“If You Can Keep It”: Leather and the American Spirit

The first thing you notice is the smell. Earthy, rich, honest. Not perfumed or polished—but raw, alive. Real leather doesn’t whisper; it declares. It tells you it was once hide and hair, wind and weather. And if you’re lucky enough to carry it long enough, it’ll also tell your story.

Leather is Americana in its purest form—rugged, versatile, unapologetically durable. It’s not flashy. Not fast. It doesn’t bend to trends or seasons. It bends only to time—and even then, it does so with grit. A good belt, a faithful backpack, a saddle or wallet worth passing on… these aren’t just accessories. They’re inheritances, if you can keep them.

Benjamin Franklin, asked what kind of government had been formed after the Constitutional Convention, answered, “A republic—if you can keep it.” It's a warning dressed as wisdom. You don’t just get something great and expect it to stay that way. You steward it. Protect it. Maintain it.

Leather works the same way.

You earn the right to carry it. You oil it. Brush it. Restitch it when seams loosen and give it breath after the rain. The more you use it—really use it—the more it becomes yours. Not in a way that diminishes it, but in a way that deepens it. Creases in a wallet from the corner of a folded bill. Scratches on a satchel from the same nail you caught your arm on. The ghost of campfire smoke in your jacket’s collar. This is the patina of American perseverance.

And if you take care of it—like freedom itself—it will outlast you.

That’s why leather runs through the warp and weft of American craftsmanship. You’ll find it in the rigging of working cowboys, in the motorcycle jacket of a war veteran turned wanderer, in the glove compartment of a ‘63 Ford with a logbook tucked inside. Because leather—real leather—is more than just material. It’s memory molded into something functional.

Sure, plastic can imitate it. Vinyl can fake it. And modern synthetics might outshine it on a rainy day. But they’ll never earn the weathering. They won’t ever tell a story. Only leather, well-used and well-loved, carries that birthright.

A good piece of leather isn’t just built to last—it’s built to serve. To go where you go, to do what needs done. And in that way, it reflects what we used to value most in this country: strength over softness, longevity over novelty, substance over surface.

So treat your belt like your grandfather treated his. Buff your boots. Saddle your bag. Not because you want it to look new, but because you want it to look yours. Carry it with the same reverence we ought to carry our ideals. With maintenance. With respect. With care.

“A billfold—if you can keep it.”

A nod to Franklin. A reminder that the best things in life—freedom, leather, love—aren’t disposable. They’re kept.

God bless the patina.
God bless the republic.
God bless America.