I got a picture of him, barefoot in the mud.
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Behind his grandpa's plow an' two great mules.
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When he turned ten years old, on May 8, '53.
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He grew up fearin' God in Washburn, Tennessee.
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The closest thing he had to a Dad was his Uncle Bob.
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An' he could only dream of things like little league baseball.
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An' that little boy, with big blue eyes and calloused hands,
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Huh, became my old man.
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Well she was a Kentucky girl, born on Valentine's Day.
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The fourth child of five to my Grandma, Eula May.
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So shy and beautiful with sunset hair and emerald eyes.
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Her Daddy spent his life workin' in the coal mines.
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Now in my eyes, all my life, my Daddy's been a Saint.
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But even Saints need Angels to show them the way.
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And over thirty-seven years ago, he asked for Margaret Lynn's hand.
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And that Angel married my old man.
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And there were times I tried to buck, the truthful things they said.
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But now I'm glad that, more than once, they rattled my stubborn head.
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'Cause my folks are just like mountains, I looked at from afar.
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But now the closer I get to them, the bigger they are.
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The time seems to fly anymore, and the holidays are so far apart.
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There's no way a 'phone call could express what's in my heart.
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So this is just a song to say how greatful I am.
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For Mamma and my old man.
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For Mamma and Dad.
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My Old Man
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| Rodney Atkins |
