You will find it in the dusty photo albums of millions of American men of a certain age -- call them baby boomers; '50s kids.
It's a slightly faded photograph, taken with a clunky old box camera on a Christmas morning, long ago.
It is a picture of a little boy standing in front of a tree with way too much tinsel, dressed in his PJ's. On his waist is strapped a rhinestone holster, and he has a silver-painted six-shooter in each hand. Atop his head is a perfectly creased cowboy hat.
The grin on his face stretches from ear-to-ear, because -- thanks to Santa, his folks, whoever -- his wishes have come true and he is Roy Rogers, King of the Cowboys.
What better thing to be.
Millions of us, no doubt, thought about that photograph Monday morning, when we heard that the man known as Leonard Slye, born 86 years ago right here on our riverfront and raised in Scioto County, died in his sleep on his ranch in a California valley.
He became Roy Rogers because he could sing and because Hollywood needed a new handsome, rugged cowboy star. And when he became Roy Rogers, he became a role model long before anyone talked about such things, a living symbol of what was good and right and decent.
Some of us were lucky enough to meet him; to shake his hand, long after our own youth had faded. All of us kept him tucked away in a corner of our hearts as the symbol of what a man should be.
Yes, we wanted to be him: An Ohio boy-turned-Hollywood cowboy, who yodeled his way across the lonesome prairie. We would fiddle with the rabbit ears and watch him on the big box TV, ropin' cattle and rustlin' up the bad guys.
Today, there might be those who would tut-tut over the televised adventures of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. After all, there was sometimes gunplay and violence (barely an episode went by when some no-good rattlesnake of a horse thief didn't take a punch on the chin).
But the West was wild. That's what cowboys did when they weren't driving long lines of cattle up the Chisholm Trail, when they weren't singing of tumbleweeds and the coyote's yell around the campfire. Those of us who watched as Roy used his wits and his mitts to get out of one scrape after another learned lessons from the King of the Cowboys that even now, in the midst of our busy lives, come bubbling to the surface when we need them the most.
We remember that Roy was never one to back away from a fight. He would not start one, but if one started, he would by gum finish it. Slow to anger, but always ready to stand up for himself and the ones he loved.
Roy would do the right thing.
We watched him with Dale, his life-long companion. Dale Evans was no fragile paper doll; she could sit astride Buttermilk and gallop alongside Roy and Trigger like she was born in the saddle. They were pardners. They rode their happy trail together, singing that song, the one that will stay in our minds forever:
"Who cares about the clouds when we're together? Just sing a song and bring on sunny weather."
We watched them, and learned a little about what it meant when two people loved each other and treated each other with respect. We're a lot older now, and our world is more complicated than that of the little boy in the photograph on Christmas morning.
But even so, we're still ready to climb up in the saddle and ride along with Roy.
Howard Wilkinson, 45, is the political reporter for the Enquirer.
