That experience with the redhead taught us to be more careful about our contacts, but it didn’t stop us from trying to make it in Nashville. I guess I went at it like a bull in a china shop, the same way I am about everything—all energy. I’d be on people’s doorsteps at eight in the morning, holding copies of my first record and of new songs I’d written.
People started calling me “Colonel Parker” because that was the name of the man who promoted Elvis Presley. Well, I was no Colonel Parker, but I sure could have used one. I was wearing a ninety-nine cent dress from the Salvation Army, and me and Doolittle spent more than one night sleeping in the car to save money.
I went over to the Opry and pestered Ott Devine, the manager, until he let me on the show. My first appearance was on October 15, 1960; the Opry paid guests fifteen dollars in those days, and we were sure glad to have the money.
I was nervous when they took me backstage. It was kind of crowded and informal, with all sorts of people hanging around. You’d see some picker you never heard of standing right next to some great star like Roy Acuff. It seemed disorganized, but it was a radio show and only the studio audience could see people milling around backstage. On the radio, it was the most exciting thing in the world to hear. In person, you’d see those people, how exhausted they were from driving all day. But they’d come alive if they liked you. I sang, “Honky Tonk Girl” and they really cheered me, and Ott Devine invited me back again.
Somebody hinted that when you went on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry you should wear high-heeled shoes and look a little more stylish. But I was used to low-heeled boots, and didn’t want to look too fancy.
Out of those first Opry appearances, I got an invitation to tour Alaska with Johnny Horton. Before I could, he was on his way back to Nashville when he got killed in a car wreck. Then they talked about matching me with Jim Reeves, but he, too, died before we got together.
Me and Doo realized that we needed good advice if we were going to make it. We decided to try the Wilburn Brothers, who were a big act in country music at that time. I met them once before when I asked for their autographs. Now I looked ’em up and asked what they could do for me.
Of course, I already had my first record on the charts and was on my way to being included in the “Most Promising Female Singer” category, so they didn’t have anything to do with that, or getting me on the Opry. Plus, I was already considered for a television show, which later turned out to be their show.
We sat around and talked for a few hours in their office. There were four brothers from Arkansas—Doyle, Teddy, Leslie, and Lester. I remember Doyle liked my voice, and Teddy thought I sounded like Kitty Wells. Doyle did most of the business, and Teddy was a songwriter. They also ran a talent agency.
They asked me if I was under contract to anybody else. I remember Mr. Burley had promised to let me out of the contract if I moved to Nashville. I called him and he said, “Go ahead and sign. I’m tearing up your contract with me.” He was a sweet old man and I think he was as happy as we were about the Wilburn deal.
That was the start of a relationship that brought me a lot of happiness—but ended in a lot of pain. I really got close to the Wilburns and their mother, I still call her “Mom” today. For a long time, they managed my career and were also my song publishers. But around 1970, I got the feeling they weren’t growing with me anymore. So I went out and formed my own company. There’s a big court case still going on, so my lawyers have told me I can’t make any comments about the Wilburns, or why I left them.
It isn’t easy for me to hold back on my feelings, but when your lawyer talks, you’d better listen. But I’ve got to say this much: the Wilburns were good for me, when I was getting started. In my house in Hurricane Mills, I’ve got a portrait of the Wilburns, where everybody can see it. If you’ll notice in my fan booklets and stuff, there is usually a picture of those two boys entitled simply “Doyle and Teddy.” You can’t ever go back to what used to be, but you can be honest and remember it.
Anyway, the way it started, Doyle and Teddy took me to their recording studio, called Sure-Fire, where I recorded a song called “Fool Number One.” They figured I might as well start at the top, so they took the “demo” record to Owen Bradley at Decca Records.
Owen Bradley is one of the biggest men in the business. He was just named to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1974. He talks like an easygoing country man, but he’s been responsible for more country music hits than anybody. He was polite to the Wilburns when they brought in my record, but he said I sounded too much like Kitty Wells, which I probably did. Since he already had Kitty herself and Patsy Cline and Brenda Lee at Decca, he didn’t need me.
