Harry Chapin could sing and write…indeed.
In our humble abode in small town South Georgia (Statesboro), my Mama played the little radio…covered in green plastic (vinyl, maybe?) with one of those telescoped antennas that measured about 18 inches or so when we were trying to pick up Savannah’s stations on the FM dial or some baseball game a few states away on the AM side.
If my Mother was cooking breakfast, the radio was turned on. Usually she would listen to the news and obits while the bacon sizzled and the freshly battered pancakes filled the kitchen and the rest of the house with that best of morning aromas. And, I didn’t even drink coffee then although I liked the smell of Maxwell House.
One day, I guess I was around nine years old, I hear this dude (Harry Chapin…here’s the family’s tribute site to the late artist) singing this sad song about working…
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