My informant is from England. He moved to the United States with my grandmother and my mother when my mother was 2. He grew up near London and still has a thick British accent, despite having now lived in the United States since the 1960s. When I go to his house to ask about folklore that he may have learned in England, anything a part of his history, he says, “Any folklore I know I have learned through listening to folk songs. Mostly, old English folk songs.” Music means everything to my grandmother and my informant. He excitedly takes me to his cabinet of CDs where he has a plethora of English and American folk CDs. This doesn’t surprise me in the slightest, because ever since I was little, I cannot remember a time when music wasn’t playing in this house. He wants to play them for me. I ask him to show me some of his favorites.
He takes out the CD of English Folk Songs and puts in an American CD of folk music…The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary.
Informant: “I love American folk tunes. Newer, of course. This is my favorite. We went to a party and the party was to sing folk songs, and someone handed out the words and I loved the songs but I didn’t know any of them because I didn’t grow up here. This was only about five years ago…but I went out and I bought a CD of folk songs! These are more twentieth century. Which for you, of course, is um… I’ll play you some of these. [Sings] A hundred miles, A hundred miles, A hundred miles… you can hear the whistle blow…. A Hundred Miles…. Wonderful folk songs and protest songs. I’ll play this one for you.”
500 Miles
If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
A Hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
Lord I’m one, Lord I’m two, Lord I’m three, Lord I’m four
Lord I’m 500 miles away from home
Away from home, away from home, away from home, away from home
Lord I’m 500 miles away from home
Not a shirt on my back, not a penny to my name
Lord I can’t go a-home this a-way
This a-away, this a-way, this a-way, this a-way
Lord I can’t go a-home this a-way
If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
The informant sings along to the CD and moved around the room during this song. My grandmother is doing the same, singing and flowing to the music. Even though these two did not move here until the 1960s, to me, they somehow are the epitome of the “hippie” generation in many ways. They had very little money but spent their time going on road trips around California and camping whenever my informant was not working. They would take their 4 small children with them, taking them everywhere from the Grand Canyon to Oregon. They lived simply, kindly and with a life full of music. For me, their story… their pictures, their way of life…holds a certain mythology all on it’s own.
What I think is so interesting about this is that folk music, especially, can be learned and celebrated by anyone. It’s timeless, or appreciated for being dated. My grandfather didn’t grow up hearing this song, but loved it the moment he heard it and has now shown it to me. This is a song from my heritage in many ways. From their side of the family, I am very much from the UK, but from my father’s side, I am very American. His relatives were some of the first English/French people to settle in Virginia.