My mother left her cherry orchard home when she was only 18 years old. I hear she grew up with nimble fingers, a piano player and a cherry picker, sifting through the trees for bright red gold. But that day, she left to seek her fortunes, crossed that county line and moved on down the road. And she said, “There’s no line quite as thin as that county line, no sin just like leaving all behind that land of cherry trees and pine, for baby, in my mind I’m always looking back to find I’m just a pillar of salt beyond that line.” She was a pastor’s wife, and I am his son. He took us far from my mother’s county line. We crossed state lines like criminals, moving boxes full of old hymnals, glanced back at all the sin we’d left behind. But when summer came, my mother brought us back again, and there I found the only home I’ll ever find. Because there’s no line quite as thin as that county line, no sin just like leaving all behind that land of cherry trees and pine, for Mama, in my mind I’m always looking back to find I’m just a pillar of salt beyond that line. Hard to believe that now my mother has been ten years gone. Hard to believe I’ve got a pulpit of my own. Hard to believe my mother’s cherry trees are growing toward the sun, when I feel so far down and far away from home. And now I count the days, like a blind man counting steps on the way back to his chair. Sometimes I wish I could go back again, show my wife and kids where I really am, pick some cherries, send my mom a little prayer. And the first thing I would say to her is, “How’d you ever tear yourself away from there?” And she’d say, “There’s no line quite as thin as that county line, no sin just like leaving all behind that land of cherry trees and pine, for baby, in my mind I’m always looking back to find I’m just a pillar of salt beyond that line.” I’m just a pillar of white salt unto a different place and time.