My grandfather loves old western shows and movies. Over the last few years, I’ve sat with him countless times while they played on his television. I’ve never fully understood the draw — most of them follow the same structure with little variation.
The good guy is honest, true, and virtuous. The bad guy? Underhanded, sneaky, and greedy. The story usually begins with someone being wronged — a robbery, a betrayal, a town in trouble. Then our hero steps in, unravels the villain’s plot, gets into a bar fight or a shootout, narrowly escapes death, and inevitably saves the day. Corny jokes are exchanged, and before you know it, the next episode starts.
And yet, I’ve grown to enjoy these old shows.
Maybe it’s because I once saw the world in the same way — where good always triumphs, where truth wins out, and justice shows up right on time. That belief was probably shaped early on: by family, by faith, by the stories I was told through culture and media. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe I just associate westerns with my grandpa — the quiet comfort of sitting beside him, sharing something familiar.
But I think there’s more to it. There’s a certain innocence about these stories that feels rare now. A kind of moral clarity that doesn’t often exist in real life. Maybe that’s what makes them special.
Maybe the real appeal isn’t the story itself, but the world it offers — one where right and wrong are clear, where justice arrives on time, and the good guys still ride off into the sunset. I’m not sure I believe the good side always wins anymore, but there’s still something comforting about watching them try. And even if I don’t care much for the plot, I’ll keep showing up — for the quiet moments, the familiar music, and the time spent beside someone I love.
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