THE PARLOR is a series on The Milk House that embraces the lighter side of rural life. You can find a new piece by a different author the first Saturday of most months.
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The ubiquitous thing about a cowboy is his hat, how he wears it and where he hangs it.
We rode into Telluride in a cloud of dust, waving our hats like windshield wipers to better see our destination. Three amigos out on the town: Larch, Hoss and me, Calamity.
Seeking relief from the heat, we sought to rise above the situation by hopping the free gondola ride up and over Mount Sophia to gain a bird’s eye view of this one horse town. At our feet lay a charming collection of 19th century dollhouses seating in neat rows resembling a box of crayons with the cover turned back, showing off more colors than a rainbow. We were crowded in a swinging basket. Our hats rested quietly folded on our laps.
For lunch we picnicked on wooden benches, placed by considerate Town Fathers, along the side streets for worn out tourists to sit a spell on weary bones. Slouching back on our haunches, hats pushed back in a nonchalant manner matching our reckless spirits, we flipped naked chicken bones into puddles collected by the gutter, our own version of “mumble-the-peg,” a temptation not to be passed over by a roaming dog.
On our feet again, hiding under greasy brims, we sauntered around this small resort town sizing up the joints. One accommodation in favor of the western lifestyle, in an otherwise yuppie environment, is the parking strip midway dividing Main Street. Ranchers towing trailers and the like can leave the motor running, dash off to complete an errand and return, without fussing with fancy parking maneuvers.
About this time an entourage hauling horses in tandem pulled up to park just as a young lady appeared out of nowhere, striding towards us, same side of the street. She was the living version of Blondie looking for Dagwood, clicking high wedgies on fast feet, hair drawn up to cascade over her crown top, the trumpet shape of her hemline swung in time with the bounce in her step. This gal’s hands were full up with shopping bags. She had an old flea market relic of a hat rack stuck precariously under one armpit.
Curious about the horses parked in the middle of the road, Ms. Blondie marched into the street, approached the stock trailer, letting her hat rack slip gently to stand on its own three feet. Tiptoeing up to a slatted opening, poked her nose between the bars and to her surprise received an Eskimo kiss from the velvet nosed passenger on the other side!
Now the sun of high noon was heating everything under the sun inspiring all the senses to take note causing the intruder in a quick and sudden movement to pull away her head from the source of nature’s earthy fragrance. The rapid motion startled the horse.
Ever alert to take advantage of an opportunity, Larch gallantly strolled up to the damsel in distress, respectfully raising his hat. Wanting to air out its sweaty head band, he hung his ten-gallon on the handy old hat rack to dry.
Hoss whooped and hollered, slapping his dusty chapeau against his grease stained thigh!
Learn more about Sandy on our Contributors’ Page.
(Photo: arbyreed/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
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- THE PARLOR: Hat’s Off by Sandy Korey - February 3, 2024
- THE PARLOR: Summertime Cowboy by Sandy Korey - October 7, 2023