I was four years old. Daddy George had proposed to and married my widowed mother and the FBI gave Special Agent Patterson his marching orders. We were headed for Seattle.
I can’t remember what kind of car we had. It was an FBI car with a big engine, and it was black, probably a ‘48 or ’49 model Plymouth or Dodge. I can remember that it was a very long drive from Raleigh, NC to Seattle – every bit of 3,000 miles and this was before air conditioning and interstate highways. Mom and Daddy warned me that it would take a while to get there, but they said we would eventually be going to and through Wyoming – home of real cowboys.
Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were my heroes at the time, so real cowboys? However long it took, it would be worth it.
In the back seat, all I had to play with was my trusty six-shooter. I almost wore the pearl off the handles as we wove around the mountain passes of Tennessee and into Missouri. At that point, I made up a cowboy song and sung it nonstop. It went something like this (add your own music).
Roy Rogers, here I come. Roy Rodgers, here I come
Roy Rogers, here I come, Roy Rogers, here I come.
Roy Rogers, here I come, Roy Rogers, here I come.
Etc.
I sang that song until we crossed the mighty Mississippi. I’m sure it was about to drove my parents bonkers.
Then I announced that I knew another song and would they like to hear it.
“Yes, praise the Lord. Please sing us a new song.”
Here goes:
Gene Autry, here I come. Gene Autry, here I come
Gene Autry, here I come, Gene Autry, here I come.
Etc.
It seemed like a couple months to me, but we finally arrived in Wyoming.
Mom and Daddy took me to a General Store and bought me a new pair of blue jeans, some cowboy boots, a cowboy hat, a red flannel shirt and a denim jacket. I was beyond ecstatic. When we left the store, I walked up to a tall stranger dressed almost identically, looked up, and said, “Look. He’s a cowboy just like me!”
It was still a long drive from Wyoming to Seattle, but we finally arrived. It was good to be able to get out of the car and play in real grass, with my trusty six-shooter and lots of imaginary Indians.
The only thing I really remember about Seattle was that it rained a lot. Practically every day.
We stayed a few months in Washington state, then Daddy was transferred to his new home office in Pittsburgh.
I remember Pittsburgh as being dark and dreary and cold. And there were precious few Indians to shoot at.
Next, Daddy was transferred to Beckley, WV. Something was brewing at the FBI.
To be continued.