By Corbett Faulkner


You have always been the best, right from the start.

From your crab-apple juice to your sweet butter tarts.

I have always wondered but never understood.

How you can take most anything and make it taste so good.

Anyone would like your cookies and shortbread,

The strange thing is I even like your “boiled cabbage head.”

You make plum jam, the best I’ve ever tasted,

Turkey’s probably line up, for the honour to be stuffed and basted.

When it comes to yarn and threadwork, you’ll give anything a whirl.

I’ll bet you can’t remember when you couldn’t knit and purl.

From afghans and doilies to socks, mitts and sweaters,

Far as I can tell no one can make them better.

Your knowledge in the garden may be surpassed by some,

But I’d have to ride a long hard trail, to find a greener thumb.

Flowers always thrive with your constant knowing care.

If there is a place where plants do better, I am not aware.

We learned to spell with you in Scrabble, to count in games of Rummy.

To you we are all winners, never made to feel like dummies.

Whether it’s cards or at the game-board, you most always come to play

But even when you just watch and laugh, we all think that’s OK.

Your advice, always timely, should be described as sage.

Both the way you look and think have always belied your age.

You are our “Rock of Ages,” our living family tree.

A shining, fine example for all of us to see.

You’ve shown us all, what you know, shared your kindness, love and joy.

Always made me feel special since I was just a boy.

You are all anyone could have wanted, the best I ever saw.

A lady who puts the word ‘Grand’ into the one we spell “Grandma.”


Ranchers Corbett Faulkner, his wife Charity and their daughter Hannah

live in Warlodge Coulee and raise cattle deep in the Cypress Hills of Saskatchewan.

He wrote this poem and a few others about his grandmother.

Happy Mother’s Day.