“The Secret Reason That Hillbilly Singers Sing Sad Love Songs”
It’s all in our early life experiences…..
1951…15 ½ years old….on a date with the hottest cheerleader at Pleasant Hope High School….had waited for her to get through cheer leading at the PHHS basketball game…Loretta Noe was really a neat girl and I was pretty excited to get to take her home after the game. I helped her into my very first car, a 1936 Pontiac…got the dang thing started with a minimum of trouble…headed for the creek about 5 miles down the gravel road out of town….I had planned this night of romance pretty good…at the ball game I had bought two hot dogs, with relish, onions, catsup and mustard all over them, and a couple of bottles of cokecola…had my guitar propped up on the back floorboard against the seat, and had been practicing a new Webb Pierce song, “Slowly I’m Falling, More In Love With You”…It was a beautiful Fall night, full moon coming up over the Ozark hills…shining on the creek as I pulled down on off the road and onto the gravel bar. Loretta looked mighty fetching in her Pleasant Hope Cheerleader skirt and Sweater with the P H across the breast. Got parked…handed her one of the hot dogs and coke colas..chomped down on my hot dog, which had extra onions on it…drank my cokecola…and had this terrible gas start bubbling up in my throat…kinda like a volcano…I tried to relieve the pressure with a quiet little burp…which kinda got away from me, but I covered it pretty well…leaned over to kiss Loretta and the onion stench was so strong that her eyes crossed, just for a moment, and I feared she might pass out. That kinda set the mood of the evening, even though I sang four Webb Pierce songs, two Carl Smith and 1 Roy Acuff, seems Loretta was just getting into this California pop culture music that was coming around, and when she yawned in my face, I saw that it definitely was not working. We sat back in the seats, after I had put my guitar back in it’s place….staring at the moon over the creek…and staring….and……..we woke up about two hours later, 15 minutes after midnite….OH LORD! PLEASE HELP ME I’M GONNA GET KILLED…HER DADDY WILL BEAT ME TO DEATH…AND THEN REALLY GET MAD AND KICK ME BACK TO LIFE SO HE CAN DO IT AGAIN!!!
Loretta, very quiet on the seat beside me, had absolutely nothing to
say as we pulled into her drive, to see her Daddy, Jack Noe, standing on
the porch waiting…fast forward past the hollering and finger
shaking….past my weak excuses and head nodding…to me driving away and
never getting to date Loretta again…still burping the raw onions and
coke cola and shaking my head at the ways of romance…..
1953...17 years old... at the Corral Drive Inn, Springfield, MO...sitting in my 1948 Chevy Fleetline, candy apple red, split manifold twin pipes, lowered 2 inches in back, additional lowering by putting two sacks of horse feed in the trunk of the moon hub capped beauty...been working on the cute car hop for about two hours...think she may let me take her home later...deciding to move my car so I can show off my smitty muffler pipes...rev the 6 cylinder engine twice, back up and hit the cute car hop who was carrying a tray of root beer floats behind me.....Root beer and ice cream run down and into the trunk of my dream car, mixing with the old sweat socks and sacks of feed in the trunk…cute car hop gets up, dusts herself off and gives me the look to kill......go home alone.
Love and the fickle hand of fate do not always work out together. Another lesson learned.
Six months later, the cute car hop has given in to my persuasive personality….agrees to let me take her home after work…this time I am very careful to not back up and hit anyone. The town boys, in their hot rods are all glaring at me as I pull out of the drive in with the cute car hop….pop the clutch and squeal my tires to show them town boys who’s cool…make it about one block from the drive in….run out of gas…even though I had put 50 cents worth of regular in it when I left the farm…cute car hop hops out of my cool car….huffs off walking back to the drive in…Once again, love and fickle hand of fate are totally out of sync….
Synopsis: Root beer, ice cream, old sweat socks and sacks of horse feed make a mix of odors that is nigh impossible to overcome in a custom car which does not run far on 50 cents worth of gas, which, joined together can defeat the most carefully planned out romantic evening. It can also lead to a lifetime of craving for root beer floats. -Stan
1953...17 years old... at the Corral Drive Inn, Springfield, MO...sitting in my 1948 Chevy Fleetline, candy apple red, split manifold twin pipes, lowered 2 inches in back, additional lowering by putting two sacks of horse feed in the trunk of the moon hub capped beauty...been working on the cute car hop for about two hours...think she may let me take her home later...deciding to move my car so I can show off my smitty muffler pipes...rev the 6 cylinder engine twice, back up and hit the cute car hop who was carrying a tray of root beer floats behind me.....Root beer and ice cream run down and into the trunk of my dream car, mixing with the old sweat socks and sacks of feed in the trunk…cute car hop gets up, dusts herself off and gives me the look to kill......go home alone.
Love and the fickle hand of fate do not always work out together. Another lesson learned.
Six months later, the cute car hop has given in to my persuasive personality….agrees to let me take her home after work…this time I am very careful to not back up and hit anyone. The town boys, in their hot rods are all glaring at me as I pull out of the drive in with the cute car hop….pop the clutch and squeal my tires to show them town boys who’s cool…make it about one block from the drive in….run out of gas…even though I had put 50 cents worth of regular in it when I left the farm…cute car hop hops out of my cool car….huffs off walking back to the drive in…Once again, love and fickle hand of fate are totally out of sync….
Synopsis: Root beer, ice cream, old sweat socks and sacks of horse feed make a mix of odors that is nigh impossible to overcome in a custom car which does not run far on 50 cents worth of gas, which, joined together can defeat the most carefully planned out romantic evening. It can also lead to a lifetime of craving for root beer floats. -Stan
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