But Owen said he wanted that song for Brenda Lee, who was just a kid at the time. And Doyle said, “Owen, I’m not pitching you a song, I’m pitching you an artist.” So Owen agreed to give me a six-month contract if Doyle would let Brenda record the song. It got to be a big hit for her, and things worked out for me, too.
Decca started to call me “The Decca Doll from Kentucky.” I remember my first recording session for them. I was gonna record “The Girl That I Am Now” and “I Walked Away from the Wreck.” I was so scared, I just stood in the background and was even afraid to speak to the musicians. I’d see those fabulous side musicians like Grady Martin and Floyd Cramer, guys the public doesn’t know but who are really superstars for making a singer sound good. I’d get so choked up I couldn’t sing.
But Owen would put up a screen, so I couldn’t see nobody; I’d just sing to myself. He said he did the same thing for Brenda Lee and it helped.
I always felt like Owen was a father to me. He could see I was just a scared little country girl, and he made me relax. I remember one time, after we signed, we didn’t have any money. I started crying in his office, and he gave me a thousand dollars out of his pocket, not from the company, to pay my rent and the back bills. The next year we were making some money, and we paid Owen back. But I ain’t never forgotten that man helping me like he did.
Owen gave me good advice lots of times. Doyle and Teddy were trying to polish me up, make me a “performer,” while Owen felt I should stay more natural. They were both right, in their own ways, but it was nice to have somebody say, “Just pronounce the words the way you want, Loretta.” That’s what Owen told me. He never made me feel like I was a dumb hillbilly just because I said “ain’t” or “holler.” Owen said people would always understand me, so long as I was myself.
Once we had the contracts with the Wilburns and Decca, we knew we could make it in Nashville. I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t think I was going to make it. You’ve got to go all the way. Doolittle had already closed up our house in Washington State, and we moved the four kids to Indiana, where both of our mothers were living.
It was tough leaving Washington. Blanche Smith was upset because she said my four kids kept her young. She said, “I’m not going to live if you take away my babies.” She was an old lady at the time and, sure enough, she died about six months after we moved. I still miss Bob and Clyde Green. Every holiday, I start crying just thinking about those eleven years when Blanche and those two boys were as close as family. I see the Greens once in a while, and we talk over the old days.
Another bad thing was saying good-bye to my musicians. My brother Jay Lee was going to move to Nashville with us, but I couldn’t bring those other boys down. There was no way I could pay ’em a salary. I think it just about broke the heart of my steel man, Smiley, because I don’t believe he ever played in a band again.
It was the fall of 1961 when we settled in Nashville. Me and Doolittle were staying with a woman named Faye Walton, who lives around Indianapolis now. I once got a letter from her, bawling me out for not giving her enough credit. Well, it was true, she used to help us out a lot. So if you’ve bought a copy of this book, Faye, thanks a lot.
Doolittle went to work in a shop, but he was only taking cars he could fix in his spare time. He was starting to travel with m
e and was taking an interest in the business. Before the year was out, I was named “Most Promising Female Singer,” and Decca was talking about lengthening my contract.
It looked like we were gonna have it easy in Nashville. But then I learned not everybody was on my side.
My life has run from misery to happiness—and sometimes back to misery. This was one of the best times. I had just come to Nashville, had been on the Grand Ole Opry, and my first record had hit number one on the charts. The photographer told me to burst out of the Opry door and hug Doolittle and look happy. That wasn’t hard to do right then. (The reason I look so tall is that I’m standing on a higher step than Doolittle.)
All photographs from the personal collection of Loretta Lynn, except where otherwise noted.
Me and my cousin Marie Castle were closer than sisters—and we still are. This was taken when I was around four years old. We were so poor, I had to borrow the dress from Marie so I’d look nicer.
Right before I got married, they took this picture of me. It was along the railroad tracks up in Butcher Holler, right where they hauled the coal down from the mines. Those tracks ain’t there anymore—and neither is that thirteen-year-old girl you see. What ever became of her?
