Text:
Griffith Nanci Winter Marquee

My mother came to America Sailed through the harbor of hopes and of dreams Back in the Thirties With the streets paved in gold And the sky laced with

Nothing that I've ever seen Now means much of anything In traveling through...this part of you And the Vietnam that I had dreamed The place you wore

What is that sound ringing in my ears I've heard that sound before What's that I hear ringing in my ears I hear it more and more It's the sound of freedom

Out of the blue horizon Stretched a band of gold From the straits of Juan De Fuca To the east of Portland, Maine You held my hand As we raced along the

From Boston to Southshore in the back of the bus... It's the last winter storm of the season and such And I am lost to the fiction of the book in my

Gulf Coast Highway He worked the rails He worked the rice fields With their cool dark wells He worked the oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico The only thing

I'm headed out on that highway Listenin' to them big trucks whine I'm headed out on that highway Listenin' to them big trucks whine White Freight Liner