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Lazy Lion
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Congratulations go out to Fred Miller for taking first place in our Historical Short Story contest. Fred won a $50 gift certificate to Lazy Lion Books as well as a autographed first edition of Snipe Hunt by Sarah Shaber. Keep writing Fred!
21 Everlasting I would look up from my field and wave, and Silas would wave back. But one day he didn’t wave or even look my way. He stared straight ahead as if he didn’t even know me, and through the haze and dust of that hot summer day, I’m not sure I knew him! I mean it looked like Silas, but then it didn’t. Actually, it looked like a young Silas. Like he may have looked before he went off to war. Not the 62-year-old neighbor I knew now. He looked like he could have been Silas’ son. But Silas didn’t have no sons, three daughters, but no sons. Three weeks earlier Silas left home like he did every morning headed to the pasture where he kept a small herd of breeding cows. He used his dogs to round ‘em up by calling out commands like, “Way! Low! Come Up!” His favorite dog Rip had been with Silas for years. On this particular day, as soon as Silas pulled into the field, Rip jumped out of truck and took-off across the pasture. They had come to feed-up but to also check-up on one of the momma cows, a roan, which was due to calf any day. Rip speared through the tall fescue and effortlessly jumped a small waist high fence that separated the pasture into two fields. He was quickly out of sight. Silas called out his commands, “Way now! Way!” Just then he heard a loud bellow from the new momma cow. He heard Rip barking his own commands to the roan to move her back to the herd. Another loud bellow from the momma and then a sound that made Silas’ steps quicken. He heard Rip yelp in pain. When he reached the scene he saw the roan and her newborn standing on the edge of Terrible Creek. He rushed to the cliff and looked down to the creek bed some 20 feet below. There laid Rip, hurt, trying to get back to his feet. Without thinking, Silas began to traverse the steep embankment. He grabbed hold of a low hanging branch of a gumball tree and swung down to a dirt mound about 10 feet lower. From there he spilled through the saplings and onto the bank of the shallow creek. Silas scooped up Rip and with the vigor of a young 21-year-old man and started to scramble back up the cliff. He never stopped to think about how he had accomplished such a feat, but as soon as he hit the ground he was jogging back to the truck with Rip cradled in his arms. He reached the paved road just barely out of breath. As he laid Rip in the front seat, a young lady in a new Ford Thunderbird slowed down and called out her window to Silas. “Is everything alright? Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked. “He took a fall and I think he broke his leg,” Silas called back. “I’m gonna get him up to Doc Cotton right now!” Dr. Cotton put a splint on Rip’s leg, and Silas carried him to the truck. Everyday he would go out to the field with Rip riding shotgun in the front seat. Silas worked the cows with a renewed vigor. He mended fences, he cleared fallen trees. His fields never looked so good. After a few weeks Rip was back on his feet and he and Silas would play chase like a young boy and his pup. Silas never felt more alive! He felt 21 again! One day while Silas was in the checkout line at the general store, he fell in behind the Thunderbird woman. Silas spoke up, “The old dog’s doin’ fine Miss. He healed up nicely.” The woman glanced over her shoulder at Silas but didn’t say a word. She looked back at the check out boy and rolled her eyes as if she didn’t recognize this old man talking to her. She left the store without speaking. Then one day it all began to make sense. Silas was leaving the field after a hard day’s work. He looked in the rearview mirror as he began to back out. He saw someone in the back of the truck! He whirled around to see that there was no one there. He looked back in the mirror and saw a young man. A young man that looked just like Silas had at 21. There was no one in the back. There was just Silas and his youth staring him in the face. It happened everyday. He would leave the house, Silas, 62, and arrive at the field as Silas, 21. By the time he drove home each evening and passed me waving from my field, he had transformed back to his old self. Weeks went by, months, even years. Silas lived a long time, staying to himself mostly. When people saw him at church they would always say, “Silas sure does look good for his age!” Silas was almost 90 when he died. He was still tendin’ his cows everyday. He was backing out of the field when a businessman’s car slammed into his truck. The businessman jumped out and ran around his car and over Silas’ truck. There he saw a young man holding Silas’ bleeding head in his lap. He ran back to his car and called 911. When he returned to the truck the young man was gone and there lay Silas, dead. He looked up and down the long road but saw no sign of the young man. They never found him. He later told the Sheriff that the young man looked like he could have been Silas’ son. But we all know Silas didn’t have no sons. Three daughters, but no sons. ©2004 Fred Miller
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