HomeLeather Dreams
by Jordan L. Joyner
“You jus’ bought yourself a one way ticket to…”
I’m an old sprout and something in me suddenly snapped. A gun blasted its guts with a blam and I saved Prince Albert’s life. Me and Bert were sitting on the same horse and when I fell, he fell with me. He hacked his chaw, for which he is called, before he choked. The way Bert landed he sort of straddled me when he fell. I gasped for air and found it unpleasantly tainted with Prince Albert Tobacco and dirt, but it warded death away. The drunken gunman figured us down for good and sauntered away. Bert picked himself up and lifted me gently. I thought I felt his rough hands for the last time. I felt like an old piece of chaffed leather, and I had never fallen from a horse before. A can popped open and Bert replenished his chaw with a thumb in his cheek. He carried me home with his head down. Me and Bert had been pals seems like forever. Inside the house, he covered me with a blanket and walked out, mumbling something about the doctor and me retiring. I grimaced at the “r” word. I still got some living to do. I’m old, most of my prime is all rubbed away but I’m still alive. The screen door screeched its welcome and Bert returned with a friend as good as a doctor, for me anyhow. Bert guessed my thoughts.
“I know you don’t want to lay low, but what are you gonna do? Poke cattle ‘till you fall to pieces?”
I might. Such a life had always been good enough.
“You’re worth more than that.”
Most of us are, I’ve found, but few would want any better. Didn’t Bert understand? What’s the point of living if you’re doomed to sit around doing nothing for the rest of your days? The doctor fellow did this and that to me, and most of it hurt, but I didn’t let on. Bert rubbed me down with some such prescription and left me to rest. I looked to the window. Prairie grass and dust blew in the summer breeze. Birds whistled and children on horses chased groundhogs. The little creatures stood as still as sentries ‘till the children drew close, then they vamoosed down their holes. If I stopped working I’d not only miss all the steer wrangling fun but I’d miss all this too. All around me sounds echoed; crickets chirping, Bert laughing, Ma calling for more potatoes, and Pa telling the parson to please come again. The screen door whapped again and let in the sound of the wind running: through leaves, through trees, through grass, and everything. I couldn’t bear to be parted from the sweet sounds of the work of life, anybody can listen. Sound is the highway of life and if you learn about it and sweat in it and listen to exactly what it says, it connects you with a whole new world. Have you ever really found life? It’s here, if you’ll just have the good sense to open up and look around. Every sound shouts it in its own little way; the trick is to understand it. My point is living. If you just sit around all day, nothing will ever get around to happening to you. Have you ever heard a pine cone hum? Have you ever seen pine needles sparkling in the breeze? Did you ever really know what a gal’s trying to say when she says “I love you?” Well, you’ll get that and a whole lot more if you set about to living. That’s why I can’t bear to think about sitting in here for the rest of my days. It’s worse than doling out death with a six gun. There’s something to life, not everybody can handle it, and you can’t find it sitting down. Bert came in, to my utter joy, with a happy grin.
“You think you’re goin’ sit around forever? Come on, we got work to do.” In ten minutes we were horsed and riding out to the cattle range. By looks, we were moving the beef to a different pasture. We got the herd moving, but Bert and me met trouble with one bull who refused to stay in line. Everything looked so alive, especially that bull. He tried to break again but we cut in on him. This bull worked hard to escape and flared his horns at us, too. We had to move sharp to avoid them. Bert held on to me as we pushed this cow back in line. Even without words, Bert and I figured it all out between us. I rarely come unseated while riding and Bert knew this. The horse cut now this way, now that way to block the bull. It was hot and dry. Bert and me were slippery and sweaty, but we held on. Suddenly that bull doubled back in mid stride and our horse slid around sharp to cut him off, we were angled low and sliding. Bert bounced, slipped, and a foot came out of the stirrup. Bert was going down but he lashed out with his arm and grabbed a hold of me. All smelled of dust, sweat, and lathery stock. I heard the steady tramp of hooves in my ear and everything moved. The horse’s mane whisped all around me and cow horns threatened not far away. Bert’s muscle bulged, but he held on. And I held on. This is living, hard but better than gold. So much joy it brings to really be with somebody and to be really seeing things. Once you find it, don’t you never let it go, don’t you dare, you follow for everyone of your born days. Don’t take it from me, go figure it out for yourself, I’m just a slap leather saddle.
Jordan L. Joyner writes from eastern North Carolina. Some of her work has been published in print by Currclick and The Storyteller, where her short story won second place in the 2013 People’s Choice Award.
