Perspective

Back in a day many of you probably don’t remember, the U.S. had a national speed limit. No vehicle of any type on any road could lawfully drive over 55 mph — or as CB lingo put it “double-nickels.” Brought on by the Arab oil embargo of 1973, the national 55 mph speed limit was designed to save fuel as much as anything, although some safety experts also claimed it saved lives. On the other hand, just as many safety officials thought that the limit — imposed on interstate highways originally designed for vehicles traveling 70 to 75 mph — took as many lives as it saved. Fifty-five mph is a slow pace when traveling some remote stretch of interstate in Kansas or Nebraska. And when drivers headed through the urban Northeast, the 55 mph limit hardly kept up with the reality of traffic flow. As a result, tailgating, cutting off other drivers and a general disrespect for the rules of the road increased among most everyone. As far as truck drivers were concerned, whether they were following the national speed limit or not, it made for hazardous driving conditions. As Randy Travis famously sang in “Three Wooden Crosses,” one of his later hit songs, “18-wheelers can’t stop on a dime.” Travis was just one of many artists who recorded songs about truck drivers who couldn’t stop in time to avoid collisions. Truck-driving music could have its own subgenre when it comes to dealing with tragedy on the highway. Some songs tell of near misses that ended in the deaths of drivers and incidents that ended in collisions. Many of these songs are haunting, but others are matter-of-fact — a simple telling of the perils of the highway. Among the songs classified as “haunting,” it’s hard to recall one that has a greater emotional impact on listeners than Red Sovine’s “Phantom 309.” Even the title clues the listener in to the story Sovine told — in his trademarked recitation method — of “Big Joe” swerving his truck to miss a bus load of kids. “Big Joe” didn’t survive what ended as a single-vehicle accident, but he haunted the highway, handing out dimes for cups of coffee to those who needed a pick-me-up. While “Big Joe” was a fictional character, the incident that inspired the lyrics actually happened. Several accidents are credited as the basis for Sovine’s tale, but the fatality of a truck driver in Vermont seems to be the one most associated with the song. Coincidentally, another of trucking music’s most haunting songs also happened in the Northeast. “Tombstone Every Mile,” sung by the Baron of Country Music, Dick Curless, tells the history of a “stretch of road, way up north in Maine,” where many truckers lost their lives. The number of drivers who died in the Haynesville Woods is certainly exaggerated for effect — the highway is not a long one, but it does become treacherous during the winter months. However, some researchers believe the inspiration for Curless’ song was two young girls who were killed on the road by out-of-control trucks in separate incidents — on the same day. Fortunately, the stretch of road is no longer a “must-pass” route for truckers hauling potatoes to Boston. Merle Haggard’s “White Line Fever” doesn’t tell of a trucking accident per se; instead, Haggard sings of an eternal life on the road. The song is about a man who wants to change his lifestyle, but trucking is such an addiction it’s become part of his soul. The lyrics tell of a driver who sees his approaching death but is incapable of taking the steps needed to protect himself. In the category of near misses and miracles, country music’s Alabama recorded the No. 1 song “Roll On (Eighteen Wheeler).” More inspirational than tragic, the lyrics tell of a driver who has prepared his family for the moment he knows will eventually arrive — a time his wife and kids are unsure of his fate. Lost in a blizzard, the driver knows his family will find courage in the words he told them to sing when that time came, and the story has a happy ending. On the comedy side of trucking music, Red Simpson’s “I’m a Truck” offers a semi’s view of riding the highways with what the truck considers a relatively incompetent driver at the wheel. The truck recalls the many moments the driver brags of how his skillful driving techniques helped avoid accidents. All the while, the truck knows the truth: The truck, not the driver, always saved the day. The “double-nickels” speed limit is a theme of the novelty trucking song “White Knight,” recorded by Cledus Maggard and the Citizen’s Band. The hero of the song has a hard time paying attention to the national speed limit. In fact, he spends more time on his CB radio than he does watching the road, always on the lookout for “Smokeys” and speed traps. Of course, his reliance on the CB turns sour when one of his informants turns