It was James M. Barrie, the English author known as the creator of Peter Pan, who said that “Life is a long lesson in humility.” It seems that we either learn humility on our own, of our own volition, or, if we live long enough, we get it ground into us by life itself, whether we like it or not. And while lessons in humility may not be the happiest lessons we ever learn, they do instill in us a trait that gets us through trying circumstances, makes us more endurable to our fellow human beings, and checks the pride that is always so ready to re-kindle.
There was a preacher named Charles Hodge who had a sermon on humility. While I never heard that sermon directly, I heard about it from a friend. The message was taken from the Biblical urging that one must “die to oneself” to fully serve the Lord. Hodge preached the message that this step wasn’t a one-time thing. He said, “I must die to myself daily.” Then came the kicker: “Hodge dies hard.”
Hodge dies hard. So does every one of us. That is the price of humility.
In many years as a journalist I’ve met all kinds of people, across different fields: artistic endeavor, western culture, hard news, banking, real estate, and currently oil and gas. In any field, one might presume that the most prideful would almost always be the most celebrated and accomplished figures. In oil and gas, this might be the CEOs and the billionaire class, as well as the politicians who influence the scene. Might be. But not necessarily. Sometimes the “high and mighty” surprise you with their groundedness and their humility. Sometimes the folks in the trenches, doing the most “humble” jobs, surprise you with their egotism. And the reverse can be true for both classes, of course.
Buttram in his heyday.
During (earlier) years of covering the people and ways of the American West, I visited with the high and the lowly alike. Same thing. I’ve heard from entertainment figures, rodeo stars, cabinet members, busted-up rodeo clowns, Pulitzer Prize winners, ex-con horsehair hitchers, down-on-their-luck daywork cowboys, bestselling novelists, and wild cow catchers. Pride entices all—the high and the lowly. How they handle it shows their character.
One individual I had the privilege of seeing up close was a cowboy poet named Baxter Black. This month marks four years since his passing in 2022.
Some who are reading this knew Baxter Black, or read him, or heard him perform, or knew of him. He could rightfully be called a Son of the Southwest, having been raised in New Mexico and having toured heavily in our parts of the world. Best known as a speaker, Black was also a columnist, humorist, author, entertainer, singer, and musician. At his height, the New York Times said that he was “probably the nation’s most successful living poet.” He made six guest appearances on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. He sold some two million books. He was beloved by many.
My point here is not the glory of Baxter Black, but rather his down-to-earthness. For all of his success, Black kept his ego in check.
I interviewed Baxter multiple times over a 15-year span. On one of the occasions, I ventured a comparison that other observers of Baxter had offered: a parallel between him and Will Rogers.
Baxter deflected immediately. Saying nothing about himself, he spoke only about Rogers’ colossal impact—putting him on the highest possible pedestal. Then, sensing that I wanted to glean some examples of what his career was like, he offered a story. That was so much like Baxter—answering a question with an anecdote.
“I was going through the airport at Salt Lake City,” Black said. “And as I was walking through, making a [plane] connection, I saw a man ahead, coming my direction. He was an weary looking older man, trudging along with his bags, and although there were a lot of people around, nobody was giving any attention to him. I recognized him and made my way to him. It was Pat Buttram. We stopped and chatted.”
Buttram (1915-1994) had traced a Hollywood career more stellar than anything Black had lived. Now Buttram was on the last legs of that run.
Baxter told Buttram where he, Baxter, was headed, and Buttram, in turn, offered his own itinerary. At this point in my interview of Baxter, he did a good impression of Buttram’s soft, quavery, croaky voice. The same voice that millions knew as Mr. Haney on the Green Acres television sitcom. The same voice that bantered with Gene Autry as his co-star in more than 40 big screen westerns.
“Well, Bax, I just spoke to the Sugar Beet Growers and now I’m headed to speak at the [some other agricultural banquet]. Sure is good to see ya, friend.”
Baxter Black in 2012. PHOTO: WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
That was it. Just a meeting in an airport. That was Baxter’s answer. Yet I knew what Baxter meant, without Baxter having to say so. In meeting Buttram in that airport, Baxter was intimating that he had encountered a future version of himself. A figure shuffling along to the next sheep raisers convention, the next farm equipment trade show, maybe one smaller than the last. Buttram had scaled heights even Black had not. And yet Buttram was not too proud to go the humble route, walking anonymously through airports, making his way to modest gatherings. Black was identifying himself in the same way.
There’s a saying I’ve heard more than once in interviews of entertainers. “Be good to the people you meet on the way up. You’ll be seeing them on the way down.”
None of this is meant to take anything away from Baxter Black or Pat Buttram. Quite the contrary. Each was a classy, beloved, immensely talented and popular figure in their respective worlds of entertainment. But they had enough groundedness not to take themselves too seriously.
A wise man once said, “I again saw under the sun that the race is not to the swift nor the battle to the strong, and neither is bread to the wise nor riches to those of intelligence or understanding nor favor to men of ability; but time and chance overtake them all.”
Someday, neighbor, you or I will be trudging through an airport, logging what might be the last business foray of our careers—maybe with us not even being aware of that. When we reach that point, what matters most is not what we bring with us—not what we have stored up inside, reminding us of who we are. Rather, what matters most is what we have given up, used up, thrown away, or otherwise cast aside, in the service of our peers, our loved ones, our community, or our Maker. The more of ourselves we have left behind, the more we will be remembered, and the larger the hole we will leave in the hearts of those who knew us. That’s how we all should want to be remembered. By the hole we leave behind.
Jesse Mullins, Editor
Jesse Mullins is editor of Permian Basin Oil and Gas Magazine.
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