Thursday, July 3, 2008

Give It The Old Cowboy Try



By Ken Hanson

It’s something that I think about,
Standing in front of this crowd.
I really don’t know if I’m qualified,
To read you a poem out loud.

Would I have the opportunity,
And would you listen to my tale,
About trying to write a cowboy poem,
Quite possibly to no avail.

You see, I really must admit,
It’s probably obvious to Y’all,
That I grew up in the city,
I’m not a cowboy at all.

Wait a minute, did I just say Y’all?
That sure sounds like cowboy to me.
Maybe it’s not about what you do,
But where you just happen to be.

I was born in the great state of Texas,
Amarillo to be exact.
I’ve lived here all of my life so far,
Proud to be a Texan, that’s a fact.

So what if I didn’t grow up on the range,
Riding and roping, wild and free.
I coulda’, I shoulda, I woulda’,
But I work for the Phone Company.

I was just like every other boy,
On Saturday mornings I’d be,
With Roy and Dale and Gene and The Duke,
Sharing their adventures on TV.

It’s quite likely that we’d have a gun fight,
Or help runnin’ down a wild herd.
I’d live their adventures, their lives, their songs,
I’d hang on their every word.

So how can it be that I didn’t become a cowboy,
The example they set.
Maybe because it’s hard to find a real one,
But if you look, they’re still around yet.

I guess it depends on where you grew up,
In the city, or the wide open spaces.
By chance would you even see a cowboy?
Would they hang out in those kind of places?

If I’da had my druthers, I’da lived on a ranch,
Or a farm, in a Lincoln Log Home.
But instead I find that I live in the city,
And spend my days on the telephone.

Maybe if my Dad had’a been a cowboy,
Then surely I’da been one too.
But he wasn’t, and I’m not, now my youth has been lost,
I guess my chances are few.

It seems if you’re gonna’ be a cowboy,
Then you’ll have to want that way of life.
The work is hard, the hours are long,
I bet it’s even tough on your wife.

If that’s the path you choose, then you better have,
The passion a cowboy’s life will demand.
Otherwise I’m sure it’ll eat you up,
And things will get way out of hand.

But if you can hack it, I’m sure you will find,
The rewards will be many and great.
People will point and say, “There’s a real cowboy”,
The burden is yours, but you’ll shoulder the weight.

So now I think that I’ve figured it out,
This writing a cowboy poem.
Though you live in the city, if your spirit is true,
When the right words come, you’ll know ‘em.

So, should I give it a shot, qualified or not,
And try to write poem number two?
I tell you what, I’ll make you a deal,
And leave the results up to you.

I promise that I will try my best,
To honor the cowboy in verse.
I’ll write it all down, legible next time,
Ya’ know, I might even rehearse.

So, what do you think, should I write number two?
Or just let the chance pass me by?
I promise that, with just a little encouragement,
I’ll give it the old cowboy try!

O Pibal Where Art Thou?



By Ken Hanson

Such a simple thing really, I’m sure you’ll agree,
This thing called a pibal, so how can it be.

That it has such control over what we will do,
It can spur us to action, or make us feel blue.

Just a latex balloon filled with a gas.
The kind that you buy, not the kind that you pass.

Sometimes it’s black, sometimes it’s white,
Sometimes it even carries a light.

So it’s easy to see by the people below,
Who all want to know if it’s go or no go.

This funny little ball that’s so eager to fly,
Is launched in the air by some black and white guy.

The Zebras we call them, their most vital job,
Is keeping us safe in the gathering mob.

The pibal takes off and it flies away.
Soon we will learn what we’re doing today.

I wonder if it knows looking down on our crowd,
That we will rejoice, or all groan out loud.

Depending of course on the route that it takes,
How fast it will rise, the progress it makes.

We all hope to see it rise straight in the sky,
‘Cause then we will know that today we can fly.

Some days it takes off so low and so fast,
Our worst fears are realized, today’s chance has passed.

Some go back to sleep, others will remain,
For an I Don’t Care party, and pickle their brain.

By passing the good stuff for the whole group to taste,
Even though grounded it won’t go to waste.

On the good days we’ll save it for after the flight,
We’ll toast our adventures in the warm sunlight.

By then our poor pibal will have drifted away,
Not even invited to the party that day.

But we won’t forget you, you gave your OK,
And let us know we could fly safely this day.

But now I must wonder, were you too far away,
To hear what we yelled after your takeoff today?

The prizes are given, but were you too high,
To hear us yell TEQUILA before we go fly!

A Room Full Of Inspiration




By Ken Hanson

I went to the Civic Center to kill some time,
To a Severe Weather Seminar that was free.
There were all kinds of exhibits and tables set up,
A lot to do and even more to see.

The local weather men were in a big room,
Talking about this upcoming year,
How to spot severe storms and tornadoes,
And all of the weather conditions we fear.

