West: Davy Crockett was his first step to fame

By MIKE WEST

For whatever reason, the tune from the old TV show "Davy Crockett" has been running through my brain this week.

"Davy … Davy Crockett…king of the wild frontier…."

At age 4 or 5, Davy and I had a lot in common. After all we were both born on a mountain top in the state of Tennessee, the greenest state in the land of the free.

While Davy was born on a hilltop in Greene County, I was born in Cannon County in the Good Samaritan Hospital. Yep, that's a hilltop for sure.

We also both wore a coonskin cap. I supposed Davy shot, skinned and cured his hat. (I didn't know about props departments back then.) Mine came from parts unknown (probably the 5 and 10 cents store).

Davy had me beat when it came to buckskins. He had the complete outfit including fringe. Closest thing I had was my special T-shirt which was "emblazoned" with various patches including my Dad's Tech Sergeant's patch from World War II.

But guess you could say, I did have the clothing advantage over Davy especially during the summer months before air conditioning. A cotton T-shirt is much, much cooler (temperature-wise) than buckskin. That didn’t keep me from sweating like a river wearing that get-up in the middle of July.

Davy did have the advantage when it came to firearms. He had his famous long-rifle nicknamed "Betsy." I had a "Betsy" too, complete with a shoulder sling. It was a sweet little rifle that would shoot imaginary rounds from sun-up to nap-time without reloading. Heck, I even bagged a big bird with it at the annual turkey shoot (in my vivid imagination).

At the time, Davy Crockett was very real to me. I didn't realize that he was just a role performed on TV by actor Fess Parker.

Besides "being" Davy Crockett was a lot safer than my other TV favorite, "Superman."

Someone (my Mother, probably) made me a bright, red cape that I wore day and night.

With that cape, I absolutely knew I could fly.

The only thing that was holding me back was getting a good enough start. So I started climbing. 

Surely our back porch was high enough. It had to be every bit of five-feet tall. 

So I strapped on my cape and took a leap only to crash and ended up in a heap in the driveway. Oh, the inhumanity of it all.

Hmmph. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

After studying Superman in action on our black and white TV, I determined a higher starting spot was needed. Yep, he jumped out that skyscraper window and it was "up, up and away."

But I was out of luck. The only skyscrapers around were at the end of the world … in Nashville. Even the tallest building in town, the Courthouse, was too far away. So I searched and plotted for a substitute.

One fateful Saturday, I found it. 

The stairway at my grandmother's house near Short Mountain was perfect. Naturally, I was wearing my red cape and was more than ready to slip the “surly” bonds of earth.

Past experience (the porch) had taught me I needed a clear flight path. Jumping from the top step would only result in a disastrous flight and a possible roll down the stairs. Besides the only sound I wanted was the “w-w-w-w-his-s-s-s” of me in flight just like my super hero.

So I devised my plan and waited until the coast was clear.

Each step on the beautiful oak stairway had a decorative lip outside the posts. My path was treacherous, but I held tight to each post as I crept up the outside of the stairs.

I was nearly to the top, when an alert adult spotted me and I was "busted."

That adventure led to the disapperance of my cape. That supernatural piece of red cloth was never to be seen again.

Thank goodness eventually a new hero caught my attention. I was growing older and much more mature (first grade?) and Zorro roared onto the TV set.

Zorro had it all. A cape, a cowboy hat and a mask was his costume and a sword (pronounced s-w-w-w-ward) was his weapon of choice.

Awesome!!!

Then came that fateful day.

I stepped out on that back porch with my Zorro outfit on. A couple of houses down the street I spied a group of neighborhood "ruffians." So I rode my jet black horse to a pile of dirt behind our house.

Mounting that huge mountain, I waved my sword at those nearby thugs just like Zorro.

They responded with a yell and a charge and I ran from their powerful pursuit. Unfortunately, their horses were faster than my steed.

Those felons caught me right before I reached the safety of the back porch.

It was a slaughter. I lost my hat and my mask and my mighty stick "sw-w-w-ward" was broken.

Gravely injured, I slowly climbed the steps and sought the safety and sympathy of my Mother, who was inside washing dishes.

Grievously, I told her my plight and about the horrors I had suffered and waited for her words of wisdom.

"That's what you get," was her short response.

Thus, Zorro was retired.