Track 25 – A Letter Home

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One day in early 1970, while I was at Purdue, I received a letter from a friend that I had played some baseball with who was serving in Viet Nam. I really didn’t know him that well, and I never really knew what inspired him to write to me, but the letter moved me and produced multiple emotions which all collided together. He just wanted to get back home to his girl friend, and thinking of her was what kept him going. A few weeks later, he was killed in Viet Nam, and so I wrote this song, “A Letter Home”, as my way of dealing with his death, and with the War in general.

“Anger” just kept wanting to come through, but I didn’t really believe that his letter was “angry”. Instead, it was on a much higher level, so I focused on his wisdom, his insight, and his “last wish” to just be with his girlfriend again, and I left the anger for another day. For Jon, and for all those who died in War, . . . the “sound” was not in vain.

NOTE: I don’t have Jon’s letter anymore, as I gave it to his family. So, for the cover art, I used one of my dad’s letters from World War II, and his dog tags, as my way of connecting War from two generations.

 

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A Letter Home (2:46)

 

I see the faces of the dead . . . between the firing of my gun;

Who died for what . . . if we stay?

And died for nothing . . . if we run.

 

And now, I lay me down to pray.  For here, men weep because other men weep.

And I pray the Lord, my soul will not stay . . . here where lives are lost like sheep.

Here where lives are lost like sheep.

 

Dreaming of watching you . . . holding you . . . wishing that . . . your mind might find . . .

You thinking me into you . . . hoping that . . . the thread on Time’s reel could rewind.

 

As if some wheel willed me into this war . . . I face what is to be as if cursed;

Thinking of Death in the third person . . . knowing I’ll meet It in the first. . . .

Knowing I’ll meet Death in the first.

 

Dreaming of watching you . . . holding you . . . wishing that . . . your mind might find;

You thinking me into you . . . hoping that . . . the thread on Time’s reel could rewind.

 

Somewhere at the end of the world . . . whenever you speak our names . . .

Simply say we struck a chord the whole world heard . . .

And that its sound was not in vain . . . And that it’s sound was not in vain.

 

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