I was perusing an announcement from a PR company the other day and marveled over the flow of flowery writing.
It was upscale and trendified and really as nice as all get out and that’s good. Folks in PR have to make a living too, so they might as well soup things up. By contrast, the regular run of this weekly column is not at all upscale. It never is, even when it tries to sound like the writer knows his stuff. Which he wouldn’t if it jumped up and bit him on the dangling participle.
Anyway, be forewarned: this particular column is a sum of many gnarly, beastly, horribly written parts. My advice is to skip the gnarly, beastly, horrible parts you don’t like. That’s what I do.
Now, first up in the gnarly and beastly and horrible department: I’m working on a song I’m going to call the Ballad of Black Creek/ Blitchton/Ellabell, or Warehouse Hyundai Blues. Part of it (about warehouses) could go like this, because it rhymes.
Here it goes.
I’ve been living here in Black Creek most of my life, with my dogs and kids and hairy old wife.
She came to me yesterday and said looky here, I’m telling you boy we have something to fear.
So I looked outside and what did I see, some company’s put a warehouse right next to me.
I didn’t get a say in it and even if I had, money’s what matters and if it was mine I’d be glad.
But since it ain’t mine I’m feeling kind of sore, cause we sure ain’t living in the country no more.
Chorus:
No sir, we sure ain’t living in the country no more.
Second verse:
I ain’t felt so low since they paved my road, semi trucks always on it toting their loads.
All the port traffic like a giant jockey lot, folks like me don’t rate a parking spot.
It’s called progress and it’s not up for debate, we’re the fastest growing county in the whole doggone state.
They’re building for the future and kids not even born, as if the present itself is something to scorn.
It’s opportunity they say and better pay than before, but at what cost it comes is hard to ignore.
Chorus:
No sir, we ain’t living in the country no more.
Third verse:
It’s living free in the home of the brave, so long as you’re ready to be a wage slave.
Georgia’s open for business, that’s what they say, but you wonder who profits most and with what they get away.
So mind what’s around you as best you can, because before you know it things are already out of hand.
Chorus:
No sir, we ain’t living in the country no more.
Fourth verse:
If you loved the land and the trees and the gentle cows, the dogs and the goats and the tractors with plows, If you loved lonely roads and quiet country sunsets, better spend time now sending your regrets.
To the generations unborn who’ll never know, lightning bugs and honey suckle and a cool creek’s flow.
They’ll make more money maybe it’ll be enough, to pay for storage units for their kids unwanted stuff.
The Indians knew the score better then we, they knew you can’t eat money and you better hug a tree.
It’s a work in progress. Feel free to add lyrics as they occur to you.
Second up in the gnarly and beastly horrible parts department: I think like minded folks worried about the destruction, er, ongoing “development,” of Coastal Georgia need a GoFundMe page to buy up some of the land getting sold to developers and speculators so it can be preserved somehow for future generations to appreciate.
Otherwise, there’s going to be one giant vinyl subdivision from Rincon to Camden County, punctuated by outlet malls, warehouses, car manufacturing factories, an Army bas, tech schools and the world’s largest high school and boat depot.
Worse, putting your boat in the water, even on non-holiday weekends, is going to take half a day and too many beers waiting in line at a boat ramp. It’ll end up going viral.
Happy Fourth of July. Don’t do anything that’ll get you arrested or put you in an urgent care clinic to get de-ticked.
Whitten remains editor of the Bryan County News.