CHURCH STREET, USA



I'd like to go back home again
To my hometown as it was then

When times were good and life was new
And school was fun and worries few,

September day of forty-one
With World War II not yet begun,

At least the States had entered not,
Miss Lipscomb's class, a sundry lot,

Set off that morn with trembling heart,
Our first day out from home apart,

My first recess and out to play,
Did they think I'd run away?

When all came back to class but me,
I so enjoyed the running free,

I'd thought it surely mustn't end
And joined the Second Grade, my friend,

First Grade in this bright new school,
Gleaming like a tan brick jewel

Was filled with wonders every day
That time can never fade away,

December seventh came and went,
But little kids were still content,

Our Christmas must have been subdued,
But tinsel kept our wide eyes glued

To Christmas trees and presents wrapped
And stars above our treasures capped,

The war dragged on to forty-two,
We little understood or knew,

But felt we somehow had it made
Advancing to the Second Grade,

Bereft of everything it seemed
We often reminisced and dreamed

Of firecrackers and balloons
And Bob Burns played Bazooka tunes,

Adulthood seemed so far away,
It takes forever and a day,

This drawn out job of growing up --
I never even had a pup,

But did obtain a bantam hen
To be my pet away back then,

Recollect that summer's day
That Daddy's pickup rolled away --

And him a-chasing close beside,
That running-board and brakeless ride,

He couldn't jump inside, of course,
Our Dodge's suicidal doors

Prevented all but feeble steering,
Permitting only harried veering,

Grade School antics rarely harm,
But in Fourth Grade cut my arm

Seeking willow whistle stock,
Fell and cut it on a rock,

Then we learned of Halloween --
First snow out our window seen,

Daddy's popcorn harvest too --
Stored upstairs the winter through,

Grandpa's paper hanging's neat --
Stomp it on the wall with feet,

This was just a joke it's true,
Yet we believed that he could do

Most anything he set his mind --
And best of all he's very kind,

Grandma T. could do it too,
All our early childhood through,

Made toys of all the darndest things
From paper bags to jar-top rings,

I think it was in forty-nine
We left our childhood house behind,

The place Dad Bought in forty-seven
Had turned into our private heaven,

On wrapping paper, Dad he drew
The master plan and saw it through,

A carpenter sure -- but what a man!
He built a hundred years to stand

A house designed for us alone --
A home, ideal, our very own,

Material not bought with gold
From houses mostly ages old,

He saved the good and used the best,
And winter fuel became the rest,

Lumber fifty years or more
Of age and cured as none before

Went up like steel, so straight and true,
Better far than common new,

Blest I was to have a part --
Erecting this, his work of art,

My labor small, (his nearly all),
But finally standing strong and tall

Remains for all the town to see
Today, and thanks to him (and me),

I solace find in this today,
He rests a mile or two away,

Forever near the homes he wrought
For us, and I'll forget him not,

Happiest I shall be of men
Whenever I return again.

by D. Edgar Murray