Dirt roads, rough hands and sweat-soaked Stetsons

Cowgirl Sass and Savvy - Julie Carter


Something wholesome radiates from a person who lives in the realm of cowboy.

Show a photo of a young rodeo hand or a seasoned veteran of the cow wars to a city-folk type and one of their first comments will be to point that out.

There are a number of things that promote the wholesome image of ranch and rural living. Some of them come with their own deeper meanings of life and have infinite depth beyond face value.

A few of those things are dirt roads, rough hands and sweat-soaked Stetsons.

Dirt roads lead to good things. They slow down life and often end at the open door of a welcoming neighbor.

They signify a way of life that has not yet fallen to the asphalt and concrete of a white-collar world.

I have lived down a dirt road most of my life. It is a world unto itself no matter what decade it is. Weeks are without weekends as everyday is the same.

Childhood memories are of endless summers with homemade ice cream, digging for fishing worms and camping along the creek.

When I turn down a dirt road headed to anywhere, I get a "right at home" kind of feeling knowing when I get to where I'm going, it'll be good. A dirt road drive is often a step back in time.

Rough hands of the men and women who work on the land command a deep respect. Those people come with a firm handshake and wisdom born in the sweat equity of life.

The calluses are badges of determination that tell a story matched by the lines around the eyes.

Years of physical work and suppressed worry leave their mark.

There are truly fine people attached to those hands that could sand a board smooth without sandpaper. Like their hands, they are hard as steel at first glance but found to have a gentle nature within. The burdens of life have been worked out through their hands.

And those sweat-soaked Stetsons - that band of dark dirty grime that builds up at the bottom of the crown and spreads out onto the brim - is a cowboy's emblem of never-ending toil.

My dad wore what was my first memory of that icon of the West. Some years after he passed away I wrote a poem about him and included mention of his hat that was so much part of who he was.

He lived in the days when a contract was a man's handshake.

Too far to town, so you made do with what you could make.

Denim shirts, bags of Bull Durham, and rollin' your own,

A sweat-soaked Stetson, shotgun chaps, and a saddle were home.

Those toil-marked hats come in many shapes, colors and sizes. When they have reached the sweat-soaked stage, they take on a common out-of-shape look. They have creases and curls where there should be none and they droop in places not intended for "style."

Often they have a hole or two rotted completely through the brim or the crown.

They wear a little windmill grease, manure and a few blood spatters from a long ago cow-in-the-chute incident.

As time goes by, the hat uncannily takes on an appearance that very much matches the personality of its owner.

Dirt roads, rough hands and sweat-soaked Stetsons - all things so very much more than just what they are.

© Julie Carter 2007