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THE GOOD OLD DAYS
By: d. Glorso
As we age little things change. Not too important we think, but each day we are a little closer to death. Our body’s clock, is still ticking while the mind tries desperately to hold it all together. Now at the age of 72 we come to the realization, the end is near. Funny, 72 is considered a good pulse rate.

Healthy most of life but 2020 has been a wake-up call. Actually we have been dying since the day of birth. But thankfully, most humans call it “living”.

“This is really living”, my Dad Sam Glorso would always say as he sat with a fishing pole in hand. He relaxed at the edge of Mallard Lake in Keeneyville, Illinois. Dad gazed across the blue clear waters toward the green weeping willows on the other side of the pond.

He loved that little lake. Pete Moss and/or gravel loaded in his dump truck. He brought a little piece of Mallard Lake to his clients living in the city, where immigrant families grew their lovely gardens along the concrete alley-ways of Chicago. Beautiful, the smell of fresh tomatoes for the pasta sauces were simmering on the stoves of Italian immigrant kitchens.

They’re sweet smelling gardens brought to you by Sam Glorso, a coal-man in the winter and a dirt-man in the spring. As a boy I watched him enjoy his toil to make life better for those Italian country folks trapped in the city. Who could not love a man with a generous heart for his older generation? He delivered a piece of the old country to the Brown Chicago “Daygoes” who crossed those oceans for a better life in America.

How often do we forget their sacrifice and boldness? They managed an often painful trip to the “New World” for the good of the family. Then in his broken prime, Sam Glorso hauled his family across the continent to the California Coast. Where the climate is more like the Sicilian shores, where our ancestors began their arduous journey. They came to America from a place only known to us as “the old country”.

Imagine now; why do we suffer so over these Covid-19 times? It is a sign of a new beginning. Like our assessors, embrace the transition. More people will someday be in the happiest life they know, recalling these as the good old days. Where, loving families cared dearly for one another.

FOREWORD
The poems and paintings presented by Dean Glorso In Search of the Laughing Place arise from yearnings and recollections, some nostalgic and harking back to childhood, others connecting to history and the circumstances of a veteran's homecoming. Together the poems and iconic paintings are often complementary; and offer us admission and transit through the author's lifetime journey in the form of lyric narrative poems supported by original art, a work that blends empathy, irony and pathos.
The recurring themes for resolution in this fine, engaging book bring light upon the past, including stories of family and those lost in conflict. The central theme of longing and homecoming is best exemplified when the author returns to a place frequented by him and his friends while growing up in Keeneyville, Illinois. However, the "Laughing Place" of the title is more than a search for a physical environment. Both the poems and evocative paintings become our compass pointing the way to an ideal; perhaps now lost as it once was, but one that is still very real in our memory, and held permanent in our hearts and minds.
To Dean Glorso laughter is as important to the mind of mankind as nourishment from food is to the human body. "In Search of the Laughing Place" takes us on a verbal and visual journey to a place of the heart. Sometimes the journey to laughter is not direct, but through our experiences in life we must draw ourselves to the "Laughing Place" we crave. Dean Glorso's book of poems and paintings unleashes thoughts and emotions needed to remind us that laughter is good for the soul.

Dan Guenther, USMC Vietnam Veteran
Award Winning Author & Poet

THE MAJOR'S MAIL CALL (1st Place National Award VA's Festival of Arts 2016)

Like Santa Claus, I drop the sack
Letters from the "World", I sort and stack

Some familiar some new, as I flip through the mass
Some special for Marines, missing or killed in the act

Vietnam, my job, the mail takes care
Then I see the letter, scent fills the air

The handwriting so perfect, the black ink so clear
The blue-green envelope smells sweet and dear

She doesn't yet know, the word just around
The Major's mission, must have met ground

He"s the XO, I look up to, all give him respect
I stare long and hard at the letter, and cock my neck

And reflect on the times, I handed him the stack
Blue-green on top, in his chair he'd lean back

His feet found their way, to the crate called his desk
With a smile he'd thank me, I'd deliver the rest

Leaving him to read the letter, scented so sweet
Now I wonder how many years, she will weep

Not knowing the fate, of her man so dear
Missing in Action, must be every love's fear

The cross on the wall, not yet removed
The Major's Mail Call, death not proved

MY GLEAMING MACHINE
My gleaming machine packed for the road
How I loved the freedom and biker code
Painstakingly crammed for weather, drastic and fair
Complex nonetheless simple, I rode it with care

Senses heighten on the road, beneath blue sky
In my mind and my memory the air rushes by
A teeming world reduces a freeway to alley
Autonomy on two wheels is a minds true ally

A few gamble, some venture on crowded Dark Street
Cars speed down the Parker, in full summer heat
I embark on a journey through mountain and tree
Beyond wheat fields and homes, I roll past the sea

