go on, open it up." He looked at Mom and smiled. She gave him a rare smile right back.
Holding my breath, I opened this last present. Something solid slid around inside. I looked at Daddy and he nodded.
The white hat was right on top. Daddy placed it on my head and slid the bright red bead up the cords to fit snugly under my chin. I pulled out a checkered shirt with piping around the yoke and pearl snaps up the front. A row of red fringe hung from each sleeve. The skirt and vest were made of soft red felt cut in fringes around the edges. A shiny sheriff's badge was pinned to the vest. Dale Evans had never had a sheriff's badge! I was sure of that. The boots wore a fresh coat of brown polish that didn't entirely cover the wear on the toes and soles. I touched the embossed leather.
"Thank you, Daddy," I managed to say.
Daddy pulled me onto his lap and whispered in my ear. I took another look at my new cowgirl outfit and then at my mother.
Even a six-year-old can understand sacrifice. My mother had cut up her own clothing to make my outfit, adding embellishments from her scrap-bag. My daddy had worked overtime at the mine to buy a brand-new hat and badge, and used boots from the shoe repair shop in town.
It was much too cold to ride Out West, so I decided to delay my trip until spring. I spent the winter practicing my horseback riding on the banister of the front porch, becoming a quick-draw sharpshooter with my cap pistol. My sister and the cat were rescued from many sticky situations. I was Dale Evans and, in my secret heart, sometimes I was Roy Rogers.
My daddy noticed all the time I spent gazing at the horse in the distance and drove me to the field one day in the pickup. My palomino was just a broken-down workhorse and not at all the right sort of horse for riding Out West, so I abandoned my plan.
The genuine cowgirl outfit transformed me into Dale Evans until I wore it out, and Dale's and Roy's adventures on the screen helped to shape my character and my imagination. I still expect good to win over evil, and I'm always surprised when it doesn't.
This Christmas, I gave my granddaughter a genuine cowgirl outfit complete with hat and boots. No guns.
Now I know Out West never existed except in my heart, and that I didn't need to steal a horse to get there. As long as a child of the 50s survives, the King of the Cowboys and the Queen of the West will live on. Happy trails.
This essay is from Tis the Season: The Gift of Holiday Memories edited by Tom Peacock and published by Novello Festival Press, copyright 2001 ($15.95). The book is available at area bookstores and at branches of the Public Library. All proceeds go to support the Public Library.
