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By Bill Shiver
Roy Rogers & Dale Evans
Some of the finest moments of my youth were spent on Saturday afternoons in the late 40’s and early 50’s at the Ilex Theatre. The stately theatre with its grand marquee that protruded out over the sidewalk. Nestled between the Bank of Quitman and Hogan’s Jewelry, the Ilex provided us kids with countless adventures, cliff-hangers and fun.
While you could always count on stuff like Tarzan and Jungle Jim with an occasional dash of Mighty Joe Young, the low rent version of King Kong, it was the rootin’ and tootin’ westerns we came to see.
The undisputed King of the Cowboys was Roy Rogers. Roy had it all. He had beautiful Dale Evans by his side, a majestic Palomino named Trigger, a stalwart German Shepherd named Bullet and the wonderful harmony of those Sons of the Pioneers. In my mind, Gene Autry was not in Roy’s league. Gene was a little overweight and he sang through his nose. Not that I really cared about cowboys breaking out in song while riding the lone prairie. I could do without the singing, just give me the rootin’ and the tootin’.
But I have to admit that Roy was not even my favorite. I tended toward the lesser knowns. Like Alan “Rocky” Lane. Now here was a real cowboy. He never ever sang a song. He let his fists and six-shooter do his singing. And he wore, of all things, a black hat. Now everyone knew that the good guys always wore white hats and the villains had the big black ones. It was supposed to be a not so subtle dose of symbolism showing the triumph of good over evil. But Rocky Lane would have none of this, he wore his black hat and was truly a good guy, putting the baddies in their places every chance he got.
If I had to judge a cowboy star on his singing ability, I would have to choose Rex Allen. Ol’ Rex had that deep, resonant baritone. Just listening to his voice made him one of my favorites. There were others like Charles Starrett, The Durango Kid, Sunset Carson and Lash LaRue. Each provided us with thrills galore.
I’d love to be able to go back to those simple days when a kid could ride his or her bike to town on Saturday afternoon. Leave the bike in front of the Ilex, walk in clutching a quarter and get not only a big bag of popcorn, a large fountain drink and some candy to boot. But it was that enchanting afternoon of escape into adventure that has lasted through the decades. Would that I could be there again, smelling the heady aroma of buttered popcorn, the satisfying rattle of Milk Duds in a box in my shirt pocket, and hollering at the cowboys to let ‘em know somebody was sneaking up on ‘em.
Those six-shooters never seemed to run out of bullets, and likewise I never tire of remembering those Saturdays at the Ilex. Memories are all we have left, so they will have to do.
As Roy and Dale would say, “Happy Trails to you…until we meet again.”
