April 24: My Cowboy

My grandfather was a cowboy,
back in the 1920's, just before
World War I. He used to entertain us,
as we sat around the campfire,
poking at the logs, with stories
of his life then, bears and wolves,
rattlers and mean snakes of men
who took a shot at him.
He made cowboy coffee so strong
it would curl your teeth,
and a cornbread pudding that lay
on your tongue like a promise
of Christmas. He'd wake us girls
up in the morning,
stick his head in our bedroom door,
"You gonna' let the sun burn a hole in you?"
He taught me how to shoot,
even if I was a girl and nearly
shot my foot off in the process.
He dared me to shoot a rabbit we spied,
far off on another ridge.
Guess he thought I couldn't hit it.
I did. Later, I borrowed money from him
when I went away to college.
Paid him back too. What did he say?
"You didn't have to do that.
Nobody else paid me back."
I guess even now, telling stories
about my grandfather nurtures me,
like half-remembered lessons
that led me here, to be with you,
safe, loved, and happy.

Frank Henry, about 1920

Today's prompt from Robert Lee Brewer, of Writer's Digest fame, asks us to write  poem about nature -- or nurture. Who knows exactly how a poem/story begins. I was thinking how much we need nurture now and remembering times I'd watch certain animals, elephants or gorillas, and how they constantly touch each other and hug each other, in a reassuring way. Truly, what is it that nurtures us -- even when we are alone?

By the way, that cornbread pudding can be sweet or a little spicy, depending on how you mix up the ingredients. Out on the trail, and sometimes at home, the taste depends on what you have on hand. Here's one recipe to try, if you like.