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Charley Pride – In The Middle of Nowhere

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Introduction

“In the Middle of Nowhere” is one of those songs that cuts straight to the heart, reminding us of all the places we end up when life takes unexpected turns. There’s something magnetic about a song like this; it paints a vivid picture of feeling lost, maybe even a little out of touch, yet there’s comfort in knowing we’re not the only ones who’ve been there.

It’s almost like the song holds a quiet truth, one we don’t talk about often. Being “in the middle of nowhere” isn’t just a place; it’s a state of mind we all stumble into at some point. Maybe it’s after a tough breakup, a sudden life change, or a time when life just feels still—like the calm before a storm, or maybe just an open sky with no clear direction. But what makes this song so powerful is the way it brings us along, reassuring us that, even in the middle of nowhere, we’re still on our way somewhere. The lyrics echo that longing, the uncertainty, but also the strange peace that can come from being lost for a little while.

In its own way, “In the Middle of Nowhere” feels like a conversation with an old friend, one who understands what it’s like to feel both trapped and free in that nowhere space. It’s as if the song invites us to embrace these uncertain moments, to breathe in the open air, and maybe find a little clarity when we’re not even looking for it. Whether it’s the wistful melody or the way the lyrics pull you in, this is a song that leaves its mark—reminding us that being in the middle of nowhere is often just another step on the journey to finding ourselves

Video

Lyrics

They had meant for me one last
Time to see my hometown again
Once again go there see the places
Where as a child I’ve been
As I journeyed now it was so
Far out it was almost in
In the middle in the middle of nowhere
Sadness talked with me as I walked
The streets of my memory
Streets that seemed somehow so much smaller
Now than they used to be
Talked of other days when this tiny
Place had been home to me
In the middle in the middle of nowhere
People stared at me in silence
As I walked around
Time had passed till I was
Just a stranger there
Folks had changed so much that no
One even knew me now
In the middle in the middle of nowhere
I went once again to the schoolyard
Where I used to play
Passed the church of mom and daddy
Where they used to pray
Down the dusty road to the churchyard
Where they both now lay
In the middle in the middle of nowhere
As I placed my blue forgetmenots
There on the ground one last time I knelt by
Mom and dad in prayer
Then I said goodbye forever
To that little town
In the middle in the middle of nowhere

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THEY GOT MARRIED ON A CONCERT STAGE IN WICHITA. LESS THAN THREE YEARS LATER, JEAN SHEPARD WAS LEFT WITH TWO SONS AND A HUSBAND COUNTRY MUSIC COULD ONLY HEAR ON RECORDS. They met inside the world that had already claimed both of them — radio shows, road dates, the Grand Ole Opry, dressing rooms, and the kind of touring life where a singer’s home could feel like whatever town had the next stage. Jean was not fragile. She had already fought her way into hard country when women were still expected to sound sweeter than the men around them. “A Dear John Letter” had taken her to No. 1. The Opry had taken her in. She had survived one bad early marriage and kept her career anyway. Hawkshaw was different. Six-foot-five. Smooth. Charismatic. A West Virginia singer people called “Eleven Yards of Personality.” He had the height, the grin, and the kind of stage presence that made a crowd feel like he had walked in from a bigger life. On November 26, 1960, they married onstage during a concert in Wichita, Kansas. It was not just a courthouse promise. Ken Nelson gave Jean away. A local disc jockey broadcast the ceremony over the radio. The crowd was there. The music world was there. Their private vow entered country history through a microphone. For a while, it looked like the show and the marriage could live together. They toured. They built a home in Goodlettsville. They had a son, Don Robin, named after friends Don Gibson and Marty Robbins. Jean became pregnant again. Then the calendar turned cruel. The marriage that had started in front of an audience ended with Jean carrying the part no audience could sing for her — a toddler, an unborn child, and a husband whose voice kept climbing the chart after he was gone.

