Memorial Day and Grandpop

Howdy Friends,  

This is the Thirteenth in my series of Grandpop stories based loosely on my Uncle Ed, a WWII Vet, and real life cowboy. I began writing about Grandpop, June 27, 2013, with what at the time I imagined what would be a standalone short story, "Perhaps I've Just Lived Too Long." You can read that story (and find links to go on) (HERE)   Folks said they enjoy visiting with Grandpop, so I wrote more. Frankly, I enjoy him too.

Memorial Day and Grandpop

My cousin’s younger sister and her children had swung by to spend the weekend. Memorial Day being the big kick-off to summer and all. I heard the girls giggling in the barn as soon as I pulled in. I knew they’d be romping, as kids are want to do in early afternoon warmth in a barn full of hay, horses, tack and love. Grandpop was like a magnet to young folks, where he was they would be.

Giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the inside light I saw Grandpop had his new mare standing ground tied while the girls worked happily brushing her. Grandpop supervised from a comfortable looking hay bale perch.

“Howdy Son!” He greeted. “You’ll need to fetch a horse if you’re joinin’ us. I figured on a short warm up, get the kinks out, ride this afternoon so we’re all set for tomorrow’s big deal.”

I can’t recall how many Memorial Day parades Grandpop had ridden in, as far as I knew he’d only missed a few over the years, ever since he and Mom set stakes here right after WWII. I can remember he’d been the driving force in keeping the parade alive a few times when interest faded from time to time. “Can’t allow certain things to disappear from life.” He’d told town council more than once.

Grandpop never was one to bother much with town business, but everyone knew him and most folks valued his opinion. There was that one year; I think I was senior in high school when the parade was pretty much Grandpop, a few veteran friends, mom, my sister and me, one fire truck and half the school band. He told me once if it’s only him and a horse, as long as he’s on this side of the grass he’d do his best to have a Memorial Day parade in town. “For the youngin’s. Need to make sure they keep rememberin’ Memorial Day is more than hot dogs and a long weekend.”

We started out four abreast, just as we’d ride in the morning in town. The girls looked great, smiles as wide as the meadow. The horses marched magnificently, as if they understood the importance of the day. Grandpop always did, and still can sit a horse as finely as ever anyone who has ever ridden. The years have taken a toll; his shoulders not quite a square, but the aura of the man gleamed when he sat a horse, or talked about the respect for our country, and honor of those who’d paid the ultimate price to keep her free, and safe. Of course he shined when he spoke of mom, us kids, grandkids, great grandkids, horses, love and God ... but when respect and honor for our country was the topic, he radiated.

We rode for an hour, Grandpop told the girls, although he’d told them before, Memorial Day was first known as Decoration Day when it started, right after the Civil War, as widows decorated the graves of those fallen in that great conflict. “It’s grown now to honor all those who’ve died while serving.” He explained. “Veteran’s day in the fall honors all who’ve served.”

We rounded the turn heading back to the corrals and the girls excitement grew for the next day’s ride. They would each be carrying flags. Watching their happy faces and listening to their questions I knew these two would never allow the meaning of Memorial Day to disappear from their lives.

Gitty Up, Dutch Henry

Please check out my website www.itsforthehorses.com to have a look at all my books and book trailer for It's for the Horses ~ Thanks

Grandpop – "Of Course I love My Country, I'm Just Not Sure I Recognize It Anymore."

Howdy Friends,

They told me at the house Grandpop had saddled ol' Blue and set out on a moon light trek to the campsite. That's all I needed to know something was bothering him. It was a two hour ride to the knob Grandpop called the campsite, and neither he nor Blue should make that trip alone, and certainly not by the light of a sliver of a moon. I hustled to the pastures behind the barn, caught the first horse I could, saddled in a hurry and rode out. Clouds covered the moon and I couldn't see the ground my horse trod over. But miles away I saw the tiny flicker of a campfire on the knob.

Most every horse Grandpop kept in his remuda knew the way to the knob. The knob was Grandpop's second favorite place on the ranch; he and Mom had picnicked there countless times and, until her final year, always celebrated their anniversary with a campfire taking in the view. His favorite place was anywhere he sat a horse. In recent years his trips to the knob had lessened, but every horse had been there dozens of times over the years. The last time I'd been to the knob was a year or so ago when Grandpop took a young reporter who had come to write a story about Grandpop and the ranch. I gave my horse a friendly pat on his neck, "You know the way, take your time old fellow. Watch your step but get us up there, gotta check in on Grandpop."

The final assent wound its way ever steeper between boulders, trees and drop offs. I offered no direction to my horse, he knew every step to take without interference from me. I chuckled when I remembered that reporter, all jealous of Grandpop's ranch, so certain someone had stacked the deck to give Grandpop an easy route to success, because that's how he "knew" things happened. I chuckled again when I remembered what Grandpop had told him as he guided the city fellow in the art of campfire building, and self reliance – "These days there's too much talk about some folks havin' more than others and being angry and jealous about it. There's an old cowboy sayin' … God put the firewood in the woods for everybody, it's up to each of us to gather it and build our campfire. That's the story you should write, young fella."

Grandpop's silhouette by the fire greeted us as we broke into the clearing. Without words, he tipped his hat and motioned for me to join him. I tied my horse next to ol' Blue, and settled onto the carved log bench across the fire from him. He tossed a split chunk of wood onto the fire sending sparks and crackles high. From the pile of freshly split wood I figured he'd worked out at least some of his frustrations. But by his silent stare out over the black valley below, I knew not all sat square with him.

"Sometimes I have a hard time figurin' out the new way of thinkin', Son." He pulled his hat and shoved gnarled fingers through his thin gray hair. His eyes sparkled with light from the dancing flames. His stooped shoulders told of decades of hard work. I knew he wasn't looking for a comment from me. I knew he was hurting.

"I lost a lot of friends over there fighting for what we thought was right. Fighting to protect freedom. Your mom and I tried our best to be good parents, good stewards of the land, and good citizens. Honor, respect, love for our country, Son, they used to mean things."

I watched his eyes as he spoke. I couldn't tell if the shine in them was firelight, or tears.

"I can't wrap my brain around this idea of our country being the cause of problems all over the world. Can't almost tolerate watchin' the news anymore, ruckus in the streets, folks hating each other. College professors and school teachers teachin' the youngins ours is an evil country that steals from every other country. Young'ins bein' taught what to think, not how to think. This group hatin' that group, and far too many folks who don't even know the meaning of respect, and love of country. Strangest thing of all to me is all these folks from all over the world breakin' their backs to get here, and folks born here can only see how bad a place it is."

He cradled his face in his hands, sighed then leveled the hardest stare my way I'd seen in years.

"Of course I love my country, I'm just not sure I recognize it anymore … Could be I'm just an old man whose ideas ain't worth much, but I reckon folks better soon figure out a way to love this good ol' United States of America, find some old fashioned patriotic spirit, or it's gonna fade into darkness and wither away like a passing day. Then what are they gonna have … ?"

I had no answer.

Gitty Up ~ Dutch Henry

This is the Eleventh in my series of Grandpop stories. I began writing about Grandpop, June 27, 2013, with what at the time I imagined what would be a standalone short story, "Perhaps I've Just Lived Too Long." You can read that story (and find links to go on) (HERE)   Folks said they enjoy visiting with Grandpop, so I wrote more. Frankly, I enjoy him too.