"You Just Keep Thinkin,' Butch"

There is an early scene in the 1969 film, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” where Butch is challenged to a knife fight by Hole in the Wall Gang member Harvey Logan, who has convinced the underlings in the gang to follow his leadership. As Butch prepares to take on the sizably larger Harvey, he goes over to his sidekick, the Sundance Kid, looking for support as Butch acknowledges that he may be outmatched.

Butch Cassidy: [low voice, to Sundance] Listen, I don't mean to be a sore loser, but when it's done, if I'm dead, kill him.

Sundance Kid: [low voice to Butch] Love to.

It is s subtle exchange that is humorous to the audience, but it conveys a much stronger theme. Loyalty. Friendship. The kind of “I’ve got your back” relationship that needs no words. This is probaby what made “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” one of my sister Joyce’s and my favorite movies. It portrays the kind of relationship Joyce and I had.

So when my husband went down to the local Blockbuster to select a movie to watch with our kids over the weekend, I was pleasantly surprised that he chose a film that has special meaning for me. I wasn’t sure the kids would embrace an old movie that doesn’t have the kind of bawdy humor or wild special effects of today’s cinema. But that didn’t matter. The strong story and entertaining dialogue between the characters have stood the test of time, so why not expose the kids to a great film classic?

What I didn’t realize is that my own re-viewing of the film would open my eyes to the details that took root in me and instilled that “good feeling” that, today, some 30-plus years since I first saw the film, can reignite some of my sisterly memories.

Of course, since I am walking the dissertation path, I see how this is related to my journey. I am exploring the grief memoir as a method of sharing memories of a lost loved one, and exploring how we use different communication vehicles (technologies) to do this. I also am investigating the source of the sharing: our memories, or, to peel back the onion a bit more, our memory: the technology through which the traces embedded in our minds are stored and categorized, ready to be called up in the way we search for a book in the public library’s electronic card catalogue.

I’ve said it before: it’s all connected. That’s how life works, even though we may not consciously realize it much of the time. Let me explain how this random family movie night opened the door to memory for me.

The film stars Paul Newman and Robert Redford as Butch and Sundance, respectively. It is set in the 1890s out west, where they are outlaws who make their living robbing banks and the Union Pacific railroad, until they finally push their luck just a little too far. They draw the ire of the railroad owner, who hires a posse of professional trackers from across the country to hunt down Butch and Sundance and kill them.

Of course, none of those details bear any resemblance to my sister and me or our growing up years. The closest thing to outlaw behavior for us was spraypainting our names on rocks or metal guard rails around town. (So if innocent vandalism counts, then perhaps the outlaw gig was indeed one of our things.)

The similarities I connected with were subtle. For much of the film, Butch and Sundance are riding horses - skillfully so, I’ll add. Riding hard over rough terrain, down steep hills where a horse can fight for its footing - that resonated with me, big time. Horseback riding was our favorite activity, and Joyce and I rode as often as we could. We were fortunate in this hobby: we grew up next door to cousins who owned horses, and who shared them with us without hesitation. We could hike up through the woods next door and saddle up, barely having to ask permission.

Then we would ride for hours. We would canter through wooded paths, gallop across fields, jump over rocks and ditches, and fight to slow a hard trot when we made that turn for home and the horses, Dandy and Supreme (or Premie, as we called him), knew their exercise was ending for the day.

It was bliss. Joyce had loved horses since she was a very young girl and she taught me everything she knew. She taught me how to ride. While I wasn’t as fearless around the horses as Joyce was, I became more comfortable and soon acquired my own solid skills in the western riding style. We loved it.

In researching the details of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” I learned that it was filmed in several locations, but the places that stood out for me are two that Joyce and I had on our list of “places to visit on our cross country trip.” This was the trip we would take “one day,” when we both graduated college but before we settled in to the routine and responsibilities of adult careers and lives.

When we talked about Colorado and Utah, it was with a wholesome childhood perspective. We loved the outdoors and appreciated the beauty of nature, and these two states out west, particularly Colorado, were the epitome of nature’s beauty for us. We had to see it for ourselves. As it turned out, it is a trip that we never got to take.

Beyond the scenery and the horses, the film spoke to me the loudest in the close friendship that jumps off the screen in Newman and Redford’s portrayals of Butch and Sundance. With every humorous jab on screen, I was reminded of the playful manner in which Joyce and I would kid each other. Our camaraderie and loyalty was unwavering, built over the years through the experience of being outnumbered in a family of five brothers. We had each other’s back. We could joke around with each other because we knew, at the heart of our sisterly friendship, was a deep and abiding love.

I was Butch to Joyce’s Sundance. I was the idea generator and Joyce was my true-blue, encouraging sidekick. So perhaps the film has an old message, made fresh for me in my dissertation journey. Joyce continues to inspire me, and perhaps even guide me, since through watching this old favorite movie, I have discovered something about the way memory works.

It is always there to draw from, even if we are not sure we will be able to recover it, at will. Sometimes, a memory is served up when we least expect it. That’s the beauty of memory. It is ours forever.

I can still hear Joyce citing the repetitive line from the movie, just the way she did when we would be conjuring up our plans back in the day.

You just keep thinkin', Butch. That's what you're good at.