In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
There's a land that's fair and bright
Where the handouts grow on bushes
And you sleep out ev'ry night.
~Traditonal Hobo Ballad, (Often attributed to Harry "Haywire Mac" McClintock)

One of the first songs that I remember enjoying as a child and that I used to play over and over again on my cheap, little portable record player was The Big Rock Candy Mountains. It was on a little yellow record (a 45 rpm) along with A Tisket, A Tasket, A Red & Yellow Basket and a few other songs that I no longer remember but were intended just for children.

The version on the child’s record was quite a bit more sanitized than the actual hobo ballad. The “alcohol springs” that “come a-tricklin’ down the rocks” of the original become “lemonade springs” in the children’s song. Likewise the sanitized version does not mention police truncheons turning to rubber and railroad "bulls" with wooden legs.

Where the boxcars are all empty
And the sun shines ev'ry day
Oh, I'm bound to go where there ain't no snow
Where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Still, once again about 40 years later, I find myself utterly fascinated with the song since hearing it again, this time in the movie,“O Brother, Where Art Thou.” Playing it over and over, grateful for the tonal quality and handy index of the CD rather than the tinny overtones of my old but beloved and now defunct record player. Obviously, this song strikes a deep chord in me.

Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

The artist who sings this song in such a rhythmic but raspy sing-song voice with such wonderful phrasing seems right out of the lawless, almost mythical 1930s, the era that defined so many of the attitudes and sensibilities of the parents of the baby boomer generation. But, this is not an essay about the grim but fascinating era of the Great Depression.

Rather, it is about that longing for the perfect land and easy living, where everything goes right all the time; where there are no headaches or trips to the dentist or complaints from the boss—Just pure, unadulterated joy all the time. Heaven, Nirvana,the Happy Hunting Grounds, Honalee. . .The Big Rock Candy Mountains are just a few of the names of the ideal world of some of humanity’s deepest longings and fondest dreams.

In the Big Rock Candy Mountains
You never change your socks
And little streams of lemonade
Come a-tricklin' down the rocks.

Just lower your cup in the stream and draw up a cup of the finest lemonade; Nothing to worry about. No surgeon will take out your gall bladder or boss demand that you work overtime in The Big Rock Candy Mountains. There’s always plenty eat and drink as we sit with gentle companions by the fire in the evening.

And I suppose that a possible attribute of enlightenment could be never having ". . .to change your socks. . ."

The hobos there are friendly
And their fires all burn bright
There's a lake of stew and soda, too
You can paddle all around 'em in a big canoe
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Maybe paradise exists in some religious sense; maybe it does not. Perhaps, as the wise have said through the centuries, we are living in the fabled land even now, but sadly cannot realize it. I have always found this quote by Alfred Souza useful:

For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life.

Actually, Souza’s words probably sum up my philosophy of life up to the current moment. Believe as you will about the after life; you have your faith. Personally, I have to be happy now; I can’t wait for the possibilities of a reward later. I suppose there is nothing new here. We are so often told to live in the present. We hear this helpful, and insofar as I can tell great truth proffered so much by saviors and savants of the moment that it has become deified in the digital age.

Yet, I do not want to be misunderstood here; I am no enlightened soul. I am just like most of humankind. I long for my own personal paradise: I want the bluebird of happiness singing constantly in a beautiful Alpine meadow, complete with tiny golden flowers and sheltering evergreen trees under a great Delft bowl of a blue sky. A dappled stream flows through the meadow where I drink with the deer and bluebirds. A lovely maiden whose hair shimmers with every color of the rainbow lives with me in perfect harmony. As the old song goes:

Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the peppermint trees
'Round the soda water fountains
Where the lemonade springs and the bluebird sings
In the Big Rock Candy Mountains.

Well, I suppose it's up to the individual how it works. One time a street person, after assailing me successfully for a handout, toasted me with some nameless wine. As he lifted his bottle to his lips, he shouted: “Here’s to the holidays! All 365 of them!”

I hope that it was a good wine even if probably not a great one; I will never know, as he did not offer me a drink only a toast. I wish now that I had stopped to chat with him. I should have asked if he was as happy as he seemingly appeared to be.

Well, this essay has really been about my own whimsical longings as a deluded mortal, I guess. I find no great truths to hand out from my personal well of wisdom (such as it is); Just a song that started some wheels of mind a-turning.

Maybe I will just give you (and me) one small scrap of advice. Since it is a day for old, anonymous songs redolent with insight and wisdom, here’s a lyric from another nameless genius:

Dance as if no one's watching;
Love as though you've never been hurt;
Work as though you don't need the money;
Sing as though no one is listening,
And live as though it's Heaven on Earth.

I can’t speak for you, but I have a feeling that this is the real “Candy Mountain,” living as though each day is truly heaven on earth.

Editor's Note: There is some confusion over the provenance of the song, Big Rock Candy Mountain. The song is listed as a tradional hobo ballad by many accounts, but many sources also attribute it to to Harry "Haywire Mac" McClintock, a tramp entertainer and organizer for the "Wobblies," who apparently recorded it sometime around 1928.

There is little doubt, however, that he based his lyrics on a traditional hobo ballad. According to some sources, McClintock himself lost a lawsuite on the issue of copyright and was not allowed to receive royalties from his original recording, as the judge ruled that the lyrics were in the public domain. Singer, Burl Ives, popularized the song in the '40s and '50s.

The copyright may be owned by either MCA Records, or the McClintock or Burl Ives Estates, but I have been unable to determine who actually owns the song.