From the recording Live at the Corbin Theater
Grampa built a cabin up at 8,000 feet.
I’d go visit in the summer when the fireweeds smelled sweet.
He dug three fish ponds with a spade. Loaded them with trout.
I’d just cast for hours and watch him pull them out.
Let’s go to the cabin just to rest our eyes
He called that canyon his paradise.
Let’s go to the cabin, catch fish with flies.
He said we’re heading for paradise.
He was a doctor down in Salt Lake. Saved every life in that town.
Sidestepped up in the winter, checked the cabin and skied back down.
There was no phone at the cabin. You had to walk two miles.
When we made the climb to Hakan’s peak, ah, you should have seen him smile.
The kids would sleep on the screen porch, down to 40 on an August night.
We’d pile up fifteen blankets and giggle at the sight.
Then barefoot around to the side door, howl like a demon choir,
and get dressed every morning in front of a roaring fire.
A spring flowed out of Mossbank. Wild currents grew like corn.
The stream was fast and noisy, healed a young heart that was torn.
The giant aspens in the glade, I couldn’t reach around.
I remember every smell and every single sound.
Grampa was planning his first trip to the Alps in France.
He died at 82 in that chair and never got the chance.
He was pulled so fast from our midst, like the trout he used to land.
Bet that angel angler’s waiting just to flip me in his pan.
Words And Music By David B. Hakan 12-12-95
©1995 All Rights Reserved