Marshall News Prints, Inc. (Paintsville Herald)
Doolittle looked just like a little toy soldier the first time I ever saw him. The army took this picture, and they ran it in the Paintsville Herald. He was around seventeen at the time—but he looks younger, doesn’t he? Right after this, he got shipped to Europe for the last part of the war.
Sometime during the war, Mommy and Daddy posed outside Daddy’s father’s house, right up the holler from our place. You can see the rough logs from the house, right above Daddy’s head, and you can see the hills slanting off to the side. That’s real Kentucky mountain country.
Bob Parker from Straus Printers, Lithographers, Madison, Wis.
On the night I announced I was getting married, Daddy paced for hours on the porch you see here. He and Mommy told me it was the worst decision I could ever make. Whenever I visit the old home now, I can feel Daddy’s presence very strongly on that porch—and other people have told me the same thing.
Daddy was real gentle with kids. That’s why I expected so much out of marriage, figuring that all men should be steady and pleasant, like my Daddy. He sure looks big and strong, don’t he? But actually he was only around 117 pounds and five feet, eight inches tall.
I bought my first stage outfit when I was making five dollars a night at Bill’s Tavern in Washington State. Doolittle gave me that Gibson guitar—that got me started—for my birthday. I used to wear cowboy hats in those days. I was real country.
That cute little guy I’m cuddling up with is my husband, folks. I sure look different myself, don’t I? Well, I was around twenty-one years old and was taking care of four kids and didn’t have much time or money for myself. Heck, I had just about figured out what was causing all them kids.
Right after Daddy died, Mommy drove out with the family to visit us in Washington. That’s Brenda (now called Crystal Gayle), Betty Ruth, Peggy Sue, me, Mommy, and Jay Lee.
Herald Staff Photo, Bellingham, Washington
The Bellingham newspaper sent out a photographer after I won all the blue ribbons for canning at the state fair. If I knew how I’d done it, I would have told ’em.
Who did you expect Doolittle would name his boat after? He hadn’t seen Dolly Parton yet! We used to go fishing along the coast of Washington. Jack and Ernest Ray helped hold up the fish, while Betty Sue kind of watched.
Zero Records
Doolittle took this picture of me and developed it himself. Then we passed out a copy to every disc jockey from Washington to Nashville. I didn’t know nothing about makeup in those days—Doo wouldn’t even let me use it.
That’s history being made on October 15, 1960—my first time on the Grand Ole Opry. Everybody else was so casual, playing for that audience, but I was scared to death. The fans cheered so hard, I got invited back, week after week, and that was how I got to stay in Nashville.
We really thought we had it made in 1962. We rented this little house in Madison, Tennessee, for $100 a month, and we sent for our four kids up in Indiana. I was getting $50 a date then, and we saved up $600 to buy this car. We thought we was flying high—and we were very grateful.
Here I am with Doyle and Teddy Wilburn, back in 1963, when I was starting to travel with ’em. I made that little white outfit myself, and they were trying to get me to wear high heels.
Two of the greatest people I have ever met, Owen Bradley and Ernest Tubb, join me during a recording session in 1964. I don’t remember what song I was singing, but it wasn’t “One’s on the Way.” In fact, as it turned out, two were on the way. I was eight months pregnant with my twins.
Once in a while I get inspired and finish my act with the “hillbilly hoedown.” That’s how Mommy used to dance while listening to the radio back home. I guess nobody’s gonna make me an offer to dance in the ballet, but it’s fun.
I brought my gang to the Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, D.C. This one soldier joined me and Kenny Starr in a little tune. I try to visit people in hospitals when I can, smiling and joking around while I’m there. But when I leave, I just start crying.
Never mind those pictures of me laughing—somebody caught me sitting around backstage, thinking about my life. This is the way I really am inside.
We do most of our traveling in our special bus. My private bedroom is in the back, and the boys sleep in bunks in the middle. Jim Webb is the driver. You look at the size of that boy, and you know why I feel safe on that bus.
United Talent, Inc.
Pretty fancy bunch of coal miners, don’t you think? These are my boys: (front row, left to right) Bob Hempker, steel guitar; Don Ballinger, front man; Dave Thornhill, lead guitar; Gene Dunlap, piano; (back row) Chuck Flynn, bass; Ken Riley, drums.
