There are few genuine things and people in this world. Such was the case with William “Junior” Hartlage who passed away this week.
Years ago, photographer Russell Autrey and I came up with an idea for a special section in this newspaper featuring cowboys.
Fort Bend County was changing. Acres of open prairies and pecan orchards were giving way to master-planned subdivisions and four-lane highways.
I’d seen young cowboys at the Fort Bend County Fair and wondered how they stacked up against the seasoned cowboys in the county. As a city girl, I was enamored by the cowboy mystique. They could rope cattle, fix fences and work year round, regardless of the Texas heat or the bitter cold spells.
Editor Bob Haenel gave us the green light to profile young cowboys and weathered cowboys. I wanted to find a genuine cowboy so I went to the one person I knew would have the answer – Frank Briscoe Sr. at Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply in Rosenberg.
I went into the store, greeted by the rich smells of leather and sounds of chirping chicks, and asked Mr. Briscoe if he could recommend someone for the story.
“Junior Hartlage,” he said with his drawn-out Texas twang. I called Mr. Hartlage, set up an interview and headed out to the country.
He was tall and soft spoken, and welcomed me into his and Charlotte’s comfortable home. Junior, as he asked me to call him, told me stories of growing up in Fort Bend County when the county was farmland as far as the eye could see.
They had cattle drives across open acres where houses in New Territory now sit side by side. He remembered sleeping under the stars near Sugar Land, listening to coyotes howl at the moon.
If I wanted a feel for what life was like for a cowboy, he asked me to come with him while he vaccinated some cows.
We went outside and stood on a narrow wooden platform with stairs on each end. The farm hands would steer a cow into the chute, close the two ends, and Junior would give each cow a shot.
I stood back a bit because I’d never been that close to a cow, especially one that wasn’t happy about being in the chute.
All of a sudden, a cow reared up and knocked Junior off the platform. He fell onto his back into the dust as the crew wrestled the cow under control.
Junior picked up his hat and stood up. As he knocked the dirt and dust off his jeans, he looked straight at my face and pointed his cowboy hat at me.
“You don’t tell my wife about this,” he drawled.
I assured him I wouldn’t and I didn’t. At that moment, I thought Junior Hartlage was the toughest guy I’d ever met.
The story was complete after interviews and photos with the young cowboys, and they said there’s no other life they would wish for themselves.
They talked of how ranching was in their blood, and that was exactly what Junior said when I was leaving his place.
Russell and I finished the story, confident that the Texas cowboy mystique was aptly being passed down to young cowboys who loved the lifestyle they’d chosen.
Junior was the real deal, a genuine cowboy, and I was so glad I got to meet him. He sat tall in the saddle and quietly commanded respect, a respect he’d earned from a lifetime following his dream, something few people get to do.
Junior Hartlage was the real deal.
You’ll be missed, cowboy.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.