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Tom T. Hall – “Old Dogs Children & Watermelon Wine”

About the Song

Tom T. Hall, a storyteller bard of country music, weaves a tapestry of humor and life lessons in his 1972 hit, “Old Dogs, Children & Watermelon Wine”. This seemingly lighthearted song, with its catchy melody and folksy charm, delves deeper upon reflection, offering a poignant look at aging, the simple joys in life, and the importance of cherishing the present.

The song opens with a folksy guitar riff, setting a relaxed and nostalgic tone. Hall’s distinctive baritone voice, both wry and comforting, introduces the central characters: “old dogs” – weary souls who’ve seen it all – and “children” – full of life and innocent curiosity. These contrasting figures become symbolic of different stages in life’s journey.

The lyrics paint a picture of a simple gathering, a porch swing swaying gently as laughter fills the air. Watermelon wine, a homemade concoction specific to the Southern United States, becomes a metaphor for the simple pleasures that bring joy. Lines like “Sipping on that sweet watermelon wine” evoke a sense of contentment and nostalgia for simpler times.

“Old Dogs, Children & Watermelon Wine” isn’t just about summer afternoons and sweet drinks. It’s a meditation on aging and the passage of time. The “old dogs” offer sage advice, urging the children to “hold on to your dreams” and “don’t let the world steal your sunshine.” These words resonate with a deeper meaning, reminding us to cherish the present and hold onto the youthful spirit that allows us to find joy in the simple things.

The song takes a humorous turn with the line, “John told me one time he said you know Tom Jesus he says look we’re drinking and that’s it really you said yeah he said it makes me break out dallas-fort worth windows doors.” This nonsensical anecdote, delivered with Hall’s signature deadpan humor, adds a touch of levity and reinforces the carefree spirit of the song.

However, beneath the surface humor lies a deeper philosophical message. The “old dogs,” despite their age and weariness, still find joy in life’s simple pleasures. They understand the value of living in the moment and appreciating the company of loved ones.

“Old Dogs, Children & Watermelon Wine” remains a beloved classic, a song that transcends generations. Its nostalgic charm and relatable themes resonate with listeners of all ages. It’s a reminder that true happiness often lies in the simple things, in the warmth of companionship, and in cherishing the present moment before it fades into memory.

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Lyrics: Old Dogs Children & Watermelon Wine

“How old do you think I am? ” he said.
I said, well, I didn’t know.
He said, “I turned 65 about 11 months ago.”

I was sittin’ in Miami pourin’ blended whiskey down
When this old gray black gentleman was cleanin’ up the lounge

There wasn’t anyone around ‘cept this old man and me
The guy who ran the bar was watchin’ “ironsides” on tv
Uninvited, he sat down and opened up his mind
On old dogs and children and watermelon wine

“Ever had a drink of watermelon wine? ” he asked
He told me all about it, though I didn’t answer back
“Ain’t but three things in this world that’s worth a solitary dime,
But old dogs and children and watermelon wine.”

He said, “women think about they-selves, when menfolk ain’t around.
And friends are hard to find when they discover that you’re down.”
He said, “I tried it all when I was young and in my natural prime;
Now it’s old dogs and children and watermelon wine.”

“Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes;
God bless little children while they’re still too young to hate.”
When he moved away I found my pen and copied down that line
‘Bout old dogs and children and watermelon wine.

I had to catch a plane up to Atlanta that next day
As I left for my room I saw him pickin’ up my change
That night I dreamed in peaceful sleep of shady summertime
Of old dogs and children and watermelon wine.

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

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THEY LOOKED LIKE FOUR OUTLAWS WHO COULD OUTRUN TIME ITSELF. BUT WHEN YOU WATCH THE HIGHWAYMEN SING “BIG RIVER” TODAY, THE EMPTY MICROPHONES BREAK YOUR HEART. Onstage, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson looked untouchable. Four weathered men, four different wounds, four voices that made country music sound dangerous, honest, and free. When they traded verses on Cash’s “Big River,” it wasn’t just another performance. It was four old brothers chasing the same song down the same river, each one carrying a piece of the road in his voice. Cash brought the thunder. Waylon brought the grit. Kris brought the broken-poet soul. Willie floated above it all with that calm, aching grace only he could carry. Back then, the stage lights made it easy to believe they would always be there. That was the beautiful lie of watching legends stand side by side. But time does what no outlaw ever could: it catches everyone. Today, Cash is gone. Waylon is gone. Kris has crossed the river too. Willie is the only one left, still playing, still standing, still carrying a brotherhood that can never fully gather again. That is why “Big River” feels different now. It is no longer just a song about chasing something you cannot hold. It feels like time itself moving past four men we were not ready to lose. The song remains. But three microphones are empty. Does “Big River” feel heavier now that Willie is the only one left to sing it?

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SHE WAS A BRIDE AT FIFTEEN, A MOTHER AT SIXTEEN, AND THE FIRST WOMAN NASHVILLE EVER HAD TO CALL “ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR” — THEN SHE NAMED HER BABY AFTER THE BEST FRIEND SHE’D JUST BURIED, AND THAT BABY SPENT A LIFETIME MAKING SURE NEITHER VOICE WAS FORGOTTEN. Loretta Lynn came out of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, with nothing but a coal miner’s last name and a voice that could pin a grown man to his chair. Married before she could drive. Four children by twenty-two. Then she wrote songs that scared Nashville half to death — about cheating husbands, birth control pills, and women who’d had enough. Sixteen number-ones. Presidential Medal of Freedom. The whole world calling her the Coal Miner’s Daughter. In 1963, her best friend Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. The next year, Loretta gave birth to twins. She named one of them Patsy. That little girl grew up backstage, between tour buses and honky-tonks. She formed The Lynns with her twin sister Peggy. Earned CMA nominations. Then she did something quieter and heavier — she stepped behind the glass and co-produced her mother’s final albums alongside Johnny Cash’s son. Loretta died October 4, 2022. That first birthday without her, Patsy woke up reaching for a phone call that wasn’t coming — her mama singing “Happy Birthday,” the way she always had. Does knowing Loretta named her daughter after a ghost she never stopped grieving make “I Fall to Pieces” feel like it belongs to both of them now?

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