I suppose that was because the lyrics were always so silly, so foolish, and Grandpa acted like a silly fool himself. Not once did I ever think to ask Grandpa what he was singing, either. But lyrics to “Jambalaya,” “Cool Water,” and “Lovesick Blues” serenaded my Grandpa’s modest, Mamou outdoor kitchen like the Gumbo he was cooking saturated the air, or permeated the thin forest of the bayou where we were fishing like the Kingfisher’s song rattled off the cypress trees in winter. So I never listened to Hank while growing up. He then raised my father in the Pentecostal faith, who, in turn, raised my three brothers and me in it as well. He just played the harmonica, yodeled (quite badly, but with good humor), and sang while cooking, fishing, or working.
I don’t think he could even play the guitar.
He was far too proud for those sorts of things-his brother had also drowned himself in liquor. Not at local taverns or honky-tonks, mind you. He never escaped the world, though, and I reckon that’s why he kept singing. So, Grandpa eventually came around to giving up all worldly music. In any event, the Pentecostal Church has quite the Puritan streak.