They showed us video of storms from last season,
And talked about what to do to prepare,
And where to look for a place you can hide,
From damaging tornadoes, although they are rare.

Lightening is especially dangerous,
It can get you just about any place,
Heavy rain and its runoff are some of the dangers,
That all of us could possibly face.

Why is he talking about tornadoes,
To a room full of people that came here today,
To hear cowboy poetry, or maybe a song,
If I gave you the chance that’s what you would say.

Let me tell you a secret before I explain,
I hope that you’ll go check it out on your own.
The Civic Center has the best hot dogs in town,
That information is not widely known.

So I’m having a smokey sausage dog with chili,
Standing in the middle of the main hallway,
When I see a sign out in front of a door,
They’re having another exhibit here today.

I’m licking the chili off of my fingers,
Walking over to read the sign so I’ll know,
What’s happening in the room next door,
The sign says, Western Antique Collectables Show.

I walk through the door and I’m astounded to see,
This incredible history of the cowboy way.
More things on display than I even knew existed,
To see it all will take most of the day.

I spent a few minutes looking around,
And realized, there’s a poem in here.
A room full of inspiration is what I have found,
But there’s too much to remember it all, I fear.

I’ve got to write some ideas down,
But pencil and paper is what I lack.
I headed back to the Weather Seminar,
I told the guy by the door, “I’ll be back”.

I returned in a few with an un-sharpened pencil,
And pieces of paper that were giveaways.
I needed a way to sharpen the lead,
But I don’t carry a knife anymore these days.

I figured that every cowboy in that room,
Would be willing to loan me his pocket knife.
The first one I asked handed me a really old one,
His father had given him early in life.

I sharpened the pencil, thanked him for his kindness,
And started looking around the room that day.
I was completely overwhelmed by the variety of items,
And the people I met, and the things they would say.

Most of the men were old cowboys themselves,
They patiently explained what their items were for.
To a greenhorn like me, it was a history lesson,
That left me wanting to learn much more.

Many displays had boots and old spurs,
I never knew there were that many kinds.
There were lots of old books and photograph albums,
Pictures and drawings and hand painted signs.

There were Bowie knives and leather knives and pocket knives,
More kinds of knives and swords than I’ve ever seen.
Saddles and blankets and stirrups and ropes,
And even a couple of wooden canteens.

There were bits and bridles and riding whips,
And several sets of old leather reigns.
Sleigh bells and cowbells, saddle holsters and chaps,
And a couple of antique iron weather vanes.

There were many examples of old branding irons,
I wonder how long it’s been since they glowed.
Sculptures, cowboy art and old cow skulls,
Leather work and all of the skills that it showed.

All kinds of guns and holsters were displayed,
Pistols and rifles, a shotgun or two,
Flintlocks and muskets, a blunderbus and a coach gun,
A powder horn and old shells were all there to view.

A lot of old coins were there to see,
A couple of safes you could have kept them in.
Gold scales, poker chips, even a roulette wheel,
With which to lose your money, or perhaps even win.

There was an Indian headdress, a bow and some arrows,
Kachina dolls, eagle feathers and beads were displayed.
A bone handled knife, and hand made moccasins.
I imagine long ago an Indian had made.

There were frying pans, skillets, and cooking pots,
A Dutch Oven, coffee pots and scoops at the show.
Milk jugs and bottles, coffee grinders and wash tubs,
I bet were used on some Chuck Wagon long ago.

Old guitars were in abundance along with banjos,
Whiskey jugs, walking sticks, an old leather vest.
Fire bellows, Flax water bags and oil lamps,
Were likely found around campfires in the West.

I saw lots of pocket watches, an old mantle clock,
Belt buckles and badges, Bolo ties that somebody wore.
Bull whips, Derringers, saddle soap and sombreros,
A brace and bit that probably made someone sore.

There was barbed wire and wagon wheels,
Both likely ran for miles and miles.
Handcuffs and bedpans were unlikely items,
When spotted by people would sometimes bring smiles.

There were old Bibles, and an older church bell,
I wonder where that came from.
Lots of Turquoise jewelry, a few animal traps,
A strong box and gun belts that were used by some.

Boot Jacks were plentiful, their design and workmanship,
Is something you don’t see much of anymore.
Arrowheads and pottery were everywhere,
And old glass bottles like in the antique store

Antlers and cow horns were there in great numbers,
Some looked like they were straight from the cow.
Some were mounted and would look nice in your den,
The cow don’t need ‘em anymore anyhow.

There was an old stick horse, and bags full of marbles,
I’m sure meant the world to some kid back then.
They sure had fun without microprocessors and batteries,
It was just a simpler time way back when.

I saw more old hats than I’ve ever seen,
Oh the stories I bet they could tell.
Western wear of all kinds, an old pair of saddlebags,
Likely used for generations and obviously worn well.

There were old cameras, older maps,
Even a dog eared Howdy Doody book.
Irons with wood handles you heat up on the stove,
Pieces of history everywhere you look.