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JEAN SHEPARD CUT “LONESOME 7-7203” BEFORE HER HUSBAND DID. CAPITOL LEFT IT SITTING. THEN HAWKSHAW HAWKINS RECORDED IT — AND DIED THREE DAYS AFTER ITS RELEASE. The song did not start as Hawkshaw Hawkins’ last hit. It passed through Jean Shepard first. By the early 1960s, Jean was already one of country music’s toughest women. She had come up through honky-tonk, made “A Dear John Letter” a No. 1 duet, joined the Grand Ole Opry, and proved she was not just a pretty harmony voice in a man’s business. Hawkshaw Hawkins was already part of that same Opry world. Tall, smooth, steady, with a career that had stretched from West Virginia radio to national country stages. He and Jean married in 1960. Two singers. Two roads. One house outside Nashville. Then came a Justin Tubb song called “Lonesome 7-7203.” Jean recorded it for Capitol, but the label left it unreleased. The song sat there. A lonely telephone number. A heartbreak line waiting for somebody to dial it. Hawkshaw finally told her that if Capitol was not going to release it, he would record it himself. King Records released his version on March 2, 1963. Three days later, Hawkshaw Hawkins was dead. The plane crash near Camden took him, Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and pilot Randy Hughes. Jean was left with the grief, the children, and the strange sound of her husband’s voice still rising on the radio. Then the song climbed. “Lonesome 7-7203” reached No. 1 after Hawkshaw was gone. Jean had recorded it first. Hawkshaw made it immortal. Country music kept dialing the number after the man who sang it could no longer answer.

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SHE SAID A MAN WITH A GUN WAS WAITING IN THE BACK SEAT. DAYS LATER, TAMMY WYNETTE STILL WALKED ONSTAGE IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Tammy Wynette already knew what it meant to sing pain for a living. By 1978, she was not just a country star. She was the woman behind “Stand by Your Man,” “D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” “I Don’t Wanna Play House,” and the kind of songs that made broken homes sound like they had wallpaper, bills, children, and nowhere clean to hide. Her life had become part of the story too. Marriages. George Jones. Public fights. Illness. A voice that could make surrender sound noble even when the woman singing it was barely holding the pieces together. Then came October 4, 1978. Tammy had gone shopping at Green Hills in Nashville for a birthday gift for her daughter. When she returned to her car, she later said a masked man was hiding in the back seat with a gun. He forced her to drive, beat her, and released her about 80 miles away in Giles County. The story sounded like something too strange even for country music. Questions followed. Rumors followed. No one was ever convicted. The mystery stayed attached to her name for the rest of her life. But Tammy still had a calendar. A few days later, bruised and shaken, she appeared for a concert in Columbia, South Carolina. The fans saw the First Lady of Country Music under the lights. What they could not fully see was the woman who had just been left on a Tennessee roadside, trying to explain a nightmare nobody could neatly close. Loretta Lynn turned poverty into defiance. Patsy Cline turned survival into steel. Tammy Wynette turned private wreckage into a voice so controlled it almost hid the damage.

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THEY GOT MARRIED ON A CONCERT STAGE IN WICHITA. LESS THAN THREE YEARS LATER, JEAN SHEPARD WAS LEFT WITH TWO SONS AND A HUSBAND COUNTRY MUSIC COULD ONLY HEAR ON RECORDS. They met inside the world that had already claimed both of them — radio shows, road dates, the Grand Ole Opry, dressing rooms, and the kind of touring life where a singer’s home could feel like whatever town had the next stage. Jean was not fragile. She had already fought her way into hard country when women were still expected to sound sweeter than the men around them. “A Dear John Letter” had taken her to No. 1. The Opry had taken her in. She had survived one bad early marriage and kept her career anyway. Hawkshaw was different. Six-foot-five. Smooth. Charismatic. A West Virginia singer people called “Eleven Yards of Personality.” He had the height, the grin, and the kind of stage presence that made a crowd feel like he had walked in from a bigger life. On November 26, 1960, they married onstage during a concert in Wichita, Kansas. It was not just a courthouse promise. Ken Nelson gave Jean away. A local disc jockey broadcast the ceremony over the radio. The crowd was there. The music world was there. Their private vow entered country history through a microphone. For a while, it looked like the show and the marriage could live together. They toured. They built a home in Goodlettsville. They had a son, Don Robin, named after friends Don Gibson and Marty Robbins. Jean became pregnant again. Then the calendar turned cruel. The marriage that had started in front of an audience ended with Jean carrying the part no audience could sing for her — a toddler, an unborn child, and a husband whose voice kept climbing the chart after he was gone.

