Chicken Soup for the Soul: Country Music: The Inspirational Stories behind 101 of Your Favorite Country Songs

by Jack Canfield

  Her mother went out and found her and, of course, then had to do all of those horrible, horrible things that you have to do when someone close to you dies, especially so unexpectedly. She got home late that afternoon. In the article, it said that the mother looked over to see her daughter’s sandwich sitting there still half eaten on the plate, and the first though that went through her mind was, “She can’t be really gone. She still hasn’t finished her lunch.” And that really got to me.

  Later, I started to write a song that began with the lines, “Her hat is hanging by the door / the one she bought in Mexico,” and goes on to tell the story of a guy whose girl is gone, but he just can’t believe it. I like the fact that the lyric is still a little ambiguous, so the listener can decide if she is dead or has left him, or is just out for the time being. Anyone who has lost a loved one, or ever suffered through a divorce, knows what it’s like when people leave things behind that remind you of them.

  My publisher thought it might be too much of a downer for anyone to record. Then somebody took it to Tim McGraw and played it for him on his bus and he loved it. He recorded it and then put it out as a single. It hit the Top 10 and stayed there for several weeks, and ended up being one of his biggest hits.

  It didn’t bother Tim that it was too sad. He didn’t need someone riding off into the sunset with a happy, upbeat ending. He saw it for what it was: a very tragic, but also very powerful and emotional song.

  Can’t Be Really Gone

  Her hat is hanging by the door

  The one she bought in Mexico

  It blocked the wind,

  It stopped the rain

  She’d never leave that one

  So, she can’t be really gone

  The shoes she bought on Christmas Eve

  She laughed and said they called her name

  It’s like they’re waiting in the hall

  For her to slip them on

  So, she can’t be really gone.

  I don’t when she’ll come back

  She must intend to come back

  And I’ve seen the error of my ways

  Don’t waste the tears on me.

  What more proof do you need?

  Just look around the room

  So much of her remains.

  Her book is lying on the bed

  The two of hearts to mark her page

  Now, who could ever walk away

  At chapter twenty-one?

  So, she can’t be really gone.

  Just look around this room

  So much of her remains.

  Her book is lying on the bed

  The two of hearts to mark her page

  Now, who could ever walk away

  With so much left undone?

  So, she can’t be really gone.

  No, she can’t be really gone.

  Coward of the County

  Story by Billy Edd Wheeler

  Song written by Billy Edd Wheeler and Roger Dale Bowling

  Recorded by Kenny Rogers

  Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller sold my songwriting contract to United Artists and Murray Deutch at United Artists called me and said, “We want to set up an office in Nashville. Do you have any experience running a business?” I said, “Yes, I was director of alumni at Berea College in Kentucky. I had a staff and had to deal with budgets and hiring, and things like that.” They said, “We’d like you to go to Nashville and set up the office.” So that’s how I ended up in Nashville.

  One day, Roger Bowling gave me a call. He used to live in Nashville had moved to Georgia. He wrote story songs, too. He wrote “Lucille” for Kenny Rogers and several other hits. He said, “Let’s get together. I’d like to write a story song. Do you have any ideas?” And I said, “Yes, I do. I’d like to write something about an underdog, a guy who comes from behind and wins.” For some strange reason, I was thinking of My Fair Lady. They took this little cockney girl from the poor part of England and were going to make her over and teach her how to speak and walk and talk and be like a princess. My heart went out to her because they were using her. She was just an experiment for them. So I was rooting for her to show them up.

  Roger and I went up to Pine Mountain, Kentucky where they were doing an outdoor drama of mine about the Cumberland Gap. I said, “Let’s go up there and see how it’s going.” So we rented a cabin up there. Roger said, “Why don’t you go fix us a drink and I’ll get started?” I knew that, for Roger, “fixing a drink” meant pouring some Jack Daniel’s in a glass with some ice, so I did that and came back. When I did, he said, “What do you think of this? Everyone considered him the ‘coward of the county.’”

  I said, “I love it. Everyone thinks he’s a coward.” I liked the alliteration, too. We didn’t know why everyone thought he was a coward, but we had a start. So then we invented the story of how his dad died in prison, and had always told his son, “You don’t have to fight to be a man.”

  We were trying to figure out how Tommy, the son, would have a change of heart. I had him in church praying to his father or getting a vision from him or something. He was saying, “These guys are picking on me and they think I’m a coward. I know I promised you I would never do the things you did, or fight like you did, but I think I need to.” I was trying to make it very complicated — somebody would speak behind a curtain and he would think it was his father. It was like a Shakespearean tragedy or something. But it was just too complicated.

  Roger said that all he had to do was take his father’s picture down from the mantle. Then he wrote, “As his tears fell on his father’s face, he heard those words again.” Roger was a great songwriter. That really summarized it all.

