Editor's Note: Welp, here it is Friday morning and I didn't have time to put an open thread together last night, so here's a flashback to an OT I did almost five years ago, back on 10/02/2018, that was titled Roots.

A look at the man little boy behind the curtain, photos included.

By design I've by and large maintained the profile of a mystery man. Today I unmask myself, well, in an erstwhile sense anyway, through the eyes of a little boy growing up in the 50s.

As promised. Here are some photos of me taken just a few short years decades ago. In my family, all males celebrate birthday number two as the Cowboy Suit Birthday. This is my story. The characters are factual, the pictures are authentic and no real animals were harmed in its telling.

This photo was taken right after I was dry gulched by a gang of desperadoes. They had gotten the drop on me while I was taking a nap and stole my pony. The tracks were still fresh and I was determined to get Buttercup back. I just needed to figure out what direction those jaspers lit out on.

Ah, looks like they headed out through the garden. Bet they stole some of Granpa's corn too, the dad-blasted sidewindin' bushwackers!

Uncle John telling me to "Buck up, pard, cowpokes don't cry", after I lost the tracks in the tater patch. At this point I was certain I'd never ride Buttercup again.

Mom consoling me about losing my pony, but what I didn't know was things were about to get much better. You see, Buttercup was really a rocking horse that I had plumb wore out ridin' on all my many cowboy adventures. Unbeknownst to me at the time and as I learned years later, during the aforementioned nap, Buttercup had moved on to the great Rocking Horse Pasture in the Sky. But, to my great surprise, later in the day, mom and dad, grandpa and grandma gave me a brand new rocking pony for my birthday. I was back in the saddle again. The bad guys in black hats were on the run again and the world was right.

These photos were taken at Grandma and Grandpa's farm house, mid 50's, central Illinois. They were from the hills of Kentucky, not sure when they moved to Illinois though. I being the first born spent a lot of time there. Precious memories. No running water, just a pump in the kitchen sink that drew sweet well water. Wood burning pot belly stove that supplied the heat in the winter. I took baths in a large galvanized tub on the kitchen floor, heated water from the wood burner. Outhouse out back, chamber pot on the back porch in the cold winter time. Hillbilly music on the radio as grandma and grandpa called it, I later discovered it to be mountain music and bluegrass. Weenie roasts around a bonfire in the fall, running and running around the big house with cousins big and small. Climbing the apple and pear trees, falling one time and knocking the wind from my lungs, scared mom cross-eyed. Digging tunnels in the huge snow drifts in the winter. Swimming in the rain flooded ditch out in front of the house. Having to spend the whole day in the house for fear I'd look up at the eclipse. Helping grandpa work on his old car out in the shed. There was a railroad track maybe 50 or 60 feet from the house, it rattled and shook when a train went by. Spent many hours exploring up and down that track on youthful adventure, picking and stuffing wild strawberries into my mouth, flushing rabbits and pheasants from the long grass. Occasionally a hobo would walk by on the track, as forewarned by parents and grandparents I gave width berth. Chickens in the coop, snapping turtles in a 50 gallon drum buried in the ground, vegetables galore in the garden, fruit in the orchard. I learned to love the simple country life. Though they may not have had much they left me rich in memories. I wouldn't trade them for anything. It's been said that one's personality is formed by early childhood experiences, I guess that provides some insight into what makes this old boy tick. I embrace my humble roots.

Is there any wonder why I love bluegrass music so much?

Though I've since grown a bit larger, I'm still the little boy in those photos, in spirit anyway. Must be why I love old westerns. Although I'm not really a cowboy, in lucid dreams, I still ride the trails of days long past.