There was a hand made model of a windmill,
The kind you don’t see much anymore.
Home made footstools made out in the barn,
Better than you can find in a Wal Mart Store.

There were home made clothes pins and humidors,
Pearl handles you could put on your gun.
An old brass spittoon, tarnished and dented,
That looked like for years it had sat in the sun.

I saw a piece of wood on a table,
The same one with the wooden canteen.
I asked what that wood was used for,
It was something I don’t think I’d ever seen.

The man said, “It’s a singletree, there’s also a doubletree”,
“It’s part of the harness used to hook up your team”.
I realized that so much of this history is slipping away,
The young people today just don’t care it would seem.

I spent a while talking to this friendly fellow,
James Weathers is his name.
He came here from Hamilton Texas,
Seems his interest and mine are the same.

He said he was a cowboy,
And used all these things for much of his life.
I told him my story about writing this poem,
Finding the paper and borrowing the knife.

We talked about the history on display in that room,
And the people that do it are fewer each year.
When his generation are all gone, will this lifestyle be lost?
I hope not, but it might, that’s what I fear.

Even though people like me are interested,
We didn’t live that life, it just isn’t the same.
We’ll only be curators of the artifacts,
The experiences that life gives you is the name of the game.

I did notice something in that room full of people,
Money wasn’t what it was all about.
Though most of the items were for sale,
It was the love of the history that brought people out.

The obvious pride people took in their wares,
Made me wonder how they could part with a single one.
It probably didn’t bother ‘em too much,
To haul it all home when the day was done.

So James, God Bless You My Friend,
Don’t be in a hurry to join those who’ve passed on.
Our world would be a lonelier place,
If all the cowboys were gone.

Howda Tellthet Chura Texan



By Ken Hanson

I’ve heard people say, “I wasn’t born in Texas,
But I got here as quick as I could”.
I think Texas is a great place to live,
I really think that you should.

There’s all kinds of people here,
That are friendly and funny and smart.
But I think it’s the colorful way that we talk,
That really sets us apart.

If you ask a Texan, “Wherebouts you live?,
He might say, “Over Yonder”, or “Ri-Cheere”,
For those of you Buffaloed by that answer,
What he really means is near here.

He might say, “If’fn I had by Druthers,
I’d live way out in the Sticks”.
It’s that love of wide open spaces,
That makes City Folks think we’re a bunch of hicks.

But if you call him that, he might be all over you,
Just like a Duck on a Junebug.
And now you Done Stepped In It,
With a Hitch in your Gitalong, I doubt you’ll be so smug.

If you ask a Texan, “Jeet Yet”?
He’s likely to say, “No, Jew”?
And if you think its time to Chow Down on Vittles,
You might as well say, “Yont To”?

If you got a Hankerin’ you might as well,
Mosey to town and get some Bar B Q,
And don’t forget to Holler at the Youngins’
They might be back from the Swimmin’ Hole and want some to.

If them kids are real hungry they might tell you,
“My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut”.
Or else, “My stomach’s gnawin’ on my backbone”,
It’ll bankrupt the Governor to fill up their gut.

After dinner he might sit a spell if he’s Tarred,
Jawin’ or Yakin’ or Flappin’ his Gums for an hour to two,
He might even do a little Pickin’ and Grinnin’,
That’s playin’ the Geetar if I have to explain it to you.

I’ve heard that out in California,
The young men call each other “Dude”,
And they communicate in cars using just one finger,
Though the way they do it seems rude.

But out here in the Smack Dab Middle
Of the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave,
Do they know that were just being friendly.
When we see ‘em drive by and give ‘em a wave?

Of course they won’t be driving through here,
If a Blue Northern comes to town.
We’ll all be Socked In cause between here and the North Pole,
All the Barbed Wire’s been knocked down!

And if it snows enough Here in these Parts,
You’ll just have to Hunker Down and Wait it Out.
Or else Throw in your Hat and start shoveling,
Then your Axel will be Dragin’, no doubt.

Or you could stay in and get a Snoot Full of Hooch,
If you hear a knock at the door, say “Who Zat, Zat Chew”?
Course you already know it’s you’re your best buddy,
Who made his way over cause he knows you got some brew.

When it starts to thaw out them dirt roads will be soggy,
Just like it’s been Rainin’ Cats and Dogs.
You just might slide off in the Bar Ditch,
And be there till Spring along with the frogs.

Course you might get lucky and some Good Old Boy
Might happen by and Ponder your fate.
If he’s worth a Plug Nickel, when he Gets a Round Tu’it,
He’ll pull your truck out, wouldn’t that be great?

I S’pose you could get your own tractor to do it,
But the dang things been busted since last fall.
The axel’s Wallered Out and the wheels Whoppy Jawed,
And the motors fixen’ to blow up if you drive it at all.

