I was three-going-on-four, and I wore cowboy boots, checkered shirts, holsters with two six-shooters, and a ten-gallon hat
Usually, the first week we visit my mother in Los Angeles, the kids don’t make trouble.
The summer of 2019 was different, though. I’d come from Israel with my younger kids and older grandchildren for a month-long visit, and from the very start, I sensed animated, whispered conferences behind my back. When I accidentally interrupted, the kids, who ranged in age from two to 20, pasted on innocent smiles. By the time I spotted the paint smears on Batya’s skirt and eyebrow, the deed was done.
The six of them grouped together and herded me to the backyard, practically shoving me out the door. I slowly walked into the sunshine, and saw my childhood rocking horse — but it looked different. My old friend shone. Its light brown coat, black mane and tail, brown bit, and red saddle, all looked fresh and clean, and just the sight of my rejuvenated rocking horse took me back to the three years I spent as a cowboy in the 1960s.
Iwas three-going-on-four, and I wore cowboy boots, checkered shirts, holsters with two six-shooters, and a ten-gallon hat (probably more like a two-gallon hat; I was pretty small). At first glance you knew what I was: a cowboy. I answered to “Hoss,” the name of my favorite cowboy drama character, the Sheriff of Ponderosa, and I could spell his name long before I could spell “Esther” (although the direction of the “s”s was mostly guesswork).
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