These Here Mountains

Last Saturday, I got up at a crazy time for the weekend, and went to Augusta county, Virginia, to see members of the public, galvanized and angry, speak out about a natural gas pipeline, the largest of its kind (yet) that's proposed to go through hundreds of miles of pristine (long story) mountain forests in Western Virginia.  It'll go from Pocahontas County, West Virginia, through the incredible mountains of Highland County, Virginia, to Augusta, just south of Ramses Draft Wilderness Area, through Staunton, Waynesboro, and on until it meets the lucrative docks in Hampton Roads and Chesapeake, Virginia, where the plumes of gas, plundered from deep in the earth, are sold off to other nations.  Oh, there are shorter routes that the pipeline could take, other ways the gas could get to market, but, alas, it all comes down to money.  The pipeline will go through Salamander bogs and karst aquifers, cutting a 150-mile scar 300-ft wide in wilderness that has stayed intact since the Roosevelts and Pinchots set the land aside.  The scar could accompany exiting utility lines and roads, but some crony of cronies in a Dominion Power office somewhere drew a straight line from flattened West Virginia mountains to the seaport where gas will be sold, and decided that it would be the best route to get what is needed. 

At the end of the meeting, a smiling, friendly lady shook my hand and asked if we had met before.  Certain we hadn't, I said no, but we spoke for a while, I talked about my feelings and she told me about a song she was putting together to get everybody excited, and we were about to go our separate ways, when I asked the lady if she sang with a group or anything, so that I could one day hear the piece she was writing.  She smiled and said, "Yes, my husband and I sing together.  I'm Linda Williams, and the group's name is Robin and Linda Williams." 

I had no idea that this wonderfully friendly lady was my Mom and Dad's biggest idol, the one that they had made me listen to on scratchy tapes and CDs all my life, and, needless to say, I was embarrased and dumbfounded.  I fumbled with some words, and she walked away. 

Well, with Linda's inspiration, I wrote my own song on my long drive back from that meeting. The email I sent her failed, so she won't ever see it, but I thought I should post it somewhere, since I think it could work, and it helps me achieve my lifelong dream of being Woody Guthrie, if Woody hadn't sold out.

As I told Linda in the email that got stuck in the sphincter of cyberspace, the sound is scratchy, the guitar playing abhorrent, but the words, as always, are all that matters.

My Augusta

These gizzled scars are hard won,

Pushing cattle in these hills,

Sinews of old worn muscle,

Hot days I've had my fill,

And you'd think that God played marbles,

On these stubborn meadow fields,

Limestone's took more' my mufflers,

These streams aint got no creel,

But I love each low down locust,

And every mesic poplar grove,

The spirit is in these mountains,

I'm convinced it's God above,

And if you're hoping we just back down,

Watch this land become your spoil,

Don't underestimate our hearts,

Don't dare make our blood boil,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there aint no sunshine,

Cause I ain't giving up on my Augusta,

When McAuliffe and the cronies,

Playing god on E. Broad Street,

I bet they've never smelled these mornings,

Let cool water drown their feet,

If there ever was a reason,

To march the soles off all your shoes,

Ever to fight a battle,

They all said that you'd lose,

These hills are worth your footsteps,

worth all the toil and blows,

This Augusta's gonna make it,

Every hardened farmer knows,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there ain't no sunshine,

Cause I aint giving up on my Augusta..

These here mountains punky bedrock,

Hold a charm I can't explain,

Summers heavy harvest,

Or the winter's white-veiled dress,

Ain't walkin' away in silence,

Won't give it up with ease,

I'll hold this last bright thistle,

When I'm down upon my knees,

So take this 42" pipeline, and shove it where there ain't no sunshine,

Cause I ain't giving up on my Augusta...