The Sawed Off Runt that sold you that tractor,
Had you pegged and hung you out to dry.
Wonder what that Hornswoggler was doin’ in these parts,
It’d Hairlip the governor to find out why.

So Quit your Caterwallin and Take the Bull by the Horns,
Tell him you want your money back, give him fits.
Offer to string him up on a tall oak tree,
That oughta’ scare ‘im half out of his wits.

If you don’t square it up, you’ll be Blown out of the Water,
Cause you won’t get your plantin’ done in the spring.
You should’ve done business with a feller who’s honest,
A man not true to his word ain’t worth a thing.

A Texan will say Howdy Y’all, or Put ‘er there Pardner,
And look you square in the eye since the day he was born.
He won’t brag about being honest,
That’d be too much like Tootin’ your own Horn.

He’ll treat you fair and square,
He knows what goes around comes around.
He’s most likely a God fearing man
True to his word with morals that are sound.

He’ll weigh his words before he says ‘em.
He doesn’t want to offend me or you.
If he mashes his finger working on his truck,
He’ll say Pardon my French if he turns the air blue.

He’ll say, “Hold your horses, I was just funnin’ ya,
If he makes you mad pullin’ a joke on you.
If you say “Are you through pullin’ those pranks”?
He’ll say, “Naw Chet”, and expect you to get him back too.

He might have a knack for getting’ under your skin,
But don’t expect him to change his way.
“If’fn it aint broke don’t fix it”,
Is likely what he would say.

But you can’t ask for a better friend,
Ones that will stand by you no matter what are few.
If you’ve got a problem that’s eatin’ you up,
You can spill your guts and he’ll listen to you.

I’m sure you can find friends wherever you go,
To find a better friend than a Texan you’d have to go pretty far.
People are here because they want to be,
I guess we’re who we are because of where we are.

What it all boils down to in my opinion is this,
When you think about it I’m sure you’ll agree.
The only requirement to be a Texan is,
That’s what you really want to be.

Tears Of Bitter Remorse



By Ken Hanson

Our country changed September 11,
Right there for the whole world to see.
Our way of life had a wake up call,
It’ll never again be the way it used to be.

When they knocked down our buildings,
And the Pentagon and more,
The message was clear,
They’ve invaded our shore.

For a long time we’ve heard on the six o’clock news,
The talk about fighting in some far off place.
But not around here, not since the 1800’s
Have we seen the fighting face to face.

But they brought the fight to us,
And quite by surprise, for you see,
They got us where we least expected,
They kicked us in our complacency.

The smoke hadn’t even begun to clear,
When our military started to respond.
But little did we know that day,
The way this war would drag on.

Our brave men and women in the U S Armed Forces,
Are always ready at the drop of a hat,
To defend our country and our way of life,
Against any invader, you can bet on that.

But what do you do when it’s a suicide mission,
And the invasion was done by so few.
They took our own planes, knocked ‘em out of the air,
And took their own lives, now what do you do?

We pretty much knew who was behind this attack,
A no good dirty rotten snake,
Called Osama Bin Laden, but what we didn’t know,
Was how many lives he could take.

We invaded Iraq looking for Nuclear Weapons,
That we were sure must be there.
But they must’ve moved ‘em, and that Devil Bin Laden,
Just vanished into thin air.

Now try as they might, our boys haven’t found him,
He’s hiding out in a cave somewhere.
He’s on his home turf, and has people behind him,
It’ll be a long time before it’s over, over there.

Now that’s not to say that our boys can’t find him,
And dig him out into the light of day.
But they’re not allowed to think for themselves,
They have to do what their superiors say.

The chain of command that our military uses,
Starts at the top in Washington D.C.
But a lot of the people there making decisions,
Sleep safe at home with their family.

They’re far more worried about their political future,
Than ending this conflict in a timely way.
And the grunts in the field with their boots in the sand,
Are putting their lives on the line every day.

What we have here is a pulled punches war,
Another political campaign.
But our enemy doesn’t play by the rules,
And their own courts took a year to deal with Hussein.

Our soldiers have the training to end this today,
Their frustration must be unbearable.
We’ve done this before, In Vietnam,
The similarities are certainly comparable.

Maybe we’re going about this all wrong,
Using a Howitzer to swat at a fly.
What if a cowboy went after Bin Laden?
It’s certainly worth a try!

Now before you start laughing, please let me explain,
Just give me a minute or two.
Have you ever heard of or seen a cowboy,
Fail to do what he said he would do?

Here’s how we could do this, we could find an old cowboy,
Willing to do the deed.
We could drop him off in the Afghani Mountains,
With his gun and his saddle and his trusty old steed.

He’d have to be someone seasoned enough,
To know how to live off the land.
Someone that could think for himself,
With plenty of patience, a sharp eye and steady hand.

Then our soldiers could head back home to their families,
They’ve earned a much needed rest.
And that cowboy could start pokin’ round in them mountains,
Eventually he’ll find that murders nest.

