SPRING COWBOY

A big hill. No step for a stepper, he had heard his father say, but he didn't know what it meant. His uncle countered with No hill for a climber. Now he understood.

The yellow field, the golden land held an appeal for him. An unfettered oasis. Not a mirage, because this field was real. He saw it everyday.

To ride Old Sal to the top. That's the name his older brother had given the horse. If it was a hand-me-down, then so was the name. Part of the family history.

Once in awhile he would catch his bro riding in the saddle. He was too big now. Too rough for Old Sal. He had torn off a plastic cap that smoothed out the dowel that ran through Sal's mouth on both sides and allowed the rider to hold on. Some Super Glue had remedied as Super Glue often did.

When he had yelled at his brother for taking the unauthorized ride, all he got in return was a laugh. Not the kind laugh, not even the hearty laugh that seems to emanate from the throat, stay there awhile before coming out of the mouth. Sometimes that kind of laugh, funny as it is, would result in a little snot bubble. But this kind was a mean laugh like mean guys on cartoons had sometimes. There seemed too be a lot of that sort of thing on the Cartoon Network, but his parents didn't allow that viewing.

So Old Sal was his. A good listener, Sal understood the field that lay ahead. The openness, the vastness, the possibilities. To ride her to the top and look over his dominion was his desire.

At least for this week. Next week would hold in store a game of army and finding buried treasures in foreign lands. The yellow field transformed into a battleground for the former and a sandy beach for the looking for treasure.

Sal was always there for him, even when his brother was not.