Purple Cowboy stopped by the cabin last night. It was late and he had a tired smile on his face. His old cowboy hat looked comfortable on his head and his eyes twinkled from under its brim. We sat on the front porch without saying anything for a while. A wind chime dinged a peaceful rhythm as a light western wind passed over Cabin Hill on its way to the Atlantic Ocean.
PC took that battered, stained Stetson off and sat it on the porch railing, right side up. I wondered if there was a reason he didn’t put it upside down, as most cowboys do, to prevent flattening the brim.
He read my mind, “After a long time doing your job, surviving being crushed under horse hooves more than once, being blown into thorn bushes by unexpected gusts of wind and being stained with all manner of excrement, you reach a point where being sat down the wrong way doesn’t matter”
I had a feeling there was a story coming — and I wasn’t disappointed. I’ll tell you that story tonight. (Click like below and share to expedite publication of this story.)