out to be a “White Knight,” CB slang for a traffic cop. The driver, “The Mean Machine,” decides he can’t stop on a dime — or even decelerate in short order — while traveling 92 mph. Aside from the aforementioned songs dealing with the national speed limit, there are songs about drivers who have no intention of slowing down. The movie “Smokey and the Bandit” provided more than one such tune on its soundtrack, most notably “East Bound and Down,” as well as the less popular “West Bound and Down.” Of course, the title track told the story of “The Bandit,” who used the heels of his boots to drag his out-of-control truck to a stop at the bottom of a steep grade in Tennessee. Congress raised the national speed limit to 65 mph in the latter half of the 1980s. And with increasing pressure from the states, whose officials realized better than Congress that traveling a virtually untraveled interstate highway in North Dakota is a lot different than driving up the Jersey Shore, the federal government soon abandoned the national speed limit. Speed limits are now set by each state. Some stretches of highway have no posted speed limit, while the highest enforced limit of 85 mph is on a relatively new bypass east of San Marcos, Austin and San Antonio, Texas. As far as I know, no one has recorded a song about it — at least not yet. Until next time, remember: Speed limits DO exist, and it’s best to avoid fracturing them to any significant extent. Doing otherwise might land you in the same shape as “The Mean Machine” — with your tail in jail and your rig impounded.

If you haven’t read some entries from the “Staying Fit on the Road” section of The Trucker’s site by Bob “The Trucker Trainer” Perry, after reading this edition of “Rhythm of the Road,” please make it your next stop. Only Bob can offer the advice you might need to save yourself from filling the shoes of The Willis Brothers in their 1968 song, “Quittin’ While I’m Still Alive.” It’s been a good while since I’ve written about the Willis Brothers, so let’s review a little of the trio’s background. The Willis Brothers — actually one of the original three was a Caldwell, but who’s counting? — got their start in the music business during the early years of the Great Depression in Shawnee, Oklahoma, a small city east of Oklahoma City. Interstate 40 didn’t exist, and even Route 66 bypassed Shawnee, but the city had long been an oasis along cattle drives northward from Texas, and it goes down in history as a thoroughfare along the West Shawnee Trail. In fact, with three major railroads building lines through the city along with well as depots, Shawnee was a fast-growing place that put up a good fight with Oklahoma City when it came time to choose a state capital. But when a major meatpacking plant chose Oklahoma City as its home over Shawnee, the neighbor to the west won out. Today, Shawnee isn’t a whole lot larger than it was in 1930, while Oklahoma City is home to some 650,000 residents. But Shawnee lives on as a major suburb of the capital. The original Willis Brothers trio were known locally as “The Oklahoma Wranglers,” and for the better part of the 1930s they appeared live as a regular feature on Shawnee radio station KGFF. But at decade’s end, one member left the group. A roller coaster of Willises started coming and going, interrupted only by World War II, when the entire trio served overseas. When the war ended, The Oklahoma Wranglers reunited and caught their first big break — an appearance on the Grand Ole Opry performing as themselves and as backup to Hank Williams. Their popularity quickly grew, and the group became permanent members of the Grand Ole Opry before the 1940s came to an end. The next big step for the group was an eight-year stint touring with Eddy Arnold, who was among the biggest names in country music at the time. When they decided to move on, the Wranglers also changed their name — and The Willis Brothers was officially born. After all, the name fit, since Caldwell had left the group and all three slots were now filled by men from the same family. All this is to let you know that The Willis Brothers probably inhaled a whole lot more than their share of dust in the 1930s, not to mention far too many liters of bovine-produced methane gas. And because they were on the road so many years (much like truck drivers), the fellows no doubt the developed a few other health problems they ignored a little too long. These experiences might have given birth to “Quittin’ While I’m still Alive.” During their career, The Willis Brothers had one big hit — a trucking song — “Give Me Forty Acres (and I’ll Turn this Rig Around),” a subject of one of my first columns for The Trucker. But this was far from the group’s only song about truck drivers. In fact, the genre