In July 1969 we’d rounded up a crew.
Our wranglers worked from dawn to dusk. They weren’t no pack of fools.
You couldn’t be a sissy and you better have some guts.
You were asking to get injured if you had a hint of klutz.
But each year my father hired one man. Back then, called city dude.
A greenhorn from the city and who didn’t have a clue.
He said, “We’ll take the time to teach and when this year is through.
If the man has heart then maybe he will fit right in this crew.”
The foreman grabbed a cigarette and wrinkled his best frown.
My father claimed, “I know we’ll win. No man has let us down.”
Well, Albert was the one he chose, a soft and pudgy fellow.
His body showed no muscle tone, more like Kraft’s marshmallow.
Albert was a timid man, but one who should be bold.
Could Albert muster courage? He sure did not fit the mold.
He was scared to death of horses and a nervous wimpy guy.
Had my father really chose him? You had to wonder why.
He caught his horse one early morning, but those times were few.
Another horse snuck up on him; he whirled and hollered, “Shoo!”
My dark bay mare reached back at him and bit him on the butt.
He jumped and yelled, “Has she gone mad?” Albert sounded like a nut.
The wranglers felt some pity so they saddled up his horse.
Still, Albert was afraid and couldn’t finish out the course.
The cowboys were a kinder breed. They helped him every morn.
But kindness only goes so far. His welcome, he’d outworn.
It looked like Albert might be done. He’d be one for the book.
But Hank got drunk and married. Now we didn’t have a cook.
Albert’s eyes were grinning when he said, “I’ll cook for you.
Give me a stove and frying pan. I’ll feed this hungry crew.”
Breakfast was at 6 a.m. Flapjacks a golden brown,
hot syrup mixed with eggs and bacon, coffee swirling down.
One cowboy hollered, “Albert you ain’t got that cowboy look.
You’ll never sit the saddle but you sure know how to cook.”
My father’s years had proved him wise. He’d gambled, then he won.
And so, I learned a lesson. There’s a place for everyone.