Encircled by nature, my county my home
I stop unaccompanied, fish-camp alone
These days of travel are some of the best
Solitude � no stress, freedoms crest

I�m dependent on my own free will
I look for beauty in flat-land or hill
No one to tell me when to ride
One soul pleases, only one pride

Some talk thunder and trailer the bike
Many dress the part but settle for trike
Movement and sunshine together in one
Heal on pavement, armed with a gun

Two wheels near four, need rules and code
Fight for position in a jam clustered road
Watch the good driver, for soon they turn bad
Cars, trucks and buses will make the wits mad

Invisible I rode in the rush of the day
My flesh protects metal, some will say
A donor of organs, my card should read
Ancestors of morons, on bikers they feed

How dare they confiscate my liberty and will
They don�t know I helped support Freedom Hill
In a place called the Nam with the U.S.M.C.
Then built a golf course by the Andaman Sea

In Asia a biker has even more peril
Run down like dogs or cats trot feral
A vision of crash must always be with thee
Mind set and leather is much of what saved me

OSCAR BART by d. glorso

Oscar Bart was a lath and plaster man
in the nineteen thirties he honed his skills
A building tradesman when craft meant pride
When we knew him, he was mired by age

Plaster of Paris put mud in his veins
One leg shorter put a weave in his step
The sideways motion
Made him a charismatic old hipster

The thin paper of a Chesterfield King
Permanently stuck to his lip
Bellowed smoke across his cheeks
His eyes squinted from irritation

His face never clean shaven
But his thick purple lips smiled largely
As he walked into the old store
We would rise to the occasion

And listen closely as to what he had to say
As his wisdom and humor
Gave us a charge
Smart-aleck kids we liked the old fool

We're now past old Oscar's age
And stuck in ways of habit and routine
But will a poet someday inscribe
A line or two in honor of us

A Greatest Generation released the helm
It's now our time to impress the young
With craft and savvy for them to believe
Swagger on, swagger on....

Long after General Winfield Scott�s Army of reinforcements headed southwesterly from Chicago, to help defend the Illinois settlers from the Sauk Indian Leader, named Blackhawk. And long after the American Civil War. And long after my grandfather, Oscar Jackson fought in the trenches during the First World War. And not too long after my Father, Samuel S. Glorso returned from fighting in the Second World War. And only a few years after I saw Korean War soldiers bivouacked along the highways on the way into The City of Chicago. But before my childhood friend Richie Mullin joined the United States Marine Corps. And before many from this little Town of Keeneyville, Illinois served in Vietnam; and before Andy Warhol painted 32 portraits of Campbell�s soup cans; and before Arlo Guthrie sang about the Illinois Central trains �Rolling along, past houses farms and fields�; and before I started putting survey monuments across this land; as a boy in my hometown of Keeneyville, I peered across a Campbell�s Soup tomato farm through a surveyor�s �Dumpy Level� for the first time in my life. It was a memorable moment for me, as it was the beginning of my fascination with my surroundings, and the technology that I would soon use in a Land Surveying career spanning more than 45 years. It is a career where I would make a difference by literally putting a mark upon the world.
The Dumpy Level, with optics I had never witnessed, was set up by surveyors laying-out the new construction of Case Foundation Company�s industrial machine shop, only 30 feet or so East of our tiny home along U.S. Highway 20, about 25 miles West of Chicago, Illinois. This was the start of big changes for the little Town of Keeneyville, and it would also be the start of my adult life where I would begin thinking about the future, and taking note of construction techniques, procedures, and technology that would make all these changes to Keeneyville possible. This moment in my life was also the beginning of a transition from being a child happy to spend summer days swinging on a rope tied high from a cottonwood tree at the place we called �The Laughing Place�, to being an adult.
In adult life, I would find myself yearning for the days I spent with my friends there, and use the changing technology to my advantage, by starting a �Facebook� group page, called �Keeneyville Swamp Rats� to reconnect with people from my hometown. The naming of the Facebook page was easy, as it represented �Baby Boomers� from this little town of lowlands and ponds. A name given to us by the more affluent children of Lake Park High School established some miles away from our town, but just across the street from a very posh, well known country club and golf course called �Medinah�. The condescending name Keeneyville Swamp Rats stuck with us, and today it is a name we wear with pride, and it reminds us of the wonderful little town that was long ago swallowed up by the expanding metropolis of Chicago-land.
One Swamp Rat that I reconnected with is Doug Ehorn. Doug also a writer and veteran, had written a book called, �Keeneyville Kids�. Doug�s book reminded me of the many wonderful people I grew up with, and he also recently started a list on Facebook of Military Veterans who served from our home town. The name of Richie Mullin was put at the top of the list of Marines who served. As Richie was the only one of us from Keeneyville who was killed during the Vietnam War. I remember Richie well, as he was a fellow Swamp Rat who lived closest to the old Laughing Place, a place now converted into a wonderful DuPage County Forest Preserve, called Mallard Lake. With Doug being, an Air Force Vet, retired Environmentalist, and fellow Swamp Rat who wanted to have a memorial service meeting at Mallard Lake for Richie on this Veteran�s Day, I came up with a land surveying idea for our fallen Veteran Hero.
I�ve used this idea before, and wrote about it in Colorado�s Professional Land Surveyor�s magazine, Side Shots Volume 33, Number 2, May Journal 2002 in an article called �One of Colorado�s Prides�. In the article I described placing a survey monument at Red Rocks Amphitheatre, in Denver, Colorado. I named the survey control monument �Tony Shiya�, after a young surveyor employee who was killed in a car accident, during the Red Rocks renovation, and new visitor center construction project. This is an idea that I presented to Doug Ehorn and we decided to use it for our friend Richie Mullin, by placing the monument this Veterans Day as pictured here. Doug will place it at or near the place we called The Laughing Place. Later a licensed land surveyor, registered in Illinois will establish GPS coordinates for the position and record the �control� monument with the appropriate agency. The 3-1/4 inch bronze monument reads: �RICHIE MULLIN USMC, WELCOME HOME, THE LAUGHING PLACE, KEENEYVILLE SWAMP RATS�.
Most everyone in the Baby Boomer Generation has someone they know who was killed in the Vietnam War. It is my hope that other Land Surveyor/Veterans will take the time to look up at least one of the 58,272 names on this web site www.vvmf.org and prepare a monument named in the veteran�s honor. Placement is up to the Land Surveyor, but I believe hometown parks are a wonderful place to Welcome Home our Vietnam War Heroes. The memorial monument set flush with the ground takes up no more space than a sprinkler head. Besides, every land surveyor knows, the more control points and benchmarks we have the better we like it.
Semper Fidelis,
Dean F. Glorso, Veteran USMC Vietnam 1968 � 1969
Colorado Professional Land Surveyor PLS# 16109 (Active)

