SLAUGHTER MOUNTAIN is not a name on a sign at the edge of any town or at the base of any mountain that I can show you on a map. But I can show you the creek into which my mother said she emptied her tubercular mother's spit bucket and I can show you the sealed entrance to the mine where my grandfather, Fred Teeters, breathed the dust that destroyed his lungs. I can show you the mislabeled grave stones that mark their resting place. I can show you the cave my mother played in with her friends. The cave is now a national monument. I can show you the factory that makes the hickory handles. I can show you the river where someone's little brother was swept away that day and I can show you a picture in a yearbook of a girl named Marie Angel. I can show you sunlight on spider webs and I can show you a bale of cotton. The same five hundred pound bale of cotton that scabbed human hands picked for three dollars. I can show you the grave of those who demanded one dollar for each hundred pounds. I can show you the berries on the fence at the end of the trail and I can show you the same sun that sat on that mountain. Jmt '...biting but thoughtful lyrics...' Jeff Prince, Fort Worth Weekly.