As heard on the Good Stuff with Jim Thompson 

Young folks don’t know a grand parent’s worth

          ‘till after they’re gone to their Heavenly berth

But I was blest with a wise old hand

and followed his boot prints in the sand.

 

I remember followin’ those prints around

          I’d find them ever’where, pressed in the ground

Sometimes in mud, sometimes in dry,

          I always felt safe with those boot prints nigh. 

 

When nature’s call came late at night

          privy’s out back, the darkness a fright,

Then mornin’ dawned and you would find

          grandpa’s boot prints right by mine.

 

At about age four my grandpa began

          teaching me things that make a man,

I learned a lot ‘bout life and trust

          just followin’ his boot prints in the dust.

 

When temptation raised its ugly head

          and I’d get sent to the ol’ wood shed      

I’d have this fear down in my gut  

          of grandpa’s boot print on my butt.

 

He started me ropin’, hand on my wrist,

          showed me the way my rope should twist

When I’d throw a loop and miss a calf

          he’d stand in his boot print, watch and laugh.

 

I’d saddle my pony, go roamin’ the breaks,

          mother would worry at chances I’d take

Grandpa would tell her, “Don’t you fret,

          someday he’ll match my boot prints yet.”

 

He’d take me fishin’ along the cricks

          in catchn’ fish he knew the tricks

Taught me to take just what I need

I followed his boot prints, takin’ heed.

 

When I’d find myself in dire straights      

          with decisions to make that couldn’t wait

I’d follow the trail to grandpa’s side

          with grandpa’s boot prints as my guide.

 

He’d settle my mind, listen and nod,

          I trusted his wisdom next to God,

And in the end I’d find the clue

          like grandpa’s boot print, in plain view.

 

We worked our cows, good weather ‘n’ bad,

          ‘twas the best education a boy ever had

He taught me to always care for the land,

          followin’ his boot prints made me a hand.

 

He told me tales of his cowboy days

          that made me want to follow his ways

But my stride will never match his, pard,

          ‘cause my boot prints never had it that hard.

                                              ©2011 Slim McNaught