POETRY BY
DR. JOHN VAN VALKENBURG
OUR TOWN
A Tribute To MORENCI, MICHIGAN Number I (1995)
A hometown is where you are born
or where you visit, move and stay.
A home town is where you say, you are from
even though you've moved away.
Southern Michigan has such a town
along Bean Creek and ancient forest floor.
It was here the pioneers Cawley, Wakefield,
and Wilson built a saw mill and started much more.
but another nearby town had that name
And so it was changed to Morenci, how and
why, no one can explain.
Morenci grew, the Eagle Hotel (or marrying place),
its motto 'No license will we require'
But all of these including “Morenci House”, and “The Exchange Hotel”
were lost later to blazing fire.
In 1853 a plank road was built to link
Morenci and Toledo, stretching east across the state.
A little later “0ld Dolly” started running “The Teeter and Wobble”
to haul passengers and miscellaneous loads of freight.
In 1889 the Saulsbury Hotel was built,
and for forty years managed by Frank and Lottie Blair.
Morenci was becoming sophisticated, thanks to a gift
of an auditorium by Mr. E. D. Stair.
A great day had come when in North Morenci
a new connection was made north by a Wabash track.
There were regular daily trips, from Morenci transporting
people by jitney and horse drawn hack.
Utilities were needed, medical care and recreation,
land was purchased for a new riverside park
And in the south part of town a wonderful family 'Stephenson”
left a playground real estate park,
Later Wakefield Park was added, with ballfields
and a new swimming pool to fill,
But yet most of us can't forget the great times we had
in the swimming hole behind the Kellogg and Buck grist mill.
Who can forget Claypool's pond on the west side,
created by excavating clay for tile and sold,
It was the community ice skating rink,
enjoyed night and day by both young and old.
There were business slogans like, “If your clothes are not becoming to you” or
“Here comes Porters” signs on both truck and store,
Names like Swaney's Ford, 0'Donnels, Bancroft, Fritz and Eddies,
Burns and dozens and dozens more,
And at the High School, there were great athletic teams,
of past Bulldogs who “never yield”
They played tough oppponents on a regular schedule,
like Hillsdale, 0nsted, and the sugar boys from Blissfield.
There were coaches like, Geisler, Baxter, Arbaugh,
Slovak and Hall,
All these men brought their skills to Morenci
To prepare Morenci's youth for playing in the fall.
There were bonfires in the evening,
to raise school spirits before the greet football games,
Cheerleaders. like Ferris, Sproull, Leach, Williamson and Barrett,
Led cheers and yells before the dancing flames.
The Morenci band preformed in the summer
a concert each Wednesday night
Town folk took pride in the performance
of young men and women dressed in maroon and white.
Someone authored a school fight song,
and at pep rallies voices would ring,
“We are the students of Morenci High”
the whole spirited assembly would sing.
A person could stop at Tom Davis'
to purchase a magazine or shoe shine,
Or visit next door to “The Hole in the Wall,
where “hot dogs” sold for only a dime.
A great crowd would gather on Saturday night
they would come to shop and swap stories of news and farm,
And believe it or not. the kids walked the
streets, gathered to talk, and had no fear of abuse or harm.
It was special to stop at Butlers, Gardiners or DeMeritts
for shoes, pins and cloth, or tools,
Or imagine again, a visit to Stevenson's Jewelry
for a special gift of rings or jewels.
There was Glaser's and Fether's welding shops,
Henry's Hatchery for filling our rural needs.
And plumbing from Fletchers, groceries from Emersons, Slagels and Repperts
and Charley Fay's Feed Store for grain and seeds.
There was plenty to do in our small town
Abbott and Costello, at the Rex, for a laugh,
Or one could walk up the street, stand and look
in Dr. Gerlach's window to see a two headed calf.
Today you and I visit here and there.
foreign lands and exotic places we roam,
But lest we forget, the soil on our shoes
comes from a quiet quality, but humble home.
If we had a special wish
for the generations of visitors from a land so vast,
It would be that they find the richness in the memories of tomorrows
that we cherish from Morenci's almost forgotten past.
OUR HOMETOWN
A Tribute to Morenci, Michigan II (1996)
Maple trees along shaded streets,
planted by individuals few of us know,
Each tree a tribute to history
with growth rings of long ago.
A city is built on similar rings,
with circles echoing out along street and path,
Most of actual community history is unrecorded
lost in the events inconsequential aftermath.
