I often mused as I let fly my lariat on how much of who I am depended on Richard Milhous Nixon.  How many law abiding citizens could say that?  I would let the lariat loop close on nothing and bring it back, and then out again.  I became a wandering trick roper and horse companion all because of our 37^th president.  I have traveled the world with what some might call a circus, but what I think of as a traveling roadside attraction.  I make my living with my lariat.  Roping for me is akin to fly fishing.  Out and back, out and back; and sometimes something would jump into the loop and catch itself. Those somethings put food on the table.

It was 3 AM, and I was standing in an empty corral.  I did my best roping in the wee hours.  A thunder storm approached and I would would probably get drenched; but it didn’t worry me because I owned the best rain hat in the world.  It wasn’t actually black and certainly wasn’t white. It was the color of in-between things.  This hat, which you wouldn’t call a cowboy hat, because I’m definitely not a cowboy, and to prove it I wore red boots.  In fact, I’m not even a drugstore cowboy.  I am in the neighborhood of fifty.  It’s a big neighborhood!  By the way, the hat was given to me by Warren G. Harding.  There’s a story there, but we may run out of time.

George Stinky Feet would often say that I was, “The best man I ever saw at roping nothin.”  George had a way with words.  His feet didn’t stink any more that any other human.  But because of a cruel childhood prank, the name got foisted on him.  As he grew into manhood, he got to rather like the name.  In fact, now whenever he introduced himself, he would always give a extra emphasis to that particular word.  He would say, “Hi, I’m George STINKY Feet.”  Often, that man or more likely woman, would glance down, for just a split second, as to test accuracy.  I imagined that George smiled as they glanced down, but I didn’t really know.  No one one had ever seen George smile. He did.  Everyone knew he did.  But somehow George always managed to smile when no one was looking.  This was miracle, because he got around a lot.  His stony face, of indeterminate age (somewhere between 40 & 70), always appeared just on the outskirts of any truly interesting social gathering in and around the rodeo town of Pendleton, OR. People would often ask George what he did for a living, and he invariably reply, “Breathe.”  The questioner would generally expect a smile, but the world is full of disappointment.

I liked George because he knew that people were more defined by what they didn’t do, as what they did.  I often said, “My one claim to fame is not what I can rope, but what I haven’t.”  People would always shake their head at that, because I have roped some amazing things.  In fact, there is an epic story going around that on the fourth of July, in some small town in Oregon, maybe Echo, I’m not saying for sure, but some say a lariat miracle did take place.  It was the Fourth and it was hot; and people say I was doing a whole lot of roping nothin.  The audience was getting restless and so the story goes, I was in a kind of trance, and then, there came an annoying buzz, and then buzzzz again, and then zing went the lariat and zap went the loop.  And, yes friends, I roped a horse fly.  Admittedly, it was a atypically large horse fly, but horse flies could get pretty darn big, ask any horse.  Whenever anyone would ask me about this miracle, I would just shake his head and say, “It’s impossible to rope a horse fly.”  But then I would smile and maybe wink, leading them to believe that it was impossible for most people, but for me, well …

… and speaking of horses, my partner and best friend is a red Dun mare named Sophie.  My ex-wife, Annie, had just stolen her again.  Of course, Sophie always managed to escape.  If the horse could talk, she would want to be known as ‘Sophie, The Amazing Escape Horse’, instead she headlined as ‘Sophie, The Horse Who Counted’.  But I knew she could do more than just basic math. If I could build the right equipment she could learn Calculus. But I am a dreamer.  Annie never took Sophie far, because she loved her as much as I did, and knew that she would always escape anyway.  But she always hoped that for once, she want stay with her, but she never did.  Once Annie stole off to as far away as Walla Walla, WA, but Sophie escaped again and made her way back to Pendleton.  Annie worried herself into a state, and kept calling me until she heard Sophie was back home safe and sound.  So she never took her that far away again.  She would get riled about something I had said or done, and then plot another theft.  Hoping that this time, with enough sweet talk and sweets, she would win her over. She is still hoping.

The thunder storm had just finished it’s dance over the corral, and the earth smelled showered, shaved, and dabbed in cologne, ready for a night on the town.  I removed my hat, which was amazingly almost dry, but that was it’s nature.  I took a good deep breath and let it out slow, and marveled at the shiny new Ford 350 pickup I had just seen Annie riding in with her new bow-legged boyfriend.  All of her recent boyfriends were bow-legged, and drove bigger and bigger pickups.  I once asked her, “What’s with the legs on these guys?”  She would just shake her head, smile wistfully, point at me, and pull her trigger finger.  It turned out her new beau was a quick draw artist.  Unfortunately for him, Annie was not only a crack shot with a pistol, she was lightning quick too.  They met at a quick draw exhibition at the roundup.  She was his first challenger, and wouldn’t you know it the quick draw was a draw.  How embarrassing! But somehow he still managed to fall for her anyway.

Anyway, those in the cheap seats are probably wondering, how Richard Nixon fits into the story.  Every American has asked that question at one time or another.  I met President Nixon in Walla Walla in 1972.  Some of you Bozos are wondering, Walla Walla, Richard Nixon!  Well, look it up.  I was a tuba player in the Blue Devil marching band.  A mediocre tuba player, but the girls really went for tuba players.  Well, it’s a tall tale isn’t it!  Nixon landed at the airport for a short campaign stop, attended by some Washington State bigwigs, who shall remain forever shadowed in history.  Nixon gave his infamous V for Victory salute, and then a short speech.  He went on to slaughter McGovern in 72.  His last and only slaughter, as it turned out.  I and the band played Hail-to-the-Chief or some other presidential tune. I can’t remember now.  Maybe it was the Stripper song.  Anyway, some time later I wandered off from the band, perhaps to clear spit from my tuba, when I heard footfalls behind me.  I was just about to turn around, when a squeeze on my right right shoulder grabbed my attention.  I turned and there, his face inches away, was the 37^th president of the United States, Richard M. Nixon.  The next 30 seconds changed my life forever.  The President said, “Beware giant ants and talking armadillos.”  He wasn’t smiling.  There was no humor in his voice, and no wink of an eye.  He had to be joking, but it was Dick Nixon, a man who may have had a sense of humor; but only he knew where to find it.  I didn’t have a chance to respond, because a couple of secret service agents efficiently cornered the head of state and gently shepherded him away.  One of those strapping gentleman gave me a look that seemed to say, ‘Don’t take what he said too seriously.’  And for a few years, I didn’t.