I have two saddles in the downstairs bedroom. I’m going to sell them for my dad. He’s too arthritic to ride anymore.
These saddles have a lot of history in them. My dad bought these custom saddles from Wm Porter Saddle Makers in the 60’s. His butt sat on one, his wife’s butt graced the other. Anyone can buy a saddle from the local tack shop. But it takes a serious horse person to have one custom-made.
They worked with these saddles. Dad’s electrical contracting business kept him clothed and fed, but the rodeo kept him alive. He cut cattle, and was a heeler in team roping competitions. Margaret (I never called her “mom”) was a barrel racer. Many nights, I sat on the fence rail and watched as they, and their fellow Westernaires, practiced. It wasn’t a case of not knowing what they needed to do, but rather of joining forces with their animal. Once horse and rider understood each other, they knew they were ready to enter the ring a competitor, and exit it with valuable silver.
There’s a lot of silver in rodeo. Dad had so many trophies he had a cabinet built to house them, which shined brilliantly with dishes, cups, trophies and belt buckles. Soon, he was setting them on top and around, because he kept winning.
My dad was always bigger and stronger and truer than anyone I met. Perhaps it was my perspective at three feet, looking up at the blue eyes shaded by a cowboy hat, thousands of feet above me that made him look so great. Or because, now that I know him in adulthood, it is that he is even more strong than I ever imagined. He is true to his word, believes in standing up for what is right, and never turns his back on the ones who mean the most to him. He is the true American Cowboy, with or without a horse.
When he rode in the Rose Parade and the Mother Goose Parade, these saddles stayed at home. That was when he used his dress saddle, festooned with conchos and silver, and dressed up his horse with a beautiful blanket and even more silver. With a watchful eye down the road, my sister and I would sit on the curb discussing the merits of each float, the excessive volume of the bands, and whether Dad would be coming by soon. The watching and waiting could be unbearable. When he was finally in sight, we would nearly dislocate our arms as we jumped up to wave and scream for his attention. As far as we were concerned, this was His Parade.
So, here the saddles sit, waiting for a new home. I want to make sure that once they are gone, those days live on. For now, I think I’ll go climb on dad’s saddle for a bit, and ride one of the horses of my childhood. Giddap, Tubbs! Let’s take another turn around the corral.
