We gathered from several states and varied walks of life. We came by car and by plane and by the grace of God. For one magical and memorable weekend, we left behind jobs and kids and grandkids and the lives we had built apart from this place.  We came to bear witness, to congratulate, and to be a part of it. But mostly we came to celebrate.  My brother Irvin and his wife Joyce were being inducted into the Nebraska Sandhills Cowboy Hall of Fame and so we came.

His daughters rented the community center for the day  in the little town of Taylor: a place where family could gather before the craziness of the main event that evening. A place where we could eat the lunch they provided, take pictures, catch up and “visit” – which really means “to tell stories.”

He stood up and announced “I have a story I want to tell.”  The room went silent.

And he began to spin the tale which went something like this:

When my buddy and I were on the rodeo circuit, one of our favorite places to rodeo was Pueblo, (Colorado) because we could always count on the accommodations at the Bed & Breakfast there – better known as my sister Lila’s basement. We  rolled in there after a rodeo one night in the wee hours of the morning, kicked off our boots, threw down our hats, and collapsed on the bed. Later that morning we saw these little faces peering in the basement window, staring at us with eyes opened wide. And then we heard the voice:  “Just step on over here and take a look at two real cowboys. You can see them, their boots, their spurs and their hats.  And it will only cost you a nickel.” Nick and Ray (Lila’s sons who were about 4 and 5) were selling tickets to see “a real cowboy” and the line went down the block.

And then he finished with this:  So when I heard Nick was coming to town this weekend, I made sure my blinds were closed.

I learned three things from that moment:  (1) My nephew Nick’s entrepreneurial  bent began much, much younger than I realized. (2) I come from a long line of storytellers. (3) Even a quiet man, when given a chance and a good story, will stand in front of a group of people and talk.

And through the day and into the evening we watched and we listened and we learned about their lives and their contributions which earned them this honor. The Nebraska Sandhills Cowboy Hall of Fame recognizes those who have made extraordinary contributions to the Western Lifestyle or horse culture in the Nebraska Sandhills in the areas of competition, business, rodeo, ranching, western arts, and western entertainment.  My brother was a rancher and bull rider, an artist who braids leather into everything from bullwhips to jewelry and a mentor to young rodeo competitors. He is a lover of the Sandhills and its way of life. And his wife was there with him in every one of his endeavors. She tells us, “I’m not a cowboy.  I just found one.”  But he couldn’t have done any of it without her.

We go to the dinner and the auction and the induction. We complain about the heat but notice that we are the “city folks” and none of the cowboys  in their wranglers and their boots and long-sleeved shirts and hats seem to be the least bothered by it – they never worked in air-conditioned offices where you have to wrap yourself in blankets to stay warm in the middle of the summer. (Maybe I should have been a rancher after all).  Nick bids on the  rawhide braided hobbles Irvin has made and donated to the fund-raiser auction but they go for over $1300 and he decides it’s too rich for his blood so he lets them go. Besides, he can always just buy another pair from his uncle and pay the $100 asking price. (sidebar:  the next morning several of  the family gathered for breakfast before we go our separate ways. Irvin arrived with a pair of the hobbles for Nick.  He had crossed out the $100 on the price tag and replaced it with this: “One day only: $1300”)

When they call Irvin and Joyce’s name we all stand to clap and cheer and whistle and the rest of the room stands with us. When you live and work and serve in the same community for 88 years, people know you.  Together this couple is well known and well loved and tonight they are well-honored.

Of my parents’ six children, only Irvin and I are left.  He was the third born and I am the youngest – a whole two decades younger than he. The siblings who shared his childhood, his stories, and his memories – they are gone. But if you knew what to look for, you could find them gathered around the tables: in the face of the one who looks exactly like her mother, and the one who laughs, just like her mother, and in the voice of  the one who could say, “I remember my dad telling me about the time you and he. . .”  And I was there. I do not share his memories, but I do share his stories, as did we all.  Because in one way or another, all of us who gathered for him:  me (his sibling);  Nick and Kay and Mary Jean and Jolene and Shirley (the children of his siblings); Raeleen, Bobbie, Pat, and Cindy (his daughters ; his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren – we all come from this place and these people. And it was so good to be there. . .  together.

In 1954 it only cost a nickel to see a real cowboy; our tickets  for this event cost us $20 a piece. For that twenty dollars  we got to see a whole room full of cowboys. And more. We heard a lifetime of stories. We laughed and we cried, we talked and we listened, and we remembered again that this collection of people from so many different places and so many different ways of life – we remembered again that we are family. And at the end of it all, we knew that there would never again be a time together quite like this one.