Well, I was born in a town called Audubon, Southwest Iowa, right where it oughta been.
23 houses, 14 saloons, and a feed mill in 1930.
Had a neon sign that said, Squealer Feeds, and the bus came through when they felt the
need, and they stopped at a place there in town called the Old Home Cafe.
Now my daddy was a music-loving man, he stood six foot seven, had big old hands, he'd lost
two fingers and a chainsaw, but he could still play the violin.
And mom played piano, just the keys in the middle, and dad played a storm on his three-fingered
fiddle, cause that's all there was to do back there, folks, except to go downtown and watch
haircuts.
So I was raised on dust bowl tunes, you see, I had a six-tube radio, no TV, it was so doggone
hot I had to wet the bed in the summer just to keep cool.
Yeah, many's a night I'd lay awake, waiting for a distant station break, just a-settin'
and a-wettin' and a-lettin' that radio fry.
Well I listened to Nashville and Tulsa and Dallas, and Oklahoma City gave my ears a callus,
and I'll never forget them announcers at 3 a.m.
They'd come on and say, friends, there's many a soul who needs us, so send them letters
and cards to Jesus, that's J-E-S-U-S, friends, in Carradale, Rio, Texas.
But the place I remember on the edge of town was the place where you really got the hardcore
sound, yeah, a place where the truckers used to stop on the way to Des Moines.
There was signs all over them window sills, like a devil don't get you, then Roosevelt
will, and the bank don't sell no beer, and we don't cash no checks.
Now them truckers never talked about nothin' but haulin', and the four-letter words was
really appallin', they thought them hometown gals was nothin' but toys for their amusement.
They drove Chevys and Macs with big ol' stacks, they was always complainin' about their livers
and backs, but they was fast-livin', strung-out, truck-drivin' son-of-a-guns.
Now the gal waitin' tables was really classy, had a rebuilt motor on a fairly new chassis,
and she knew how to handle them truckers, name was Mavis Davis.
Yeah, she'd pour him a coffee, then she'd bat her eyes, then she'd listen to him tell
her some big, fat lies, then she'd ask him how the wife and kids was back there in Joplin.
Now Mavis had all of her ducks in a row, eight-and-ninety-eight pounds, put on quite
a show, reminds you of a couple of Cub Scouts tryin' to set up a Sears Roebuck pup tent.
There was no proposition that she couldn't handle, next to her, there was nothin' that
could hold a can, not a hell of a lot upstairs, but from there on down, Disneyland.
Now the truckers, on the other hand, was really crass, they reminds you of fingernails, a-scratchin'
on the glass, a-stompin' on in, leavin' tracks all over the Montgomery Ward linoleum.
Yeah, they'd pound them counters and kick them stools, they was always pickin' fights
with the local fools, but one look at Mavis and they'd turn into a bunch of tomcats.
Well, I'll never forget them days gone by, I was just a kid by four foot high, but I
never forgot that lesson of pickin' and singin' the country way.
Yeah, them walkin', talkin' truck stop blues came back to life in seventy-two as the old
home filler up and keep on the truckin' cafe.
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin'
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin'
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin' cafe
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin'
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin'
Oh the old home filler up and keep on the truckin' cafe