Some trees have lived a hundred plus years
with roots anchored deep within the soil,
Like people they stand erect and enduring
strengthened by a life of toil.
Morenci, like most small towns, is not known
for historical firsts or progress strides,
But, a community unique and different, its character
polished with individual pride.
Businesses like streets have come and gone
most after a few years leave only a meager clue,
At best for the sake of illustration and memory
we can only mention just a few.
For example, Morenci is a town of churches,
bringing turbulent lives to order.
We are humorously reminded of an early settler
named Simon D. Wilson who directed-
Methodist to Morenci
Baptist to Medina
and the unchurched to the Ohio border.
Couples through the years have knelt at the alters
of these churches to repeat their vows,
People beginning in Morenci, new homes and families,
underneath these maple boughs.
Yes, businesses have come and gone,
Wakefield Bank, Awkerman Lumber, and Crabb’s Variety Store
Each lending a new ring of growth, to a Morenci
different than it was before.
Factories and plants that absorbed men’s labor, the Dairy,
Morenci Rubber and Parker utilizing local leadership homespun,
Manufacturing organizations that contributed dollars to family life,
community well being and a better life for everyone.
Many small businesses were social institutions,
where town events were related and told
Where news of neighbors, school and shop was
shared as products and goods were sold.
There was Morenci Drug with teen jobs, employers like Bancroft
cleaners, Gardiner's, Swaney's and many smaller stores giving
local commerce meaning,
All were part of a greater economic and social process,
a community articulating its being.
The strength of a small town may not be in its
expansion or growth to greater urban ways
But maybe in an attitude of daily living
building relationships day by day.
Also, a hometown means trusted professionals, attorneys, educators
and public servants all serving citizen needs.
A hundred men and women building town pride
through acts of unselfish deeds.
Neighborhood professionals marketing all types of insurance,
Chappel, Rorick, Farquhar, Wells and Larue
Agencies headed by men and women committed to public
service projects far beyond their due.
There were medical men who came to Morenci seeking opportunities
like Drs. Raabe, Beebe, Whitehouse and Blair
Men who through their skills administered compassion,
as well as professional care.
Morenci's first mayor, James A. Blanchard, was a physician,
he came to the city in a leadership role
And opened a hospital in nineteen thirty-five,
where he welcomed rich and poor and young and old.
Morenci has had bowling alleys, roller rinks, pool halls,
dance halls, and dozens of taverns and inns.
Upstairs and downstairs places where a more carefree
life could be entered in.
Who can forget the special events like Porter's John Deere Bays,
the circus, carnivals, auditorium concerts and plays so gallant
The High School dances, the Jr. Plays, Womanless Wedding
performances held with wonderful local talent.
The lines of a poem can hardly do justice,
only serve to urge each one on.
It can speak of growth rings continuing,
in the life of a communities goings-ons.
We are gardeners, as we plant along the
curbs of life and time.
Where others may benefit from our efforts and
appreciation, yours and mine.
A small town is a precious place, its value often hidden
in petty things, destined not to last,
Till some traveling stranger, journeys through to
recognize a quality past.
A stranger could write of other visits made to communities,
twice the size, with historic roots not half as clear.
He would probably tell us in words and rhyme that people search for a
lifetime, for the Morenci Spirit reflected here.
THE SEASONS OF A TOWN
A Philosophical Tribute to Morenci, Michigan III(1997)
A season is a block of time
lingering for a while before a change
A season is a flavoring, a new zest
used to enrich the taste of meat and grain.
A season is spoken of as moments
remembered, pleasantries from past wears,
Or it can be a testing time,
recalled later amid challenges and tears.
A season of a city brings to mind
Recollections of growth and exciting times,
Up and down cycles of unprecedented
descents and climbs.
Morenci like other towns has a flavor nourished by groups,
families and persons who passed through it's gates,
Charisma personalities who dared through civic
responsibility who expressed creative quality traits.
You and I could write of hundreds of flavor
wisps of Morenci from the past
Each flavor cultural and educational opportunity
that one could not have forecast.
The importance of reunions and gathering is to remind us
of the specialness of our town
And how each moment remembered can be
lifted up with some renown.
A Morenci of brick streets, a merchant, an event,
a teacher or civic goals
Visions and images built beyond happenstance
outlined by human souls.
Most people have enough character to allow
the hurts and negative stuff to pass
And are able to see life as transitional and built
on the soundness imbedded in philosophical class.
