I’d like to tell you ‘bout the man of stature five-foot-three. My eyes saw him at ten feet tall. He meant the world to me.
Last week this good man passed away. Our family called him dad. Dang sure we’re gonna miss him. He’s the only one we had.
My father taught me right from wrong. Not from the spewing word. I learned from his example, which was clear and never blurred.
He told me once, I won’t forget, said, “Always trust your gut. And if it don’t feel right to you, get out before you’re stuck.”
My father had the quirky saying, “Keep it on the road.” That’s how he said goodbye. Did he mean stay in safety mode?
He never slept much past daylight. He’d get this in his head. He’d say, “I don’t dare stay too long. ‘Cuz people die in bed.”
He couldn’t understand a man who didn’t want to work. He was proud of his good work ethic and never thought to shirk.
He took the time to teach and taught me how to stack the hay. And build a fence and straighten nails to use another day.
My father had one simple rule, comply, or he’d see red. We’d only eat our breakfast when the animals were fed.
His love for horses was the trait we shared from year to year. He taught me ‘bout the pack horse, how to load up all the gear.
We packed into the Yellowstone. Each horse was loaded down, with food and clothes and prob’ly even Grannie’s old nightgown.
The nights were cold and frosty but inside the big wall tent, a blazing fire, a deck of cards… the best time ever spent.
My father’s word was golden and a man that you could trust. He taught me that a man’s good name should always be a must.
Some say up high in heaven, dad, you’ve earned a rocking chair. Your answer was, “Heck no, I’m gonna stretch my legs up there.”
I guess I’m asking once again, “Find Stretch and Shortcut, please.” And get ‘em ready for a ride, from west clear through to east.
So dad, in time I’ll see you there, through God’s forgiving grace. And then I’ll give you one big hug—a long-deserved embrace.