| Life 'n Times In Cowboy Country
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| by Joan (Michalke) Ritchey ~ Oregon |
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The Cowboy And His Guitar
I wasn't a real cowboy. I lived in a small town on the Central Oregon Coast with my parents. We didn't even live on a farm. The only horses I ever rode were rented from a nearby horse stable. I did wear a cowboy hat and boots, felt at home in my Wrangler jeans and western shirt, and I loved playing the guitar.
My 13th birthday present from my parents was an Alvarez guitar. It was a beaut. It had a dovetail neck joint, an Indian rosewood back and sides and Western cedar top. The mosaic rosette and redwood finger board under the six strands was awesome and although heavily lacquered I could still smell the aroma of the rosewood and cedar.
I taught myself how to play my guitar with the aid of music books and some instruction from the high school band teacher. Hooking up with a couple of high school buddies - Larry on banjo, and Steve on fiddle - we played for school assemblies and talent shows. In our senior year we began making a little spending money by playing for picnic groups, weddings and birthday parties. Before long we were asked to go into Portland for different gigs, and I became lead singer for our group. We called ourselves the Hobson-Three.
The three of us put ourselves through college playing for different group parties and functions, and after we reached 21-years old, in our junior year, we had arrived, landing a weekend job at a local bar and grill. We even cut a couple CD's and DVD's, along with being the featured band on our local radio station. We began writing some of our own western songs and we always closed our act each night with a crowd-pleasing song I had written, "A Happy Cowboy."
I am a happy cowboy.
I love to rope and ride.
I carry with me always,
My guitar by my side.
I am a happy cowboy.
Nothing would I change.
With my guitar and my song,
I'm in Heaven on the Range.
Near the end of our senior year in college we were approached by a man whom I had noticed in the audience several weekends in a row. After our show one Saturday night, he interviewed the three of us and asked what we thought about coming out to Nashville, Tennessee and auditioning for a "new comer's" spot at the Grand Ole Opry.
The auditions were to begin in July. We graduated in June. Things were falling into place. You never saw three more excited guys and our parents were proud of all of us.
Our auditions were set for the third week in July. My two buddies had commitments during the first couple of weeks, so they decided to fly back to Tennessee. I wanted to see some of the country so I left a week earlier. Our plans included the three of us driving home together on the return trip.
I had my sleeping bag with me and at night I found a couple rest stops or all-night grocery store parking lots where I could catch a couple hours sleep. In Colorado I became pretty sleepy one evening just after dusk. I rolled down the windows and reached over to turn the music up on the CD, shook my head to get rid of the grog's and looked straight into the blinding lights of a big semi-truck. I heard the earsplitting air-horns and the pulsating sound of the Jake-brakes, and then total blackness engulfed ...
At 6 o'clock the next morning, Mr. & Mrs. Hobson were awakened to the ringing of their front doorbell. They opened the door and stood facing two six-foot plus police officers (they estimated to be) in their early twenties. Officer Ted Marsh introduced himself and his partner, John Case and then said, "Mr. & Mrs. Hobson, we are sorry to have to tell you that your son Jerry has been in a fatal auto accident in Colorado." Neither Jeffrey nor Pamela Hobson was coherent enough to hear or understand the next messages put to them by Officer Marsh. There was a ringing in their ears and the room began to spin. It seemed as though they were in a fog, both of them experiencing the same reaction as the officer continued -- "he probably didn't see the semi-truck coming when he crossed over the yellow line into its path. His car was totaled. We understand his belongings in the trunk were taken to the local police station. They will be returned to you." Officer Case reached to grab the arm of Pamela Hobson as she began to fall. He led her to the couch while Officer Marsh stood beside Jeffrey Hobson. Officer Case asked if there was someone they could call, but they shook their heads in unison.
A silence filled the room and then the parents, holding tightly to each other, began sobbing uncontrollably. The officers stayed with them for another twenty minutes and then, the two strapping policemen, with downcast eyes and slumping shoulders, let themselves out the front door. They made it to their police car as the tears spilled over onto their checks. They were remembering football and baseball games, school dances and talent show assemblies with their fellow classmate, Jerry.