became the band’s specialty. Using a Telechord electric guitar, The Willis Brothers developed a distinctive “highway beat” to their music, all the while keeping to a bluegrass style, particularly in their vocals. The combination made for some masterful trucking songs. Sticking with two-minute-long songs, the band recorded more than were found on other country albums. While few of those songs charted, The Willis Brothers discography was impressive In 1968, recording for Stardust Records, “from Nashville, Tennessee — the Musical Heart of America,” the group released “Hey, Mr. Trucker Driver,” an album bulging with 12 of the group’s short looks at life through a windshield. A long overlooked “Quitting While I’m Still Alive” is one tune every prospective truck driver needs to give a listen before deciding on a career in the industry. In “Quittin’ While I’m Still Alive,” The Willis Brothers play the role of a still-young 42-year-old man who has been driving a big rig more than half his lifetime. But the diesel has taken its toll. This isn’t a case of being lonesome; rather, it’s a matter of being “plum beat down,” as some might say. The singer realizes, after 22 years behind the wheel without a scratch or a dent, he’s pushing his luck. Chances are that time will catch up with him. After all, he sings, he’s seen too many rigs on the road go up in flames with the driver still inside. He’s also run across too many crazy driving “punks” and more than his share of drunks that leave him wondering how much longer he’ll remain unscathed. Aside from the fear of continuing to drive, The Willis Brothers tell us of the various maladies the trucker has come down with over the years. Thanks to the diesel, he claims he can see, he can’t smell and he can’t hear. (I guess if enough diesel residue builds up in one’s system, at least three of the five senses can be permanently damaged.) The only sense the driver claims to have left is being used up trying to keep his rig on the road. And how about those kidneys? I suppose 22 years of chain coffee-drinking does a number on those as well. With that, two minutes and 19 seconds later, we are left assume the trucker arrives in Memphis, where he turns in his papers and puts his truck up for sale. Until next time, scoot on over to Bob Perry’s column. Bob offers up some good advice to help you stay healthy out there on the road.

I’ve never been a big fan of music videos, at least not the type that dramatizes the lyrics. And I don’t take a liking to many songs written with the sole purpose of being made into a video — to me, that’s screenwriting, not songwriting. After all, instrumentals alone can create a vision in a listener’s mind. I’ve mentioned the “clickity-clack” beat of Merle Haggard’s “Movin’ On” as an example of how the tempo gives rise to thoughts of the highway before the lyrics even begin. But every once in a while, especially in the 1980s, when country music was trying to capitalize on the MTV craze, country musicians offered a couple of videos that were funny enough to make me laugh at least twice before I started losing interest. When it came to country comedy videos, few were as successful as those of Moe Bandy and Joe Stampley. A lot of people remember “Moe and Joe,” as they were commonly known, for their videos. But both had successful solo careers before joining to record seven albums, and they continued with their solo efforts during and after the collaborations. As a duo, the two singers built an image based on their first single release, the No. 1 hit, “Just Good Ol’ Boys.” It seemed the image struck a chord with country music fans who have always so closely identified with the artists and songs they sing. Moe Bandy was born in Meridian, Mississippi, but was transplanted to San Antonio at age 6. The move fueled Moe’s interest in honky-tonk music, as well as a calling to rodeo for both Moe and his brother, Mike. As teens, both competed in rodeos across Texas, but their careers eventually diverged. Mike went on to be the professional rodeo star, while Moe pursued his musical career. Contrary to popular belief inspired by Moe Bandy’s signature song, “Bandy the Rodeo Clown,” he never performed as a clown (or bullfighter, as they are now known). After taking his first shot at a music career in 1962, it would be 12 years before Bandy’s efforts paid off. His first charting single, “I Just Started Hating Cheating Songs Today,” became the prototype for Bandy’s early career. He became the stereotypical country musician whose discography consisted almost exclusively of “cheatin’ and drinkin’” songs. He topped off the first phase of his career in 1979 when he and Janie Fricke teamed up for the No. 2 hit, “It’s a Cheatin’ Situation,” a duet that took home Song of the Year