The pioneer and the dude

The American West, not so long ago in the big picture: Into town rides a dude, that is to say, a city-dweller from the East.  Call him William.  You can spot him a mile away.  He's dressed funny -- a dark suit in the heat of the day, a hat that'll blow off with the first good gust, polished shoes that won't look so good once he steps off his horse.  Which he can't sit on right, anyhow.  Probably won't last a week.

Watching from a distance is an old hand.  Call him Lucky Bill, Lucky because you need to be a bit lucky to have made it this far.  You couldn't necessarily pick him out in a crowd.  In fact, he and his horse look like part of the landscape.  Lucky Bill looks off to the west for half a second.  Weather coming in.  Better get going.  With a low clicking sound and a subtle movement he tells his horse to move.  The horse already knew to go, maybe from a shift in weight, maybe from some other cue.

Lucky's route home takes him right by William.  As they pass, each has one thought of the other: "How ignorant."

Each has a point.  Has Lucky heard of Ovid, or Milton?  Can he even read?  Can he tie a proper Ascot?  Does he even know the name Beau Brummell?  Put him in the middle of any dinner party in New York and he'd be a curiosity at best.

But of course, New York is a long ways away.  We're on Lucky's turf, and here you need to tie a lasso, not a necktie.  Not much use for Milton and Ovid unless they can help keep a herd from getting spooked.  Better to stick to basics, like how to split wood and build a good fire.


In the proper context, neither William is an ignoramus; each is an expert with extensive knowledge gained from years of experience.  Outside that context, however, it's a different story.

Except that Lucky Bill is just William the dude a few years on.  It wasn't easy, and yes, there was a good bit of luck involved, but the raw greenhorn in the funny get-up was quick enough on the uptake to make a go of it.  His hands are calloused now, his face weathered and his locks shaggy.  His mind is a compendium of crucial local knowledge that's saved his life on at least one occasion.  Does he still remember his poets?  Well yes, he does, and he's not the only one in the area.  The local poetry society meets every other Tuesday, rotating through its (four) members' houses.  Weather and such permitting.

How did he get to where he is now?  How much did he have to learn, and how did he learn it?  Did any of his previous knowledge carry over and if so, how?  What did he have to leave by the wayside and why?  Ample room for conjecture here ...