~ we were city folks ~ my stepdad grew up on a farm ~
~ bought a rundown ranch in Wyoming when he retired ~
~ Momma asked what I wanted of her things when she passed away ~
~ I refused to consider an answer ~ I said simply ~
~ I don’t want your stuff ~ I want you ~
~Momma’s Truck/The Coloradoan~
~ bought a rundown ranch in Wyoming when he retired ~
~ Momma asked what I wanted of her things when she passed away ~
~ I refused to consider an answer ~ I said simply ~
~ I don’t want your stuff ~ I want you ~
~Momma’s Truck/The Coloradoan~
It was six months, Momma, before I found the courage to knock the Wyoming mud off the wheels of your truck. It was six months more, today in fact, before I cleaned the inside. I found a penny under the floor-mat
and a book of notes written in your hand. They are where you left them, as much a part of the truck now as the wheels and doors.
She cleaned up real nice, Momma. My son, my Tommy, tuned ‘er up and she runs real nice. I told you I would never accept a thing if you left us and I meant every word. It was a wise and sage move on your part to put the title in my name as well as your own. I’m glad you did. There’s no way I could ignore that. Aside from my old Hawg she’s the only vehicle I’ll ever drive.
It was difficult for me when you followed your man to Wyoming to spend your last years on that far hardscrabble ranch. I tried to go with you but returned to Colorado less than a year later. Yes, Colorado, my home, the place where I was born and raised by your loving hands. I’ve never owned a license plate with a cowboy on it but yours hangs in a place of honor over the back of my bed.
That Ford of yours looks good with mountains front and back and I keep my share of your ashes in a black box on my desk. My siblings followed your wishes and spread theirs on that Wyoming wind you said never blew.
Forgive me this bit of selfishness. It is true, I’ll never let you go. I’ve asked my wife and children to put me in that box with you when the time comes and keep us together always in close proximity to my writing and music.
I used that picture of you and dad, 1949, Hideaway Park, Colorado, where I was conceived, for the cover of my second novel, “Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls: American Camp: Momma’s Rain.” I’m a Coloradoan, Momma;
so are my sons and daughters. It is a good place to be from, so good, in fact, I will never leave and so are you, a wonderful place to be from. I think you knew I’d eventually bring you home and spend the rest of my life finding my way back into your arms.
and a book of notes written in your hand. They are where you left them, as much a part of the truck now as the wheels and doors.
She cleaned up real nice, Momma. My son, my Tommy, tuned ‘er up and she runs real nice. I told you I would never accept a thing if you left us and I meant every word. It was a wise and sage move on your part to put the title in my name as well as your own. I’m glad you did. There’s no way I could ignore that. Aside from my old Hawg she’s the only vehicle I’ll ever drive.
It was difficult for me when you followed your man to Wyoming to spend your last years on that far hardscrabble ranch. I tried to go with you but returned to Colorado less than a year later. Yes, Colorado, my home, the place where I was born and raised by your loving hands. I’ve never owned a license plate with a cowboy on it but yours hangs in a place of honor over the back of my bed.
That Ford of yours looks good with mountains front and back and I keep my share of your ashes in a black box on my desk. My siblings followed your wishes and spread theirs on that Wyoming wind you said never blew.
Forgive me this bit of selfishness. It is true, I’ll never let you go. I’ve asked my wife and children to put me in that box with you when the time comes and keep us together always in close proximity to my writing and music.
I used that picture of you and dad, 1949, Hideaway Park, Colorado, where I was conceived, for the cover of my second novel, “Frail Monsters/Wounded Souls: American Camp: Momma’s Rain.” I’m a Coloradoan, Momma;
so are my sons and daughters. It is a good place to be from, so good, in fact, I will never leave and so are you, a wonderful place to be from. I think you knew I’d eventually bring you home and spend the rest of my life finding my way back into your arms.
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