A LONGSTANDING PROFESSION - By: Dean Glorso, Colorado PLS #16109
�I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life. And see if I could not learn what it had to teach. And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived� - Henry David Thoreau 1817-1862.
Thoreau is mostly known for his writings while living in a cabin at Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts. He traveled often to Maine and worked as a Land Surveyor for about 9 years of his short 44 years of life. As with most �famous� people of our profession, Thoreau didn�t become famous for his particular work as a surveyor, but for his accomplishments of a passion most dear to his heart.
As an artist, I want to illustrate a history of our profession in a �picture�. After all, they say a picture is worth a thousand words. J. B. Guyton, Editor of Side Shots graciously allowed my painting, �A Longstanding Profession�, to be displayed on the cover of this wonderful publication.
In thinking about an art project, I first Googled: �Land Surveyor Artists.� One name that came up was G. K. �Ken� Allred, a past president of the Alberta Land Surveyor Association, Canada. Ken published a remarkable article, �Survey Art � An Interesting Subject�. (I encourage you all to surf the web and read it.) As I read Ken�s article, and did more searching of �Land Surveyor Art� images, I realized no-one had made a painting telling the longstanding history of our profession, thus my reason for doing so. I hope you all enjoy my painting, and read into it, what you wish.
The famous surveyors and surveying objects depicted on the cover of this issue of Side Shots are: Beginning at the top right of the painting, Captain James Cook (1728-1776) standing on his chart of the Newfoundland Coast; Thence continuing left, boustrophedonically (as fields are plowed); to Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862); Thence to the Egyptian Rope Stretchers (2700 B.C.); Thence Edmund Gunter�s Chain (1620); Thence the Surveyor�s Plane Table (prior to 1830); Thence the 30/60 Degree Triangle; Thence George Washington (1732-1799); Thence David Rittenhouse�s Compass (1732-1796); Thence Abraham Lincoln (1809-1864); Thence the Plumb Bob Target; Thence Charles Mason (1728-1786) & Jeremiah Dixon (1733-1779) Line; Thence A GPS Satellite (1st Launch 1978); Thence Meriwether Lewis (1774-1809) & William Clark (1770-1838); Thence Thomas Jefferson (1743-1826) on the US Nickel; Thence Charles Trimble�s Robotic Total Station (2000); Thence Andrew Ellicott (1754-1820), the surveyor who completed the Mason / Dixon Line to the West; Thence The Roman & Greek Surveyors (about 300 A.D.) ; Thence Benjamin Banneker (1732-1796), the surveyor appointed by Washington to layout Washington D.C.; Thence the Brass Plumb Bob (about which a poem I wrote and was published in Side Shots many years ago by Art Hipp), and Thence Terminating at Author Hipp (1925-2007) a Colorado Land Surveying Giant, and Founding Editor of Side Shots Magazine.
The placement of this collage has significance to me as a surveyor/artist. Example: Lincoln is placed North of the Mason / Dixon line in Pennsylvania where he made a very famous speech. Everyone has their own interpretation of a piece of Art. I challenge you, the Surveying viewer to write less than a thousand words to describe your interpretation of this art. Then send your thoughts to Side Shots for possible publication. The surveying community would be interested to know what you think.

