Tribute to a lover of Cowboy Poetry

I know him from letters sent home from a war
To a beautiful woman with baby child in care
"A family man I’ll be" he promised her then,
And a family man he ever was once he saw her again.
I know him from the tales of his life I’ve been told
The smallest part of all he was I can’t possibly know.
About a farmer, an inventor, a fine wood craftsman,
An artist, an entrepreneur, a carpenter, a businessman.

I know him from a child’s most fond memories
Of a house on a rivershore, surrounded by tall grass and high trees.
In the living room, soft shag carpet beneath a friendly grandfather clock.
In the bedroom, "loaded guns with hair triggers in a cabinet with no lock."
Fine aromas of apple cider, candied popcorn and canned apricots in season
Mingling with smells of sawdust and oil paints wasn’t bad for some reason
Outside, as the dogs chase and the rabbits timidly hide
There is splashing and exploring under the afternoon shade.

Later, the locust compete with the Virgin River’s song
And the Watchman catches fire when the day’s almost gone.
Then back inside around the chair with footrest raised
There is chatter and laughter and many an admiring gaze
Up at bright blue eyes that would twinkle like stars all the while
But would quickly burst even brighter at every frequent smile.
"No Santa is coming," he’d tease with a cheer,
"I got him with a shotgun on my roof way last year."

Scarred knuckles, callused palms, fingernails all cracked and bruised
Were badges of honor and valor given to him by the tools that he used.
Hammers, planes, lathe, a wall decorated with saws
Coffee cans full of router bits, wooden dowels, and awls
These and more were all there for those skilled hands to create
In a magical workshop amid wondrous sounds and shimmering light
Dozens of little chairs, tables, babycribs; his toy guns were the best.
All finely crafted and painted to withstand a grandchild’s worst test.

I know him from the big family reunions we all shared
Blue Levis, a grand broad smile, cowboy hat on silver head.
He was the one who would get me to know
The bitter taste of pine gum and how to whittle a whistle from willow.
At night ‘round the campfire his eyes brightly reflecting each spark
And in a storyteller’s voice, clear and calm he would start
To tell tales of places and long past things both done and seen
His voice in the cool mountain air carried us off in his dream.

I know him from many trips to the Park over the years.
Good friends still talk about all those grand adventures.
Park entry and inner tubes with seats of his own design and making
He would cordially provide us without even our asking.
"Don’t let the Rangers tell you you can’t use ‘em," he’d say
"Start up high near the Narrows, you can float all the way."
North, on the drive home we picnic stop at a campus plaza
Around a sculpture whose features are uncannily familiar.

I know him even though I’m growing with age
And all of these memories begin to dim and to fade.
I’ve my own family now, my own child to rear.
I’m sad that we no longer have Grandfather near.
He has left us, for now, we will miss him for sure.
Those twinkling blue eyes, how I long to see them once more.
Though Grampa’s not here (he’s in a much better place)
I can see his twinkling blue eyes in my own son’s bright face.

Copywritten