By Jory Sherman
We are the long-stilled voices of your ancestors speaking from the
past. We are echoes of those who were already here in the New World
and those who came after and settled these now United States. We are
the Native Americans who roamed the West, first on foot, and later on
horseback. We are the explorers, the fur trappers and traders, the
soldiers, the men and women who rode in wagons across the Great Plains
and left our bones on silent prairies and in frozen mountain keeps.
We are the people with long memories who sat by lonesome campfires and
listened to the stories told under the stars. We are the ones who
first saw the greatness of the land and the mingling of peoples, who
found the gold and the timber and the oil, who saw life and death and
greed and avarice and theft and slaughter. We are those who remind you
of who you are, where you came from and where you are going.
We are your conscience and your guilt. We are those who surveyed the
unnamed places and put names and measurements to towns and cities and
rivers and streams and mountains and valleys. We are those who
followed the buffalo and the eagle, who first spoke to the Redman in
sign language and died on trackless plains with dreams in our hearts
and prayers on our lips.
We are the chroniclers of those times when our nation was raw and
young and untamed and restless and without boundaries. We are the
voices of all who came westward and we speak to those now living and
to those who will come after and wonder what the land was like, and
who the people were and what happened over the centuries of blood and
violence and progress.
We are those who paint pictures with words, who relate the forgotten
stories, who look into the dark caves and light a torch so that all
may see what lies inside and beyond.
We are those who live part of our lives in the past and ride a horse
called History and who bring life to everything and everyone who died
on the westward trek.
We are who you really are if you will but look in your hearts and
wonder. We come from everywhere and come in all sizes and shapes. We
are people born of another time and place who inscribe our stories in
your hearts. We are those who write down the names on tombstones and
mark the olden trails so that you who read us might trace the steps of
your fathers and mothers, your grandfathers and grandmothers, your
great grandfathers and great grandmothers and see what they saw and
wrote down in their diaries and told their children who told their
children who then told us.
We are the observers of both fate and destiny; the alchemists who
transform the lead of the past into the gold of the future. We are the
bearers of tidings, both ill and good. We are the keepers of the flame
who refuse to let the old campfires die out.
We are those who write down what we see and hear and feel, taste and
touch so that all may know what the West really was and what it means
to all future generations. We are those who never die, who live as
long as words are spoken and ears will hear. We are those who see
through the mists of time and walk through the valleys of shadows and
wander the long prairies of memory so that you will know that we
passed by all those places that are now paved over and gouged out and
dammed up and slashed down and scarred and vacant of all former life,
where the old footprints have been obliterated.
We are those now called Western writers and we are proud to carry the
label. We still ride the West on a horse called History, singing our
old songs and telling the grand stories of yesteryear.
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