In 1970, Marty Robbins was honored by the Academy of Country Music as the “Man of the Decade,” a recognition not only for his outstanding musical talent but also for his respectable character. One of the most moving stories that illustrates Marty Robbins’ heart is the creation of the song “Two Little Boys.” The story begins with a tragedy in the world of country music. In 1963, a plane crash claimed the lives of several talented artists, including Patsy Cline and the singer Hawkshaw Hawkins. Their sudden passing left behind immeasurable sorrow. At that time, Hawkshaw Hawkins’ wife, fellow singer Jean Shepard, was facing immense grief. She had not only lost her beloved husband but was also left alone with the responsibility of raising their young son, Don Robin Hawkins, and was pregnant with their second child, Harold Hawkins. As a close family friend, Marty Robbins was deeply heartbroken by Jean’s situation. He wanted to do more than just offer words of comfort; he wanted to do something truly meaningful to help her and her children. With deep empathy, he wrote the song “Two Little Boys.” The lyrics are like a monologue from the widow, who sees the image of her late husband in her two little boys, believing he would be very proud of them. However, the most admirable part of the story lies not just in the song’s touching melody. In a truly noble gesture, Marty Robbins decided not to take credit as the songwriter. Instead, he officially credited the two boys, Don and Harold Hawkins, as the composers. This act ensured that all royalties from the song would go directly to them, providing a stable source of financial support for their future.

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”

Introduction

Sometimes the songs that stay with us the longest aren’t the loud anthems or the ones that top every chart. They’re the quiet stories that catch you off guard — the ones that make you stop and feel something deeper. Jean Shepard’s “Two Little Boys” is one of those songs.

Released in 1964, the ballad paints a vivid picture of friendship, innocence, and the way childhood bonds follow us into adulthood. At its core, it’s a story of two boys playing soldier together — a game that later becomes reality when war pulls them apart and eventually brings them back together in the most bittersweet way. Shepard delivers it with the kind of tenderness only she could bring, her voice wrapping the story in warmth and sorrow all at once.

What makes it so special is how timeless the message feels. Whether you hear it as a tribute to friendship, a reminder of the cost of war, or simply a reflection on how life changes but love endures, it leaves a mark. It’s not just about those “two little boys” in the song — it’s about all of us, about the people we grew up with, the ones we’ve lost, and the memories that never fade.

Jean Shepard was already known as a pioneer for women in country music, but this song shows another side of her artistry — the ability to take a story and make it feel universal. Sixty years later, “Two Little Boys” still has the power to tug at your heart, not because it’s flashy or complicated, but because it’s real.

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Country Music

THE SONG SOUNDED LIKE HANK WILLIAMS PICKED UP A HITCHHIKER FROM THE GRAVE. DAVID ALLAN COE DIDN’T WRITE IT — BUT HIS VOICE MADE PEOPLE BELIEVE THE GHOST WAS REAL. The idea started before David Allan Coe ever stepped to the microphone. In 1982, songwriters Gary Gentry and J.B. Detterline were working on a tribute to Hank Williams and Lefty Frizzell. The first version did not feel right. Gentry later said he went home unsatisfied, still trying to find the real song. That night became the strange part. According to Gentry’s own telling, he lit candles, opened himself up to the idea of Hank’s presence, and tried to write something that felt closer to the bone. Out of that came a different story — not a simple tribute, but a ride. A hitchhiker. A Cadillac. A driver who looked like he came from 1952. A question every country singer secretly fears: can you make people cry when you sing? The song became “The Ride.” Coe recorded it for Castles in the Sand. Columbia released it in February 1983. By then, Coe already had the outlaw look, the prison past, the biker edge, and a reputation Nashville never fully knew how to handle. But “The Ride” gave him something different: a ghost story that let him stand face to face with country music’s oldest shadow. The single climbed to No. 4 on the country chart. Most singers cut songs about Hank Williams like museum pieces. David Allan Coe cut one like a man who had just climbed out of the back seat.

Country Music

THE SONG STARTED ON A SMALL REGIONAL LABEL. THREE YEARS LATER, “BORROWED ANGEL” HAD CARRIED A WEST VIRGINIA BODY-SHOP OWNER INTO THE COUNTRY TOP 10. Before Nashville knew his name, Mel Street was fixing cars. In 1963, he moved back to West Virginia and opened an auto body shop. Days were metal, paint, grease, and customers. Nights were music. He had sung on radio as a teenager, worked as a radio tower electrician, and played clubs around Niagara Falls, but none of that had made him a country star. Then Bluefield changed the pace. From 1968 to 1972, Mel hosted a local television show in Bluefield, West Virginia. The camera gave people a reason to remember the face. The clubs gave them a reason to remember the voice. Little by little, the body-shop singer became more than a local act. That exposure led to a small label called Tandem Records. Mel went to Nashville for a session and cut “House of Pride.” On the flip side, he placed one of his own songs: “Borrowed Angel.” It did not explode at first. Regional records rarely do. But “Borrowed Angel” kept moving. It found listeners. It found stations. By 1972, Royal American Records picked it up, and the song finally broke wide enough to reach the Billboard country Top 10. The strange part is how clean the story looks from the outside. A hit song. A new voice. A career beginning. But behind it was almost a decade of body-shop work, local television, club nights, and a record that had to crawl out of West Virginia before Nashville treated it like it belonged there.

Country Music

THEY OFFERED HIM $100 TO GO AWAY. BILLY JOE SHAVER SAID NO — THEN THREATENED TO FIGHT WAYLON JENNINGS UNTIL HE LISTENED TO HIS SONGS. The whole thing started in Texas. In 1972, at the Dripping Springs Reunion, Billy Joe Shaver was sitting in a songwriter circle, playing the rough little songs he had carried around like unpaid debts. Waylon Jennings was nearby, resting in a trailer, half-listening. Then he heard one. “Willy the Wandering Gypsy and Me.” Waylon asked if Billy Joe had any more of those old cowboy songs. Billy Joe said he did. Waylon told him he might record a whole album of them. Most people would have gone home smiling. Billy Joe went to Nashville. Then he waited. For months, Waylon dodged him. Billy Joe kept trying to find him. Finally, with help from a local DJ, he tracked Waylon down at an RCA session with Chet Atkins. That is where the story stopped being polite. Waylon offered him $100 to leave. Billy Joe refused. He told Waylon he would fight him right there if he did not listen to the songs he had promised to hear. Waylon finally made a deal: sing one. If he liked it, Billy Joe could sing another. If not, he had to go. Billy Joe sang. Then he sang another. Then another. In 1973, Waylon released Honky Tonk Heroes, built almost entirely from Billy Joe Shaver songs. Outlaw country did not walk into Nashville quietly. One part of it came through an RCA hallway, carried by a songwriter too broke and too stubborn to take the hundred dollars.

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