honors from the Academy of Country Music. Throughout his career, Bandy has recorded 40 solo albums and released 14 Top 10 singles. Joe Stampley, also a native of the Deep South, was raised in Northwest Louisiana. Born just a year before his future singing partner, Stampley began his musical career much differently than Bandy. He started with a rock band, The Uniques. The band recorded just four albums and released two moderately successful singles between 1965 and 1970. When his rock career fizzled, Stampley followed the path of many other southern rock musicians: He went country. Beginning in 1971, Stampley began a country career during which he quietly turned out 22 albums and 14 Top 10 solo hits, perhaps the most popular being the trucking song, “Roll On, Big Mama.” But when the ’80s arrived, Stampley’s solo career took a back seat to the success of the Moe Bandy and Joe Stampley duo. The “good ol’ boys’” reputation came to a head in 1984 when the duo recorded — and, more notably, made a video — of a parody song, “Where’s the Dress.” In early 1984, the most popular song in the world was “Karma Chameleon,” performed by the British band Culture Club and its prominent leader Boy George. The song appeared, most often in the No. 1 spot, on charts worldwide. Whether it was the flamboyant Boy George, the catchy tune or the music video accompanying the song, “Karma Chameleon” appealed to music fans of all sorts. The music video accompanying “Karma Chameleon,” ironically set in Moe Bandy’s native Mississippi, colorfully depicted everything that Moe, Joe and most “good ol’ boys” were not. So, inspired by a song written by Stampley’s son, Moe and Joe decided to parody the worldwide hit (and hoped to make a heap of money in the process). “Where’s the Dress” became Moe and Joe’s answer to Boy George. Before examining “Where’s the Dress,” it should be noted that 1984 was much different than 2021. Frankly, it’s doubtful the song would be written today, much less released in video form. In today’s world, one of Joe Stampley’s early lines wouldn’t even pass the smell test: “It was a man dressed like a woman, and he had a boy’s name.” If one applies 2021 standards to 1984, the entire “Where’s the Dress” episode ranks high on the list of offensive moments in country music history. In any event, before passing judgment, I suggest you first watch the “Karma Chameleon” video; then follow up with “Where’s the Dress.” This is a case where the visuals provided by the videos are needed to grasp the point Moe and Joe tried to make. Moe and Joe pose as truck drivers in the video, roles they take in several of the duo’s songs. The two lament the fame and riches of Boy George and their belief that he’s making it big by, essentially, “cross-dressing.” But the gist of “Where’s the Dress” is likely best described by music journalist Nick Murray in the Feb. 1, 2018, issue of Rolling Stone Magazine: “Stranger … even, was the duo’s song “Where’s the Dress,” a Boy George-inspired novelty hit in which Moe and Joe decide to dress in drag — become “country queens” — in a bid to revitalize their careers. The plan goes awry when they enjoy gender-bending so much that it instead puts their careers in jeopardy, and the music video ends with the conservative Roy Acuff using the bow of his fiddle to beat the mascara-wearing singers off the Opry stage. (In ‘Lucky Me,’ [Moe Bandy’s autobiography], Moe credits this episode mostly to Joe.)” It’s hard to say if “Where’s the Dress” hurt Moe and Joe as a duo. They did release three more songs from the same album, but none became hits. “Where’s the Dress” would be their last hit together before the duo stopped recording, noting their solo careers suffered. But in a 1984 interview, Joe Stampley was defensive in saying, “(‘Where’s the Dress’) wasn’t done as a put-down to Boy George. It’s a novelty song that wonders whether two country bumpkins could (dress that way) in a honky-tonk.” He added that Boy George “is a talent … genius … and sharp.” So, the entire “Where’s the Dress” episode was short-lived and didn’t cause a rift in music like it might today. At least not a major rift. Boy George and his manager did file suit against Bandy and Stampley for copyright infringement. The suit didn’t seek damages for using the likeness of Boy George or Culture Club, but for using the same guitar rift and harmonica lick written into “Karma Chameleon.” Bandy later said, “That little mess-up cost us $50,000.” Until next time, let me remind you: When you listen to classic country music, you need to go back in time and apply the standards of the day to your criticism, not today’s standards. After all, what could anyone expect from Moe and Joe? Neither of the two was a copyright lawyer. Moe and Joe were “just good ol’ boys.”

