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  15 North Fork of the Holston, 1962 On Sunny View Drive, we lived at the end of the road, wide fields, deep woods stood where gravel stopped. Up Mr. Smith’s poplar-topped hill, through barbed wire, out the saddle of a ridged hay field, ran the path to the Holston River. Green history flowed smooth between limestone bluffs and sycamore banks, past the baptizing grounds below Cloud’s Ford or back upstream to Poor Valley where A.P. Carter collected songs we still sing, downstream, the Long Island treaty grounds of the Cherokee. We fled the sunny view for the cool one, our candy striped floats bobbed on cane poles as we jogged down the path to the Holston, my brother in front, me in the rear, heroes caped with towels, we sought the cool water now mercury-poisoned by Olin Saltworks on the north, merged with Eastman Chemical spill to meet the foul of Bemberg Rayon on the south fork where Overmountain Men mustered at Watauga. 16   The gravel roads, now paved and marked, run across subdivided fields of pretension with a view of the deadly green flow. ...


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MARC Record
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