My Heroes

J.H. Hinton - 1969

My Grandpa Johnny

John Henry Hinton, my maternal grandfather, was a buckaroo and rancher nearly all his life. He was known for his honesty, kindness, patience, and integrity. If there was ever a man, woman, or child who didn't like and admire him, at least they had the good sense to keep it secret, for to my knowledge there was nary a derogatory whisper in the wind. I learned a lot of lessons from this gentle man who helped raise me, most of which I sorely needed. I remember once complaining that a girlfriend had borrowed $7 from me to buy a pair of moccasins, and had never paid me back. I'd already called the girl's mother and was told "you shouldn't have loaned her money." Now, seven dollars doesn't sound like much, but in 1960 for me that was more than a full day's wages. I was 13 years old and working for 85 cents an hour. I threatened to "take it out of her hide" or "rip 'em off her feet and leave her barefooted." "How good a friend is she?" Grandpa asked. After analyzing the situation and realizing the girl had no intention of ever repaying the loan, I answered, "Not a very good one, I guess." Grandpa smiled and gave his head a slow shake. "Making a loan to a friend is a good way to lose a friend. If a friend is in need, any money you can afford to part with should be a gift. You shouldn't expect or ask anything in return. A friend, when and if they can pay you back, will." I can't say that I've stopped loaning money. Only now I do so with much more regard for the "need", and without expecting repayment. Not every acquaintance has turned out to be a friend, I'm sorry to say, but sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised. Though a few acquaintances have faded by the wayside, I know I have not lost a true friend. There were, and still are, always lessons to be learned. If I got bucked off, or fell off (which was more often the case) and went running to Grandpa in tears, he'd calmly say, "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get back in the saddle." Words to live by, no matter what devastating occasion. And those words of wisdom have helped me through some pretty rough times. His murder, called negligent homicide after a medical examiner's investigation, was one of those times. I never got to say good-bye to Grandpa because I didn't have enough money for an airplane ticket and not enough time to drive to the hospital in Blithe, California, where he lay dying. I've joked about my favorite shade of green, but I despise money...or least the need for it. It is, like time, a too precious commodity. J.H. Hinton For it's money, or the lack thereof, that limits even our ability to bid our last farewells. That, my friends, I find the hardest lesson of all. The doctor who committed this crime through malpractice is no more guilty then we, a society that has built its existence around greed. My grandpa was never a greedy man. He gave freely what he could to all his family and friends -- be it money, a bed, a meal, a helping hand, or a kind word. Though I may be called a soft touch by some, perhaps that is my fate. Perhaps I learned my lessons all too well. For like my Grandpa, I am a believer in Fate. "There's been times in my life that I should have been killed," he said the last time I saw him. "But it just wasn't my time." He spoke that day of a ticket -- a ticket no money can buy -- a gift from God. "We're all issued a ticket when we're born," he said, "and that ticket is already punched. Every ticket leads to the same destination...but there are certain things that are going to happen to you along the way." His soft blue eyes grew misty as he continued, "How you react to those things, what you become because of them or in spite of them, is up to you." He smiled that knowing smile. "You can choose to go first class or you can go coach. The decision is up to you." One thing he didn't mention that day is that Fate is not always kind. But then, to complain wasn't his way. My grandpa traveled his share of rough country, but straight in the saddle, Johnny Hinton always rode first class.

Guess who these guys are. (click image for full view)

Joe Young

Retired roper, team roper, horse trainer, and farrier, Joe Young is a special friend. I'll never forget the first time I saw him. Performing at the Caldwell [Idaho] Night Rodeo with his trick horse, Star Dust, he seemed bigger than life to a kid from the sticks, like me. Joe had that trained Arabian-Throughbred gelding dancin' like Trigger and I'm not sure I'd have been more impressed if Roy Rogers himself would have been out there runnin' him through his paces. The highlight of the show was when Joe pretended he was beddin' down for the night and beside his trusty mount he lay down, covering himself with his saddle blanket as protection from the cooling night air. Star Dust lay quietly at Joe's side until Joe tilted his hat to cover his eyes against the star-studded night, feigning peaceful slumber. The horse raised his head and peeked over his shoulder, just to make sure his master had drifted off...then reached over with his teeth and pulled the Navajo from off the dozing cowboy to cover himself. Joe, of course in an indignant manner, retrieved his blanket, and recovered his own prone body. Star Dust feigned sleep for a time, then peeked back again to eye his companion. When Joe raised his Stetson and caught the horse giving him the eyeball, Star Dust lowered his head back to rest...but briefly. For when the cowboy rolled away a might, and snuggled in, Star Dust reclaimed the Navajo once more. Joe swatted the horse with the Stetson and stole his coverlet back. The hilarious process was repeated until it became an all out tug-a-war between cowboy and horse, much to the delight of the crowd. Joe followed the rodeo circuit with the act for years, and it became much more profitable, he admits, than his roping. It was years before I had the pleasure of running into Joe Young again, and it was, in fact, at another rodeo. Star Dust was performing in that big arena in the sky by that time and I was no longer a "star-struck" kid. My mom and her friend, who dated a buddy of Joe's, needed mounts for the rodeo parade which Joe kindly provided. The third time we met was at a cowboy poetry gathering when we were both "very mature", Joe being more mature than I (tee hee). Together with Jim Davis, a retired Forest Service packer, we formed a trio called the Owyhee Drifters. Never mind that Jim had never seen the Owyhee Mountains, I was allowed to choose the name and I liked it! Joe and Jim have both moved, so the performing trio is in limbo for now, but we still see each other now and then and still enjoy each other's company when we do. Matter of fact I ran into Jim at the rodeo the other night and we made plans to get together and buckaroo some livestock. He's still a working cowboy and on a ranch not too far from here. Not bad for a fella who says he's so old that when he was born there was no moon and the sun was just the size of basketball! These are the kind of people you are proud to call your friends. And when I see a Navajo blanket or a Forest Service mule, I'll remember good times and good friends.

Duke Wayne
So Long, Pilgrim

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