Author’s note: A song, in the works for the last week, or a poem. That’s my grandfather, Roy Hall, who died on Mother’s Day, May 13, 1967, following a heart attack. (He’d had open heart surgery in ’61). Also pictured (l to r) my sister Kelly, cousin Sheila, and me, probably two years old, on his lap (dog is Brownie). Happy times. The song may still undergo modifications, the memories though are set. Thanks for reading, A.S.
GRAMPS went Home early, due to no fault of his own. Three daughters, a wife, and eight grandkids, cherished memories, just not enough.
He saved a poor man’s last treasure, with a pool cue in his hand. Loved his hounds on the hunt, his line gettin’ sunk, and Cleveland, with tough ol’ Jim Brown.
He’d roll a piece of sweet Teaberry, for each child on his lap. Say “Open up like a little birdie,” drop’em in, and have a grand ol’ laugh.
I remember Grandma rubbing, his tired ol’ aching back. Just a sleepy boy of three, but I could see, the love of the woman.
Chorus: I wonder what Gramps would say about this world. Would he shrug it off, or load up his gun. Would he turn his back to the struggles and misfortune. Or would he circle the wagons for the family, he would love?
Bridge: His three begot eight, eight begot 18, and they’re scattered to the wind. Could he reign them tightly in, shake some sense in them, teach them honor?
Or is the notion just a memory, has the bloodline gone astray, is a cousin best a stranger, not a brother?
Chorus: I wonder what Gramps would say about our world. Would he lock his doors and load up his gun. Would he turn his back to the vices and abuses. Or would he circle the wagons for the family, he would love?
Gramps went Home early, those smokes they didn’t kill. For the family he left here grieving, it was a bitter pill…