The tic-tock, tic-tock, tic-tock of the clock on the mantel sounded louder than normal and the minutes that followed seemed like hours before Jeffrey Hobson became cognizant enough to remember -- Jerry's two partners were set to leave on the 7:00 pm plane out of the Portland Airport for Nashville, Tennessee. He reached for the phone and dialed the home of Larry Colson. There was a silence on the other end of the line after Jeffrey Hobson related the tragic news. Larry said, "Mr. Hobson, I'll go by and pick up Steve and the two of us will come over right away!"
Jeffrey and Pamela Hobson, in their late 50's, dressed and put on a pot of coffee. Food was no option.
Larry and Steve arrived fifteen minutes later. They had decided on the drive over that they wanted to help. They wanted to escort the body of their friend back to Lincoln City from Colorado. The Hobson's were thankful for their offer. Steve took over and made the phone call to the airport. They could catch an emergency flight at 1:00 pm that afternoon to Denver. The accident had occurred just north of the city in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Officer Marsh had left his card with the Hobson's, so Steve called and asked his help in getting in touch with the authorities in Colorado to prepare the necessary paperwork for the return to Portland. The officer also arranged for a hearse to meet them in Portland and transport the three of them to Lincoln City. Everything went as planned. They arrived at the Hobson home the following afternoon, after having escorted Jerry's coffin to the local mortuary.
Together with Larry and Steve, the Hobson's planned the memorial service for their son, Jerry, and early the following morning all of Jerry's belongings were delivered to the Hobson home -- among them, Jerry's unscratched case and Alvarez guitar.
The memorial service was held in the auditorium Jerry's high school. An onstage video screen told the story through family photographs of Jerry's youth. The service ended with a DVD of the three boys playing at their concert held in Portland, just eight months prior.
The Hobson's had a tough time living in their home in Lincoln City after the death of their son. They left his room unchanged, an open guitar case displaying his Alvarez sat on the comforter in the middle of his bed.
Two years later, they moved from Lincoln City. Pamela Hobson had a sister and her husband, their two daughters and two sons living in Flagstaff, Arizona. They made the move to Flagstaff to be near their teenage nieces and nephews.
Shortly after their move, a fire broke out in the nearby forested area. One of the homes was completely destroyed, including the contents. A newspaper article related the story of the 20-year old son of Mr. & Mrs. Jackson and how he entered the burning home to retrieve their pet German Shepard dog. After making sure Max was safe, the boy re-entered the home to get his guitar. The room was engulfed in flames. The guitar already burned beyond repair. A fireman entered the home and helped the coughing boy from the burning house. Robert Jackson was taken to the hospital with burns over twenty percent of his body.
When the Hobson's read the article, they knew what Jerry would have wished. Mounting the stairs to the hospital and taking the elevator up to the fourth floor, they approached Room #4106. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson were at the bedside of their son Bobby, who was covered with gauze bandages. Luckily his face had managed to sustain only a few small burns. The Hobson's told the story of their son and his success with his small western band and how proud they were of him and his talent. "It would be our pleasure if you would accept this Alvarez guitar, in memory of our son, Jerry," said Jeffrey Hobson. He opened the guitar case that had been sealed shut for the past several years, revealing the beautiful Alvarez. For an instant the aroma of the rosewood and Western cedar replaced the pungent antiseptic hospital and burned skin smells. A tear-streaked Bobby thanked the Hobson's. The two mothers hugged each other as the fathers shook hands. Then, Jeffrey and Pamela left the room and made their way out of the hospital, smiling through their tears.
While on a trip to Branson, Missouri, a couple years later, the Hobson's attended an on-stage variety show. The show featured guest appearances by some of the more popular western singers of that year.
The finale to the show was introduced to the audience as "a newcomer to the country music scene." "Please," the emcee said, "put your hands together for our surprise guest singer, Bobby Jackson." The Hobson's could not believe their eyes when Bobby appeared on stage carrying the Alvarez guitar.
Wearing a cowboy hat and boots, feeling at home in his Wrangler jeans and western shirt, Bobby Jackson took the stage, unaware that the Hobson's were in the audience. Taking the mike, he explained that he had intended to sing one of the songs from his newly released CD, but last evening while rehearsing, a song kept playing over and over in his mind. I call it, "A Happy Cowboy." He attached his Alvarez Guitar to his shoulder strap and played:
I am a happy cowboy.
I love to rope and ride.
I carry with me always,
My guitar by my side.
I am a happy cowboy.
Nothing would I change.
With my guitar and my song . . .
I'm in Heaven on the range.
~Joan (Michalke) Ritchey, 2008