I made an observation, standin’ back behind the grill. I stirred the pancake batter. Thought, “This job sure ain’t no thrill.”
When the cowboys get together for a week out on the trail, I’m designated as the cook—at times I’d like to bail.
Now let me take you back, let’s say, some fifty years or so. I wrangled for my father. I was young and fit to go.
We were out of bed ’fore daylight, feedin’ horses hay and grain. And cinchin’ up the saddles, prayin’ hard that it don’t rain.
The smell of eggs and bacon put my nose up in the air. My father was the cook back then, none better, I could swear.
But time has forced her change on me. I never thought I’d cook. Now I’m flippin’ eggs and bacon. Sometimes feel like I’ve been took.
Cuz I watch the younger cowboys ride all day and not complain. I only lift one saddle, but my back sure feels the pain.
Those cowboys make it easy when they climb up on their horse. Heck, I have to stack a rock or two—get help from any source.
But one thing is for certain, those young cowboys sure can eat! I’ll fill ’em full of spuds and maybe apple pie to treat.
I’ve watched old Western movies. Every camp cook looks like me. They’re short and bald and grumpy. Dang near fits me to a tee.
Do I even need to wonder what my job is after cook? I heard one older feller say, “That’s one I’d overlook.”
A cowboy’s life is simple, but it seems to fly by fast. You’re timed by Mother Nature. No use wishin’ for the past.
So, I hope they’re not complainin’ cuz my cookin’s kinda slow. And please don’t think I’m useless. I was you not long ago.