I doubt it’s much different than hunting some varmint,
That snuck up and killed your favorite horse.
And if you don’t stop him here and now,
He’ll come back and kill again, of course.

That old cowboy he’s used to being on his own,
Whether rounding up strays or a long cattle drive.
And Hank Jr. said it best when he told us,
A country boy can survive.

His horse can find some grass and water,
The wild ones do it every day.
And that cowboy can live a long time on beef jerky,
Wouldn’t hurt him to lose a few pounds anyway.

He’ll look for the signs a good tracker can read,
And listen real close on those windless still nights.
Sooner or later they’ll come out of their hole,
And guess who’ll have ‘em square in his sights.

Bin Laden’s so arrogant, he thinks that he knows us,
He’s played this game many times before.
But this time we’re the ones that have changed the rules,
We’re finally adapting to his kind of war.

He’s in his backyard and knows when to hide,
Cause he can hear us coming from ten miles away.
He’ll hunker down ‘till the commotion is over,
And live to kill on some other day.

When our military planners start a campaign,
It’s with thousands of tons of machinery and men.
Tanks shake the ground, artillery and mortars,
Throw thousands of shells again and again.

Humvees race around with radios squawking,
Men barking orders, boots pounding the ground.
Missile launchers and generators announce our presence,
By adding to this cacophonous sound.

Jets starting up and taking off,
Choppers and fighter planes fill the sky.
But when it all stops, he’ll come out of his hole,
And that’s the day Bin Laden will die.

When our boys go home and it gets real quiet,
He’ll think that the coast is clear.
But he’d never poke his head up,
If he knew that cowboy and his rifle were so near.

I hope that old cowboy will end it that day,
By putting one round through the middle of his head.
And I hope it brings closure to the still grieving families,
That because of his actions their loved ones are dead.

Is it wrong for me to say these words,
And wish that the life of another would end?
Perhaps, but only God can make that judgment,
And decide whether or not I have sinned.

And if I shed tears of bitter remorse,
When I finally face My God in Heaven,
I hope that my tears will water the grave,
Of someone who died September 11.

He Wouldn't Let Me Go Into The Fire.

By Ken Hanson

I was talking with friends the other day,
About people that have influenced our lives.
The lists were long with well known names,
Our parents of course, and with some, their wives.

Teachers were common from our early years,
Some mentioned pastors or neighbors or brothers.
Our grandparents and other relatives were included,
As well as school friends and many others.

Mom and Dad topped every list,
Without them we wouldn’t be here.
But other names were more surprising,
People we haven’t seen for many a year.

One person on my list I haven’t seen since my youth,
Though I often have a chat with his wife.
Dick Madison was my Sunday School teacher,
In the fourteenth year of my life.

I talk with his lovely wife Ruth at First Baptist,
She teaches young children on Sundays.
I’m sure she’s as much of an influence to them,
As he was to me in so many ways.

It’s funny what we remember from bygone years,
Some memories are stronger by far.
We spent a year together in Sunday School,
But what I remember most was his car!

Mr. Madison had a Volkswagen Beetle,
Back when there were lots of them around.
I could hear him pull up in front of my house,
Those cars have a distinctive sound.

He would pick me up every Sunday morning,
And take me to Church and Sunday School.
I loved riding in that funny little car,
His choice of transportation was very cool.

School was tough in my freshman year,
Life at home was turbulent too.
Temptations were far too numerous,
And positive influences were few.

But there was one I could count on,
He pulled up in my driveway each week.
And made sure I could get to church,
For that way of life that I would seek.

I don’t know if he suspected,
How much that meant to me.
I don’t remember if I told him,
I was a teenager then you see.

I was too wrapped up in my own life,
With many problems to face.
I felt like the world didn’t need me much,
An insignificant member of the human race.

But Mr. Madison made me feel wanted,
Important enough to go out of his way,
To pick me up each week in his car,
So I could go to church on Sunday.

It was that stable environment,
That church and Christ can provide,
That gave me something to hold on to,
When I felt like no one was on my side.

I would learn the lessons he taught me,
Each week in his Sunday School class.
Examples from the Bible on how to live,
Proven through time with values that last.

Later he would ask me questions,
On what Dr. Moore’s sermon was about.
I didn’t always have an answer.
Because of my morning paper route.

Dr. Moore is an excellent preacher,
With that fabulous voice your attention he can keep.
But even he couldn’t always overcome,
Heavy eyelids due to four hours sleep!

I tried my best to stay awake,
But I just couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I hoped he wouldn’t ask me those questions,
But he was consistent, there was no use hopin’.



One Sunday in March of 1970,
We arrived to find Amarillo High on fire.
Though the firefighters tried their best,
We watched as the flames just got higher.

Students were saving pictures and trophies,
I found out my brother was among them.
I wanted more than anything in my life,
To go into that burning school and help him.

