During my teenage years I wrote a few songs. All of the evidence is thankfully gone. They weren’t awful for a kid with a Silvertone guitar ordered from Sears & Roebuck, but too elementary to pass along. 

There’s only one from which I remember any lines. It must have been my favorite. “I got pots and pans and a dog named Fang, trailer and guitar and a woman who swings. They call me the gypsy, and maybe I am. I just keep traveling on, just kind of hanging round, don’t plan to ever settle down.” I don’t know what inspired those whimsical lyrics. Maybe it was the gypsies who used to occasionally come by our farm.

Some folks were hesitant to do business with them, but Daddy knew a few by name and was acquainted with multiple generations in one family. They would drive down from South Carolina and stop by about once a year, offering to paint the rusty tin on our shelter or selling off-brand shop equipment.

Daddy only had the shelter painted once that I recall. They quoted a high price but kept dropping, finally getting down to almost nothing. He didn’t expect the silver coloring to last past a big rain, but figured a temporary shine was worth a few dollars.

We still have a couple of pieces of shop equipment he bought from the gypsies – a hydraulic press and a free-standing drill. He enjoyed trading with them, as had his father before him. Daddy would get updates on some of their family members he’d met through the years, then they’d be gone again.

Or maybe that song evolved from a more personal experience. I’m not sure why a group of us boys went to Cordele, but curiosity led us to a house on US 41 with a sign advertising palm readings. A lovely young lady in the yard made stopping seem like a grand idea, Cupid’s arrow, however, fell flat when she took us to her grandmother. 

Not wanting to be impolite, nor confess my true motivation, I paid the three dollars asked. The rest of the fellows decided one reading by an elderly woman was enough. The knowing lady, however, sensed a hint of interest from my buddy Joe Sanders. And thus began the negotiations. 

They bargained back and forth until settling on a one-dollar fee. Despite the price differential, Joe and I had similar futures foretold. He too would meet someone special and would also experience an impactful yet still-undefined event. I guess it was a lesson in economics, but it’s hard to put a price on a good story. 

It’s possible that song came from watching Sonny and Cher on TV. Cher wasn’t a gypsy but played the role well. Her natural mystique, however, has faded from too many look-young surgeries. I’m not sure how much of the original packaging is left.

I never had a real desire to roam the country. My own bed has always suited me better than a covered wagon. But on many summer nights our front-porch swing cradled the fleeting fantasies of youth. I would strum my guitar and share wistful thoughts with an understanding audience of crickets and fireflies. Sometimes the dog listened too.           

Time has long erased what inspired that gypsy song, for make-believe adventures can only last so long. In my heart I still believe what I’ve always known. Wherever life may take us, there’s no place quite like home.