Thursday, August 28, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
WHERE WE'LL BE THIS FALL
SEPTEMBER 20TH...FROSTBURG STATE UNIVERSITY APPALACHIAN FESTIVAL
SEPTEMBER 24TH...DUNBAR CHURCH OF GOD...MAMA
SEPTEMBER 27TH...MOUNTAINEER FIELD AT THE MARSHALL GAME
OCTOBER 3&4...NATIONAL STORYTELLING FESTIVAL...JONESBOROUGH, TN.
OCTOBER 11 & 12...KANAWHA COUNTY LIBRARY BOOK FESTIVAL...CHARLESTON
OCOTBER 23...MOUNTAINEER FIELD AT THE AUBURN GAME...LET'S GOOOOOOOOOO!
NOVEMBER 8TH...MOUNTAINEER FIELD AT THE CINCINNATI GAME.
NOVEMBER 22ND...TELEBRATION AT TAMARAC
Saturday, August 9, 2008
MOUNTAIN WOMAN
You've seen her a hundred times before...
On a country dirt road you come to a farmhouse.
It is tattered, rugged, beaten with age.
So is she.
It is there in her tiny garden that she is found, hoeing, digging, weeding carefully each little plant.
Her hair is white, dull, yellowed by the sun.
A pale blue sunbonnet spattered with pink flowers covers her head.
her face is hard yet incredibly tender.
A million years have passed since the sun first kissed her once velvet skin.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
You've seen her a hundred times before...
On a snowy winters morn, cold and icy. Winds that cut and sting with each piercing blow.
There, badly bent by the heavy burden of age, she labors.
Shovel in hand, clad only in a lifeless gray dress, worn and faded.
Her ragged petticoat sags below nearly dragging the wet surface.
For warmth she wears an over sized sweater rolled neatly to fit her short arms, yet barely meeting to button across her round body.
On she shovels, clearing a path as if expecting company.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
You've seen her a hundred times before...
In a rural town.
On the left the Community Chapel. On the right a small white frame house.
The house looks weathered enhanced by the endless variety of flowers that surround it.
Something stirs.
You look closer to find her there. Kneeling in her garden as if praying that God would give breath to each tiny bulb.
Perfection that only time teaches.
Her fingers are shriveled, misshapen, adorned only by a narrow band of gold.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
Oh, yea, you've seen her before...
In a field, a garden, along the road.
Forever toiling over endless task that seem so unimportant.
Fulfilling her life as only a mountain woman can.
As long as there is fertile ground she will toil.
As long as there are hills, she will live free.
She will never be alone.
On a country dirt road you come to a farmhouse.
It is tattered, rugged, beaten with age.
So is she.
It is there in her tiny garden that she is found, hoeing, digging, weeding carefully each little plant.
Her hair is white, dull, yellowed by the sun.
A pale blue sunbonnet spattered with pink flowers covers her head.
her face is hard yet incredibly tender.
A million years have passed since the sun first kissed her once velvet skin.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
You've seen her a hundred times before...
On a snowy winters morn, cold and icy. Winds that cut and sting with each piercing blow.
There, badly bent by the heavy burden of age, she labors.
Shovel in hand, clad only in a lifeless gray dress, worn and faded.
Her ragged petticoat sags below nearly dragging the wet surface.
For warmth she wears an over sized sweater rolled neatly to fit her short arms, yet barely meeting to button across her round body.
On she shovels, clearing a path as if expecting company.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
You've seen her a hundred times before...
In a rural town.
On the left the Community Chapel. On the right a small white frame house.
The house looks weathered enhanced by the endless variety of flowers that surround it.
Something stirs.
You look closer to find her there. Kneeling in her garden as if praying that God would give breath to each tiny bulb.
Perfection that only time teaches.
Her fingers are shriveled, misshapen, adorned only by a narrow band of gold.
Your heart breaks and you wonder, what life has she lived to look so tortured?
Does she have anyone, anything?
Does it matter?
Oh, yea, you've seen her before...
In a field, a garden, along the road.
Forever toiling over endless task that seem so unimportant.
Fulfilling her life as only a mountain woman can.
As long as there is fertile ground she will toil.
As long as there are hills, she will live free.
She will never be alone.
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