What is it that you discover in your greatest
Morenci connection?
Do you find bits of strength enriched through
memories of personal reflection?
Historically Morenci carried and cultivated
a small town charm an a nurtured voice
most found reason to re3oice.
People will gather as the years go by in recognition
of the seasons being passed through today.
They will pause and hopefully remember other Morenci
seasons along the wag.
And like us knowing what has gone on before,
to build a town with a noble past
One can only hope that those who follow will appreciate
characteristics that are destined to last.
A HISTORY OF AREA INDIANS
Tribute to Morenci, Michigan IV (1998)
We recognize their names
claimed by the towns on the Ohio/Michigan border,
The names of Seneca, Ot-to-kee and
Wau-se-on to mention a few in no particular order.
These were tribal names associated with Indian
cultures of larger Iroquoian and Alagonquian stock,
There were 100’s of such names, small divisions of larger confederacies
the Pot-ta-wato-mie, the Shawnee, the Mi-am-ies and the Mo-hawk.
The earlier Indians and their nomadic history is unclear,
no written record confirms the tribal facts,
At best, we search the personal journals, jot memories of the aged,
and read diaries and listen to symbolic tracts.
Yarns were spun around campfires and great gatherings,
later called pow-wows, these echoed dramatic tales
Of Paleo Indian cultures moving eastward
from the western plains, following animal forest trails.
These nomadic hunters were referred to
as the Lenni-Lanapis (meaning original people)
And the Mengwi; they were moving east in search of food and game,
the Lenni-Lanapi is believed to be the core name,
from which our Lenawee County was later named.
They approached the great Mississippi River
a water obstacle challenge vast and wide,
And on the other shore a feisty enemy
the fierce and unyielding Alleqwi Indians did reside.
The Allegwi were treacherous and demanding, to cross
a treaty was required,
The Lenni-Lanapi/Mengwi negotiated, but half
way across the loose knit agreement backfired.
Now, the battle, the arrow and the tomahawk, flaying
in water and on land all the way to the eastern shore
One can only imagine the drama that unfolded,
in water and in conflict along the forest floor.
The Lenni-Lanapi/Mengwi scattered throughout
the woods, slowly they assembled to sing the war song.
They gathered in the protection of forest and prepared
to go to war to avenge the Allegwi wrong.
They met the Allegwi on their grounds,
and once more the river was red with human blood,
The Lenni-Lanapi/Mengwi won this time
and then continued east through the shaded forest wood.
All was not well in the relationship between the
Lenni-Lanapi; and the Mengwi as they split their war booty,
The Lenni-Lanapi were proud and felt the Mengwi
had shied against the Allegwi their battle duty.
The Mengwi dropped behind and pursued trails that
led to the cascades of Michillmaninac and claimed the Iroquois fame
The Lenni-Lanapi continued eastward and settled in the valley of Delaware
and took that much heralded name.
Through the years the feud continued between these
two old tribes of war glory
Finally open battle ensued, the Delaware were driven
north to the Canadian territory.
As years go by, Indian groups split language root
systems and identities are often recast,
But core use of language often gives evidence
to a once noble tribal past.
The Mengwi, now the Iroquois became a confederacy of note,
and organizing to protect their lands
From the eastern shore of America to the mid-west
they formed front door and back door clans.
No tribe or frontiersmen could enter without observance
in the Iroquoian territorial sphere
Clans throughout the system had unique roles
and carried animal names like coyote, wolf, bear and deer.
The Delaware of Canada became the Alagonquin, as an
agricultural unit, caretakers of the grain
They migrated south from Canada, to take residence
upon the central Michigan plains.
The Alagonquin were friendly traders, in fur trapping
and pottery making, they were skilled,
They moved among the French and English, establishing
new villages where Indian leadership willed.
The nearby white towns often became known
by the nearest Indian village name
And there was plenty of food for everyone, the forests, valleys
and water ways were filled with abundant game.
The Ot-ta-was, the Pot-ta-waw-to-mies and
Ogib-e-was and others all hunted where game abounds
The deer, the wolf, the bear, the turkey and dove were plentiful
within and beyond the river Raisin hunting grounds.
The silver fox was of such beauty, that its fur
was claimed as a wampum prize,
All throughout the mid-west the forests were so
thick they hid the clouded blue skies.