JOAN OF SMART by: Dean Glorso
Even in tired clothing, Mum always looked stately to me
Born modest in Wisconsin, her father survive the Great War
A West Allis drafter, he married a college girl
But cancer snatched his love

Joan was left motherless at the young age of seven
The death brought her duty too young
She prized a sister age four, and a brother age two
Exiled to Todd County, she lived with her Auntie

The South Dakota Mission taught her faith to survive
The plight of the Natives, taught her love
Her wits were honed keen in the Sand Hills of Nebraska
The Nuns taught her poise and dignity, Saint Mary�s, O�Neill

Hope came to her at the place where Crazy Horse died
An Italian-American warrior sang in the cafe�
Words grabbed her heart, the union began
Then off to war he�d ride

Feeling the need to bond with Italian family
She moved to Chicago, pregnant with child
In the foreign city of in-laws and out-laws
Communications failed

Exiled again, she and her babe found shelter
In the Army of Salvation
While the Army of War fought on
The aid of strangers shaped friends

The struggle continued when her hero returned
The song in his voice scratched by War
The bloodless wounds that trauma can bring
Changed the man she loved

Four more children blessed the couple�s life
The Greatest Generation passes on
The knowledge and smarts of Mother�s like Joan
Filters on to us now

Learn more. Love more from women of the past
May the grace of God let unions last
Keep smart thoughts at the surface of your mind
For life is filled with change, and wars bring out the wrath of man

HERO�S

You�re a military hero, home at last
Will you be known as time goes past?

What made you do it why were you brave?
Your buddies didn�t ask, but still you gave

More than your share of effort for the cause
You made the ultimate, while others pause

If called could I react as you, die for another�s freedom?
What would go through my mind could the moment come

Could I too volunteer my life, for the few?
Brother Marines the Corps is proud of you

RESOLVE
By Cpl. Dean F. Glorso, Mail Clerk
USMC �Draftee� - Vietnam Veteran 68-68

In youth it takes time to develop direction
As I floundered through the adolescent years
Giving no mind to purpose or consequence
I rely on luck

Waiting for something to grab me
Something to hold me tight
As I wave in the breeze of life
A godsend disguised as war

Forced my lazy hand to act
Struggle heightens my senses
The men around me are my heroes
Marine Aviators with wits of steel

My eyes focus
My ears perk up
My mouth stays shut
I observe, listen, and do my job

Only now I realize
How important this time was for me
The Corps, and the Corps, and the Corps
Near the seventh decade of my life � I live with resolve

ALMOST A MAN
Fool, you�ve done it to yourself again
You watched the program about Vietnam

Why do you watch what you can�t forget?
Why is no-one concerned except the Vet?

So now you can�t sleep, because your mind won�t stop
Where were you in �68�? It was college you dropped

The bus station, California, the bus backed out
Up the alley down the side street, then about

Six figures moved from the station, to the sidewalk out front
You pass you hand to the window, with a quiet grunt

Is that your family? The voice is soft
Yes, the lump in your throat makes you cough

Your three sisters, your Dad, your brother, and Mom
All waving, yet one stands out - you try to stay calm

Your Mother, the figure of love, and hope
Your country, your family, the war, and the dope

You must be in the service, again the voice spoke
I�ll bet the Air Force, the voice didn�t grope

No�. you say not wanting to speak
I�m in the Marines. Your eyes want to leak

For the Marines were the ones who were dying the most
You were drafted, you�re not one to boast
Leaving for Vietnam in a day or two
You hope for DaNang, or maybe Pleiku

The voice is quiet the rest of the trip
You stare out the window, teeth to your lip

Kind of shy, you have yet to score
Almost a man you go off to war

STOLEN PASSION
Two wheels and youth, built brothers and more
Race and ride, never a bore
Comrades develop strong and tight
Marines it made, willing to fight

After Nam, rode till the �Wed�
Paused the passion, family instead
Lovers change, found a new miss
The bond resumed, the travel of bliss

Toured this country, with devil dogs true
Rolled with colors; red, white, and blue
Guarded the funerals, of our countries best
Fish-camped rivers, across the ungoverned west

In the saddle, fifteen hours a day
Rode across country with fields a graze
Toured passed oceans, and tree covered lands
Tripped through lush valleys, and dry arid sands

Motorcycle passion, injects youth in the old
It clears the mind, and calms the soul
Gold and cash, a passion can�t capture
Oblivious driver, ended the rapture

A fire chief used, his car like a dart
Stolen Passion - Ransacked Heart

A BED OF ROSES

Life is a bed of roses, petals and stems
Not a wooly blanket with rosy silk hem

Rosy pink flowers arranged as sheets
Thorns in the shadows prick the feet

Life is a bed of roses, how dare they mean sweet
Life has its bitters and rocky hard streets

