Freedom Is Not Free

By Kelly Strong,
I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
and then he stood at ease.
I looked at him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud,
He’d stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him
Had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil?
How many mothers’ tears?
How many pilots’ planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers’ graves?
No, freedom isn’t free.

I heard the sound of TAPS one night,
When everything was still
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times
That TAPS had meant “Amen,”
When a flag had draped a coffin
Of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn’t free.

Philmont “77” A Poem by Charles “Danny” Hutson

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Philmont “77” A Poem by Charles “Danny” Hutson

This poem was written by my father in 1977 which was the year me and him had the adventure of a lifetime for a father and son.

My older brother and I were both in the local Boy Scout troop and our father was the Scoutmaster for many years. It was a wonderful arrangement between a father and his sons.

It got even better when I decided to follow in my older brothers footsteps and go to the “high adventure camp” known as Philmont that the Boy Scouts had created in northeastern New Mexico.

During the last training week I attended in northern Virginia one of the leaders had to drop out of the trip and my father was asked if he would be interested.

Of course he said yes and the rest is history.

This poem tells a story. It is a story about a man and a small group of teenagers including his son (me) and an epic journey, both for the man, and also the boys who would be tested as men.

Some of the content will make little sense to anyone who has never experienced Philmont but I think you will enjoy it all the same.

Philmont “77”

We left on a long, long journey,

From Virginia to New Mexico.

It took us five days to get there,

Which seemed the long way to go.

 

We went up in the Arch,

Had a day at Six Flags.

The rides were all great,

There wasn’t any drags.

 

We got off that ole’ bus,

And loaded our packs.

After a night in Tent City,

We soon made fast tracks.

 

We learned about burros,

Although you can’t ride.

They’ll carry lots for you,

If you stay on their “good side”.

 

We climbed the tree,

With spikes and belt.

And when we were down,

How great it felt. FALLING!!!

 

We climbed the rocks,

And then rappelled down.

We knew it was no place,

To be clowning around. FALLING AGAIN!!!

 

We stopped at “Cito”,

And picked up food.

Although the clerk thought so,

We weren’t being rude.

 

We explored the Mine,

And heard “Charlie’s Tale”.

The gold we panned,

Didn’t budge the scale.

 

We finally got to see a bear,

And take his picture too.

He didn’t get our Bear Bag,

But he enjoyed the other crew’s.

 

We made it up Ole’ Baldy,

The climb she wasn’t easy.

And when we reached the top,

It was really breezy.

 

The Munchies, the Vita’s,

The Tetrox, the cheese.

All kept us too busy,

To climb any trees. (Trots or Not)

 

The horse riding was great,

The saddling was fun.

But why did some guys,

Make them all run?

 

We hiked down the North Fork Urraca,

The Comanche also.

Just where we were going,

We didn’t know.

 

We climbed The Tooth (of Time)

And enjoyed the veiw,

We only missed sunrise,

By an hour or two.

 

The packs were heavy,

The days were long.

The nights were short,

After our favorite song.

 

The map it was right,

And the trail signs too.

It must have been our compasses,

That gave us the screws !

 

We took some side hikes,

We bushwhacked a little.

But considering the Itinerary,

We solved the riddle.

 

The Mountain Search and Rescue,

Was really very trying.

But our First Aid training,

Helped us keep the guy from dying. (Pete Bradfield)

 

We’re on our way home now,

It’ll be a while yet.

But I’m sure the SCARF CREW,

Doesn’t have any regret.

 

So here’s to Philmont boys,

May we always remember.

When we’re sitting around our camp fires,

Watching the dying embers.

 

We’d go again,

Of that I’m very sure.

Because it’s a Scouter’s dream,

An experience so rich and pure.

 

By: Charles “Dan The MAN” Hutson

Expedition # 725 A-2

Itinerary # 19-B

August 11th, 1977

This poem is dedicated to a GREAT crew.

Old Age Is Hell

The body gets stiff

You get cramps in your legs

Corns on your feet

As big as hen eggs

 

Gas on your stomach

Elimination is poor

Take Ex Lax at night

And then your not sure

 

You soak in the tub

Or your body will smell

It’s like I said folks

Old age is Hell

 

Your teeth start decaying

Your eyesight is poor

Hair falling out

All over the floor

 

Sex life is short

It’s a thing of the past

Don’t kid yourself friend

Even that doesn’t last

 

Can’t go to parties

Don’t dance anymore

Just to put things mildly

You’re a helluva bore

 

Liquor is out

Can’t take a chance

Your bladder is weak

Might pee in your pants

 

Nothing to plan for

Nothing to expect

Just the mailman comes

With your Security check

 

Now be sure your affairs are in order

And your will is made out right

Or on the way to the graveyard

There will be a helluva fight

 

You look pretty good

You look fairly well

Thank God your alive

Old age is HELL !