The scene was total chaos,
Police and firemen were everywhere.
Dozens of teachers and students helped out,
It seemed like I was the only one not there.



They were loading bookcases in the back of trucks,
Stacking the books in big piles on the ground.
People were rushing around yelling and crying,
The roar of the fire made an unearthly sound.



The flames by now were fifty feet high,
Black smoke poured out through holes in the wall.
The water gushing out through the doors,
Made the steps seem like a surreal waterfall.

Time and again students braved the fire,
And rushed back in to save what they could.
They seemed unconcerned for their own safety,
I wanted to join them ‘cause I thought that I should.



But there was someone watching out for me,
I didn’t even ask, I knew the answer was no.
He wouldn’t let me go into the fire,
His class was waiting, it was time to go.

I didn’t hear a word in the church that day,
All I could think about was the fire.
The bravery demonstrated by the students,
Was something I thought that I should admire.

It’s funny how time changes perspective,
In how we think and what we say.
The wisdom I’ve gained made me realize,
How many lessons I learned that day.

I learned about responsibility,
By not going into that school.
The people I thought were so brave,
Might have turned out to be the fool.

If something tragic had happened,
Who would be responsible for them.
It easily could have been me,
If it hadn’t of been for him.

I was alive and healthy,
When Mr. Madison picked me up that day.
It was his responsibility,
To take me back home the same way.

I wasn’t happy about it at the time.
But time changes perspective and now I know.
Sometimes being responsible,
Means you have to say no.

I learned about judgment early that day,
The kind he used to keep me alive.
I found out that he loved me enough,
To ensure that I would survive.

He demonstrated dependability,
By showing up at my door each week.
And consistency, sometimes to my dismay,
By sermon questions and answers he would seek.

I learned about respect by example,
In the way he treated those he served.
And the way he respected me even though sometimes,
The way I acted I felt it wasn’t deserved.

He taught me about commitment,
By teaching his class without fail all year.
So many of the lessons I learned from him,
Are now the things I hold most dear.

He showed me how to serve The Lord,
His most important lesson of all.
We all have something we can do,
The young and the old, the big and the small.

Some teach a class, some sing in the choir,
We each can contribute depending on who we are.
Sometimes it’s even as simple,
As giving a kid a ride in your car.

You never know how your actions affect others,
The things you do and the example you show.
So just make sure your a positive influence,
As Mr. Madison was to me so long ago.

His wife tells me he ministers to prisoners now,
That’s why he’s not at the church on Sundays.
The challenge now is to influence these men,
To repent their sins and change their ways.

I don’t know what course their lives took,
To cause them to be where they are right now.
But I do know the man The Lord sent to them,
Can help them change their lives anyhow.

My advice to them is, listen to his words,
Respect this man of God, for this I know,
Mr. Madison can be a positive influence to you,
As he was to me so many years ago.

Come Ride With Me In A Ford Model T



By Ken Hanson

People will ask me time and again,
“Why do you like to drive that old car?”
I’ll tell ‘em because of the reaction it gets,
When spotted from near or afar.

Heads will turn, fingers will point,
Sometimes I’ll hear a “Gee Whiz.”
But the reactions I like are from people old enough,
To know what a Model T is.

This particular car made in 1927,
Was one of the last ever made.
It looks nearly new, and runs like it too,
They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, I’m afraid.

A few years ago I was lucky to find,
This Tin Lizzie already restored.
A real piece of History, the last of it’s kind,
Made by Sir Henry Ford.

On a warm day last summer, a friend of mine called,
And asked me, “What are you doing today?”
“The Conner House in Canyon, an assisted living center,
Is having a 1930’s display.”

“Could you bring that old car of yours down here to show,
It would fit in with all of the rest of the frills.”
“I’ll go you one better, if we can get ‘em inside,
I’ll take ‘em for a spin around Hunsley Hills!”

I spent most of the day driving people around,
A good time was had by all.
We had ‘em lined up on the sidewalk out front,
The young and the old, the big and the small.

We had ‘em in wheelchairs and electric scooters,
Some leaning on a walker or a cane or me.
We’ll get you settled all comfy inside,
And go for a ride in this old Model T.

I wonder what the people in that neighborhood thought,
When they saw that old Fliver again and again.
I doubt they were having as much fun as us,
Judging from the size of my passenger’s grin.

One delightful young lady of one hundred and two,
With hair as white as the driven snow.
When I said, “Let’s run away together,”
She said, “Fill ‘er up, I’m ready to go!”

Just when I think it’s something really special,
To drive a car this old in a parade.
I have to realize she was twenty three years old,
On the day this car was made.

After a dozen or so trips around Hunsley Hills,
There was a pattern I started to see.
They were enjoying the ride in the car to be sure,
But they really just wanted to talk to me.

I guess that when you live in this place,
And your children are so far away.
It’s hard to see ‘em on a regular basis,
And not very much contact from day to day.