Be patient with non-sense, friend the power
Sleep with your head on a pillow of flowers

Life is a bed of roses, a partner you need
Enjoy the fragrance, look out for the greed

Stem the corners, watch over your shoulder
A sweet heart partner keeps out the colder

Life is a bed of roses, pink yellow and red
Beware the dangerous golden thread

Shimmering temptation, objects in life
The rose is a flower, the stem is a knife

ARTHUR W. HIPP, USMC By: Dean F. Glorso, PLS 16109
It has been almost seven years since founding editor, long time PLSC treasurer, and Side Shots originator Art Hipp passed away. Most every Professional Land Surveyor in the Rocky Mountain Region knows the land surveying legacy Art�s name commands. But for the newer members of our profession, I would like to point out some of the sacrifices Art made--and the courage he was able to muster--as a young 19 year old United States Marine in 1945.
I first met Art Hipp at Metropolitan State College in 1976. He was teaching Boundary Law and Land Surveying Principles two or three nights a week. I felt honored to be learning from such an unassuming and eloquent man. He made every point of the complex Land Law crystal clear. Art patiently helped many of us young baby boomers become well informed Professional Land Surveyors by channeling all of his experience and knowledge into simple classroom discussion. He also provided wonderful typewritten hand-outs that we used as a study guide to prepare for the LS test. During this time as one of his students, I learned Art was also in the United States Marine Corps and served in WWII. Having also served in the Marines, in a different war, I gained a dual admiration for Art Hipp.
When Art passed away, like many land surveyors, I attended Art�s funeral in September 2007. At the service I noticed several men with USMC lapel pins and struck up a conversation with them. One of the Marines I met that day was Robert L. Fischer, Colonel USMC (Retired).
Art belonged to an Arvada, Colorado Marine Veteran�s Group called Cooper�s Troopers. When I told Art�s Marine buddies I also was in the Marines and had served in Vietnam, Bob Fischer graciously invited me to attend their monthly meetings. To phrase Bob�s exact words, he said, �Please come to our luncheon meetings, Dean, I also served in Nam. At Cooper�s Troopers, these World War II guys actually tolerate us Vietnam Vets.� Bob Fischer�s words really appealed to me, and I�ve been enjoying the luncheon meetings with Art�s peers ever since.
At the Cooper�s Troopers meetings, I learned that Bob Fischer took it upon himself to interview all the willing WWII Marine Veterans of the luncheon group, and put his findings in a book, Voices of the Corps. In his book is a one page bio on Art Hipp. I now feel compelled to write what I�ve learned about Art�s Honorable Service in the United States Marine Corps.
OKINAWA - APRIL FOOL�S DAY/EASTER SUNDAY, 1945
Art was standing on decks, waiting to disembark in Higgins landing boats with hundreds of his Marine brothers around him. Art was in awe, watching the pounding guns of the USS New Mexico battleship and hundreds of other ships and airplanes, softening up the beachhead and surrounding volcanic mountains. One of the more seasoned Marines in the group might have said to him, �In January of this year the kamikaze attacks destroyed her bridge, and killed the Captain of the New Mexico, in the Battle for Luzon, Philippines.� All the Marines must have been happy to see the battleship back from Pearl Harbor, where repairs to her bridge were made. Little did Art know then, but in a little over a month, he will personally witness more kamikaze attacks on the New Mexico, and this time devastating strikes will kill 58 and wound 119 of her crew.
On this particular April Fool�s Day, Art is part of the largest island battle of World War II. The amphibious landing currently in progress involves 182,000 Army and 81,000 combat ready Marines. Imagine this force of Army and Marines filling six National Football League stadiums, then letting them all out at once, with each person carrying a 60 pound pack and weapon. With jeeps, trucks, tanks, accompanied with a month�s provisions of ammo, food, and fuel. To assist this contingent known as the 10th U.S. Army, all these materials were being unloaded from hundreds of ships and placed on a beach about 7 miles in breadth.
Art�s unit, �E� Company, of the 2nd Battalion, of the 29th Marine Regiment, was part of the newly formed 6th Marine Division. The 6th Marine Division (6th MAR DIV) made up about 10% of the total force being deployment on this Easter Sunday Morning. The 6th MAR DIV, Commanded by Major General Lemuel Shephard � USMC, was a mixture of combat seasoned Marines, and green Marines like Art.
The Pentagon decided to form and train the new 6th Marine Division in Guadalcanal over the previous five months to aid in the taking of Okinawa. With more Women Marines taking on the clerical and non-combat jobs back in the States, it freed up more able bodied men for overseas combat duties. Young Art Hipp was one of these men. As all Marines are first and primarily Riflemen, Art was also trained in Ordinance, and coupled with his infantry training, schooled in 60mm mortars. Upon being attached to the 6th MAR DIV, Art was designated Company Clerk and Company Runner for E Company.
The Battle of Okinawa has been called the largest sea-land-air battle in history. It is also the last battle of the Pacific War. Three months of desperate combat leave Okinawa a "vast field of mud, lead, decay, and maggots." More than 100,000 Okinawan civilians perish, with over 72,000 American and 100,000 Japanese casualties. 2
The Pentagon�s further plans for the 6th MAR DIV was for it to be part of the force in the final ground invasion into the Japanese mainland. Many historians believe it was this horrific battle (with over � million casualties) that convinced U.S. leaders to force Japan�s surrender with a nuclear strike, rather than invade its main island. Therefore the 6th was the only Division in Marine Corps History to be formed and disbanded overseas, as after the Atomic Bombs, the mainland invasion was no longer necessary.

Art�s unit landed on Green Beach 2 with the first wave of Marines. There was light and sporadic enemy fire, as was the plan of Japan�s General Mitsuru Ushijima. But the following summary gives us a deeper perspective:
More mental health issues arose from the Battle of Okinawa than any other battle in the Pacific during World War II. The constant bombardment from artillery and mortars coupled with the high casualty rates led to a great deal of men coming down with combat fatigue. Additionally the rains caused mud that prevented tanks from moving and trucks from pulling out the dead, forcing Marines (who pride themselves on burying their dead in a proper and honorable manner) to leave their comrades where they lay. This, coupled with thousands of bodies both friend and foe littering the entire island, created a scent you could nearly taste. Morale was dangerously low by the month of May and the state of discipline on a moral basis had a new low barometer for acceptable behavior. The ruthless atrocities by the Japanese throughout the war had already brought on an altered behavior (deemed so by traditional standards) by many Americans resulting in the desecration of Japanese remains, but the Japanese tactic of using the Okinawan people as human shields brought about a new aspect of terror and torment to the psychological capacity of the Americans.
Art was assigned as Company Clerk and Runner for E Company on Okinawa. I asked one of Art�s Cooper�s Troopers peers, Jim Blane, who had the same job description as Art during the battle of Iwo Jima. What were some of the jobs Art had to perform on Okinawa as Company Clerk & Runner? I asked. Jim replied, �Any stupid, nasty job that had to be done, Art would have to do it. From hauling ammo and medical supplies to fellow Marines pinned down, to retrieving bodies and body parts from the sea, in battle Marine Clerks filled in wherever necessary. Art would have to go any place where elements of his company needed him. His duties would change from day to day and from place to place.�
The map of Art�s movements (Figure 1), across Okinawa is my best guess based on information I have gathered from various sources. Corporal Hugh C. Lipsius, USMC, father of Cynthia Lipsius of Buffalo, NY, was in the 3rd Platoon, E Company, 2nd Battalion, 29th Marine Regiment, 6th Marine Division, (Same Company as Art). Cynthia assembled very detailed writings of her father�s movements during the battle. The following is a portion of a letter Cynthia provided written by her father Hugh Lipsius dated July 4, 1945:
I will give a brief resume of my stay here. We landed about 12:30 on April 1, 1945. On April 3rd we moved West of Yontan Airfield. On about the 6th of April we started to move North. We walked 30 miles in two days (whew). We had our first fight on the 12th. On the 15th we had the worst one of the Northern Campaign. The morning of the 16th our squad was sent on patrol. We were hit with mortar fire and returned to our C. P. (command post). We were sent out on another patrol and almost got trapped but managed to get out O.K. Our next battle was �Sugar Loaf Hill�. I can�t put into words to describe it, but most of the men in the cemetery were from that battle and also the hospitals. In the next one, I was hit and got back in time to come in on the Oroku Peninsula. Five days later, I was back in the hospital and got back here (to Okinawa) for the last 2 days (of the battle for Okinawa).
Art was wounded at Oroku Village on June 14th and evacuated, therefore he would have been involved in the second unprecedented shore to shore amphibious landing on June 4th. This was done to avoid the Japanese stronghold on the high ground dividing the southern portion of the island. The shore to shore landing surprised the Japanese and is credited with saving American lives. About a week after Art was wounded the Battle for Okinawa was all but won: Japanese General Ushijima refused a personal plea from the American General Simon Buckner to surrender. Instead, hearing the sounds of the systematic destruction of positions nearby on Hill 89, Ushijima and General Cho committed ritual suicide, each disemboweling himself with a short sword followed by his beheading by his principal aide.
For his combat performance Art received the following commendation from his division commander: For gallantry in action and extraordinary achievement during operations against the enemy on Okinawa Shima from April 1st to June 21st, 1945, your courage was a constant source of inspiration to your associates, and your conduct throughout was in keeping with the highest traditions of the Naval Service�. LEMUEL SHEPHARD, MAJGEN � USMC. (Commanding General 6th Marine Division,, Major General Shephard, was a veteran of the First World War, and would go on to become the 20th �Commandant of the Marine Corps � 4 star general �Top Marine� during the Korean War ).
The words by Lemuel Shepherd are evidence of Art�s high ethical standards, and his superior dedication to The Professional Land Surveyors of Colorado and probably all his lifetime duties and accomplishments. Semper Fidelis . To Art Hipp, a mentor and Marine of the Greatest Generation.

