Time for another dose of Texas-inspired meditation. Because I live in Texas. And I got to meditatin’. And I have been known to think—as American Thanksgiving Day approached, for example, but pretty much whenever it comes to me too—that one of the things I am perpetually impressed by and immensely grateful for is the soulful dedication of those people who do all of the difficult and endless and mainly unsung tasks, at often invisible jobs, to make life bearable and beautiful for the rest of us.
It would be an exaggeration to claim that My Heroes have Always been Cowboys, but I do indeed respect the role they play in this pantheon of working-class wonders whose gifts are so much-needed and so often unheralded by the rest of us. I thank you sincerely, all of you independent gas station owners, ditch diggers, restaurant servers, car wash detailers, dry cleaning operators, factory workers, day laborers, and all of your committed fellow-men and women who carry us all on your backs.
Art-Colored Glasses 
I second that thank you! 🙂
Our perpetual life-support system in these people certainly deserve it! 🙂
It came as quite a surprise to me some years ago when I learned that the tumbleweed, that icon of the American West, is an invasive plant from Russia. The Cold War lives on.
One of the characteristics of nature in general, to my mind: all of life has, at its survivalist center, an invasive and aggressive takeover impulse. People act on it first, followed by other animals and plants, which more often depend on people or other parts of nature for the opportunities to fulfill the impulse. Or as I was just quoting Michael Crichton to somebody else, “life finds a way.” Even ‘dead life’ like a tumbleweed, clearly!
Yes! Seconded! – Oh someone already seconded it. I will third it! 😊 xx
If we all add our voices of thanks, maybe someday the session saxophonists and the cowboys and all of their under-celebrated ilk will finally get to hear them. 🙂
xoxo!
Yes! 😊 xx
Oh, Kathryn, your post and your poetry are just so Heart warming. Yes, I too thank all those hard working cowboys who more like then not, do not ever hear a thank you. To be free and wild, does have a price, yet the cowboy I bet, would not have it any other way. Beautiful post, one only you could put together so gently and warmly. Thank you. Love, Amy
I can only assume that cowboys, like all of the other hardest workers among us, very rarely, if ever, get thanked properly. But you’re absolutely right: not ‘any other way’, if most can choose.
Love back!
Kathryn
Well, then. I’m rather late to this party, but find it amusing that I just made a cowboy reference on another post of yours about time (and the eight seconds that constitute a bull rider’s chance at having a successful ride). I’ve always been particularly fond of cowboys, but I don’t think it’s because I live in Texas. I think it’s about admiring their work ethic, and their ability to be steady and true, and how they are plain and simple, without all the bells and whistles. I can appreciate a man with weathered wrinkles around the eyes, and a crooked smile, and a little bit of a hitch in his step. I especially love the old Grandpa cowboys, who still are ruggedly handsome.
As far as that appreciation for all the myriad of people it takes to keep a village alive, I’m with you on that one. From the guy that sweeps the floor to the woman wiping down the tables at the diner, each and every one of them are integral to our collective success. Hear, hear.
Amen to all of that, sister. And as for the old Grandpa cowboys, hardworking people of all sorts just get more and more beautiful with age, don’t they.
xoxo!