“Margaret, sing Strawberry Roan.”
She continued crocheting and said, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan.”
The man continued to slap his leather gloves into his left palm and gently grasped them as he pulled them through time and again. He wore a faint grin, and after a bit said, “Margaret, why don’t you sing some of Strawberry Roan?”
She looked up then, her annoyance clearly showing by the scowl on her face and her curt response, “I don’t want to sing Strawberry Roan. I don’t remember all the words.”
There was silence except for the slap of the gloves of the man that sat in his easy chair. He tilted his head slightly, amusement on his face and a twinkle in his dancing blue eyes as he said, “Margaret, sing some Strawberry Roan.”
She gave a quick retort, but after a pause she sang a few lines of Strawberry Roan.
I watched from the other room and thought, “That sweet little man is not quite as innocent as he seems. What an instigator!”
In my grandmother’s younger years, she played the guitar and sang. I never heard her play. One day I asked her to write down some of the old songs. Strawberry Roan was one of those. Here’s a stanza:
He’s about the worst bucker I’ve seen on the range
He’ll turn on a nickel and give you some change
He hits on all fours and goes up on high
Leaves me a spinnin’ up there in the sky
I turns over twice and I comes back to earth
I lights in a cussin’ the day of his birth
I know there are ponies that I cannot ride
There’s some of them left, they haven’t all died
I’ll bet all my money, the man ain’t alive
That’ll stay with old strawberry
When he makes his high dive