SOMETIMES IT HAPPENS
A tale of a Colorado Land Surveyor
By: Dean F. Glorso, PLS 16109
In the last couple of months I�ve been happy to have a slight backlog of land survey work. This week I had the opportunity to survey in some of the greatest surroundings anywhere. A cattle rancher at the edge of the San Louis Valley asked me to come down to survey one of his stock ponds. He wanted to document alterations, the water courts ordered him to make for the surface area of the pond. The work being a 4 or 5 hour drive from my home in Brighton, Colorado, I hit the road just before 5 AM.
With the winter sun not rising until after 7 AM, I had a couple hours of mountain driving in the dark of night. As Colorado drivers know, the morning and evening hours are when deer crossing the highway are a big hazard. I had been reminded of that fact early in my trip, with a narrow miss. Lucky the deer stopped in its tracks when I laid on my horn. After passing by with its nose only inches from my passenger side mirror, I paid closer attention to my speed and the roadway in front of me. A few more miles down the road I witnessed a driver with a smashed front end stopped, talking to a police officer. His accident was obviously the result of a deer crossing the highway in front of him. Sometimes it happens, I thought.
Later I saw a recently killed calf in the middle of the highway, and still later I was delayed by a rolled over semi-truck blocking almost both lanes of the narrow roadway. As I drove slowly by the greasy side of the long 18 wheeler, I estimated the winds to be about 40 mile per hour. Sometimes it happens, the truck was probably deadheading empty and the gust of wind caught the driver by surprise, tipping his truck completely over.
With the unexpected delays, I was surprised to complete the 230 mile trip and meet my client at the ranch house at pretty much my expected arrival time. Larry and Ken, the contractors were in the kitchen finishing coffee with my client. Gregg, offered to brew a fresh pot of coffee for me before I went out to assess the day�s work. At first I declined, but remembered my Thermos was just about empty, and a hot cup of coffee would be a nice thing to warm up to after working near the foot of the cold, windy mountain range.
Gregg started the coffee while I went to get my Thermos. As I handed him the empty bottle, I offered to get started by setting up the GPS base station. He said he�d drive out later and just put the Thermos of coffee on the seat of my truck for me to enjoy later. We both anticipated a short work day, as I had surveyed his ranch previously. We met up again, walked around the stock pond together and he pointed out key elements that needed to be shown on the survey. Then gave me the history of his water rights dispute and pointed out the creek access verses the natural spring access of water filling the pond.
The wind was still howling as I finished surveying the pond perimeter then decided to hike several hundred yards and locate some fence lines, a section corner and ranch roads, in order to give my drawing a better point of reference. I was walking near the area Gregg previously pointed out as being the spring fed water source. Most of the ground was slightly frozen and wind-swept with some minor snow cover. Having some 40 years experience surveying in the elements, I always knew how to dress for Colorado winters. One minute you can be freezing your butt off in conditions like this, and the next minute you can be basking in the bright wonderful Colorado sunshine.
I was dressed in my usual layers of clothing, with top layers tucked into alternate bottom layers to block the wind from creping in. My long underwear is a polyester type so when working up a sweat, the under garment allows moisture to pass away from the skin, to the next layer. This method of dress keeps the skin warm and dry when the temperature changes radically, as is often the case in the Colorado Mountains. For the outer-most layer, I wore The North Face windbreaker that I�ve used in these conditions for some 20 years, zipped up tight with the Velcro sleeves latched tight in conjunction with the Velcro on my gloved hands. On my feet I wore waterproof Asolo Fugitive boots with two pair of socks, the polyester ones under and wool socks over to keep my feet warm and dry in most every Colorado condition.
My GPS system is old by electronic-gear standards with cables running from my 25 pound back-pack to a 2 meter tall carbon-fiber antenna pole with a dinner plate size GPS antenna-dish is carried in my left hand. Also attached to the pole is a TDS-Ranger electronic data collection device that some refer to as a Pocket-PC (personal computer). A two foot long whip antenna protrudes from the top of the back-pack in order to receive radio signals from the base station which sits on a control point next to my parked pick-up truck, some distance away.
Walking along with head down against the stiff wind, I only looked up occasionally to keep a bearing on the distant fence line that I desired to survey. At a point when I took my eye off the ground to check my walking-line to the fence, my right foot went down through ice into a deep void. Still gripping the carbon fiber pole in my left hand, it too fell with my body to the ever deepening right side. As I went down to the right; back liquid-mud splashed my face and the right side of my body was under water, in mud up to my arm pit. As the pole crashed over to the right, the GPS antenna dish slammed down on high ground to the right of the void. Still gripping the pole in my left hand, I flung my left elbow over the now horizontal pole and rested my left arm pit on it. The pole was the only support I had to keep me from completely going under the dark colored goo. The smell was awful!
My first thought was, that I just fell into a �man size� range box. Any surveyor, who has cleaned black mud out of a fist-size range box, in order to read the survey monument cap under 6 or 8 inches of smelly mud, knows the smell I�m talking about. It is often the smell you might encounter on a cattle ranch around a stock pond. But wait a minute; I am on a cattle ranch! As Forest Gump said in his movie after stepping in dog Do-Do, �Sometimes �--IT� happens�!
Dazed, wet and smelly, I crawled from the hole, dragging the equipment and cables behind me. As I stood, I first checked to see if my ankles were still in working order, they were. Startled, cold and smelling disgusting, I made my way in the wind to my truck only some 200 yards away. It was about that time that I took a glance at the TDS data collector still attached to the carbon fiber pole. It had so much black goo caked on to it, at first I thought I must be looking at the back side of the device. The keyboard of the collector looked like an open box of neatly packed chocolates. I avoided touching it, not because I was on a diet, but because I didn�t want to press any of the wet looking �chocolate� further into the key pad. The collector must have been fully submerged in the black liquid goo, while the GPS antenna dish and cable was completely broken from the fall against the rocks on the far side of the hole. My only thought was for the data stored in the collector. I was plenty cold and wet but found that the caked-on �chocolate� seemed to insulate me somewhat from the strong 40 mile per hour wind.
Once back to the truck, I wiped down my legs and arms with my gloved hands to remove the biggest chunks of black-wet goo, and shook the large chunks of slim from my still gloved hands. Once I removed the wet crappy gloves I grabbed a bottle of drinking water and gently rinsed off the data collector the best I could. The screen was still turned on, so the data must be intact, I hoped.
I spent the next few minutes trying to remember if I had a change of clothing somewhere in the truck. Finally I remember my motorcycle rain gear behind the driver�s seat. Next I removed The North Face windbreaker to pleasantly find that it kept most of my upper body layers free from the dark �chocolate�. The denim jeans were another story, my lower body was wet through and through. The dry motorcycle rain suit was my only option, for even thinking about finishing this job today.
Although the heater in my truck would have felt good, I did not get in as the smelly cow dung would not be nice to have blended into the fabric seats for months to come. Quickly evaluating my options; I remember a block of wood I had behind the passenger seat. It worked perfect for me to stand on after I removed my black muck caked boots in the lightly snow blown surroundings. Once standing on the wood platform, I was able to remove my jeans without further damage to my almost clean, but very wet wool socks.
Finally out of the wet, dung drenched clothing; I stood on the wood pedestal in only my fast drying polyester long johns. The dry, cold, stiff wind would dehydrate them in no time, I thought. As I waited to be air dried by nature, I picked up the Thermos of hot coffee Gregg had left for me and drank cup after cup to ward off hypothermia. As I stood there counting my blessings of having the right gear, and being close to the truck when �- - IT� happened, I remembered the �Forest Gump type� logic of my father: �Some people can work hard all their lives and never get ahead. Other people can fall in �- - IT�, and come out smelling like a rose�.

A PAINTING STILL
On pallet the blend of love begins
But I�ll never bring you back to life
The beautiful face I remember well
Eyes cast down with a rose in hand
A reflecting glass duplicates your dignity
Your complexion too fair for words to express
So I blend and fuss to try it true
Let the color rest as I ponder more
The beautiful niece I miss so much
I defend this act of love
On a canvas that has no life
Your being violated by a man of hate
But your beauty still lingers in our minds
An attempt to fetch your life, I add more tone
The true highlight, detail, and blush
Brighten you for my sister � your Mom
And to your kin, from your uncle with love
I dedicate you, a painting still
D. Glorso

FREEDOM OF THOUGHT

Reflections of chrome I paint for the joy
Automobiles of my youth on a highway called Lake
With my brother we sang a game
As the prides of our age floated by

The smell of exhaust filled our nostrils with life
From a tiny house we named each model and year
Hold on to the joys we experienced those days
A gray Cadillac lived on both sides

In the garages of people of age
They toiled hard for the privilege to possess
A new sculpture of the 1950's machine
The boats of land lumbered on pavements

With suspensions generous in glide
As they sailed along the highways of progress
Past farm fields of beauty and care
Sing with me now the song of the steel

And glass so shiny and new
A song of a dream
A people believed
In the recoveries of two World Wars

Sleep with me now
And let us still dream
In a land where people work for a cause
Our children might grow with trust

As we were shown in our youth
Freedom of thought
Would always surpass
All envy and greed

D. Glorso