The people around that you see every day,
Help keep you from going stark raving mad.
Still, the lonely creeps in, without friends and family,
Some days you just feel nothing but sad.

I hope I can help drive the lonely away,
Maybe not for forever, but at least for today.
I’m sure that this car ride is fun for you,
But I’ll tell you a secret, It’s fun for me too!

Without exception, people in the car that day,
Would tell me a story or two.
They were obviously remembering days long ago,
A time when their world was still new.

“My father had a car just like this,
I still remember the way it would smell.”
“He would take me to school, or the county fair,
I remember getting stuck one day the snow fell.”

Or, “My Grandma and Grandpa went courting in a car,
That looked just like this in nineteen thirty five.”
“That was a couple of years before my Mama was born,
And now that she’s gone, I’m the last one alive.”

I wish I could have kept all the memories that day,
And passed them along to a daughter or son.
But there were too many, and soon they’ll be fading,
And forgotten by the time that this day is done.

But the thing that I noticed, when they told me their tale,
Their eyes would light up and they’d grin.
And at least for the moment, aches and pains were forgotten,
And they would feel young again!

I guess when you have all these stories inside,
You just want someone to tell them to.
But the staff’s too busy, and your neighbors asleep,
The chances you have to tell them are few.

Then someone comes along that will listen to them,
And you go for a ride in this old Model T.
It’s good to get out on a warm summer day,
To enjoy a drive, and set your memories free.

I hope you enjoyed sharing your tales,
As much as I did, for you see,
They’re much too important to keep to yourself,
To share them with others is the way it should be.

Now one of these days, not too soon I hope,
You’ll be reunited with family and friend.
So do what you can to keep memories alive,
For they’ll want to hear them again.

“Why do you like to drive that old car?”
People ask me, I reply with a grin.
“It’s not just a car, it’s a time machine,
It makes old people young again!”

I Think That My Horses Are Laughing At Me




By Ken Hanson

The day finally came, I knew that it would,
When I’d have to replace my old team.
My two draft horses, strong as they are,
Were now getting old, it would seem.

We’ve been together so long they’re like family to me,
Or at least the kind I wish that I had.
To think we wont work together anymore,
Will really make me feel sad.

Fourteen hands high and strong as an ox,
Faithful, gentle, and smart.
I’ll put ‘em to pasture,
To turn ‘em to glue would certainly rip out my heart.

A good part of my life they pulled that old plow,
Never complaining or failing to work.
Them two big old horses they have my respect,
To replace ‘em now make me feel like a jerk.

But they’re getting old and it’s harder to get ‘em,
Out of the barn on a cold winter day.
They’ve earned their retirement and a whole field of grass,
The old simple days have just gone away.

The farm’s bigger now and to stay in the black,
You just have to plant more and more.
Which is why now, reluctantly, I find myself,
Standing in front of the John Deere store.

The price of them new fangled tractors these days,
Would bring a grown man to tears.
But a sad looking trade in along the back fence,
I could pay off in just a few years.

We made us a deal and the salesman said,
He’d get his young helper to come start it up.
This strapping young man, big as a bear,
Took off his hat, set down his coffee cup.

He grabbed this big flywheel and gave it a spin,
And then he spun it again.
And again, and again, and again, and again,
And again, and again, and again.

And again, and again, well, you get the picture,
I really don’t see how,
That young man didn’t have him a heart attack.
If it was me I would’ve by now.

When it finally started, the sound that it made,
Sounded like something was about to break.
“It’s a Poppin’ Johnny” the salesman said,
“That’s the sound it’s supposed to make”!

All I know is, if my old team was here,
It would’ve scared ‘em half out of their wits.
Little did I know, from this day forward,
That old green tractor would give me fits!

I figured I’d just drive it back to the farm,
It was only a few miles away.
What I didn’t know or expect at the time,
That trip would take me about half the day.

I took off down the road in a cloud of dust,
Squintin’ into the midday sun.
It’s faster’n my old team, rides better’n my buckboard,
I think I was actually having some fun.

Well, that soon ended when the cussed machine,
Lurched to a stop on the side of the road.
I’d run out of gas, to get it back home,
Looks like it would have to be towed.

I walked the last mile, straight up to the barn,
And hitched up my faithful old team.
Maybe it’s hard to replace brains and brawn,
With machines, or so it would seem.

I swear that when we got back to the tractor,
Them horses were laughing at me.
Can horses do that? The gleam in their eyes,
Looked like they surely must be.

I lashed up the rope, they leaned into the harness,
Back down the road toward my place.
I pulled my hat down, not from the sun,
Just to keep anyone from seeing my face.

If my friends and neighbors could’ve seen what I was doing,
Then I never would’ve lived it down.
I’m just glad I was so close to my farm,
And far away from the town.

My team pulled it right on into the barn,
So I could work on the thing in the shade.
I’d get me some gas and fire it back up,
The rest of the day then, I’d have it made.