The largest Indian village was Shaw-nun-was
where the city of Defiance, Ohio now stands
General Wayne built a fort here to encourage the
Indian frontier trading plans.
The larger forts were constructed at Detroit, St. Joseph
and Fort Miami to protect families from plunder and raid.
The outposts proved to be a significant influence
upon colonists barter and trade.
There was much that the tenderfoot colonists
did not know about day to day frontier survival.
Almost starving, they often barely made it through the winter depending
on the Indian’s periodic arrival.
There were Indian villages along Bean Creek,
this was a major north/south waterway
It served the early Morenci settlers as a source of food,
transportation and they used the water power each day.
The principal Indian village near Morenci was farther south,
Winameg in Fulton county on Bad creek
The tribe was led by a Pottawatamie chief, a most
honored man, often called to Washington to speak.
Chief Winameg was a life friend of D. W. H. Howard
a local storekeeper, we are told
Howard negotiated Indian treaties under a council oak,
remnants and carved pieces are now preserved in Sauter’s in Archbold.
Many of these native American leaders had superior intellect
and strong ties to mother earth is true
To the north of Morenci at Devil’s Lake the Indians left a powerful name
a village carries the name of their great God, Man-it-too.
There seemed to be enough for everyone, the land
was available, free and idle
But the one difficult issue, the land ownership
deed, “who holds the title?”
The Indian had great difficulty with the complexity,
of land ownership reference claims were a blur
“Was not all land in the hands of mother earth?” and
“available to whatever anyone needed from Her?”
In the 1830’s, out of greed and local claims, Congress
passed a “Removal Act” forcing Indians from eastern lands
They were to be moved westward to now Oklahoma, Kansas
and Texas, forced into a mixture of tribal bands.
There were many days of sadness, among the Indians
and white friends as they were removed
Strong ties had been formed and now were breaking
at this late date a “Removal Act” would not have been approved.
But life goes on, the Indian trails, became ever widened and broad paths
as new traffic crisscrossed America’s expanding way.
U.S. 223, U.S. 12, and many roads were once the trails
and life lines of yesterday.
This poem is a preview, that under plow and soil
are hidden the remnants of a culture to revere
A reminder of the history of this great land,
and the significant drama that unfolded here.
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT
“A LITTLE OLD TOWN”
Tribute to Morenci, Michigan V (1999)
An uncle once remarked to me
as we were driving to a local fishing landing
That there is something about a “Little Old Town”
that makes living there, just outstanding.
Of course, he was speaking of Morenci
I agreed, it was giving me my start
There is something about a little old town
that can easily touch a person’s heart.
We just reminisced about Morenci as we
drove along that day
He said he had lived here all his life
“Couldn’t think of a better place to stay.”
I’ll Paraphrase his words, words
he spoke with reflective declare
A little old town is filled with good
people who pay their community dues with care
A little old town has charm and grace
it doesn’t need the big city glitter
It’s made up of people, folks and merchants
who seldom speak a word that’s bitter.
One must agree Morenci is a special place
of dynamic moments in its past
Struggles, accolades and history,
to build quality memories that last.
We can’t be sure why this particular spot
was selected, a bend in the river, a place to live,
It supplied forest products and water power
the land had a great bounty to give.
In 1833, it was called “Brighton”, the dictionary
interprets the word as life’s span
Becoming Morenci’s spirit from the beginning,
as it lifted the hearts of man.
“Morenci” was selected by Simon D. Wilson, a name
maybe from an Indian friend,
Or perhaps it was from a French family “Montmorency”
who lived north of Morenci in a forest glen.
The little old town grew, bridges were built a store,
post office and a school, each stepping stone achieves,
One can almost feel the pride and spirit building,
as men and women rolled up their sleeves.
Some towns point with pride to fancy
homes with pillars and a plantation style
But a little old town of homes of white frame and brick
have them beat by a mile.
You’ll find it a fact, my uncle says, “Our little old
town” had a special character from the beginning,
It impressed those who came to live and grow
and developed a personality of winning.
TOUCHING THE "ROYAL SOIL" OF HOME
Tribute to Morenci, Michigan VI (2000)
A cup of soil from the river Bean
That begins its flow from Manitoo
A pinch of earth from the old High School,
Riverside Park, and the Auditorium, too.
*The Indian name for Devil’s Lake
Where one was born is not important,
there are many kinds of birth,
But to say one is from Morenci,
is to say you’ve lived on hallowed earth.
