Is it love or obligation? I am driven to inquire. It’s the sort of information that I’m not going to acquire unless I ask you bluntly. He’s a noxious sort of fellow— shriveled-up and cranky, and his fingernails are yellow!
He’s a worn-out western movie star, but I swear his past is not the sort of glamor that’s been shown to last. Marry a guy for former fame? My dear, it isn’t groovy. If you want to see him at his best, may I suggest a movie?
Earlier this week, I published a poem about cowboys and illustrated it with a photo of three cowboys that I took on the street during the 100th anniversary parade of the little town I grew up in in South Dakota. I had no idea who they were, but today I received this communication on my Facebook page that not only identified two of the handsome young cowboys, but which also informed me of an unusual twist of fate concerning the identity of one of the cowboys. Here is that Facebook conversation with Wayne Esmay, who still lives in (or near) my hometown of Murdo, South Dakota: