Wayne's Song
Wayne’s Song
Wayne Maurice Hubbard passed away, the youngest of five boys
Who with three sibling sisters, brought the Clifton Hubbards joy
Born in 1946, a baby of the “boom”
Came to life in Cobleskill in a dim-lit birthing room
He lived his first years in Gilboa in deep, post-war depression
When young, he dressed in hand-me-downs as the last boy in succession.
Then we moved up to the farm, a place we called “The Hill”
And lived as dairy farmers, with rocky slopes to till.
One day he hit two hammers, steel splinter in his eye
I remember him just blinking and I didn’t see him cry
Another time he hit his head, rope swinging in the barn
And he said, “I think I’m crazy,” his eyes wide with alarm
He loved to sing and harmonize with a voice both sweet and true
He performed one time at the World’s Fair with sisters Carol and Sue
He was a loving boy and man, quick wit and smile so bright
And I’ve got a picture of him as he helped me fix my bike.
I went to see him one last time in north Virginia foliage
He said, “You know, I lived too fast, I should’ve gone to college.”
I played guitar and sang for him the old songs that he loved
“North To Alaska”, “Country Roads”; he hummed “Wings Of A Dove”
I did “You Are My Sunshine”, then through a throaty moan
I heard him say his last request, “The Green, Green Grass Of Home”
Then just before I left he said, “Come on, let’s take a ride”
And we rode with Wanda through the lush Virginia countryside
And though near death, the only thing that preyed upon his mind
Was to make sure I enjoyed my trip and had some small good time
While on his deck, we said goodbye ’neath brilliant Autumn cover
Last words to me: “I love you bro’. It ain’t over till its over”.
He rides his speckled pony now, and it comes through clear and clean
Wayne Hubbard sure did some things bad but never those things mean
And his kind soul and the many generous, loving things he did
Will live long in our memories and in the lives of his six kids.
Wayne Maurice Hubbard passed away, the youngest of five boys……...
