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My driftin' memory goes back to the spring of '43, |
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When I was just a child in momma's arms. |
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My daddy plowed the ground and promised someday we would leave |
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This run-down mortgaged Oklahoma farm. |
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Then one night I heard my daddy sayin' to my momma |
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That he'd finally saved enough to go. |
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California was his dream, a paradise, for he had seen |
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Pictures in magazines that told him so. |
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California Cottonfields, |
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Where labor camps were filled with weary men with broken dreams. |
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California Cottonfields, |
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As close to wealth as daddy ever came. |
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Nearly everything we had was sold or left behind, |
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From my daddy's plow to the soup that momma canned. |
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Some folks came to say farewell or see what all we had to sell; |
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Some just came to shake my daddy's hand. |
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That model A was loaded down and California bound; |
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A change of luck was just 4 days away. |
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But the only change that I remember seeing in my daddy |
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Was when his dark hair turned to silver grey. |
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California Cottonfields, |
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Where labor camps were filled with weary men with broken dreams. |
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California Cottonfields, |
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As close to wealth as daddy ever came. |
