By Clint Yount
These days, it’s hard to believe what you hear. Whether they’re fanciful words rolling off the forked tongue of a politician or new recommendations from the folks at the CDC, it’s just hard to believe everything you hear. Lots of extremely gullible folks will believe pert near everything they see posted in social media. Personally, I want to see solid evidence before I start believing something incredulous. And even after seeing dozens of photos and videos, I’m still a little hesitant in believing in Bigfoot.
Back in 1966, Davy Jones and the Monkees were singing “I’m a Believer”. I was only 8 years old back then, and I believed in many things. I believed in Santa Claus, and I might’ve still believed in the Easter Bunny, although I couldn’t ascertain how one bunny rabbit could carry so many eggs without some sort of transportation. I believed in God, and I believed in Heaven. I believed Roy Rogers was the greatest cowboy and could whup any bad guy that came along. And I believed wrestling was real.
Today, I still continue to believe many of these things, but there are many other things I just can’t believe. I don’t believe every politician is dishonest, but there sure is a mess of them. I have a hard time believing so many people on Facebook are as ignorant as they seem. Even though I believe in climate change, it’s hard to believe in global warming when I’m breaking ice in the water trough while standing in a foot of snow.
When I was a young whippersnapper, I would daydream a lot, probably too much by the looks of my old report cards. I dreamed of riding a horse alongside Roy and Trigger, chasing Jesse James all the way to Mexico. I’d look up at the stars and dream of being an astronaut. I’d dream of being rich enough to by a yellow Corvette Stingray. Back then, $10,000 was too much to pay for any car, but, hey, a boy can dream.
I suppose, even fifty years later, I’m still a dreamer, and some of my dreams have come true. I married the girl of my dreams. I had jobs that I dreamed of doing. Although I never was shot up in space, I still gaze at the stars on clear nights. I’ve spent over thirty years being a cowboy, but the only desperados I’ve shot were feral hogs and wily coyotes. I still live on my family ranch, a dream that continues night and day, but the urban sprawl around us has become a nightmare.
I still have dreams. I often sit outside on the Crow’s Nest and daydream, although at my ripe age, family members who see me gazing at nothing think I’ve had a stroke. But I do have dreams that I hope come true, like:
I dream I never see Tom Brady in another Super Bowl. This has been a dream for several years.
I dream of turning on the evening news and not hearing anyone talk about the pandemic, Covid 19 or monkey pox. I’m still trying to figure out how and where monkey pox originated. Tarzan and Cheetah are my prime suspects.
I dream of walking through the woods in the winter and not getting a head full of cedar pollen.
I dream of filling my truck (no, no Corvette for this cowpoke) with gas and not paying the equivalent of the GNP of Bora Bora.
I dream of hearing that 99% of Americans are fully vaccinated against the corona virus and 1% won’t have to worry about ever getting roundworms.
I dream that the Dallas Cowboys will find a head coach who knows a quarterback draw with 14 seconds left and no timeouts is not the right call.
I dream of never seeing signs requiring me to wear a mask, but I don’t mind seeing a sign advising it on the door of a truck stop restroom.
I dream of Americans putting aside their political views and becoming civilized and united as we once were.
And my wildest dream is seeing the Dallas Cowboys back in the Super Bowl and the halftime show is George Strait . Hey, a man can dream, can’t he?