I was listening to an excessive amount of William Elliot Whitmore a few weeks back. Whitmore always gets me feeling reminiscent for home and a more agrarian life in southeast Iowa. Now my childhood in Donnellson, Iowa was no where near a country life. Residing in a town of 946, resplendent with baseball fields, a city park, and a public pool, I was seen as a soft city kid. I didn't raise animals, save the cats and dogs we kept as pets. I didn't learn to operate heavy machinery until I was in high school. I didn't hunt, ride four wheelers, or drink Busch Light at the age of 14.
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| My home town |
But compared to the students I met in college from Chicago and St. Louis, or the thespians and artists I work with in Davenport, I am as country as an ear of corn. The handful of years I spent on my grandparents farms has made me a certifiable agricultural specialist in the circles I run. That and a healthy dose of bull shit.
So I was driving home from work, listening to NPR (that's the city boy in me), when I heard a sponsorship PSA for an organization called Plowshares institute. The name is derived from a scripture in the book of Isaiah,
“They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore.”
As I mulled over the idea of Swords into Plowshares, I attempted to update the metaphor.
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| Plant the Piece |
Bombs into plowshares
Guns into plowshares
Pistols into plowshares
That had a great ring to it. As I rolled the words around my brain, a story began to develop. A Jesse James style tale of misdeed and a fight for survival for a young country boy. A little dramatic, maybe, but perfectly in style with the over-the-top affectations of the early westerns by John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Errol Flynn. From that story, this song arose. Here it is.
Pistols to Plowshares
I was born in the dust bowl, in the fall of '21
Grew up corn and cattle, my old man, and his shot gun
Saw my pa gunned down in cold blood over debts we could not pay
I took everything that meant anything to my pa and I rode away
Trailed him home that night, on my dads horse with his shot gun
Buried two shots in that bankers back, and in the dead of night I run
15 year old fugitive, I gunned my way cross the midwest
Lookin for some answers, praying for some rest
Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down
looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground
And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head
Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead
I met a girl in Iowa, on the day I turned 16.
Took her out a dancing, I sure did find her keen.
But some ol' rounder cut in on us, he'd seen my face and the word reward
Lit up that ol' dance floor, left my lover on the floor.
Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down
looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground
And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head
Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead
My old man never taught me much before he left this earth
The value of a good mans word, what a hard days work is worth
The only thing he didn't teach is how its bigger to forgive
If he had I wouldn't be here now just struggling to live.
Now I been running longer than I've been sitting down
looking over my shoulder, so I don't end up in the ground
And all I want is a plot of land, a place to lay my head
Turn these pistols into plowshares, find some peace before I'm dead
As always, post any thoughts, comments, additions, etc.
Thanks for listening! See you next week.
Cool song!
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