I remember my father when I was young and he still had the lungs of a young man.
The dirt under his nails, the black soot that never washed from the back of his neck or from the creases that moved from his eyes; those deep lines of a life lived in labor are etched in my memory like the jagged rocks from Black Mountain that fall with the Fall showers.
The mines are gone, but the mountain still bleeds with every fresh rain a new layer is peeled off it slides down the hills and valleys filling the creeks with a new layer of mud and silt.
The people of the valley will tell you of a time when they looked out their windows and saw the majesty of the Cumberland, but they are dreaming. All I see is is a bald knob, muddy trails that lead to muddy trails and a wasted land.
And somewhere in this rolling hill country my father is resting, his fingernails scrubbed clean with time.
A well-visited piece with two strong messages
Losing the folks we love is difficult and watching our planet disintegrate is tragic
A mountain behind us is scheduled to be logged, I doubt the end result will positive but someone will make a s**t-load of money and that seems to be the guiding concept of man's relationship with the planet.
Everyone sees things differently, sometimes our outlook and experiences define what we see or how we interpret it. Nice work James.
Posted 6 Years Ago
1 of 1 people found this review constructive.
6 Years Ago
Yep, I still have a pretty good outlook despite my depressing writing, though. I love going home to.. read moreYep, I still have a pretty good outlook despite my depressing writing, though. I love going home to the mountains. Thanks you.
I've tried three times to come up with a good review but my batteries are dying out. This is a great tribute to your father. Natures scenery can often hide its dark side too.
This is an awesome statement about the pillaging of our lands, gracefully stated to pack a punch. Excellently detailed descriptions & realistic lifetimes portrayed from a simple countrified state of mind *smile* Fondly, Margie