Sunday in the South...

My Mom's Dad hailed from South Carolina. But he was as happy as a clam when he lived in California for may years. Mom tells me that I look like Grandpa Gilstrap, and that I love California like he did. She always paid homage to our southern roots, and especially the fact that her people felt incredibly wronged by the War.

Anyone from the South knows of which war I speak. They're still angry down there. Growing up in Michigan, I can not even begin to fathom the kind of individual that would feel, deep down, wronged by the things that they lost in the American Civil War. But anyways, it's an old-school train of thought that I don't subscribe to.

But if you've ever heard this song, you might get an idea of how small-town America feels about it's boys and girls that it sends out into the world. I'm still a small-town/farm girl. And it's weird how I feel that a little part of me still needs to succeed on behalf of them. (Of course, then I go Home to Michigan and tell the tales of my life, and then come back here and make more tales).

Shenandoah - Sunday In The South

Mill worker houses lined up in a row,
another southern sunday morning blow
Beneath the steeple all the people have begun
shakin' hands with the man who grips the gospel gun
While the quiet prayer, the smell of dinner on the ground
heals up the morning air, ain't nothin' sweeter around

I can almost hear my mama pray:
"Oh lord forgive us when we doubt,"
another sacred sunday in the south

A ragged rebel flag flies high above it all
popping in the wind like an angry cannon ball
The halls of history are cold and still,
but they smell the powder burnin' and they probably always will
And on the old town square under the barber shop pole,
they sat me up in the chair when I was four years old

I can almost hear my papa say:
"Won't you hold still son, stop squirmn' around
another sacred sundays coming down"

I can almost hear the old folks say:
"You'll make it big one day, you'll leave this town,"
Some other lazy sunday you'll come back around

I can feel the evening sun go down,
and all the lights in the houses one by one go out
Softly in the distance nothing stirs about
and the night is filled with the sound of a whipporwil
On a sunday in the south