Let’s talk about snap shirts.
Let’s talk about snap shirts worn in Medina, Texas.
Let’s talk about snap shirts worn outside and inside The Old Timer, Medina’s “one and only General Store,” while surveying which jerky my middle son would like most, and then grabbing a coffee — 54 cents for a small (including tax) and $1.00 for a large, but when purchased “after 6pm, it’s free,” said the man with the beard yellowed around the mouth from decades of smoking cigarettes.
Long ago, I was told by my new bride that snap shirts were worn only by cowboys and dorks. And I, “was not a cowboy.” Tell all the truth, but tell it slant, Emily Dickinson once penned. But after my first snap shirt purchase, at the no-longer Cowboy Store in the Hometown Crafts strip mall in Kerrville (the original is still in Bandera), I was hooked. I started buying them from Billy’s Western Wear, and then online, for I was not about to go into a local store and ask for a black rayon snap shirt like I could buy from Amazon. Truly, only dorks wear black rayon snap shirts, but New Yorkers wear black rayon snap shirts, and mine has worn well all these years.
Snap shirts are wonderful. If I’m ever on a horse and a tree branch catches the front, I’m telling you: it breaks open at the snaps instead of ripping, and saves my filly the hassle of sewin’ it back up. Since I don’t have a filly who sews my shirts, nor have I ridden a horse since camp in 8th grade, what happens now is that I’m preparing for arthritis. Snap shirts also come in handy for that, mister.
Let’s talk about snap shirts, worn by a decreasingly dorky but rapidly aging New Yorker, outside The Old Timer, having bought teriyaki jerky for his 17-year-old and procured his coffee for free. Traveling south on Highway 16 toward Bandera.
Sunset.
A desperado photographer laughing.
But not too loud.
Biscuit Aisle 
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