Randy Travis’ dream of becoming a country music star didn’t come easy. The young man who, in 1980, sent demo tapes to every record label in Nashville met rejection at every turn. On Music Row, where the dreams of so many performers — those falling into the “classic country” genre today — came true, producers deemed Randy Travis as “too country” for audiences’ tastes. The orchestrated “Nashville Sound” experiment promoted songs featuring strings, background singers, glitter and outright abandonment of country music’s famed Nudie Suits. A country boy from North Carolina didn’t stand a chance in a genre built by other country boys and girls armed with only their voices and a guitar. Travis was a troubled youngster who had several run-ins with the law. His infractions — while minor — painted the portrait of a habitual offender. Between his appearances in court, Travis worked as a cook in a Charlotte, North Carolina, nightclub. Its owner, Elizabeth Hatcher, placed the young singer on stage as a teenager. Eventually, a judge released Travis from yet another criminal charge but placed him under the guardianship of Hatcher. It was a match made in heaven. With a woman with funding to back up the effort, Travis moved to Nashville. With Hatcher’s promotional work, he recorded a few songs beginning in 1978, but none met with even moderate success. Five years later, Hatcher secured a record deal for Travis with Warner Brothers. While his first single, “On the Other Hand,” barely charted, his follow-up release, “1982,” reached the Top 10 on country charts. With some name recognition and a bona fide hit under his belt, Warner Brothers took a chance and re-released “On the Other Hand” a year later. The song shot to No. 1 and became one of several signature songs Randy Travis released during his career. Over the next 15 years, Travis released 20 albums and 50 singles, 16 of which rose to No. 1 on the country charts. His list of awards is impressive. At the height of his career, Travis won Grammys and country music awards in most categories. Eventually, he was enshrined in the Country Music Hall of Fame. For a performer like Randy Travis — one who seemed to appear out of nowhere and then remained atop the charts for 15 years — country music historians have difficulty agreeing on a signature song. “On the Other Hand” ranks high on the list, as do chart-toppers like “Diggin’ Up Bones,” “Deeper than the Holler” and perhaps his most recognized hit, 1987’s “Forever and Ever, Amen.” Travis even dropped a couple of trucking songs into his discography, with little fanfare. None became singles, nor are they recognized by many who aren’t hard-core Randy Travis fans, or at least fans who scour the backs of CDs looking for trucking music. One such song, “Highway Junkie” found a spot on Travis’ 1996 album — his last album for Warner Brothers — fittingly titled “Full Circle.” A listen to “Highway Junkie” reveals it to be THE trucker’s trucking song. Topics covered include everything from vices, the pressures of landing on schedule, the lonesome road, lost love and even “Smokies,” referred to as “State Boys” by Travis. He wastes no time getting to the heart of the matter as he describes his run as bolstered by “100 cups of coffee, 500 hundred cigarettes, 1,000 miles of highway, and I ain’t forgot her yet.” It’s “forgetting her” that, like so many trucking songs, becomes the focus of “Highway Junkie,” a theme Travis emphasizes as universal to the truck-driving profession with the short line, “A trucker’s heart gets broke.” Even his run-in with the “State Boy” near Nashville is met without a concern for driving over 100 mph. Travis’ response to the trooper’s question, “Where’s the fire son?” does nothing but bring up more thoughts of lost love: I said, “Man there ain’t no fire I’m just runnin’ from a flame So go on and write your ticket, man But I ain’t the one to blame.” A couple hundred miles west of Nashville, Travis inserts two of stanzas paying homage to his musical influences, both kings of country and rockabilly music who will always hold a special place in most truck drivers’ hearts. So, I rolled on down to Memphis, I had nothin’ left to lose, Wanted to hear some rock ’n’ roll, But all they played was blues, I didn’t wanna hear no blues.   