This morning woke to news that the tackshed, calving barns & sheds and corrals had burned to the ground. God was looking out for them in so many ways. A young airman was fishing at the river about 3 miles away and saw the flames leaping up and drove up to find cell phone coverage and called 911. He knocked on my parents house but he didn't hear so the man walked right in and yelled to wake him up.
Looking at the positive my Mom said, "Well I will be able to see the sunsets on the Black Hills now."
I spent more time in the tackhouse and barns then I did in my house. Whenever I'm asked about my favorite room in my house growing up- it was always the tackshed.
As a little girl it was a mysterious fortress with so much to see and explore. The tackshed was an old homestead house with a ladder up to a little attic. My Mom used to shake her head and say, "How did any woman raise kids in this place and stay sane?"
I would climb up in to the attic and explore the old pieces of leather, clothing and pieces of history. It was made out of lathe covered with some kind of paper. An old clothes washer served as the grain container. Saddle racks covered the walls with an old manger across the one end.
It always smelled of hay, horses and leather.
I used to stick one or two of my little sisters in the manger while I was saddling a horse to keep them out from under hooves and they thought it was fun.
During calving I would clean it out and keep it filled to the brim with hay and extra grain because I worried about the hardworking horses that stayed in for the night shift.
The first time I brought David home to the ranch to meet my family and took him for his first ride-he was scared to death of the tackshed and stood in the door waiting for the horses to be saddled. Josh took his first ride as a two month old out of that shed.
The bridles that we used on Jingles, Jimmie, Duke, Cheta, Mac and other "family members" carried so many memories. The saddleblanket my mom made me for 4-H shows, the chaps, the saddle bags that carried lunches on childhood adventures as well as work days, the spurs, the ropes and the saddles.
Old saddles from Grandpas and old neighbors or from auctions. Saddles that were taken off and covered us as protection in a draw against lightening; that carried calves home in blizzards; that carried girls in playdays, rodeos and adventures.
Even the paracord bridle reins that Dad made after being sick of fixing broken reins will be missed.
It was where we were bundled up before going out to ride.
Dad would double check our saddlebags to make sure we had the extra hats and gloves and our slicker and coat was rolled up and tied tight.
It was where I put on my first pair of chaps and was so proud of them. I lovingly oiled and cleaned each saddle in that place.
Every bit and piece of leather carried a memory like an old family museum or our own Smithsonian.
It was the first place I visited home from college. Was the place I checked on whenever I would go home.
A place of calm in any storm...weather or emotional. I stood in the door watching hail, rain and blizzards and it was always a refuge.
The shed was always a circus. I remember tying the mattress on to Jingles and putting a long rope on him and tying it to the rafters. I stood in the middle with the buggy whip and long lined him while the girls tried to jump off from the rafters and land just right.
We put on circuses for our parents.
We made out with our boyfriends.
We pulled and doctored calves.
The hayloft had a great window that went out the roof and was the perfect place to sunbathe without much on and no one could see!
We prayed and cried.
We lived. We really really lived.
Those memories will live on and there will be new beginnings. Grandchildren will bring home future spouses and make out in new barns.
New memories will be made. It's not the stuff. It's not the barns.
It's the people.
It's the people.
It's what happens in them that makes the memories.
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