Boxcar Willie - The Wreck of old 97

Sometimes things are not what they seem. Most people remember Boxcar Willie - if they remember him at all - from goofy TV commercials in the 1980s. The story's more interesting than that.

For instance, he was a career Air Force pilot, and a combat veteran of B29 sorties over Korea. I hadn't known that.

Willie wasn't his name (it was Lecil Martin). Willie was one of his Air Force buddies; one day Martin was waiting at a crossing for a train to finish passing, and he saw someone who looked like his buddy Martin ride by in a Boxcar. Martin pulled out some paper and wrote the song "Boxcar Willie."

The name stuck. Willie (our hero, not his Air Force buddy) started singing and recording when he got out of the service in 1975. He ultimately had some success in "hobo music", and was inducted into the Grand Ole Opry.

Lots of people have recorded this song, about a wreck in 1903. It is thought that this is the first ever million selling record for those new fangled phonograph things that they young kids were using. It's also said to be the first major lawsuit over song copyright - RCA Victor seems to have gotten away with swindling the songwriter out of his court settlement. This is Willie's cover.



The Wreck Of Old 97 (songwriter: David G. George)

On one cloudless morning I stood on the mountain,
Just watching the smoke from below,
It was coming from a tall, slim smokestack
Way down on the Southern railroad.

It was 97, the fastest train
Ever ran the Southern line,
All the freight trains and passengers take the side for 97,
For she's bound to be at stations on time.

They gave him his orders at Monroe, Virginia,
Saying, "Stevie, you're way behind time.
This is not 38, but it's Old 97,
You must put her into Spencer on time."

He looked 'round and said to his black greasy fireman,
"Just shovel in a little more coal,
And when I cross that old White Oak Mountain
You can just watch Old 97 roll."

It's a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville,
And the lie was a three-mile grade,
It was on that grade that he lost his air brakes,
And you see what a jump that she made.

He was going down the grade making 90 miles an hour,
When his whistle began to scream,
He was found in that wreck with his hand on the throttle,
He was scalded to death by the steam.

Did she ever pull in? No, she never pulled in,
And at 1:45 he was due,
For hours and hours has the switchman been waiting
For that fast mail that never pulled through.

Did she ever pull in? No, she never pulled in,
And that poor boy must be dead.
Oh, yonder he lays on the railroad track
With the cart wheels over his head.

97, she was the fastest train
That the South had ever seen,
But she run so fast on that Sunday morning
That the death score was numbered 14.

Now, ladies, you must take warning,
From this time now and on.
Never speak harsh words to your true loving husband.
He may leave you and never return.