After Korea, while flying back to Michigan
on a clear and lovely day,
I could see below the earth of Morenci
although by air, it was many miles away.
The plane had crossed the Rockies, Grand Canyon
and Chicago, too
Each mile a pleasant journey,
with a window seat panoramic view.
Although it was a thrill to see Michigan below
blocked in mile squares
It was special to remember the good people of home
that God had reverently planted there.
Now about to touch down,
home by car, just a few miles away
I felt as awed as many of the new immigrants,
who kneel to kiss the U.S.A.
It is here one remembers
all the qualities of a town at last
Reflecting on the great personalities
who contributed to Morenci’s past.
Each one of us travel a unique journey,
beckoned to challenges reflected in toil
Finally coming to some understanding of heritage,
the meaning of home and returning to one’s rich soil.
We live in a world of islands
each one a safe haven for a time
Before us is always the earth of home
where eventually the soul may recline.
That’s why on a journey in the year 1999
I wanted to gather and sift with care
The good earth of Morenci, and
“Qualities of Heritage” abundantly rich enough to share.
The memories loom magnificent
the sound of steam power, the hurrahs of girls and boys
The buzz of mowers, the smell of burning leaves
and a train whistle to supplement the noise.
A town also holds the seeds of spiritual life
shared unashamed from holiness to myth,
Contributing a measure to each soul,
a divinity of depth, a miraculous gift.
Here in our hands a collection of Morenci soil
representing community and stability of life near complete
Expressions of quality time, lasting chronicles,
seemingly never to become obsolete.
Why not share the soil with a loved one,
a grandchild or a friend,
Explaining how these grains,
are cultural capsules valued till the very end.
We find in the mixed earth, the breath, the unknowns,
as each day is born,
It can be an anchor for what’s to come
be it a radiant rose or a thorn.
Out of this soil, we are grateful,
praying for strength, no matter what may come,
That we can say from these roots of pride,
“Not mine, Oh Lord, but thy will be done.”
The following poetry was written as a Tribute to Guam and my 15-2 Weather Buddies who served with me in the United States Air Force Weather Service during the years 1951-1953. Many of us have been in contact with each other and we arranged a reunion in Dayton, Ohio in May of 1998. Another reunion is planned for May 2000 in Pennsylvania.
THERE IS A TIME TO REACH
THERE IS A TIME TO HOLD
(A Saga of the 15-2 Airman)
The years were nineteen fifty-one to nineteen fifty-three,
The Korean War was at its height, service beckoned, you see.
Young men were needed for the Wax program,
Most wanted to do their part for glory and Uncle Sam.
Many men were drafted to khaki's and combat strife
To serve around the world in U.S. Army life,
But a few men volunteered to another kind of call,
To serve in Air Force Blue and stand brave and tall.
Men left home for training with little local fan fare
It seemed of little consequence was to happen there,
They found themselves on crowded bases both arid and damp,
Some lived in tent cities, at the Lackland A.F.B. Training Camp.
"Shave the head, shine the shoes" and issues olive drab and tan,
Men were ordered to do this or that out of some training plan,
We were getting ready for war, no sacrifice was enough,
One was cajoled and pushed, assigned to do Air Force stuff!
Most took it in stride, the Air Force regulations,
The Hut-Hut of repetition of marching formations,
No one could doubt, or withdraw or loose one's nerve,
Alter all, men enlisted in the Air Force to serve.
Men lined up for this, men lined up for that,
Waiting at parade rest, in sun with sweaty hats,
For mess, for pay, in weather cold and hot,
Lines stretched around buildings awaiting a vaccination or shot.
"We can't find your vein" as we came in from the cold,
"We'll just keep jabbing the needle, its there", we were told.
"Skin it back, two fingers and a cough" in lines mostly bare,
"Bend over and smile," while a medic prodded up there!
The obstacle course, the rifle range was part of a military trial,
Arriving back at your bunk, to tired to smile.
Then up in the morning, at daybreak with a yawn,
To scrub brass and floors in the barracks "john".
Weekly inspection time was here, organized clothes and towels fluffed,
For some warnna-be officer to look at your stuff.
Pictures of girls with too much skin were disciplinary,
"Pornographic," we were told was not for the military.
The time for departure was before us, at last,
Basic training was over, the preparation time was past,
Parkas, fatigues, field jackets and hoods to cover your nose,
Duffel bags packed for arctic duty in military clothes.
