Raised by cowboys.

I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that I had an, um, “colorful” childhood. It was unconventional in every sense but it was also fun, wild, and “educational”.

A long stretch of my younger years were spent in a dirty little house on 2nd Street. This house was full of dried cow shit, a kitchen that never graduated the 70s (yes I’m talking mustard yellow everything), there were empty beer cans, dirty dishes and dirty clothes, there was a crappy, shimmed-together pool table in the dining room, and  a couch that doubled as a Petri dish for man filth. With that being said, you could almost get past the dirt, smell, and lack of feng shui, because this was where “the boys” lived.

Now these “boys” were really some of my dad’s best friends, and cowboys in their early 20s with one track minds focused on cowboy shit, beer, and women. There was three of them who lived in the 2nd Street house, with dozens more who rolled in and out depending on where the rodeo road or wind took them. When I first started tagging along, none of these derelicts had a girlfriend (thank god those saints came along a few years later), which meant I was a young girl among a bunch of turds who cussed too much, drank too much, played cards until 1 am, and whom quickly became “my boys”.

There was no such thing as a quiet get together or a simple outing. Whether they were day working or cooking dinner, there was always hoopin’ and hollerin’, a heated argument (or two), beer being drank, and laughs all around. Some of my best memories were our Sunday night dinners. A cardinal rule for Sunday night dinner, was: there must always be garlic bread, and, said bread must be burnt. Now for the first couple years, the burnt part of this equation was unintentional. We’d be halfway through dinner, catch a whiff of smoke, someone would drop an f-bomb, and wah-la, burnt bread is served. Tasty. When we finally succeeded in saving the bread from a charred fate, we found out it was terrible. Apparently, essence of charcoal and smoke takes cheap garlic bread to Michelin ratings. These dinners were also host to the weekly Pedro tournament. Pedro is a card game played with partners, and being as they’re all competitive, no card game was complete without haggling, jousting, and shit talking. I’m an expert in this department, just come at me with a bad hand of cards and I’ll let ‘er rip. Somehow these tournaments never ended before midnight, and mind you these took place on Sundays, with school on Mondays… Grandmother was horrified at this set up, but, this is where survival skills and immunity really kicks in. I can sleep anywhere and on, uh, anything…

When it came to working, the boys’ family owned the Sale Yard in town. So cowboying and working cows was what they were born and raised doing. But, you can only punch cows so long before you are ready to move on and try your hand at being highfalutin, aka, pull out the rusty golf clubs and hit the country club. Kidding. Our cowboy country club was really a mediocre little golf course. In true fashion we couldn’t hit the course until we’d crafted our own beer cart, fully stocked with Natty Ice and any other cheap beer they could kick up. The Muni was the perfect setting for cowboys who can’t golf and meant there was a lot of driving carts up trees, lost golf balls, and maybe a rolled cart… By the time we made it to the back half of the course, I was a twelve year old cart driver who got scolded by the gardener for being underage. All I could think was, “Listen here pal, I’m the most level-headed, cautious driver here. If I was you I’d put your money on me and let me wrangle these hooligans.” To say the least, no one traded in their spurs for a new set of clubs, and the course is still trying to repair those cart tracks.

For all the disarray in our lives, we also had our routines. Part of our routine included the sale on Wednesday’s. After work dad would drag me down to the Yard, and I would either run sale tags back and forth from the office, or nap in the trucking thinking “when do we get to leave?”. Apparently I didn’t realize the firsthand cattle-working education I was missing by sitting in the truck. But, the end of the sale usually promised Parlato’s for dinner and drinks. Parlato’s also doubled as our host for Friday and Saturday night dinners. No restaurant will ever take Parlato’s place in my heart or stomach, it was delicious Italian food served by one of my most favorite ladies (who bonked her head on something and agreed to date one of the boys, hallelujah). Parlato’s didn’t just have the best dinner in town, they also conveniently had a bar. I scored my first drink chips after a thorough coaching from Uncle Justin to: walk in, hop up on a bar stool, pound my fist a couple times on the bar, do the nod, and tell Irv (the owner), that “I’ll take a root beer hold the root”. Irv laughed so hard he gave me a couple drink tokens to bring back when I was 21, and in the meantime took me back to get ice cream and sauce from the kitchen. I started young, and to this day am more than adept at drink ordering and bar navigating. It’s amazing what a little coaching by an pro can do.

But, looking past all the debauchery and well-versed nonsense I got into with these boys, they also taught me some important lessons.

They taught me to laugh. The years go quick, so make a point to spend time with family and friends.

They taught me that family doesn’t have to be blood-related at all.

They taught me to have a thick skin. Don’t be afraid to laugh, dish it out, and be quick on the comebacks.

They taught me that when the chips are down, your friends will always be there to pick things back up.

They taught me to never take for granted a good horse, a good dog, or a good friend.

They taught me to do what I love, and while I might not be riding broncs and gathering wild cattle, to find something that gives me adventure.

They taught me to stand up for what is right, and to not be afraid of calling out counterfeit people.

With reinforcements from their girlfriends, they taught me girls can do anything that boys can, and are usually twice as tough.

More often than not, they taught me to enjoy a good card game and a good drink.

But most importantly, they taught me that no matter the years and life changes, they’ll always have my back.

I can’t help but laugh when we get together and reminisce. It’s no wonder my mom threw a fit when she caught wind that I was telling dirty jokes to an audience of cowboys behind the bucking chutes. Or how silly it must have looked when they’d show up covered in cow shit to support me in my cheerleading venture.

The boys have grown up and have little buckaroos of their own now, which brings me the biggest smile of all. There’s a little less cussing, and an attempt at more refined behavior these days, but the laughs are still there. Better people you won’t find anywhere, and I’m thankful to have been able to run in their circle and learn from them firsthand. We all grew up together in our own ways, and I look forward to seeing where the next 15 years takes us.

I owe a lot to these boys, namely my bad behavior and my solid beer foundation necessary for surviving in this martini world.

Cheers.