Little Sure Shot

At this point, I don't know whether today is going to go down as a day that will live in infamy. Or whether it will go down as a day that we will honor as the moment we began to turn back the forces of malfeasance, destruction, and corruption (to name just a few of the anti-attributes that could be used to describe the current malfeasant, destructive, and corrupt regime). 

I'm hoping for the best, of course. And while I'm truly not expecting the worst, I'm pretty nervous about the electoral outcomes and, even more so, highly anxious about the response to those outcomes.

Sigh...

But I'm here today not to be a nervous wreck, but to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the death of Annie Oakley. 

I will admit that, until I saw a recent episode of American Experience on PBS, my knowledge of Annie Oakley was scant.

Sure, I knew her name, and had avidly watched the ridiculous eponymous 1950's kiddie western, Annie Oakley, which took from Annie's life her name and sharpshooting ability, and left out all the interesting bits. Still, I was enthralled by TV Annie, and always relieved when her crush, Deputy Lofty Craig, came to her rescue. 

In grammar school, 5th or 6th grade I'm guessing, there was a song we learned from our songbook about Annie Oakley. (The songbook for the most part contained nothing but banal, insipid little songs, made up for the songbook.) All I remember of the Annie Oakley song is the first line: "Annie, Oakley, The Queen of the Golden West." For schoolyard purposes, we made it our own: Annie - cha-cha-cha - Oakley - cha-cha-cha. The Queen of the Golden West." As it turned out, Annie Oakley never actually stepped toe in the Golden West, but I guess that's poetic license for you. 

And, as a lover of the Great American Musical, I was familiar with Annie Get Your Gun, which featured a lot of wonderful Irving Berlin tunes:  "There's No Business Like Show Business," "Doin' What Comes Naturally," "You Can't Get a Man with a Gun," "Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)," and the lovely, non-barnburner, "They Say It's Wonderful." (Except for patriotic songs, Christmas carols, St. Patrick's Day ditties, and a few Stephen Foster numbers, the songs we sang in grammar school were never ones that anyone had heard of. Was it too much to pay the copyright to put good music in those songbooks? ("Annie - cha-cha-cha - Oakley - cha-cha-cha.")

Anyway, I knew precious little about the real Annie Oakley:

Was she a rodeo cowgirl? Did she sing? No, but Annie Oakley was the first American woman—the first—to be a superstar. She was the Taylor Swift of her era. While it wasn’t her vocals that carried her notoriety, it was her gift of sharpshooting that made her a legend (Source: Ranching Heritage)

The Taylor Swift of her era? High praise, indeed. But as much as I admire Taylor Swift for her talent and business acumen, she doesn't have quite the story that Annie's life tells.

She was born Phoebe Ann Mosey (Oakley was her stage name), in 1860, to an impoverished family in Ohio. Her father died when she was quite little, and her stepfather didn't last long, either. When she was 5 or so, she began trapping birds and small game to help feed the family. A few years later, she learned to hunt and shoot.

“I was 8 years old when I made my first shot,” she recalled, “and I still consider it one of the best shots I ever made.” Steadying an old muzzle-loading rifle on a porch rail, she picked off a squirrel sitting on a fence in her front yard with a head shot to allow its meat to be preserved for dinner.

Again, I have a ton of respect for Taylor Swift, but Annie didn't exactly grow up on Christmas Tree Farm.  

Whatever Annie was providing for her family wasn't enough, so she and one of her sisters were sent to the Darke County poorhouse. From there, she was farmed out to a malevolent family, where she worked pretty much as a slave. Nominally paid $.50 a week - which, even in 1870 was no great shakes - she didn't really see any money. She was brutalized physically and mentally and, after a couple of years, she ran away. (You go, girl!)

Making her way back to her impoverished family, she honed her shooting and hunting skills and began selling the game she bagged to local shops, hotels, and restaurants. At the age of 15, she was able to pay off her widowed mother's $200 mortgage. She then moved in with a married sister in Cincinnati.

Word got around that little Annie - she was only about 5 feet tall and weighed 110 pounds - was quite a good shot, and a Cincinnati hotel set her up in a contest that pitted her against Frank Butler, a traveling sharpshooter originally from Ireland. (Sharpshooting was quite an attraction in the latter part of the 19th century and first part of the 20th.) Butler had placed a $100 bet that no local shooter could beat him. He hadn't counted on Annie showing up. 

As the story goes, she defeated Butler. (They both shot 25 birds, but all of hers were kills; his all weren't.) 

So Frank Butler lost the bet, but ended up winning Annie's heart, and a few years after meeting, they married.

Frank knew a good thing when he saw it, and he soon pulled back on his sharpshooter career and began managing hers. 

Eventually, they were asked to join Buffalo Bill Cody's Wild West Show. But not before Annie got to meet Sitting Bull. After watching one of her performances in Minnesota, the noted Indian leader asked to meet her, and dubbed her “Watanya Cicilla,” or “Little Sure Shot.” (Sitting Bull also adopted her into the Lakota tribe.)

Annie and Frank toured with Buffalo Bill for 17 years, traveling the country (just not the far west, which, I guess had actual cowboys and buffaloes running around, and didn't need to pay to see a show about such), as well as performing throughout Europe. Among those she performed for: Queen Victoria.

Audiences were enthralled that Annie could shoot off the end of a cigarette held in her husband’s lips, hit the thin edge of a playing card from 30 paces, and shoot distant targets while looking into a mirror. When playing cards were tossed into the air, she could shoot holes through the cards before they landed.

Annie Oakley aslo became an early film star, appearing in an 1894 Kinetoscope filmed by none other than Thomas Edison.  

After being injured in a train accident in 1901, Annie retired from the Wild West Show. She appeared on stage, gave shooting lessons at fancy clubs, and gave shooting exhibitions on behalf of a company that made bullets. And throughout her life, Annie was a big proponent of women learning how to shoot. She taught thousands to do so, and felt it was important for physical and mental wellbeing, as well as for self defense. Oh, and on the eve of the Spanish-American War, she offered to raise a troup of 50 female sharpshooters to help with the war effort. President McKinley declined the offer. 

In 1902, Annie was injured in a car accident, and pretty much retired. Her health declined and, at the age of 66, Annie Oakley died on November 3, 1926, at the age of 66. Frank died a few weeks later.  

I just loved Annie Oakley's story. (Beats thinking about the election.)

They just don't make superstars like they used to. Not even Taylor Swift comes close.