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THE TRIP I traveled to Texas by a big ole gray hound bus in 1961. I was just barely 16. I left my home in WVA to go to Texas to marry a rich goodlooking Texan who owned a ranch. Well I got part of my wish. I married a goodlooking , poor truck driver about three months after getting there. Thanks to my aunt who lived in Houston and a 40 dollar bus ticket, bought with a morgage on her cow. But my trip to Texas holds many memories and some of those musical. I left WVA in the chill of a January night. Boarded that ole bus and said goodby to the hilly landscape as the night turned into morning . That bus ride made five major stops during the trip. One I will never forget was when it pulled into Atlanta, Georgia. We reboarded the bus from our layover just as the sun was a settin in the west.As I recovered my seat and sat down I noticed a feller just getting on the bus. He was not the best dressed, had not shaved in a couple days and was dressed in kinda' cowboy attire. Well I was somewhat impressed cause he was dressed that way and he was a carryin a big ole guitar. He came and sat down beside me. I was young , kinda cute and he was old maybe 40 and had a big ole guitar that took up his seat and mine. He laid it across the laps of both of us. As night came upon us and the bus roared south west ,he picked up that ole guitar and began to play. On and on as we traveled the lonesome sound of his voice almost put me to sleep. He played and sang country music just like I'd heard on our old radio back home on Saturday night. The voice reminded me of Hank, and Hank , and Hank and lefty, and Ferlin and others. He sang to me a few hundred miles, only quittin long enough to change buses or grab a bite to eat at the next station. We pulled into Houston Texas on Jan 21st 1961. I was scared to death. Not a soul there to meet me. I had sent a telegram when I was in Atlanta to my aunt. I did not know what to do.I could not find a phone number for my aunt who had sent me the bus ticket . No phone number, just her address on a scrap of notebook paper I held in my shakin, skinny hand . My new found cowboy singing friend took me outside the bus station and hailed a cab. He put me and my suitcase in this cab and told the driver "Iffin her kin folk ain't a home please bring her back here to me. I will be at the George Washington Hotel where I am a stayin" I thanked him kindly and never thinkin I would never see him again, just said goodby with a big ole hillbilly smile and the cabbie drove us off into the lights of Houston.. Well my kin was home, they just did'nt have a phone .They were sure pleased I got there ok. The telegram arrived three days later by regular mail. To this day I wonder Who he was . I thought often of the songs he sung for only me as we traveled those weary miles. I wonder why he was on that bus and where he was comin from and where he was travelin to.Was he famous and just on a string of bad luck? Was he just a wanna' be who sang in the bars for tips ? Or was he just another ole guitar picker who picked for the heck of it, to anybody who would listen? Was that ole guitar a Fender, a Gibson, or just a five and dime variety.Or maybe just one that bore no name picked up at a pawn shop for a few bucks. Guess I will never know the answers to my questions. But on a cold winters night, when its dark outside , my mind in past phase, I can hear the whirr of the bus tires and the passin' of asphalt and the songs he played just for me. I can hear them better if I have the radio sittin' at WSM on a Saturday night. Even with the static and crackle over the air from the soundwaves 930 mile journey. I can almost hear him play and see his skinny face. Can almost reach over and rub his two day old whiskers and touch the brim of his ole cowboy hat. I wonder if he ever thought of me again. If he ever sang again to a skinny 16 year old on an ole bus headin west. Written By: |