So, I went to call up Elvis, But Roger Miller grabbed the phone, He said drive that 18-wheeler boy, You’re the king of the road, Said I was the king of the road. Nothing in “Highway Junkie” is original; in fact, most of the lyrics are little more than a rehash of other songs with similar themes, with minor twists on phrases describing Travis’ journey across Tennessee. What sets “Highway Junkie” apart from other heartbroken trucker songs is the chorus. Travis introduces a unique metaphor — to my knowledge an original — when he sings two lines, followed by a closing line that’s a takeoff from many trucking and road songs, and even a rodeo song or two: But, them big wheels of rubber, Gonna rub her off my mind, Well, I’m a highway junkie And I need that old white line. After recording “Full Circle,” in the twilight of his country music career, Randy Travis released two more albums, but for a new label. The pair offered just three combined Top 10 singles. The results were a far cry from Travis’ heyday when 25 of 31 singles reached the top 10, with 22 peaking at No. 3 or higher on the country charts. The remainder of Randy Travis’ career is well documented, filled with legal troubles, a divorce, a crossover to Christian music and a debilitating stroke. It was almost as if Travis’ youthful transgressions had returned to mar his successful career. Travis was never a force in the country subgenre of trucking music, but he did leave a couple of songs as a legacy. After all, with a career filled with songs that appealed to most listeners, it only fits that Travis offered truck drivers a little something to remember him. But history will remember Randy Travis as one of a handful of traditional singers who saved country music from the “Nashville Sound.” Until next time, remember when you’re driving a back road somewhere in America, “Deeper than the Holler” is a winding strip of highway — a steep grade down and another steep grade out.

If you’ve ever sat behind a steering wheel, you have one — that one particular vehicle from your past that you wish you could drive once again. If you’re a trucker, it might be your first truck, some cabover from the ’70s, or one that had a little quirk or rap in the engine that drove everyone except you crazy. If you’re like me (not a trucker), there’s some vehicle you’ve owned, driven and finally retired after it left you stranded one too many times. On the other hand, it might have been one you sold too soon, leaving you with only dreams of the memories that might have been made. Years, or even decades, have passed. You now know how much you miss that old drive that cost far too much money, time and frustration to keep on the road. If you’re lucky, something reminds you of it on occasion. If you’re really lucky, your old ride became a hit country song. That’s where I sit. I once had a car, and I swear a country songwriter wrote about that car in lyrics directed at me. To admit it is kind of embarrassing. The year? 1984. The car? A 1976 bright yellow Ford Pinto wagon. It was the first car I ever bought entirely with my own money — $500 earned the previous summer by performing maintenance for a Little League ballfield. I didn’t own the car long, but to say the least, the old girl was memorable. Anyone with a little bit of insight into the automobiles of the ’70s knows the story of the Ford Pinto. The car sold dirt cheap when brand new, made possible by the fact Ford only invested about 2% of the selling price in the parts that held it together. As far as engineering went, there was none. The Pinto had a knack for exploding when hit from behind. Fortunately, the ’76 Pinto wagon was not a model with a disposition to explode — or maybe I just never got hit from behind. But I