Coming home always stirs up memories. Traveling down old roads in favorite, familiar places does that. I let my my mind run its course through those memories, linger in the dents and curves and worn edges of my heart and soul, and I just… smile.
It comes to mind that the best thing about these memories is that they feel comfortable and happy and worn… Worn like the faded color of the photograph of my grandpa smiling back from atop his favorite black and white pinto. Worn like the grayed and weathered wood Bob Marshall sign on top of Pyramid Pass. Worn like the leather on my saddle and the feel of old horsehair mecates. Worn like the miles on old roany down dust laden trails through mountain passes. Worn like Daddy’s bible and his hands from a hard day’s work and Mom’s favorite recipes in the family cookbook and the smile lines that etch the corners of her mouth. Worn like love that binds us all and has seen us through our best and our worst. Worn like my first old pick up truck and the dirt roads I drove down. Worn like the words carved on epitaphs of loved ones and hand written on cards from my grandma. Worn like the town I grew up in that made dollars on timber, that loved their neighbor and didn’t shut down their parking lots, and opened their doors to strangers. Worn like old friends and familiar smiles.
Worn. Memories worn so thin you could see straight through them. Memories so precious even when they’re just a little torn. I find the finer things don’t hold a candle to these worn memories because the finest things worth keeping are worn.
Make a lifetime of memories. John Lennon said it first… “Life is what happens when we’re busy making other plans.” Make worn memories.