Fortunate
Sometimes, when I'm shuffling through the drawers beneath my bed for batteries--or another lost, but not really lost item--I’ll come across my “lucky horseshoe”. Silver. Heavy. Rusting slightly on the edges. Some odd years ago, the metal U shape sat upright (“To collect the good fortune,” said my granny.) against my dresser. Some odd years before that, the shoe was hammered onto “Poco” (My granny’s beloved “American Paint” horse). His galloping safe and dependable for small children like myself. On a dry August afternoon, the tarnished metal made its way out of the sage bushes and into my eager 10-year-old hands. A proud testament to “western summers” at my grandparent's dude ranch in Clark, Colorado. Now, a nod at an inclination to keep expired memories close. On the back and in thick black sharpie Eden Stranahan, 2015, is written in loopy cursive.
Three years later, Poco was kept when The Home Ranch was sold.
I remember going to the ranch for the last time. The head wrangler Micheal Moon and his thick western twang and dusty chaps. The way the barn ceiling groaned while we two stepped and shuffled atop it. The wood was tired, and the folk band performing even more so. The way my dad's voice cracked when he explained it was a family undertaking and that his family, my family, didn't want to take it under any longer. A quiet loss could be felt in the valley that summer. The moon still set behind Sleeping Giant (“If you look closely,” my uncle explained, “The mountain resembles a body at rest.”) and my dad still warned me of the coyotes that prowled the grass at night. Restless. Howling. My Granny still bought cowboy boots embroidered with colorful floral patterns and silver stitching. My family still assumed the role of bona fide cowboys. They were not. Originally from Toledo, their sun-washed Levi’s said otherwise. The carefully decorated lodge living room slowly unraveled in September. Paintings of horses munching on grass in vast meadows, sunsets carefully setting between mountain peaks, and dry straw hay bales un-nailed from the burnt red walls. Faux cowhide couches, their matching footrests, mountain towns sewn discreetly onto pillows, dozens upon dozens of thick Pendleton blankets, Stetson hats--some of which belonged to my grandfather--suede, felt, straw; their upwards turned brims worn, suggesting a life of a cowboy, not an Ohio businessman. All items wrapped neatly in plastic and swiftly stashed inside a garage.
Eight years later and the sun still sets behind Sleeping Giant and my dad still reminds me of the coyotes. The paintings line our kitchen walls and we once spent a fleeting Saturday afternoon going through the shared family pantry. Expired condiments, one too many bags of flour (“Your aunt never checks anything before buying more of it,” Dad said.), spices, boxed mac and cheese from 2009, mouse-infested Lucky Charms. All items tied tightly in a black Glad bag and stashed inside the bright red garbage can so the bears couldn't make lunch of the buffet. Nobody dares trash my grandfather's beat-up Honda (“The Pilot”) which is parked out front. Its air vents house a family of mice and a package of unopened mechanical pencils inside the dashboard. Its silver sheen is dwindling, much like my horseshoe.
I sit in the back seat, back straight against the cool leather. Upright. “To collect the good fortune.”
