My driftin' memory goes back to the spring of '43,
When I was just a child in momma's arms.
My daddy plowed the ground and hoped that someday we could leave
This run-down mortgaged Oklahoma farm.
and then one night I heard my daddy sayin' to my momma
That he'd finally saved enough to go.
California was his dream of paradise, for he had seen
Pictures in magazines that told him so.
Where labor camps were filled with worried men with broken dreams.
As close to wealth as daddy ever came.
Almost everything we had was sold or left behind,
From my daddy's plow to the soup that momma canned.
Some folks came to say farewell or see what all we had to sell;
Some just came to shake my daddy's hand.