Dust-covered Memories

Flour-fine dust floats in the air from my quiet footsteps into this space where the smell of horses and manure once dominated.  The glory days are gone and the stalls are empty.  Dried clumps scattered along the way indicate a bovine presence has recently partaken of the shade which once sheltered more stately beasts.

My mind drifts to sweat-soaked saddle blankets and creaking leather sliding off the slick back of a four-legged friend in need of a curry comb scratching to ease the itching hide after hours under a heavy load bent on searching out the cows who didn't want to be found.  The gentle nicker conveys impatience to be rolling in the dust instead of standing patiently while the necessary is accomplished.  It is the same dust.  The same smell.

Gnawed ancient pine, sagging hinges, the faint scent of mouse droppings and loose feathers from the sparrows and swallows and pigeons that nest in the rafters steal the image and turn it to regret for days past and unfilled dreams.  A yellow jacket, walking circles around some invisible attraction, draws my attention and remembered burning, swelling, reddened welts in times past bid caution against the gold and yellow winged demons of childhood nightmares.

Allergies -- to the dust and dander and pollen and yes, the venom of the yellow jacket were my nemesis, yet still I pursued.  Love and passion overcomes all enemies.

A cockle burr, ungerminated and half covered by the fine dust, brings memories of hoof knives cutting into the tangled mats while a stamping hoof signaled it was time to be done with this.  Slack reins, lowered head, thumps in time to my steps and the rattle of the chain against the rock-hard wood of the gate signals the day is done.

The stiffened skeleton of an old set of reins hangs from a nail -- spliced together with a couple of slits and end-through-end ran through each other -- a cowboy patch in a pinch. Dried and cracked.  No longer useful.  Age and white speckles of bird droppings turned Appaloosa instead of the supple, weak coffee and fresh smell of their working days.  More sadness.

I think of Grandpa and his horses.  Bugger Red.  Bonnie B.  Ginger.  Joe.  A dusty barn and a wall of tack.  I was a wanna be, he was the real deal.