Me at about age 10, with my Granddad (he’s about 70, born in 1911) and Ol’ #7-seriously, that was his name, he was my cousins. The only way we could get that Jackass to carry us anywhere was to let him see us pull open the gate to the corral, lead him a mile or so down the road. Then we’d scramble up to the top of his back and pray we got ahold of his neck and our butt sat down before he took off.
Granddad, he was great! Both of my Grandfathers were. They are why I never judge a book by it’s cover. They were gifted jack of all trade types, nothing they couldn’t fix, or build. But they were always covered in sweat, dirt, axle grease, and diesel fuel, and didn’t much care of your opinion about it. Really that is the smell of safety and innocence to me. You don’t smell that much anymore, men don’t work hard and get dirty they way they use to. I went to Durango one year to ride the Silverton, I broke into tears when I toured the shed, it smelled of my childhood and the men I miss so much.
Papa and me. He was born on leap year 1920. This picture was taken on his birthday, we were both 17 the same year. That was the last year that I was ever younger than his birthdays…if that makes sense. I’d always teased him about how much better I look at my advanced age.
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