As I write this, it is Clint Eastwood’s 81st birthday. How can that be? I asked myself when I first read it.
Surely that cannot be right. Rowdy Yates is an old man? No . . .
But then I looked at his birth year and it hit me. Hard.
The man I adored when I was a child is a year older than my father.
Is that possible?
I first became enamored with Clint back in the days of Rawhide but fell seriously in love with him in 1970-71 when I saw Two Mules for Sister Sara and The Beguiled. How I longed to be Shirley MacLaine or Elizabeth Hartman!
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