 My country is not a snow-capped mountain In the Colorado Rockies Or a seacoast town in Maine Or the tropical islands of Hawai’i. Fine places to be sure, With many fine folks, But they are not my country. My country is a little strip of land in Arkansas, Near where the wagon wheel fell off – The beginning of the Walton family homeplace there in Strong, Where our roots have burrowed deeply down, The source of our strength, unity, and identity. You belong to Gen X or Z? I belong to the Walton clan, Whose line we trace back through four centuries Of years on this continent, and beyond that Over yonder in the Old Country. You celebrate the birth of an abstraction Called America on July 4th? I celebrate the birth of an actual man, Raiford Randolph Walton, my grandfather, A leader in war and in peace, And a patriarch of his kin. You pride yourself on watching debates Between a pair of Tweedle-Dums? I would rather know about the pair of girls Growing in my cousin’s womb. My country is my family, Here with the big hearts And loving souls in little Strong, And wherever else they may be, In Dixie’s land, or further out beyond.
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