Leather Legacies

 

  One country night, long ago, I sat and watched “Braveheart” with my dad.  The movie was about the brave warrior, William Wallace, who wanted to free Scotland from the English vice.  I sat there, clinching at the coach with my eyes spying at the TV, then my hand.  Other climatic moments, I galloped to my room as if I was a war horse myself.  I fled to my room, to escape the truth of how excruciating war pain was.  I thought, what silver courage and brawn hearts these men had.  They rode into battle, knowing the solemn certainty, death.  The death they faced was wrenching and wrought with agony.  They fought hand-to-hand combat, fighting, clawing for their lives and land.  They fought with swords and other weapons that would make your core chatter with anguish.  I sought comfort once more in my room for the final debilitating scene.  I could not watch the torture William Wallace had to endure.  I stood at my door, sobbing, about a man I did not know, but felt his Scottish spirit breaking.  He was a Lebanon Cedar, branches breaking in torrential winds, then uprooted by the “English” black storm.  Before this movie, I never knew who William Wallace was.  I was never taught about his “grizzly bear” bravery.  The “blue” history touched my heart and soul.  My soul was tweaked and my heart hammered with sympathy.  I was blood stained of history past.

Throughout history wars have flogged nations.  They have beaten lands till they’re black, blue, and crimson red.  Scarlet lines trickle through war reflective rivers, then flow to the sands of Iwo Jima.  My grandpa, Alfred O’Banion, was a marine during World War II.  He sandblasted his way over the island of Iwo Jima.  This is the explicit truth about war…it’s terribly tangible. It’s real wounded, scarring labor.  My grandpa was in the midst of fighting with his friend, standing ghostly close to him.  My grandpa looked over his shoulder, his friend now crested with the bloody landscape.

I come from a long line of strong, battle-tough men.  My dad was a marine who fought in Vietnam.  He didn’t say specifically that he took a life, but he told my mom, “It was either you or him.”  He didn’t talk much about his jungle days.  He just said, “He was thankful to get home.”  My dad was not one to ponder on the past.  He left Vietnam and the monsoon “blood” rains buried in the rice paddies.  There was one story that struck my heart.  My dad recalled a memory.  He sat, ready at attention with his fellow Semper Fi colleagues, armed with guns and God.  When you face death in the bloodshot eyes, everyone believes.  The marines prayed that the helicopter would crash before their boots hit the ground.  My dad prayed to get back home.  To home, to the protecting pine trees of Louisiana.

I think about antique history and what men had to endure.  Then, I think of “sand-built” society today.  Where is grit gardened?  Where are the strong “Redwood” men planted?  I feel like I live in a weak generation.  I live amongst termite infested wood, rotten and crumbling.  The main reason…the lack of faith.  When faith is veiled, you cannot face fire and brimstone.  You don’t have the strength to strap on your armor, nor place your foot in the stirrup.  The so-called “Millenial” generation whine and cry when they don’t get their way.  “Millennials” fall apart when they are brushed with a slight breeze to the back.  They are like two year olds, rolling on the floor, pouting and screaming.  I get queasy at the thought that I belong to this generation.  My dad raised me to “fight the good fight” and when you fall off the horse, to get back on again.  Get back into the saddle, ride…ride, fast and furious!  Lope right into the fray.  Win the godly, triumphant race!  

Throughout the years we have went from iron fists to light feathers.  We went from working the land to set every cornstalk in my hand.  Where is the strength in taking an axe to a tree?  Where is the pride in building a house?  We have become a nation of sluggards.  Cutting the grass? That takes too much energy.  Buy a house with a pool?  No way!  Too much up-keep.  It’s sad we live in an “ant-less” society.  People would rather starve than store food for the winter.  The grim and dirt has washed from men’s fingernails.  Men, time to get dust on weathered faces and toil!  Time to work the “inner” land!

What have we become?  We’ve went from warriors to walk-abouts.  Let’s look back on leather legacies and reminisce.  William Wallace and other comrades like him, faced troubles head-on.  They didn’t look at the loose ground beneath them.  They hiked cliffs, rocks slipping from underneath, but treaded towards their prize.  Let’s climb, grapple towards the same prize.  Do not go on a wobbly walk-about.  Climb, hook boulders, and go boldly.  Let’s make leather legacies!