Shot Out of the Saddle

Tex, my little 3-year-old grandson, with just-his-size cowboy boots, Western hat and comfortable brown Levi’s launched himself into my lap to join two siblings clamoring for me to read ‘just one more’ book.

My lap was so full I could hardly see the book, and I couldn’t stop laughing. “Read, Grandma!” chorused three voices, and three pairs of eyes looked back to see why it wasn’t happening. I laughed even more so that my belly jiggled and tears leaked out of my eyes! They looked at me questioningly. Why does Grandma laugh so hard? The cowboy apparel and crazy laughter brought me back to a moment a few years ago…

Three little cowboys, my sons, already old enough to enjoy paperback westerns, were seated around me soaking up the spine-tingling adventures of ranch dudes tangling with bad guys. It had been a long and tiring day. I was happy enough to read; it allowed me to procrastinate a million or two other tasks that were on the list for the evening. Besides, I loved to read, even if it was a ‘Louis.’

‘Just one more chapter,’ pleaded the boys as the clock ticked quietly past their bedtime. However, extra chapters didn’t come free. My feet ached, and I needed some bucket-filling pampering. They would need to rub my feet, taking turns with one boy on each foot, for another chapter in the book.

Boys will be boys, though. They happily build forts and play floor hockey. They wrestle and tussle all the day long. But ask them to do a foot rub, and it’s like I’m requesting them to wash dishes. Their brain can’t generate the energy required for such a task.

They’d make a feeble attempt to rub my feet so that I would begin the story. ‘Luke saddled the horse…’ and the rubbing slowed,‘ and slung his foot into the stirrup…’ and the rubbing stopped. When I realized something was amiss and looked up, they were simply holding a foot and rocking in their seat. Would that be considered acceptable in any worth-its-salt massage class?

Sometimes I would stop reading and look at them. “What?” they’d question, “What?” (Look Mom, I’m rocking so hard! Why do you stop reading?)

And sometimes I would just chuckle inwardly and keep reading. Sometimes the action got so intense that all pretense of foot rubbing went out the window. They sat and held my feet and galloped with Luke down the dusty desert trail. (A small hand holding my foot is still valuable though, isn’t it? I mean…wow. And how quickly those days slipped by.)

‘A shot echoed from the canyon, and Luke tumbled from the saddle…’ All three pairs of eyes were wide-eyed. It was a tense moment. You would think Mom would be equally apprehensive. Not this mom. I began laughing hysterically.

What is it about a tiring and stress-filled day that needs an emotional release? It’s like an over-inflated balloon; it’s going to pop sooner or later.

The boys saw their hero in a critical, life-threatening situation. Their hearts were in their throats.

I saw the mental image of this cowboy sailing over the horse’s back, legs and arms a-flailing, and ‘pop’ went the stress balloon. I laughed uncontrollably.

The poor boys were shocked. “Mom!” they gasped in appalled dismay. I laughed until tears leaked out of my eyes. They don’t remember the story anymore. But they remember how they felt when the cowboy was shot out of the saddle and their mother laughed. Oh dear.

I believe they also remember that their mother read stories to them. I think they remember that Mom was always ready for ‘one more chapter.’ And maybe they remember fondly the warm feeling gathered around Mom at the end of the day sharing reading time.

I read ‘Go Dog, Go!’ and ‘Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel’ with kiddos tucked like chicks under my wings so often that my thought processes confuzzled. My brain unglued, but my heart bonded deeply to those bedheads with freckles with each moment spent connected at my side. And even if the connection later was simply a grubby hand holding my foot, it went deep. The very cells of my heart contain that memory.

I’ve been puzzled when, as adults, they don’t read. They listen to audio books. Of course, I know how convenient audio is for the commute to work or when cleaning the garage. But still… And then the lightbulb turned on. Did they get that from years of Mom reading to them?

I’d like to think I left them a rich legacy through hearing me read to them. Vocabulary, listening, and comprehension skills were surely improved. But most importantly, I think it created a far-reaching, long-lasting bond. We still laugh together over my crazy hilarity over that stressful event in cowboy Luke’s life, and how they often finagled ‘one more chapter.’ With so many mothering failures under my belt that they could recall, will they remember that she read ‘one more chapter?’ Will Tex remember that Grandma read ‘one more book?’ Does it go as deep into their hearts as it has gone into mine?

I hope so.