In loving memory of Grandpa Frank Rinke (1941-2014)

A boy picks berries as he walks the rows, them Arkansas rows.

He’s not much for big dreams as he walks the rows
But he makes the best with what he knows
And he always will, for it’s in his bones.
To Kansas on the runningboards, his family goes.

And there’s a girl named Mary in Wichita
“My backbone,” she’d one day be lovingly called.
53 years past, what’s the best gift of all?
“When she said yes,” in tears he recalled.

Through Mr. Crawford’s door, he humbly steps
Where not berries but apprentices he’d soon select.
He’d own up to mistakes, he’d model respect.
On his word, any man would soundly invest.

And into the family his gratitude pours,
His time and his money he generously sows.
For his life can’t be marked by a singular score
But by the fabric he wove with the ones he adored.

But sickness arrives and heavy it comes.
“You ask me if angry with God I’ve become.
How could I? For to suffer, He chooses some.
Instead, I thank Jesus for what He has done.”

Work hard for the picking, and never quit
But while filling your basket, don’t ever forget
You’re not entitled to the berries you’ve picked
For the berries–the berries are always the gift.

A wise man hums as he walks the rows, them golden rows.

© Tanner Rinke 2014