All were tested and counseled beyond dispute,
"Where are you going?" A place called Chanute.
"Where's it at?" Some would complain.
Its in central Illinois, somewhere near Champagne.
"What you going there for?" You felt like a fool.
Orders were cut and they said, "to Weather School."
"What do weathermen do?" One asked as you arrived.
"I haven't the slightest" was the modest reply.
"Weathermen fly balloons and spin thermometers and things"
"They help look at the weather, the climate brings."
"A weather observer goes out in weather both inclement and fair,
And collects current data from sky and air."
"What does he do with this data collected from sun and storm?"
"He enters it on a chart called a WBAN form."
"He transmits it and plots it on area weather maps,
New charts and maps are prepared before each time-lapse."
And finally weather training was completed, most were relieved,
The next step, certificates and assignments were about to be received
Before orders were cut there was a time to unwind,
But there was anxious awaiting to discover where you were assigned.
There were places to go, with assignments more specific,
Finally it came, Okinawa, a weather headquarters in the Pacific,
And now the news came like a bomb,
Your final destination, "Where in HELL is Guam?"
"Guam, I thought it was blown up in World War II,"
"Oh some islands were destroyed, but they left a few."
A few days were shared at home, with time to spare,
Then on to Camp Stoneman, to board a ship waiting there.
We crossed the Pacific, the International Date Line, where antics abound
Reversing our fatigues and turning our caps around,
Arriving at Naha in the middle of the night,
Fumbling around for destination travel was no delight.
We traveled from port, in a six-by, Japanese made,
Fifteen gears forward, one for each slight grade.
We traveled inland through gates of a new base.
Darkness adds to the mystery of seeing a strange face.
The next morning after arriving to a relaxed kind of day.
Other men were waiting to fill assignments, from the Philippines to Mid-
Way. We will remember the Korean maids scurrying about,
Working for a dollar, to clean or do washing from bodies short and stout.
Many surprises were always in Store
Each culture is different as Airmen explore,
For example, at end of day Korean maids openly showered without care.
Airman in and out of the “john", glanced at their bodies bare.
And finally on to Guam, it was an airman's joy,
No maidens here, just Joe, the Filipino boy.
An island clean and special, an island where pride had grown
One can hardly wait to write to describe it, to folks back home.
A centralized base, with nice facilities for NCO's.
White Quonset huts, hedges in neat little rows,
A picturesque place, with good people working at the base.
One was quite impressed with each new face.
We learned that Detachment parties were held, a few dollars were spent,
To be held at the Officer's Club or the beach, a colossal event.
These were grand affairs, once a BBQ'd wild pig was on a spit.
A disastrous undertaking, flopping around until eating it was unfit.
Now, the great memories, three days on, three days off, were earned,
The putting together at the Weather Station all we had learned,
Forecasters always waiting for the most recent Pacific weather drift,
All weather to be filed or plotted before you left your weather shift.
"Anyone for midnight mess?" Someone would shout,
"Leaving in ten minutes," let's go check it out.
All types of discussions over coffee and toast,
In the barracks or at dinner, a bullshit or boast.
It was off to the movies with raincoat and gear,
To see old movies, popular in the States last year.
There was ping pong, pool, the coral beach, not costing a dime.
A big deal was mail call, seldom on time.
The softball team organized with little talent or reason,
To our surprise, we led the league most of the season.
The bull sessions, the rahs, a few beers after the game,
The championship between Weather vs. Food Service, we lost 3 to 2, pitcher to blame.
The tour of duty called men for shift work often from sun to sun,
Close knit relationships, close ties were easily begun.
There was a time when each tour ends, time to depart.
Glad to leave, yes, but strong feelings tugged at the heart.
A memory here, an experience there, an investment in human souls,
Now back to the States, to renew the pursuit of old goals,
Its always hard to journey back through a system so vast,
To weave together old remembrances now tied to the past.
Each man holds in his heart, a portion of the story,
Of how, for several years, young men served old glory,
An author can hardly do justice to lives in a rhythm,
But there is a beckoning to remember the days left behind.
It was 1951 or '53, the dates now seem vague and far,
When young men enlisted to enter the Korean War.
They trained and served and often worked without rest.
A part of American Military Forces giving their best.
It was not time wasted, but perhaps we could have done more.
To serve our nation, as many men had done before,
But this was our time, plotting weather on a far off isle,
On an island called Guam, where we lived for a while.
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