Refreshing an old, old thread here.

Found on the Internet; I can't vouch for its accuracy:


FAMILY HANDS
Mary Chapin Carpenter

Last Sunday we got in the car and we drove
To the town you were raised in, your boyhood home.
The trees were just turning, up on the ridge,
And this was your valley when you were a kid.
You showed me the railroad that your daddy worked on,
As we neared the old house where your granny lives on.
She's nearing ninety years now, with her daughters by her side,
Who tend the places in the heart where loneliness can hide.

CHORUS: Raised by the women who are stronger than you know,
A patchwork quilt of memory only women could have sewn.
The threads were stitched by family hands, protected from the moth
By your mother, and her mother, the weavers of your cloth.

Your grandmother owned a gun in 1932.
When times were bad just everywhere, you said, she used it too.
And the life and times of everyone are traced inside their palms.
Her skin may be so weathered, but her grip is still so strong.
And I see your eyes belong to her, and too your mama, too,
A slice of Virginia sky, the clearest shade of blue. CHORUS

And a rich man you might never be; they'd love you just the same.
They've handed down so much to you besides your Christian name,
And the spoken word won't heal you like the laying-on of hands,
Belonging to the ones who raised you to a man. CHORUS