Grady did Western art. The way she explained it – her childhood hero was Clint Eastwood. She was entranced with his imagery on the screen and the “cowboy motif,” based on his example. “I used to walk around chewing the end of a beef jerky stick, like the outlaw, Josie Wales, and his cigarillo. I ate beans right from the skillet with a wooden spoon, wore button down shirts and threadbare trousers, and Jack scolded me more than once for smudging dirt on my face to achieve that rough shaven look.”
“So you were a cross-dresser before you knew you were gay?” I joked.
“Hush your mouth!” she teased, “All kids play around with costumes and characters. I just couldn’t get over the walk, you know? I didn’t think of that stance or walk as manly. I was just fascinated to walk as if all life fulfilling chi originated and radiated from a bulge in my crotch,” she giggled.
“I am not going to ask.” I said.
“It’s probably best you don’t.”