When I lived in Indiana ten years ago, I learned a lovely song at a Getaway there about how you could always tell where a woman had lived, because even though "Her old man's work had all gone down/ To ashes and red clay" the flowers she had planted still bloomed and grew in the hills. Does anybody out there know the lyrics, and/or who wrote it? I remember it starts:

Georgeann Crabtree owned our place, 50 years ago
A widow woman most her life, as folks around here know
Her old man, he was bad to drink, it was a sorry sight
He fell off his horse in Dox's Pond and drownded there one night.

Chorus:
See all them bushes, sprung up with wild rose vines
With tangled stands of flowering quince their thorny tendrils twine
Hens and chickens, fresh and green, and banks of daffodils
The legacy of women who settled in these hills.

Many thanks from a music-and-garden lover...

Lynn

HTML line breaks added. --JoeClone, 15-Aug-02.