take solace in the fact I didn’t drive an orange AMC Gremlin like a friend did. No one had a hit song about an orange Gremlin. “My Old Yellow Car” was a No. 9 country song for the former soft rock turned country artist Dan Seals. The song debuted in February 1985, just about the time I parted ways with my “yellow submarine,” as it became known around town. As far as the song goes, change the color to fit your own vehicle, and the lyrics are universally appreciated. Of course, I was special. Dan Seals, after all, sang specifically about my yellow car. She weren’t much to look at. She weren’t much to ride. She was missing a window on her passenger side. Her floorboard was patched up with paper and tar, But I really was something in my old yellow car. Well, my old yellow car wasn’t missing a window; in fact, the passenger window wouldn’t move up or down. Its floor was patched up with paper and tar — to the point it failed inspection, and my dad had to get a sticker from a friend who owned a garage. That sticker, obtained illegally (the statute of limitations has long passed, I assume), somehow allowed me to drive a deadly hunk of steel unfit for the road. Dad must have recalled his own rides from the ’50s and figured the Pinto couldn’t be any more dangerous than his jalopies. Of course, most of those didn’t have a reputation for exploding. In his song, Seals goes on to chronicle his experiences in his old yellow car — the type of experiences any young guy who’s somehow become old remembers well. Perhaps the lyric giving the song universal appeal is when Seals fondly recalls, “There was no road too winding and nowhere too far, with two bucks of gas and my old yellow car.” My personal old yellow car had its set of issues, and they were probably a bit more serious than the one Seals drove. The Pinto held no fluids other than gasoline. Ford’s engineers designed the vehicle so all of the liquids needed to make it run smoothly traveled through a bundle of cardboard tubes in front of the fire wall. As miles passed, the tubes rubbed holes in each other. A lack of brake fluid left me skillfully using the parking brake to stop. When it was time to get moving, the car did so without the aid of transmission fluid. I just put the pedal to the metal and waited. Gears eventually caught, and off I went. When I managed to get up to speed, I always wondered why everyone passed me so quickly. I finally realized the speedometer registered 12 miles higher than my actual speed. I didn’t move on to another car in just a year later, in 1985, because the Pinto had trouble stopping and going. Rather, I took note that the yellow submarine left an oil slick that rivaled the one the Exxon Valdez would create a few years later. To be precise, both the front and rear engine seals of the car had disintegrated. The poor car wasn’t holding a drop of oil. On last check, it leaked a quart a day. Those ballfield maintenance dollars allowing me to buy the car weren’t enough for the “fill up the oil and check the gas” approach the Pinto demanded. Some poor soul took the Pinto off my hands for the same thing I paid for it — $500. Last I knew, it sat in his front yard sporting a flowerpot for a hood ornament. But, hey, I broke even. Or maybe I lost more than I expected. After “My Old Yellow Car” fell from the charts, I didn’t hear the song on the radio for years. Then, in 2003, I bought a shiny new Nissan Frontier pickup truck I’d been eyeing — yellow in color. And I swear on Dad’s grave that on the drive home, “My Old Yellow Car” came across the airwaves! You can bet that Nissan went down many winding roads far from home. Until next time, when you think about a car — or that pretty Mack, Kenworth or Peterbilt — you drove into the ground in your distant past, consider the chorus of “My Old Yellow Car.” I bet you’ll shed a tear: Somewhere in a pile of rubber and steel, There’s a rusty old shell of an automobile, And if engines could run on desire alone… That old yellow car would be driving me home.