  We chose the name the “Gatlin boys” because we liked the sound of it. They were the ones who violated Tommy’s girlfriend, Becky. We tried some other names like the Barlow boys, but they just didn’t have the grit of the Gatlin boys. I didn’t realize then that Larry Gatlin had dated a girl named Becky, and had written a song about her and he got mad about that later. One time, Kenny Rogers and the Gatlin brothers were on a talk show together and they started picking on him about it and he said, “Don’t blame me. I didn’t write the song.”

  We finished the song that weekend. We did a demo later and someone took it to Larry Butler, who was producing Kenny at the time. Larry recorded a lot of Roger’s songs.

  We liked the drama at the end, where Tommy takes all that he can take, and then goes to the bar where the Gatlin boys are. When one of them gets up to confront him and Tommy turns around, the lines read, “Hey look ol’ yellow’s leavin” / But you could’ve heard a pin drop when Tommy stopped and locked the door.”

  Of course, he kicks all of their tails one by one and then says, “This one’s for Becky,” as he watched the last one fall. It was the perfect way to end the song and just the kind of comeback story we were looking for.

  Coward of the County

  Everyone considered him the coward of the county.

  He never stood one single time to prove the county wrong.

  His mama named him Tommy, but folks just called him yellow.

  Something always told me they were reading Tommy wrong.

  He was only ten years old when his daddy died in prison.

  I looked after Tommy ’cause he was my brother’s son.

  I still recall the final words my brother said to Tommy:

  “Son, my life is over, but yours has just begun.”

  “Promise me, son, not to do the things I’ve done.

  Walk away from trouble if you can.

  It won’t mean you’re weak if you turn the other cheek.

  I hope you’re old enough to understand.

  Son, you don’t have to fight to be a man.”

  There’s someone for everyone and Tommy’s love was Becky.

  In her arms he didn’t have to prove he was a man.

  One day while he was workin’ the Gatlin boys came callin’.

  They took turns at Becky. . . (whispers) and there we
re three of them.

  Tommy opened up the door and saw his Becky cryin’.

  The torn dress, the shattered look was more than he could stand.

  He reached above the fireplace and took down his daddy’s picture.

  As the tears fell on his daddy’s face, he heard these words again.

  “Promise me, son, not to do the things I’ve done.

  Walk away from trouble if you can.

  Now it won’t mean you’re weak if you turn the other cheek.

  I hope you’re old enough to understand.

  Son, you don’t have to fight to be a man.”

  The Gatlin boys just laughed at him, when he walked into the barroom.

  One of them got up and met him halfway ’cross the floor.

  When Tommy turned around, they said, “Hey look, ’ol yellows leavin’.

  But you could’ve heard a pin drop when Tommy stopped and locked the door.”

  Twenty years of crawlin’ was bottled up inside him.

  He wasn’t holdin’ nothin’ back; he let ’em have it all.

  When Tommy left the barroom, not a Gatlin boy was standin’.

  He said, “This one’s for Becky,” as he watched the last one fall.

  And I heard him say,

  “I promised you, dad, not to do the things you’ve done.

  I walk away from trouble when I can.

  Now please don’t think I’m weak, I didn’t turn the other cheek,

  And papa, I sure hope you understand.

  Sometimes you gotta fight when you’re a man.”

  Everyone considered him the coward of the county.

  Delta Dawn

  Story by Alex Harvey

  Song written by Alex Harvey and Larry Collins

  Recorded by Tanya Tucker, Helen Reddy, Bette Midler, and others

  For many years, I never really told anyone who this song was about. Some people just thought it was about a crazy woman in Brownsville, Tennessee, where I grew up. But recently, I’ve started sharing the real story behind this song.

  When I was fifteen years old, I was in a band. We had just won a contest and we were going to be on a TV show in Jackson, Tennessee. I just knew, by the next day we would be a household word. My mother said she wanted to go. I told her that I thought she would embarrass me. She drank and sometimes would do things that would make me feel ashamed, so I asked her not to go that night.

  We went and taped the TV show and headed back to West Tennessee. When we got home, I was wondering where my mother was. Around dusk, a big, old black Buick came up over the hill. A couple of ladies who I knew got out and I asked them where my mother was. They said, “Son, your momma’s gone.”

  I said, “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

  They said, “Your momma died.”

  She had gotten drunk and had run into a tree at a high rate of speed. It looked like a suicide. For the rest of my high school years and into my adulthood, I dealt with the guilt over that event, thinking I had something to do with it. I think that was one of the reasons I started pursuing creative fields. For me, it was a form of therapy. That was the only way I could work it out.

  About ten years later, in 1973, I was living in L.A. We had been out partying. We went to the Palomino Club and were listening to Dottie West. I was with a bunch of people, some from Buck Owens’ band, some from Merle Haggard’s band, Glen Campbell’s bass player, and some others. These were some of the friends I hung out with when I wasn’t in acting school or hanging out with actors.

