It was the late sixties and the young Catholic girl went to a dance with a number of her classmates. When the girls arrived, a chaperone greeted them and told them to mingle with the young soldiers from the nearby army base. But he also gave them a warning.
“Don’t get too attached to these guys,” he said. “They may very well be shipped off to Vietnam…and you may never see them again.”
On that note, the girls went into the dance. The young lady soon found herself face to face with three handsome young soldiers. So she politely asked them where they were from.
“I’m a Yankee,” said the first, in a distinct Northern dialect.
“Well I’m a Rebel,” said another, with a classic Southern drawl.
The young woman smiled and looked at the third young man, who was tall and thin and wore glasses. The other two men asked him, “So what’re you?” Without missing a beat, he said, “Me? I’m a cowboy!”
The young lady then went to dance with the cowboy, a young man from Western Colorado.
That cowboy later asked her out. When she turned him down, mostly due to the chaperone’s warning, he decided to ask if she would attend a church service with him.
A guy can’t be THAT bad if he invites you to church.
After attending Catholic church services together, the cowboy was sent to Vietnam. The young lady wrote to him, and was shocked when he came all the way to visit her during his leave time.
She lived all the way on the east coast. The cowboy could have spent his time in Hawaii. But the poor guy was in love.
After his year of service in Vietnam, the couple married, as the cowboy was going to be sent to Germany next and the young lady didn’t want to spend yet ANOTHER year away from him.
And so my parents married in September, just before my father was sent to Germany.
Thank you Dad…for asking the pretty Catholic girl to go to church with you.
And thank you Mom…for dancing with the cowboy.