Nashville Banner, Opinion Page (July 30, 1990): Fond
farewell to the old cowboy
The old cowboy looked across the Formica table. A
pink/white smile—punctuated by down-tilted stress lines—lighted his pasty face
He forked a bit of lemon pie, washed it down with
coffee.
“I’ve got no regrets,” he allowed. “Lived life the way
I wanted to.
“I mean there are some things I wish I’d done
differently. But, you know, I’ve had a helluva good life.”
Harold Lynch’s laughter turned to breath-labored
gagging.
“So, how’ve you been?” he asked.
It was typical of the old cowboy to wonder about me
when his own life was drawing to an end.
Harold was no saint. You can ask his grieving wife and
the two kids.
He was a kind human being. That’s plenty.
Harold didn’t look much like the cowboy of our
respective youths the last time we “rode the range” together over pie and
coffee at Shoney’s in Green Hills.
He was pale, weary. A cowboy riding a hospital bed
doesn’t get much sun.
“You’re looking good,” he said.
I couldn’t return the compliment. I wouldn’t lie to
him. Never have. I should say never did.
He died the other day. He was only 43.
The long battle with lung cancer ended the way he said
it would.
“I don’t’ know much about this stuff,” he said, as we
galloped the range of memories. “Sometimes it’s not worth fighting.
“But the doctor told me that the only good thing about
it is that when I want to call it quits, I can.”
Monday night, Harold told the doctors to turn off the
life-support machinery.
I can imagine that in his heart he was smiling. He had
control over one final act. He died Tuesday night.
Harold was one of the stalwarts of my former place of
employment, The Leaf-Chronicle in
Actually, he was in his second tenure there. He left
All “News Brothers” drank too much when we were
younger. Harold drank more than any
reporter I ever knew. He kept it up when we moved on.
A beer in one hand, Marlboro bobbing beneath the
mustache, the old cowboy drawled us through rodeo adventures into endless neon
nights.
A Stetson and boots covered both ends of his lanky,
arthritis-gnarled frame. All were souvenirs of his bareback-riding days.
He changed out of the cowboy duds for good the last
time he overcame a deadly obstacle, when he returned the last case of “dead
soldier” Sterlings for deposit, when he rediscovered joys of loving family and
sobriety.
Yet, he remained the old cowboy in my heart.
With the beer well in his past, a more upbeat Harold
greeted the world.
He’d talk with relish about the war he’d won, enemy
hops undone.
A year or so ago, doctors told the old cowboy he had
cancer in one lung. “Well, take it out,” he commanded.
They did. He
thought he had it beat, that the remaining lung would be healthy. One more
enemy vanquished.
He talked about vacations with his kids, wife and old
friends.
“I want to take you to my favorite fishing spot,” he
allowed to a riding buddy.
A few months ago, the cancer returned for a final
shootout.
The old cowboy didn’t give up.
And, to the credit of the newspaper in
Scarcely audible, he still commanded authority,
respect, love.
He was planning on returning to work right up until he
had them pull the plug.
The last time the old cowboy and I rode the range, we
watched the afternoon sun’s angle splash color across the Formica table.
We laughed a bit. I cried inside, until he saw the
tears behind my eyes. “Take it easy,” he smiled.
Then I understood. He had called to suggest we “have
coffee” that day because he wanted to say goodbye.
When the waitress brought the check, the old cowboy
tried to rope it in with his thin, near-bloodless hands.
“I’ll get it this time,” I said, rustling the check
away. “You get it next time.”
He didn’t protest. He simply nodded.
We both knew there wouldn’t be a next time, that the
old cowboy would ride into the sunset owing me a pie wedge, a cup of coffee.
We walked slowly to the parking lot and I grabbed his
arm and hand.
“Don’t worry about me,” Harold said. “It’s good to see
you again.”
A few years ago, he would have tipped his Stetson.
