When I was a kid I believed that Roy Rogers was “King of the Cowboys” and that Trigger was “the world’s smartest horse in the movies.”

Some kids on the block claimed that Gene Autry, who rode Champion, the “world’s wonder horse” was better than Roy. I didn’t want to hear that trash talk. In fact, I got in several shoving matches and at least one fistfight with a kid who claimed that Gene Autry was King of the Cowboys.

My love of Roy diminished after standing in line for three hours at Loveman’s in Birmingham and shaking hands with Hop-a-long Cassidy. Hoppy patted me on the head and said, “Hi little buckaroo.” I almost wet on myself.

Superman soon took the place of celluloid cowboys and I ran around the neighborhood in long handle underwear and a cape. That didn’t last long. In 1954, we moved to a farm at Madison Crossroads where a pony-tailed girl gave me my first lip press.

But, I’ve always liked Roy Rogers. Several years ago, I purchased a 1949 Roy Rogers movie poster, “Cowboy and the Senorita,” and hung it over the fridge near my Bull Durham and Bugler smoking tobacco posters. You probably won’t find similar posters hanging in the mansions east of Athens, but that’s understandable. Having money doesn’t equal class.

Recently, I spent two days in Cody, Wyoming, where I toured the Buffalo Bill Museum and browsed antique shops. I found a framed, 1954 Gene Autry movie poster, and thought it would look great hanging next to Roy. I bought it for $57.

I carefully wrapped and packed it in my black carry-on bag. At Denver, I boarded a United commuter to Huntsville. The overhead bins were too small for carry-on bags and were checked on board.

At Huntsville, we were told to wait at the end of the tube for our carry-ons. Ten minutes passed. What was the hold-up? We were told that the elevator was stuck. We complained and waited. Finally, the truth. “A bag is hung in the elevator and it won’t operate,” said a United employee. “Go to baggage pick-up and we’ll have your bags there momentarily.”

Like a flock of lemming marching off a cliff, we did as instructed. No bags. More waiting and complaining. Other passengers had retrieved their bags and departed the terminal thirty minutes earlier. A United employee walked over.

“Good news folks! Go to the ticket counter and pick up your carry-ons.”

Passengers began snatching bags. A United employee held aloft a crushed black carry-on. “This is the bag that stuck in the elevator.”

“That’s mine,” I said.

“Check it for damage.”

I unzipped the bag and looked inside. Gene was staring at me through wood splinters and shattered glass. I removed the poster. “Oh no! This poster was priceless,” I said.