I was none too happy to be in the city, but circumstances required my presence there, so I obliged with as much cheerfulness as I could muster. It’s true. Although I appreciate their cultural and commercial significance, I hold a certain disdain for large population centers. I know it’s not the fault of the people, many of them good, who reside in these places, but I’m quite certain that they’re probably not aware that Satan himself is a city planner. I’m no scriptorian, but check your Bible. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.

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Freelance Writer
Paul Marchant is a rancher and freelance writer in southern Idaho. Follow Paul Marchant on X (@pm...

I was sitting in the intersection in my 20-year-old pickup, my left turn signal methodically blinking. Somehow my mind focused on the steady clicking that somehow manifested itself above the relentless din of the city. I’d been there for a much longer time than any sane human would have preferred. Finally, the traffic light 200 yards in front of me turned to red, slowing the oncoming traffic. Another several seconds of waiting. Finally, a slight gap appeared between a neon green Tesla and a pristine, red Toyota pickup, complete with a sleek silver bed cover, the driver of which, I’m sure, considered his sweet ride to be a real man’s truck. I gave the spurs to my old white Ford and darted between the two vehicles, paying no more heed than was deserved to the driver of the Toyota as he greeted me with a “welcome-to-the-city” one-fingered salute.

The parking lot was busy and crowded, so I didn’t even think about searching for a good parking spot, opting instead to do as I usually did in such situations and head to the far corner where parking spaces seemed not to be as highly valued as those nearer the door. My wife has never been too fond of this maneuver, but the walk to the front doors of the mall required no more steps than what it took to walk from the horse pen to the tack shed at home.

I strode across the parking lot like I owned the place, causing a slight case of anxiety in the heart of each person I passed as I looked each one in the eye and greeted them with a fearsome salutation. Most of the time I simply said, “Hi,” but every now and then I’d shoot out a full-blown sentence or rhetorical question, something like, “How are you today?” Every once in a while, I’d get a startled smile, but most of the time my greetings went unheeded. My demeanor and my attire were slightly different from the norm in that locale, so I guess I can, to some extent, understand the trepidation with which they responded to the stranger in their midst.

I finished up my tiny shopping excursion as quickly as I could and made my way to the checkout line, such as it were. As I stood there silently arguing with the self-checkout contraption, I could feel the gaze of the 5-year-old boy swinging on the shopping cart next to me, expertly watching over his 2-year-old sister while their mother scanned the contents of the cart. He took a tentative step my way, and without a hint of apprehension, blurted out, “Hey, are you a real cowboy?”

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I’ve been approached with the same query dozens of times over the years. You’d think it wouldn’t be a question that would cause much consternation, yet I never quite know how to best answer it because I’m never sure of the questioner’s mental definition.

“Are you a real cowboy?” I think his expectation of my answer was pretty basic, but as I pondered the question from my new little friend, a lifetime of memories ran through my head in those few seconds:

I cuss too much, procrastinate too often, and I’m usually 10 minutes late to every church or board meeting.

I wear my straw Resistol from June to October and my custom-made 20X beaver felt lid from Rand’s Custom Hats in Billings from November to June. Quite often I’ll don a cap emblazoned with the logo of the Cassia County Fair, Oakley High School, Coleman Limousin Ranch or Elkington’s Polled Herefords.

I shoe my own horses, do my own chores and change my own tires, but I’m a terrible mechanic and I need my son for any welding jobs that require even the tiniest amount of skill.

When a big job looms in front of me, I call my sons, my sisters and my neighbors. I drag 'em to the fire at branding time, but I’ve been known to use a calf table. I can use a rope, but I know when to leave it hanging on the saddle.

My kids rodeoed in high school and I fan-gush at the National Finals, but I’m not really fond of some of the rodeo crowd.

I may know some of the buckaroo lingo of my high-desert home, but I don’t wear a flat hat or own a single Garcia bit. My trailer’s a gooseneck, but it’s old and patched together.

My kids know how to work, but I had to fight with them to get them out of bed to do the morning chores. I adore my grandchildren, and I think they love me, but they haven’t had to sort cows with me much.

I love cows as much as I hate them. I don’t want a Holstein on my place, but I appreciate her in her place. I hate the smell of a billy goat but think baby goats are cute.

I try to do the right thing, but I make a lot of wrong choices.

I love the sunrise, summer evenings, fall colors and Christmas, but I stay up too late and sleep in too often.

I hate mud, cold weather, hot weather and short days, but I love the changing of the seasons.

I can’t go to an auction without bidding.

I fiercely love my family, and I sometimes argue with my wife.

I think I’m always right, but I try to keep it to myself.

I’m wrong as often as I’m right.

“Yes,” I answered, “I suppose I am a real cowboy.”

As I walked back to my corner parking spot, half an acre away, I greeted every passerby with the assurance that, at least for today, I was sure of who I was. I was a real cowboy.