Pardon me for this column, in which I connect recent events and personal experience that have combined to turn a six-decade-old rockabilly/blues hit into — temporarily at least — a trucking song. A couple of weeks back, the Rutherford side of my family gathered in Roxton, Texas (yes, it is on the map). It was the first time my mom, my wife Karen and I, and all of the offspring with their spouses — and, course, our two young grandchildren — had gathered since the onset of COVID-19. The celebration was joyous, but as is usually the case, I couldn’t escape thoughts of writing — specifically, finding a topic and writing the words you are now reading. To borrow a phrase from the Willie who needs no last name, writing is “Always on My Mind.” As crunch time grew near, I began to ruminate, or brood, on the writing issue. I have always been a ruminator and a brooder, and one who obsesses over insignificant (if not virtually impossible) thoughts that are unwelcome in my mind. As I sat brooding, the topic of the “crack” in the steel of the Hernando de Soto Bridge over the Mississippi River at Memphis, Tennessee, came up in conversation. It just so happens that the Hernando de Soto bridge and I have a long-standing love-hate relationship. The bridge opened along Interstate 40 in 1973, when I was at the impressionable age of seven. My family made an annual trek for the summer from Maine to Texas and back — sometimes twice annually — so I expected to be crossing the nearly 2-mile long engineering masterpiece two to four times a year. Prior to that, of course, we crossed the river using the Memphis & Arkansas Bridge. A couple of miles south of the I-40 bridge, even when the Memphis & Arkansas was less than a quarter-century old, it was already showing too many signs of rust to suit me. Between 1966 and 1973, likely as a result of my older brother’s intentional effort to force a young lad to brood long before his time, I had become quite fearful of bridge crossings — specifically the one over the Mississippi River. The opening of the new bridge in 1973, one would think, should have alleviated my fear. But the trade-off between a 1-mile-long bridge that showed a bit of rust and a 2-mile-long, state-of-the-art bridge, I thought, was pretty much a wash. I continued brooding. Every trip, I made plans to be asleep when it came time to cross from Tennessee into Arkansas or vice versa. Those plans never came to fruition. Instead, I shook with fear and stayed alert in case muddy water suddenly surrounded our station wagon. I am not celebrating the newly discovered defect that shut the Hernando de Soto Bridge down for what, at the time of this writing, could be months. No universal good comes of something that will tie up traffic along what arguably (with the possible exception of the I-70 bridge at St. Louis) is the most important crossing for commercial and noncommercial traffic over the Mississippi River. The traffic jams alone will be disastrous. But I will admit, I used the event as proof to my mother that my childhood fears were not unreasonable. As one whose family’s reaction to a childhood fear was flippant, the danger now created by the crack in the bridge does serve one positive purpose — vindication. My brooding over a “virtually impossible” event wasn’t without merit after all. Unexpectedly, my mother recited a lyric from the old Chuck Barry and Elvis Presley song, “Memphis,” sometimes referred to as “Memphis, Tennessee.” She said, “just a half a mile from the Mississippi bridge.” Suddenly another crack formed — one in the dike that held my case of writer’s block together. While my mom recalls the Elvis Presley version of “Memphis,” I am more familiar with the Top 10 country cover of the song in 1981 by Fred Knobloch. Even among hard-core country music fans, Fred Knobloch is hardly a household name. Better known as a member of a rock band and a songwriter than a country artist, Knobloch released only one country album in his career, “Why Not Me?” (1980). The album itself wasn’t particularly memorable, but it did produce “Memphis” and another Top 10 song, “Killing Time,” a song Knobloch performed with Susan Anton. Regardless, considering that Fred Knobloch has written songs for the likes of George Strait, Sawyer Brown and John Anderson, he has dabbled in classic country — at least enough for this column. “Memphis” is the story of a man begging a telephone operator to put him in contact with a young lady named Marie who he knows lives in Memphis. The operator can’t provide much help even with the singer explaining that Marie lives “on the south side, high upon a ridge, just a half a mile from the Mississippi bridge.” As the song closes, we learn that Marie is not just any young lady; instead, she is the singer’s six-year-old daughter. “Memphis” never had any reason to be considered a trucking song. The only reference to anything related to trucking was the Mississippi bridge. But the song is an example of how circumstances can change the meaning of lyrics, even when those lyrics are over 60 years old. After all, with the traffic east- and westbound truckers will experience at Memphis until the Hernando de Soto Bridge is reopened, many will idle on I-55, just below that very ridge referred to in song by Chuck Barry, Elvis, Fred Knobloch and several others. So, as you sit in traffic, do me a favor and give a nod to the kid who was right some 45 years ago: No bridge is “unsinkable.” Until next time, be pleased when you find yourself “just a half a mile from the Mississippi Bridge.” Chances are, drivers sitting a few miles behind you wish for the moment when they can be where your truck is idling. Oh, and thanks, Mom.