Perspectives

Me and Dillard, V4, I1

There is simply too much to learn and not enough weekends to get it done. Saturdays were made for seven-year-olds in the yesteryear of 1956. No school today … time to learn really important stuff that lasts a lifetime instead of all that unnecessary reading and writing.

I was going to take my usual walk through the woods to see Dillard, but Mr. Burnis stopped in to visit for a minute. Now, Mr. Burnis Kesterson was another one of my heroes and a real good man. He lived pretty close to Dillard and was going past Dillard’s house to the bottoms to check out his cattle that ranged down there till almost winter time.

He offered the ride, and since I liked talking to him, I took it. He had a booming bass voice and would sing out loud while driving down the road. Some folks said he was off key. I don’t know about such as that. I do know he enjoyed singing out loud, and I enjoyed him enjoying it. It was fun, and I would join right in. He taught me other important things, like playing dominoes, shooting pool, drinking boiled coffee, and listening to Saint Louis Cardinal baseball. And to think that there were those who wanted me to waste my time reading and writing. It’s a wonder I survived at all.

Soon we arrived at Dillard’s home, and he was nowhere to be found. Mr. Burnis said, “Let me saddle up old Jim for you, and we’ll ride down to the bottoms together. By the time we get back, he’ll be home.” Now old Jim was one of the gentlest plow horses you ever saw, and I thought that would be a grand adventure for sure. We went on down the road, pulled into his gravel driveway, and pulled up to the barn.

I went in the house and hugged Mrs. Hazel. She and Mr. Burnis made a great team. He liked to talk, and she liked to listen. She put our lunch in a brown paper bag, and off we went.

It was a grand time. I’m sure I looked like Festus, but I felt like the Lone Ranger riding Silver in a cloud of dust and at the speed of light. Really, I just held onto the reins and followed old Jim. Mr. Burnis always said it was a good day when a man and his horse got to the same place at the same time. If that’s the case, then I was having a good day.

We rode into the bottomland and soon found his cattle. Mr. Burnis had names for practically his whole herd. When he saw them, he’d call them by name, and they’d come to him. He’d talk to them as if they understood every word he said.

Later, we opened up our lunch sack. Mrs. Hazel had given us both a big old cat head biscuit with a slab of sugar cured ham jammed in the middle of it and another biscuit filled with melted butter and muscadine jelly. Lying back on an old log on the ground, I said, “It can’t get any better than this, can it? I feel sorry for old Jim. He’s going to think we are riding double on the way back.”

Finally, we arrived back at Mr. Burnis’s house, and we began unsaddling the horses. When we got through, I said, “Thanks for letting me go. It was really fun, and I’m going to go tell Dillard all about it.”

“I’m glad you could go with me. If Dillard is still not there, just come back and I’ll take you home,” he said.

“Thanks, I’ll see you later,” I said as I began running toward Dillard’s house to tell him all about my day. I saw the front porch as I topped the little hill and smiled as I spied Dillard in his rocker.

“Guess what I’ve been doing,” I asked him almost out of breath. “Tell me all about it,” he said with the faintest of smiles. He leaned forward just a bit as if he was going to hear something that had never been told. He listened about the horses as if he didn’t have four of the best cutting horses in the county. He asked me questions about the cattle as if he didn’t have 550 head of cattle grazing on his own land.

The fact that he knew more than I did about the subject didn’t get in his way of listening to me. He nodded, smiled, and laughed out loud. Honestly, I don’t remember exactly what we talked about. But to this day, I remember how he made me feel when he listened. He made me feel as if what I had to say was important. And that made a little boy who felt small, feel big. And it felt natural.

I heard Dillard tell somebody once, “Folks will remember how you make them feel a long time after they forget what you say.” Now I don’t care where you didn’t go to school, that’s worth remembering.

Hi-Yo Silver, Away!