Grandpa Lamb was more like a lion than a lamb

He didn’t roar but his texture was tough and cold

Quite often he came off like he didn’t give a damn

His character formed through experience, no mold

His eyes of grey could hold you in a steely stare

As he spoke to you softly with words so well placed

To some I’m sure it appeared as if he simply didn’t care

But to me his various attributes were evenly spaced

He taught me about animals and how to weld things

Like fishing rod holders made from old phones and metal

But I especially liked what evenings with grandpa would bring

He would gather his newspaper and me with comics we’d settle

At the kitchen nook we would sit across from each other

Over a bowl of ice cream that grandpa would prepare

He began his reading and would go from cover to cover

After the ice cream was finished, he’d be ready to share

Some crazy made-up story where the words all rhymed

Or he would tell me about life during the great depression

Of places he went looking for what-ever work he could find

And getting on a freight train depended on how fast you’d run

He told of all the places he had learned to hide on a train

Painting with his words a life so hard and terribly cruel

How railroad men would catch and beat you without restrain

But you did what you needed to do, it was an unwritten rule

Grandpa was a hard man sculpted by chisels wielded by life

But to my young mind he was the best storyteller to ever live

He may have been a hard man but to me he was always fair

Teaching about the balance between what you receive and give

That there is a rhythm to living that requires being always aware