Yes, I loved my parents – I was a true daddy’s girl – but my hero when I was five years old was without doubt The Lone Ranger!
What was not to like about this masked hero who rode unhesitatingly into the heart of trouble and danger on his stallion, Silver, with his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, to save the day? Unlike today’s anti-heroes, The Lone Ranger didn’t come with baggage – the mask was to hide his identity, not his insecurity, because he did not seek recognition and reward for Doing The Right Thing. He knew the difference between right and wrong, and he knew who was right and who was wrong, and he always, always won. OK, I admit, there were times when it seemed that the bad guys would really get him this time, and I had to resort to watching from behind the couch in case they did, but truth and right and honor always won out in the end.
The Lone Ranger never shirked from what he saw as his duty, he was always fearless, honest, and courteous. He would have protected me from the big boys who teased me at school. He would have understood that I did not like broccoli and did not want to eat it. He would have swung down from Silver and rescued me from the dogs that jumped up and barked and scared me, and Silver would have carried me home when I was tired and didn’t want to walk the rest of the way.
But the years have passed: today The Lone Ranger is shown in re-runs on cable, the black and white images rather fuzzy after watching HD TV, and other heroes have come and gone. He has even been reincarnated in a full-length movie that I could not bring myself to go and see: that was not MY Lone Ranger! Yet still I cannot hear that trumpet flourish in The William Tell Overture without immediately returning to those thrilling days of yesteryear, when a little 5-year-old girl with braids had a weekly Saturday tea-time date with a masked man on a white horse.
Hi-Yo Silver! away!