. Robert Jack Eardley was, for many years, Chief Psychiatrist for the U.S. Justice Department. In 2000, he organised a family gathering of thousands with our surname, in the small English town where the name originated. People came from as far away as China and New Zealand. Our home has seen much better days than these, This City born of Brimstone, Fire and Clay. Now tainted by sad dereliction’s sleaze, Of boarded up desertion and decay. But on one fine and sunny summer’s day, The welcome mat was rolled across the ground. This big-shot from the mighty USA, Was here to grace our English working town. Where pottery folk departed long ago, In search of better lives across the sea. They settled down in rural Ohio, East Liverpool, the place that set them free. Where Robert Jack had chased his DNA, Left dangling on his distant family tree. The secrets he discovered on the way, The circuitry connecting him to me. For years we’d got his letters sent to thank, We kinfolk with the self-same name as him. My Dad said, “You can never trust a yank If I were you, I’d put them in the bin.” But on this sunny day, we coalesced, We thousands gathered by the Churchyard wall. A family celebration of the best, And Robert Jack had organised it all. We dug deep in our pockets to afford, The hefty price of coloured glass and lead. The window in the Church was thus restored, Our family crest now shining overhead. And so, he flew away for to resume, His noble and illustrious career. We kin-folk of the fifties baby-boom, Would bless the happy quest that brought him here. The day he passed away, I shed a tear, Remembering the time he chose to spend. Amongst his happy family gathered here, Of Robert Jack, my relative and friend. . . Jeff Eardley lives in the heart of England near to the Peak District National Park and is a local musician playing guitar, mandolin and piano steeped in the music of America, including the likes of Ry Cooder, Paul Simon, and particularly Hank Williams.