Most of the favorite memories
Of my boyhood days in Arkansas
Are scattered around an old wood stove
At a place we call John's
It was just an old tar paper shack
With a pump out front
And some junk out back
But inside there was always a hot cup of coffee
And a warm place around the fire for anyone
John pumped gas for a living
And he fixed tires on the side
And I guess old John
Could fix most anything
If you didn't push it
He'd try
And he gave me my first charge account
For some gas
And financed my first date
Even fixed my old radio
Just in case I got lucky
And wanted to park down by the lake
And among the carburetors
And the re-built generators
I spent the whole night picking
On an old flattop guitar
John would play the fiddle
And I'd always sing a little
No, there is no place to get filled up
The way you could at John's
John taught me a whole lot
About country music
Cause he loved it
We'd sit up and listen to the Grand Ole Opry
Every Saturday night
Nobody would ever say a word
Not even during Martha White
And I was awfully young back then
But still I knew just why
That John closed the shop for the whole day
When we heard that Hank had died
There was something else special about old John
He had a way of making us kids feel important
Simply by giving us a good
Clean place to hang out
Well, I can still hear him saying
"Pumping gas is a fever, boys
It'll get in your blood
And it'll make your face break out in a grin
Just to check old lady Hanson's oil
Or to help a stranded friend"
And among the carburetors
And the re-built generators
I spent the whole night picking
On an old flattop guitar
John would play the fiddle
And I'd always sing a little
No, there is no place to get filled up
The way you could at John's
And among the carburetors
And the re-built generators
I spent the whole night picking
On an old flattop guitar
John would play the fiddle
And I'd always sing a little
No, there is no place to get filled up
The way you could at John's