Cowboy with a Pocket Knife

I am sitting in the airport with two of my grandkids and my too kind and loving wife.  I always have my too kind and loving wife with me when I take the grandkids because my children don’t think me and the grandkids make very good decisions when we are left alone.  I Dunno!
We have made it a tradition to take our grandkids to Washington DC when they turn ten years old. We package them two at a time for our trip. 
This is our fourth time doing this.  We do this because it provides us quality time with them, I get to explain why America means so much to me, and I have to use my credit card points. 
I get to explain to them that words matter, ideas matter, and that principles are important… sometimes so important that people die for them. 
When I take them to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and explain that all of us must give some for democracy to live; but we should never forget that some gave all. 
I go on about how Lincoln penned the words in the Gettysburg Address and those 272 words held our nation together for 161 years. 
I opine about Jefferson’s claim that, “we hold these truths to be self-evident” was a hammer of truth that would break down walls and ring a bell of liberty heard around the world.
Okay, hyper jump with me.  Five hours before I got to the airport, I was in Eastland UT. 
There are certain things that I love about living in San Juan County, the wind isn’t one of them.  But I happened to be near Eastland when the wind was blowing at a pretty good clip. 
I sat mesmerized by the waves created across the wheat fields by the breeze.  I remembered singing “America the Beautiful” in Mrs. Lyman’s class.  The words “amber waves of grain” painted a word picture for me then and now.
I have since hiked many of the peaks in Colorado and stood at the base of Pikes Peak, which was the inspiration for “the purple mountain majesties” penned by Bates.  I felt the inspiration seep deep into my soul. 
I have slept under the stars and seen the Milky Way and whispered, “O beautiful for spacious skies”.  I have been through the fruited plains and eaten at dozens of roadside fruit stands. 
I know first-hand that our farmers and ranchers produce the food that feeds us and the world by the sweat of their brow and the toil etched in their calloused hands.
This is indeed America the Beautiful.
And now for my last hyper jump in this story.  On my way up to the airport, I stop at a Maverik to get my Pepsi with crushed ice.  I am in a hurry, which is my norm. 
A guy, a cowboy to be exact, was in front of me putting the lid on his drink and getting a straw.  This seemed to be taking more time than it should and so I politely, but with typical American impatience, looked around him thinking that would provide a polite nudge.
He looked up at me and said with the gravelly voice that matched Clint Eastwood’s when he said, “Go ahead, make my day.” 
My cowboy said, “These dang straws are too long.” 
He had just pulled out his pocketknife and was opening the blade, so I cautiously smiled and leaned back half an inch just to let him know that I agreed completely.
These straws are too dang long, and I would write a stern letter to Maverik very soon telling them so. 
He cut the straw to length with a quick twitch of his blade; to a length more to his liking, with the expert slice of someone that probably whittles wood sticks when he is waiting. 
I imagine he could peel and slice an apple as adeptly as he could slice off an ear.  Instinctively, I reach up and touch my earlobe.
That is what makes America the land that I love.  This cowboy had a pocketknife.  Anyone that carries a pocketknife in their pocket “is just good people” and anyone that stops to fix a problem with a pocketknife, like making a straw the right length, is why I love America.
This Fourth of July I am reminded that I love America because of the cowboy with the pocketknife, the waves in the wheat out near Eastland, and the monuments in Washington DC that remind us that words matter, ideas matter and principles matter and that our veterans, our farmers, and cowboys with knives know this.
I believe there was a divine hand in the landscapes before me.
For my grandkids, it is important that we keep the eternal flame burning at the graveside of President Kennedy as we contemplate “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country”. 
It’s important we keep Dr. King’s dream alive, so that my grandkids “will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”  
I love America and hope that the obelisk of the Washington Monument will always remind us of the words in America the Beautiful “may God shed His light on thee” and “mend thine every flaw”.
I hope to take all my grandkids and maybe my great grandkids to Washington DC and have some quality time with them and explain why America means so much to me. 
I want to explain to them that words matter, ideas matter, that principles are important and the valleys and mountains declare this, farmers with calloused hands dedicate their life’s work to this, and cowboys with gravely voices and pocketknives know it and might slice off the ear of anyone that doesn’t respect that.