The Rumbling, Rambling Blues
January, 1958
I had been working in the railroad diner in Des Moines about five months when one night an old Negro hobo came to my counter.He was an old southern Negro hobo and he came from those swamps. I was curious about the story of his life but he wouldn't talk about himself, just sang. In his pockmarked black skin, all white bristles, there gleamed enormous eyes that had grown larger since he left home. The bayou was his home town, the world was madder to see, he had been around, all 48 states, Canada a...
