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Short Stories & Tall Tales
Never Sell Your Saddle
Kerry Taylor
I’m trying to adjust to the fact that I sold my saddle the other day.
I put a lot of thought and work in that saddle. I found the best hardwood saddle tree with an old time slick fork, then I modified it to fit my horse and my posterior. With the best Herman Oak Leather, I cut and carved, stitched and laced, constructed and crafted what I saw as the perfect saddle. There had been many before that one. Some I had repaired too many times and sent off to where used-up equipment ends. My butt was proud of that saddle though, and it was a good one.
Some time back I found that I didn’t bend so good any more. I got throwed hard. We went high a half dozen times and I quickly remembered what I’d learned back in my rodeo days. It felt good, I had him…just had to ride him down and he’d be over it. About then we went way up and he did a half-gainer mid air. We came down in a ravine on his front legs, while his rear was still pointed at the sun. I was over his ears and diving headfirst toward the bottom of the gully. I attempted to tuck and roll, but all too quickly landed like a skydiver without a chute.
I figured I’d found concrete, but there wasn’t any for a mile or more. Oh man that hurt! Ten minutes must have gone by while I lay there trying to pump air into my aching body. My left arm was already blue from the shoulder down and the swelling had me convinced it was broke in several places. My face was bleeding and my right leg refused to work at all. Harley stood there looking down at me like he was waiting for me to get back on and try again. About an hour later I had finally made it a quarter mile back to the house. Mama said, either shoot him or sell him, you’re not riding him again……..you’re getting too old, you don’t bounce well anymore, and you don’t get paid when you’re not working. Of course a cowboy don’t let his woman tell him how to deal with his horse……but somehow, my last horse was gone within a month.
No pack trips to hunt elk in Montana for the last few years and no horse. But I had a saddle. I’d be ready if I needed one. Thing is, it doesn’t look as though I will. The darn years seem to be going by faster and adding up to an enormous sum. Still yet a fella needs to be ready to ride, don’t he?
I heard some advice that sounded pretty good one time. It goes like….
Don't ever sell your saddle - Never owe another man - Watch where you spit on a windy day - Don't use words you don't understand - Find the Lord before you need him - And never lose your pride - Don't ever sell your saddle - 'Cause life's a long, long ride.
I suppose that I haven’t followed those good sounding recommendations, nor my own philosophy of getting right back on when you get thrown. I’m realizing that with age comes diminished resilience, and getting back on gets harder with every fall.
You know - there are still a couple of old saddles in my rack. They aren’t as pretty, or as comfortable, but with a slower, gentler horse….. I could mount up and see what’s left of this sometimes treacherous, but wondrous trail.
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