BACK HOME

Well I cleaned out another box and run across this so I thought I would post it. 
When I see all the stuff I have written and saved, it seems I am obsessed with old small towns and occasions that happened in a one on one situation. I wonder if that means I have been an old timer (even when I was young) and I love small towns--Perhaps?                 

             









                   BACK HOME ?

He was returning home on that bright spring day

To that small coal town where he used to play.

Stories he had heard of its slow demise,

But what he found was a shock to his eyes!

As he drove up the road the houses were gone.

There were now tumble weeds where there used to be lawn.

The trees, mostly dead, stood stark and bare.

That the town was gone just did not seem fair.

The few buildings that were left were stark and alone

The wind whistling through did cause them to moan.

The windows were broken and doors hung askew.

He almost wept in anguish at the dastardly view.

The town was Hiawatha, where he had spent his youth,

What he would call it now would be something uncouth.

He thought to himself, as up the road he did drive

This place now dead was once very much alive.

The kids used to run and play on Silk-Stocking Row

Now on the dead grass stood a buck and a doe.

String Town he traveled in his car much to fast

He had wonderful memories of things from the past.

He drove by the store, post office and hall

They were about to fall down—everything—all.

He traveled down Main Street to see the demise

Went by the bathhouse with tears in his eyes.

He drove to West Hiawatha, on up to the mine

The year etched on the portal was 1909.

The gate hung askew on hinges of rust

Because of the condition he almost cussed.

He thought to himself as down the canyon he ran,

This trip for me, brought childhood memories to a man.

This town makes me ill, it is gone, it is dead.

He loved so much the past that was in the back of his head!

It all looks so decrepit, and worn out and so small

It was not what he remembered, no, not even at all.

He hurriedly went by where the school used to stand.

Where he learned many things and he played in the band.

He passed the spot where the tipple once ground

The black “King Coal” that was dug from the ground.

The tipple was gone now and its place looked bleak

He stepped on the gas and left like a streak.

As he drove through the cedars, his mind wandered back

To the tipple, the school, mine office and track.

He thought as he traveled the road from the town

He could never, no never, go back to his hometown.

Written by:

Wallace R, Baldwin

After a trip to Hiawatha, Utah

25 April 2002