Farm Boy to Fly Boy

The following is a poem that one of my best friends wrote in honor of her grandfather. I blog it in his and her honor on this final hours of Memorial Day, 2007:

Apple pie and raspberries with powdered sugar tops,
Downstairs in the basement there were colorful gumdrops.
The scent of pipe and garden soil, and a hundred thousand miles
Stories he would never tell, between sighs and mischievous smiles.

I knew him, but I didn’t, in a perfectly wonderful way,
Where stories bring the intrigue of a long forgotten day.
When heroes tore the clouds open, and let the sun shine through
When my country respected the cost, and what those pilots do.

I knew him as a hero, but not for foreign beaches,
My hero made me cheesy bread, sardines and canned peaches.
My hero told me stories of five-cent movies shows
Of a quiet farm, wheat fields and chasing away the crows.

He was not a war hero, as one would think they are,
Mild and sweet tempered, I could push him awfully far.
The zoo and elephant-ears, will never be the same
And neither will the sound of an old, low-flying plane.

And, if in a dream I sit with him, back in 1942,
I’ll let him tell me everything he ever wanted to.
And I will listen intently, knowing that in time
Those stories will be all I have, cause life stops on a dime.

He will never be forgotten, though his ashes fly,
He’s left with us sweet memories that now fill up the sky.
And that’s where he would want to be if he were asked today,
“Just let me soar over the mountains and shoot your tears away.”

For my Grandpa
Col. Martin Doyle Mulligan
1917-2004

Jennifer Johnson