Country Music

JEAN SHEPARD CUT “LONESOME 7-7203” BEFORE HER HUSBAND DID. CAPITOL LEFT IT SITTING. THEN HAWKSHAW HAWKINS RECORDED IT — AND DIED THREE DAYS AFTER ITS RELEASE. The song did not start as Hawkshaw Hawkins’ last hit. It passed through Jean Shepard first. By the early 1960s, Jean was already one of country music’s toughest women. She had come up through honky-tonk, made “A Dear John Letter” a No. 1 duet, joined the Grand Ole Opry, and proved she was not just a pretty harmony voice in a man’s business. Hawkshaw Hawkins was already part of that same Opry world. Tall, smooth, steady, with a career that had stretched from West Virginia radio to national country stages. He and Jean married in 1960. Two singers. Two roads. One house outside Nashville. Then came a Justin Tubb song called “Lonesome 7-7203.” Jean recorded it for Capitol, but the label left it unreleased. The song sat there. A lonely telephone number. A heartbreak line waiting for somebody to dial it. Hawkshaw finally told her that if Capitol was not going to release it, he would record it himself. King Records released his version on March 2, 1963. Three days later, Hawkshaw Hawkins was dead. The plane crash near Camden took him, Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and pilot Randy Hughes. Jean was left with the grief, the children, and the strange sound of her husband’s voice still rising on the radio. Then the song climbed. “Lonesome 7-7203” reached No. 1 after Hawkshaw was gone. Jean had recorded it first. Hawkshaw made it immortal. Country music kept dialing the number after the man who sang it could no longer answer.

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SHE SAID A MAN WITH A GUN WAS WAITING IN THE BACK SEAT. DAYS LATER, TAMMY WYNETTE STILL WALKED ONSTAGE IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Tammy Wynette already knew what it meant to sing pain for a living. By 1978, she was not just a country star. She was the woman behind “Stand by Your Man,” “D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” “I Don’t Wanna Play House,” and the kind of songs that made broken homes sound like they had wallpaper, bills, children, and nowhere clean to hide. Her life had become part of the story too. Marriages. George Jones. Public fights. Illness. A voice that could make surrender sound noble even when the woman singing it was barely holding the pieces together. Then came October 4, 1978. Tammy had gone shopping at Green Hills in Nashville for a birthday gift for her daughter. When she returned to her car, she later said a masked man was hiding in the back seat with a gun. He forced her to drive, beat her, and released her about 80 miles away in Giles County. The story sounded like something too strange even for country music. Questions followed. Rumors followed. No one was ever convicted. The mystery stayed attached to her name for the rest of her life. But Tammy still had a calendar. A few days later, bruised and shaken, she appeared for a concert in Columbia, South Carolina. The fans saw the First Lady of Country Music under the lights. What they could not fully see was the woman who had just been left on a Tennessee roadside, trying to explain a nightmare nobody could neatly close. Loretta Lynn turned poverty into defiance. Patsy Cline turned survival into steel. Tammy Wynette turned private wreckage into a voice so controlled it almost hid the damage.

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“ I FORGOT MORE THAN YOU’LL EVER KNOW” WAS STILL RISING WHEN THE CAR CRASH KILLED BETTY JACK DAVIS AND LEFT SKEETER ALIVE TO SING UNDER THE SAME NAME. The Davis Sisters were not really sisters. Skeeter Davis was born Mary Frances Penick. Betty Jack Davis was her friend, her singing partner, and the other half of a harmony country music had not heard enough of yet. They were young, close, and just strange enough together to make the name feel true. In 1953, RCA released “I Forgot More Than You’ll Ever Know.” The record started moving fast. It went to No. 1 on the country chart and crossed into the pop world too. For two young women in country music, that was not just a hit. It was a door most people did not expect them to open. Then came the road home. After a show in Wheeling, West Virginia, the two left after midnight, heading back toward Kentucky. Near Cincinnati on August 2, 1953, another driver fell asleep at the wheel and crashed head-on into the car carrying them. Betty Jack was killed. Skeeter survived with serious injuries. The song kept climbing while one half of the duo was gone. Later, Skeeter returned under the Davis Sisters name with Betty Jack’s sister, Georgia. They recorded and toured, but everyone knew something had changed. A harmony can be copied on paper. It cannot always be brought back to life. Years later, Skeeter stood alone and sang “The End of the World.” Most listeners heard heartbreak. Skeeter had already learned what it sounded like when the world ended and the record kept playing.