  After the show, we all decided to go back to Larry Collins’ house. Larry and I had just written a song together called “Tulsa Turnaround” that was later cut by Sammy Davis, Jr. and then by Three Dog Night. We started passing the guitar around the room until 4:30 in the morning or so. At one point, I looked around the room and everyone else was asleep. I had the guitar in my hand and was just strumming. And I looked up and I felt as if my mother came into the room. I saw her very clearly. She was in a rocking chair and she was laughing.

  My mother had come from the Mississippi Delta and she always lived her life as if she had a suitcase in her hand but nowhere to put it down. She was a hairdresser in Brownsville. She was very free-spirited, and folks in a small town don’t always understand people like that. She never really grew up.

  The first line that came to me that night was, “She’s forty-one and her daddy still calls her ‘baby.’ All the folks ’round Brownsville say she’s crazy.” Larry woke up and grabbed the guitar and said, “Let me show you how to play that,” and we finished the song. We wrote the song in about 20 minutes, or should I say, the song wrote itself.

  I was the first one to record it. I was on Capitol Records at the time. Tracy Nelson sang backup on my record. Bette Midler was a big fan of Tracy’s and she came to hear Tracy sing at the Bottom Line in New York one night. Bette loved it and vowed she was going to cut it one day.

  In the meantime, someone took a track of it to Barbra Streisand and she passed on it. Bette put it into her live show and also performed it on The Tonight Show. In the meantime, Helen Reddy heard it and decided to cut it.

  Eventually, Bette recorded it and was ready to put it out as a single. But a few days before Bette’s record was due to come out, Helen Reddy’s version came out. So Bette’s promoters told the DJs to push the B side instead, which was a song called “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” And that became one of Bette’s biggest hits.

  Tanya Tucker’s version came out later that year. So the same song charted on two different charts by two different artists in the same year and was nominated for a Grammy. It was one of the few times that had ever happened. Since then it’s been cut 78 times.

  I really believe that my mother didn’t come into the room that night to scare me, but to tell me “It’s okay,” and that she had made her choices in life and it had nothing to do with me. I always felt like that song was a gift to my mother and an apology to her. It was also a way to say “thank you” to my mother for all she did.

  Until that night in L.A., I harbored a lot of guilt over that. I feel like God allowed my mother’s spirit to visit me that night to release me. That night I was finally able to make peace with my mother. Whenever I hear the song on the radio — even today — I feel like my mama is up there saying, “You’re welcome.”

  Delta Dawn

  Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?

  Could it be a faded rose from days gone by?

  And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today

  To take you to his mansion in the sky

  She’s forty-one and her daddy still calls her “baby”

  All the folks around Brownsville say she’s crazy

  ’Cause she walks around town with a suitcase in her hand

  Looking for a mysterious dark-haired man

  In her younger days they called her Delta Dawn

  Prettiest woman you ever laid eyes on

  Then a man of low degree stood by her side

  And promised her he’d take her for his bride

  Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?

  Could it be a faded rose from days gone by

  And did I hear you say he was a-meeting you here today

  To take you to his mansion in the sky

  Desperados Waiting for a Train

  Story by Guy Clark

  Song written by Guy Clark

  Recorded by Guy Clark, Jerry Jeff Walker, The Highwaymen (Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and Johnny Cash)

  I was born in a small West Texas town called Monahans, where my grandmother ran a hotel. There was a fellow who stayed at her hotel who was almost like a grandfather to me, except that he was my grandmother’s boyfriend.

  When he died, I wrote “Desperados Waiting for a Train.” He was a wildcatter and worked in the oil fields in West Texas. He drilled the first oil wells in South America and the Middle East, back in the 1920s.

  All those things in the song happened. It
’s as accurate as I can remember it, nearly word for word. I used to play songs for him. I would tag along with him when I was little. As I got older, I would go along with him to a little bar in town where old guys would play cards. Sometimes he’d give me money, and he taught me how to drive. I’d drive his car sometimes if he got too drunk. He was just a crusty old bachelor who lived life on his own terms.

  “Desperados” was one of those songs that I knew I had to write. Jerry Jeff Walker was the first one to record it. I recorded it later around 1975, and then Willie and Waylon and Kris and Johnny put it on their Highwayman album. It’s been covered by a lot of people. Believe it or not, one of my favorite recordings was by Slim Pickens, the old cowboy-actor. He read it as a poem over the music track. That’s probably my favorite version of any song of mine that’s been recorded.

  Desperados Waiting for a Train

  I played the Red River Valley

  He’d sit out in the kitchen and cry

  Run his fingers through seventy years of livin’

  And wonder, “Lord, has every well I’ve drilled gone dry?”

  We were friends, me and this old man

  Like desperados waitin’ for a train

  Desperados waitin’ for a train.

  He’s a drifter, a driller of oil wells

  He’s an old school man of the world

  He’d let me drive his car when he was too drunk to

  And he’d wink and give me money for the girls

  And our lives were like some old Western movie

  Like desperados waitin’ for a train

  Like desperados waitin’ for a train

  From the time that I could walk he’d take me with him