They powered up the city with hydroelectric juice.
Now we got more electricity than we can ever use.
They flooded out the hollow and all the folks down there moved out,
but they got paid so there ain't nothin' else to think about.
Some of them made their living cutting the timber down,
snaking it one log at a time up the hill and into town.
TVA had a way to clear it off real fast:
Lots of men and machinery, build a dam and drown the rest.
Uncle Frank lived on the bottom, down on Cedar Creek.
Bought fifteen acres when he got back home from overseas.
Fifteen rocky acres, figured no one else would want,
'till all that backed up water had to have some place to go.
Uncle Frank couldn't read or write.
Never held down a job, or needed one in his life.
They assured him there'd be work for him in town building cars.
It's already going down.
The cars never came to town and the roads never got built.
And the price of all that power kept on going straight uphill.
The banks around the hollow sold for lake-front property
where doctors, lawyers, and musicians teach their kids to water-ski.
Uncle Frank couldn't read or write,
so there was no note or letter found when he died.
Just a rope around his neck
and a kitchen table turned on its side.