I never even thought about getting some gas,
Though now I’ll have to, of course.
The only gas I’m used to dealing with,
Comes from the back of a horse.

Well, I got me some gas and filled up the tank,
And grabbed that big flywheel to give it a spin.
Right then I found out how dad gum strong,
That young fella’ must’ve been!

I spun it again, harder this time,
And the durn thing only backfired.
A few more hard spins, I’m raising a blister,
And already starting to get kinda’ tired!

Just then I remembered the compression release.
Oh what a fool I have been.
I noticed them horses were looking at me,
And I swear they were startin’ to grin!

I opened the valve, it’s easier now,
I proceeded to spin it some more.
And then it fired up, to my horses surprise,
With a terrible deafening roar.

Them horses went wild! With fear in their eyes,
They circled the barn and ran out the door.
I stepped back to find a big pile of manure,
They left for me right in the middle of the floor.

Them horses ran off ‘till clear out of sight,
But they know the farm and they’re OK for now.
And since this thing’s running I’m gonna’ find out,
How easy it handles my old rusty plow.

I hooked up the rig and pulled into the field,
Lowered the plow and lined up on a row.
To heck with them horses, I got me a tractor,
We’re plowing now brother, look at us go!

Just then that old plow hung up on a stump,
Stalled the engine, then what did I see?
From across the field, two horses watching,
And I swear they were laughing at me!

I’ll show them old beasts! I’ll start it back up!
Dang their old flea bitten hide!
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,
To salvage a little bit of his pride.

They’re not gonna’ have the last laugh on me,
I grabbed that big flywheel and then,
I gave it a spin, and spun it again,
And again, and again, and again.

And again, and again, well, that’s my sad tale,
But the thing that I really do fear,
Is them horses will laugh when I ask ‘em to help me,
Rescue this danged old John Deere!

The Best Advice That I've Ever Heard


By Ken Hanson


I’m constantly amazed at the wisdom displayed,
By people who are older than me.
They’ve been through it all, survived every fall,
Quite possibly more than I’ll ever see.

But the wisest words that I’ve ever heard,
Came from a man I adored.
A crusty old cowboy that called himself Roy,
He told me, “Put your trust in The Lord”.

Now Roy is a rodeo cowboy,
He followed the circuit for most of his life.
This friend of my fathers, somewhat of a loner,
Kept to himself, never taking a wife.

But he had a long-term relationship,
Much longer than anyone I’d ever seen,
With the man upstairs, and he helped me too,
Follow the path since I was a teen.

I’ve seen ol’ Roy survive some things,
That surely would have killed other men.
Or at least those who think they can go it alone,
Or those already consumed by their sin.

But through it all he survived every fall,
When he told me his secret, it made sense of course.
He said, “I never ride alone, there’s room for two,
When riding on the back of a bull or a horse.”

“You see, I know The Lord watches out for me,
He’s there to cushion my every fall.
When you give your life to Him and follow the path,
No matter what happens, He’ll get you through it all.”

I know that Roy spoke the truth that day,
Cause’ some things I’ve seen should’ve killed him dead.
I’ve seen him bucked off of the back of a horse,
Fly through the air and land on his head.

I’ve seen him bitten and kicked and thrown,
And stomped and dragged and once even gored.
I asked him, “Roy, how come you’re not dead?”
He said, “I put my trust in The Lord.”

“Do you know the story about Footprints in the Sand?”
He asked me, I said, “I sure do.”
“If you look real close you can see those same footprints,
In the dirt of an arena floor too.”

He told me that story while sitting in the chute,
On top of the meanest bull I’d ever seen.
And when the gate opened, I watched in amazement,
That rodeo cowboy rode eight seconds clean.

Then he flew through the air and landed hard,
After he was finally thrown.
I thought that I saw dirt kicked up in two places,
Looked like he wasn’t riding alone.

One evening we were sitting around drinking coffee,
I watched as he stood to refill his cup,
And his face showed the pain, it seems that last ride,
Had twisted his back and now he’s stove up.

I said, “Roy, why do you do this,
Do you really enjoy living in pain?”
He said, “This is the life that I choose,
I’ll continue as long as I’ve the will to sustain.”

He said, “Life’s all about the choices we make,
And the most important choice you’ll ever face,
Is which way you’re going when your life here is over,
And you find yourself about to leave this place.”

“The salvation offered by Our Lord Jesus Christ,
Can only be found when you surrender to His Word.”
That’s what Roy said, and I firmly believe,
That’s the best advice that I’ve ever heard.

Now Roy’s hard life has taken its toll,
He’s not quite as spry as he used to be.
But he never looks back, he always looks forward,
To his next life, when this old hard world sets him free.

Now one of these days his time will be up,
And the white light he’ll head toward.
But I’ll meet him again, I know that I will,
You see, I put my trust in The Lord.