They held “Loretta Lynn Day” in Georgia on February 21, 1974. They asked me to address the state legislature and I told ’em: “I don’t know what you-all are doing, but I sure hope it comes out all right!”
Three of the best friends anybody could have, Loudilla, Kay, and Loretta Johnson (left to right), are the presidents of my fan club. They are three different personalities, and I love ’em all.
At a quiet moment during rehearsal, David Skepner and I trade words of wisdom. David is my manager. He’s from Beverly Hills, California, but I think we’re making a little bit of a country boy out of him.
Me and Eddy Arnold posed with Charley Pride when Charley won the Grammy Award as the best country singer. I think Charley has been one of the best things to happen to country music, to prove it belongs to everybody. He knows that I’m his biggest fan.
This was my birthday present on April 14, 1973. They marched me into this office—and there was my biggest hero, Gregory Peck. He gave me a big hug when I met him, but mostly I just sat and stared at him, while him and Doolittle talked like old friends.
Hope Powell
Me and my partner, Conway Twitty, cleaned up at the 1972 Country Music Association Awards. We won the Vocal Duo of the Year, and I got the Female Vocalist of the Year Award. Then I was the first woman ever named Entertainer of the Year.
Of all the television shows I’ve been on, Dinah Shore’s is where I feel most comfortable. We talk so easy together, and she gives me good advice about show business. I just hope she don’t mind when I mess up her kitchen like I do.
Doolittle is real close to the twins, Patsy and Peggy. This was taken when they were around five years old. It makes them mad if I make a mistake over which is which. But Doolittle can always tell them apart, because he’s taken care of them while I was working on the road.
When I visited the Red Cloud Indian School in Pine Ridge, South Dakota, I was all ready to take about a dozen of those children home with me. I’m proud of being part Cherokee, and I think it’s time all us Indians felt the same way.
The only thing missing in this picture from Hurricane Mills is a couple of fans tiptoeing up the front lawn. Usually, there’s some stranger asking for an autograph or taking pictures. Now that we opened the dude ranch down the road, we’ve had to post a security man, because the crowds got so big.
We’re just a couple of the Webb girls, trying to get ahead in Nashville. My sister Crystal Gayle has had a couple of hit records and is gonna have more. I’ve been wearing more of these denim and sequin outfits lately—it’s the “new me.”
This is how Doolittle looks 364 days a year—whether he’s backstage at the Opry, out on the ranch, or traveling with me. Somebody once looked inside Doolittle’s hat and saw the words: “Like hell it’s yours.” He’s very protective of what he thinks belongs to him.
17
Patsy
Someone said that time heals sorrow
But I can’t help but dread tomorrow,
When I miss you more today than yesterday….
—“I Miss You More Today,” by Lorene Allen and Loretta Lynn
Once we were living in Nashville, we began to get regular dates, and I found myself being invited back to the Opry week after week. But then I ran into some jealousy, and if it wasn’t for Patsy Cline, I don’t think I would have lasted.
It seems there were a lot of girl singers who were trying to get to the top at the same time. When I came along they got jealous and started complaining at the Opry because I got invited back so much. Then they started telephoning me and saying I ought to go back to the West Coast.
One girl asked me who I was sleeping with to get on the Opry so fast. It hurt so much that I cried day and night. My husband said, “If you don’t quit this crying, I’m gonna take you back to the West Coast and forget it.” And he would have.
But that’s when I met Patsy. She was around twenty-seven, and she’d known plenty of hard times trying to make it. Just after I got to Nashville, she was in a car accident that almost killed her. I was on the “Ernest Tubb Record Shop” radio show that they do every Saturday night, and I said, “Patsy has the Number One record, ‘I Fall to Pieces,’ and she’s in the hospital.” Patsy heard it and asked her husband, Charlie Dick, to bring me to the hospital. She was all bandaged up. We talked a good while and became close friends right away. From then on, if she had a fight with her husband, she’d call me. If I had a fight with Doolittle, I’d call her.
Loretta Lynn: Coal Miner's Daughter Page 13
