Dick Hattan, a Vietnam veteran, has been writing poetry for 20 years, but only recently did he decide to publish his book, Healing Memories.
The book includes poems of Hattan's fond memories of his childhood, such as collecting baseball cards, attending Catholic school, playing Little League baseball and his experiences in Vietnam.
"Veterans Day is a special celebration for me. It makes me feel as though my military experience had value and was a period of growth for me spiritually and emotionally," Hattan said when asked about Veterans Day. "It is also a day of unusual bonding for those of us who experienced the life-changing events of separation and war.
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"I feel that I grew up in Vietnam being 9,000 miles away from family and friends. It was while pulling bunker guard one day that I decided on my current career path of health care management, a decision I've followed for the past 36 years," he added. "The beauty of the rice paddies and the simplicity of the countryside was a perfect backdrop for introspective thinking that helped me plot my future."
You can find Healing Memories at local bookstores, including Read Between the Lynes in Woodstock and Town House Books in St. Charles. It is also available online at www.amazon.com, www.xlibris.com and www.bn.com.
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The following is a poem written by Hattan:
Growing Up in Vietnam, by Dick Hattan
Sweat-drenched days collided with an endless stream of
Boring darkness on the bunkered perimeter,
Papa Sahns skipped across green tipped rice paddies,
While water buffalo grazed unhunted amid the war's scream of death.
Though they never came, I awaited as a timid warrior,
Terror lit my heart as the tapes replayed in jungle sounds.
Why am I here while my friends back home
Chase their dreams amid the volley of protest songs.
The ancient tombs spoke of past elegance
As faded paint on Hue's palace displayed forgotten hope,
Brown water and rocks pounded clothes into anger,
But the war machine lurched forward without vision.
Safe in my metal shell, I was spared the blood,
While the birds carried the dead back to the nest,
I crashed into its path as I heard the news about
His legs that were lost to a claymore's advance.
Eleven months ended my sentence but not without the pain
Of growing up in Vietnam, finally a man.
Was it worth the fear of killing amid homesick starvation?
The questions never cease while my mind never rests.
