Post by montea on Dec 7, 2008 0:27:21 GMT -6
Yeah, tupperware is a fit for this.
Back around early 1986 I heard that applications were being taken to help in the post-grass fire archeological project at LBH. Being a relic hunter as well as an enthusiast for the battle, I longed to go, but could not take time off from my job or leave my family, which included a two year old and two month old. Instead of applying for a slot with the project, I contented myself with writing and sending a poem about what might be found to the folks who were organizing the dig.
After several weeks, maybe months, I received an official looking envelope and opened it expectantly, thinking someone as sappy as me was writing to acknowledge the sentiment. Ho ho. It was a bureaucratic form letter informing me that my application to participate had been declined.
But here's the poem just in case that sappy person is still out there:
Little Big Horn Artifacts
Come gaze upon these bits of lead
and iron and brass and bone;
yearn to see what they have seen
and learn what they have known.
They’ve held their tongues for a hundred years
in the coarse Montana sod,
while men have sought to unlock their tale
known now to none but God.
No plow has touched this Springfield shell
nor concrete hid this broken knife
since they were dropped by frantic men
who fought in vain for life.
No horse this spur has urged to flight;
no belt this buckle held;
each piece has truly held its ground
since their owners each were felled.
For long dark years, their vigil kept,
not touched nor seen by men,
they’ve awaited those who followed Yates
and rode with Crittenden.
They’ve awaited those whom last they saw
that 25th of June;
the brothers, Boston, Tom and George
and Margaret’s James Calhoun.
Awaited Keogh, with his dancing eyes
and merry Irish laugh;
awaited Cooke with his long sideburns
who served on the Colonel’s staff;
awaited Porter, Sturgis, and Lord,
three who were never found,
and two hundred more who were fated to die
on Little Big Horn’s bloody ground.
But now these relics sing to those
who can hear their silent song.
Of moments brief when myths were born,
of mortals, brave but gone.
Come gaze upon these jewels of yore,
once lost and left behind;
now found, they touch the American heart,
and tease the adventureous mind.
Back around early 1986 I heard that applications were being taken to help in the post-grass fire archeological project at LBH. Being a relic hunter as well as an enthusiast for the battle, I longed to go, but could not take time off from my job or leave my family, which included a two year old and two month old. Instead of applying for a slot with the project, I contented myself with writing and sending a poem about what might be found to the folks who were organizing the dig.
After several weeks, maybe months, I received an official looking envelope and opened it expectantly, thinking someone as sappy as me was writing to acknowledge the sentiment. Ho ho. It was a bureaucratic form letter informing me that my application to participate had been declined.
But here's the poem just in case that sappy person is still out there:
Little Big Horn Artifacts
Come gaze upon these bits of lead
and iron and brass and bone;
yearn to see what they have seen
and learn what they have known.
They’ve held their tongues for a hundred years
in the coarse Montana sod,
while men have sought to unlock their tale
known now to none but God.
No plow has touched this Springfield shell
nor concrete hid this broken knife
since they were dropped by frantic men
who fought in vain for life.
No horse this spur has urged to flight;
no belt this buckle held;
each piece has truly held its ground
since their owners each were felled.
For long dark years, their vigil kept,
not touched nor seen by men,
they’ve awaited those who followed Yates
and rode with Crittenden.
They’ve awaited those whom last they saw
that 25th of June;
the brothers, Boston, Tom and George
and Margaret’s James Calhoun.
Awaited Keogh, with his dancing eyes
and merry Irish laugh;
awaited Cooke with his long sideburns
who served on the Colonel’s staff;
awaited Porter, Sturgis, and Lord,
three who were never found,
and two hundred more who were fated to die
on Little Big Horn’s bloody ground.
But now these relics sing to those
who can hear their silent song.
Of moments brief when myths were born,
of mortals, brave but gone.
Come gaze upon these jewels of yore,
once lost and left behind;
now found, they touch the American heart,
and tease the adventureous mind.
