A wonderful song from Don Lange about loss and the Great Depression. It has one of the most haunting images of any song I know: "Here's to the women who marry for love and live with the man in the moon." I learned the song a long time ago from Priscilla Herdman. [ET] Ed: 6-string guitar; Gordon: laud; Ann: flute
I never knew my grand-dad;
He was always on the bum.
Every September he'd catch him a southbound and ride.
Then, 'long about Christmas, me and my brother,
We'd get a few coins in the mail.
We couldn't spend them; it was all he could send
From that Mexico City jail.
Back in the thirties, when the going got rough,
Old Grand-dad, he hit the road.
Mother was young then; she only remembers his name.
Granny got work in an old canning factory,
Took in some wash on the side.
Promised herself she'd never forgive him,
A promise she kept till she died.
So, here's to you rounders
And here's to you railroad bums,
Hope you make it home soon.
Here's to the women who marry for love
And live with the man in the moon.
Sometime near the end he rolled into town,
Riding on that Greyhound line.
Guess he got old and them boxcars were harder to climb.
He used his last dime for a call to my Granny,
But, "No," was her only reply.
She hung up the phone, she cursed him in German,
But I saw the pain in her eyes.
So, here's to you rounders ...
I never knew my grand-dad;
He was always on the bum.
Salvation Army sent us a note when he died.
Now me and my brother, we carry the memory
Of a face we never have seen,
Like some foreign coin that lies cold in the pocket
Of a young boy's faded blue jeans.
So, here's to you rounders ...
Here's to you rounders ..