Low Pockets on the Radio

The Story Behind the Song

Some of my favorite memories of Dad begin in the cab of a pickup truck.

The windows were down, the radio was playing rock ’n’ roll, and somewhere under the dashboard sat a CB radio that seemed to connect us to an entire world of people we’d never met.

Dad’s CB handle was Low Pockets, a fitting nickname for a man who wasn’t particularly tall.

Back in the days when CB radios were everywhere, a simple “Breaker one-nine” could start a conversation with a stranger miles down the highway. There were truckers, familiar voices, colorful handles, and conversations that drifted in and out as we traveled. To a girl riding along with her dad, it was fascinating.

My younger sister, Angie, and I spent plenty of time riding those Texas roads with him. We didn’t need a particular destination or anything special planned. Sometimes just being in the truck, listening to the music and the voices coming over the radio, was enough.

I remember the sound of the CB crackling to life, Dad picking up the microphone, and the way he could strike up a conversation with someone he’d never met. Those voices would come and go as the miles rolled by, each one belonging to somebody out there on the same stretch of highway.

There was something special about those rides. The music, the open windows, the sound of tires on the pavement, and Dad’s voice coming across the radio all became part of the soundtrack of my childhood.

When I began writing Low Pockets on the Radio, it was those memories I wanted to capture. Not some grand adventure or extraordinary event, but the simple pleasure of being together in that pickup truck, with the whole world seemingly waiting just beyond the windshield.

It’s funny how the things that seemed so ordinary when we were children can become the memories we treasure most.

Today, CB radios aren’t nearly as common as they once were. But I can still imagine Dad reaching for that microphone, calling out his handle, and waiting for somebody down the highway to answer.

And for just a moment, I’m that young girl again, riding beside him, listening to the radio and watching the miles roll by.

Low Pockets on the Radio is my way of keeping those road trips—and the sound of Dad’s voice—alive.

Lyrics

Verse 1

That CB hung beneath the dash,
A microphone on a curly cord.
Dad would reach down with one hand,
Like he’d done it all before.
“Breaker one-nine, anybody out there?”
Then the static came alive—
Some stranger rolling westbound
Talking somewhere in the night.

Angie squeezed between us,
I had the window and the view.
Rock ’n’ roll above the engine,
And the sky was Texas blue.
Then a voice broke through the speaker,
“Low Pockets, how you been?”
Dad picked up that microphone—
And the whole world answered him.

Chorus

“You got Low Pockets?”
“Yeah, come on back.”
A voice out on the highway
Through the hiss and through the crack.
Windows down, the music loud,
Another town to go—
I thought Dad knew everybody
On every Texas road.

“Catch you on the flip-flop,”
Then the signal faded low.
But I knew another voice would find
Low Pockets on the radio.

Verse 2

Sometimes High Pockets found us
From a hundred miles away.
Sometimes truckers passed us laughing,
With a story for the day.
Dad knew all the lingo—
I just loved the way it sounded:
“Come on back,” and “What’s your twenty?”
While those highway miles unwound.

I never thought those rides were special.
They were just the way things were—
Dad beside me at the wheel,
Static underneath his words.
I didn’t know that ordinary
Could turn precious as you grow,
Or that someday I would ache to hear
Low Pockets on the radio.

Chorus

“Catch you on the flip-flop,”
Then the signal faded low.
But I knew another voice would find
Low Pockets on the radio.

Verse 3

Years rolled by like mile markers.
I grew up and made a life.
Dad walked beside me down the aisle,
Then I left there as a wife.
There were jobs and kids and distance,
All the places people go—
And somewhere in those passing years
We quit using that old radio.

I don’t remember the last time
I heard him say that name.
There wasn’t any warning
That a last time ever came.
No sign beside the highway,
No voice to let me know—
One day there were no more rides
With Low Pockets on the radio.

Bridge

Funny what the heart remembers—
Not the things you’d think it would.
Not every word he ever told me,
Not whether he was bad or good.

I remember that old microphone,
His elbow by my side,
Angie sitting there between us,
The wind. The road. The ride.

And a voice beneath the static
Calling somewhere up ahead—
“Low Pockets, you still out there?”

And Dad reaching for the set.

Breakdown

If I had that CB now,
I’d turn the squelch down low.
I’d listen through a thousand miles
For a voice I used to know.

I’d call until the morning,
Though I know he can’t reply:

“Breaker one-nine, you got Low Pockets?
It’s your little girl. You copy, Dad?”

Final Chorus

“You got Low Pockets?”
Come on back.
I’m listening through the silence
For your voice beneath the crack.

Windows down, the music loud,
We’re somewhere long ago—
Three of us together
On an endless Texas road.

“Catch you on the flip-flop…”
Funny how those words still stay.
You signed off much too early, Dad—
But you never went away.

Outro

Sometimes when I’m driving
And an old song starts to play,
I’m that girl beside you
Like it was yesterday.

Angie sitting there between us,
Texas rolling past below—

Spoken

“Breaker one-nine—you got Low Pockets?”
“Yeah, Dad—You’re still on my radio.”

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