I stood next to my aged father, of ninety-seven years. He looked around the saddle shop. His brown eyes shed some tears.
The saddle shop is where my father kept the tack and gear. The smell of leather wafted a memory of a yesteryear.
It’s where my father taught me more than leather-goods repair. I could hear his words of sound advice still hanging in the air.
He was parting with his saddles and was giving them to me. The shop would be an empty room, so full of history.
He said, “Today I feel the darkness, but for you the sun will shine. Mother Nature’s got my number and she’s run me out of time.”
The saddles held a precious memory of my father’s life. Again, I felt as proud back when he gave me my first knife.
He reached, then gave a tug and pulled away a dusty tarp. He knew the saddle’s history, and his mind was razor-sharp.
He pointed to a saddle. Said, “While fighting off at war. My father bought it for me, back in 1944.”
He said, “The saddle ain’t horse worthy, but it doesn’t seem quite fair. There oughta be a use and could you find that use somewhere?”
He pulled another saddle. Said, “Remember good ol’ Fred? This was his favorite saddle. Now Fred is long since dead.”
My father stretched, then slid the final saddle off the rack. A Heiser Denver saddle was the finest of the tack.
I don’t believe I’d ever seen this saddle in the shop. He said he’d used it years ago on a bucking saddle bronc.
A Heiser Denver high-back saddle right before my eyes. My father showed no interest but to me more than a prize.
So, I gave the saddles purpose. They’re now in my workshop. My grandkids sit the saddles and I pray they’ll never stop.
I told my dad I’d put the saddles where the crowd would meet. Now four of those old saddles are a brand new barstool seat.
Each saddle shows the years of wear. You wonder, were they ever new? But they jog my memory of a man who was cowboy through and through.
