was the spirit of the Etowah Clauds and the Forestry Tweeds (pet names for our teams, us working dogs). Under the surface of Rock and Roll with electric technology advances and television presenting a luxurious America to a world catching wind of us, generations of workers in trades, professions, and thin lines of new tradition were holding up the forts. Whether we liked it or not certain "chores" had to be done, especially in the mountains.
Standing on the shoulders of giants we were spread rather thinly on spiney ridges and the fins of dams--great works of design and function, if tended. "In our neck of the woods..." someone would reveal a tool and say about its use in their discipline. Old timers would scoff at the plastic parts and angle, I've fabricated better. There were invites to workshop garages, teepees, and huts. We warned each other not to wear out welcomes or use too much of their sugar and coffee. Never pry, Ayup, friendlies of all generations would agree and disagree to plans for ceasing the day (carpe diem).
Sudden red white faces hollered, Where in the hell, and Where's the fire boy/girl, not as questions so much as GET BACK, lemme see what's going on here.
They'd built that thing in two years would ring in my own head in a constant comparison to greatness and grand. "And it only took us thirty years to let it go to shit," a middle ager mocked a Kellogg's Great. The planet was on fire and falling down around us as we put toes into lifelong works and not a career really.
Documenting everything was part admiration, some amount of casting for disappearing, and finding template to argue with and cajole, wit about and muse over, adopt or save: Never discard anything; rules of thumb.
"Chemistry? Math..." A coach blew a whistle and bound joints and wrapped firmly but not too tight blisters pounded away at tire-dancing, needlework, boxing-fenders, tying and re-tying knots and combinations, sequence and repeats. "Just as important! You'll see when you get there!"
Mighty were the tiniest--asking questions, fitting selves into an awkward learning unity. And as enemies of the West cloaked and swarmed, rushed away to re-form and Come Again our collective head adjusted to the times having changed once again.
Ohah say Can't you see, that we're doing our best? One would pitch a line to a tempest of can't quite remember and the I never knews and the others, our others, would banter and moan, decline, chant a beat, and otherwise willfully participate, or not. Ballads of a generation now stuck in a hairpin turn, now being rushed to confront, to express need to be met, to:
Finding fulcrum on balance beams adrift many times in an umbrage wash between public and private. Such a deal, such a deal, we'd quip either way. The ironies ever mounting on the scales and the be it resolveds ribbons to medals.
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