12 Legs Travel

The last time I walked the dusty streets of Tombstone, Ariz., I was with my Grandpa Ernie. I was maybe 12 years old. I remember going to a “saloon,” where my sister and I saddled up to the bar and drank sarsaparillas while grandpa sipped a beer.

Grandpa Ernie and Grandma Ruth with my uncle Gary and my father Karl.

For me, there was nothing really exotic about Tombstone. I’d grown up around cowboys, horses and stories of the Southwest. It’s rumored that Pancho Villa stole my family’s fortune. On display at grandpa’s house were old Indian tomahawks, and pistols and spurs that grandpa said belonged to outlaws of the past. Tombstone felt like a diorama built to impress someone else.

Grandpa Ernie

Still, for the sake of nostalgia, I wanted to stop in Tombstone as Scott and I drove through southern Arizona. It hasn’t changed much, and it holds even less appeal for me now than it did back then. I don’t play dress-up, and I don’t care to drink sarsaparilla with city slickers in new cowboy hats and boots. We spent a total of 2 hours there. We strolled along the main drag, toured the historic courthouse. Feeling as though I needed to photograph something, I shot boots — beautiful boots worn by cowboy actors performing simulated shootouts on the hour, every hour.

There’s something so expressive about a man’s cowboy boots. When your wardrobe consists of blue jeans, leather and dirt, boots are the one of the few things that lend themselves to some flash. I remember my father’s cowboy boots, which were typically covered in cow shit — “the smell of money,” my mom use to say. When he arrived home from work, my sister and I would rush to the door to greet him. We’d fight over which one got the to help him pull off his boots. They were worn and dirty, and getting them off required a lot of yanking and twisting. They seemed molded to his short, square feet — feet I inherited and futilely try to squeeze into stilettos.

A few months ago, I received a pair of boots that once belonged to my grandfather. He’s the real deal, a big ol’ cowboy. In the last few years, he’s become ill. He’s traded boots for Velcro sneakers. I keep his old boots on top of my dresser, unsure of where to put them. They are worthy of a stage or a shrine. Beautiful, cracked leather. Soles worn uneven by grandpa’s crooked gait. They represent his personality and decades of back-breaking work.

While Grandpa Ernie’s cowboy days are over, being a cowboy never ends. He still talks about cows, horses and women. He’s still a wheeler and a dealer and a teller of tales, only now he wheels and deals and tells tales in a home for seniors with dementia. I can’t wait to see him and listen to all his cowboy talk. I don’t care what’s real and what’s not — for me, exaggerated cowboy stories are nothing new.

—Jill