The main reason we became good friends was we were both struggling. Patsy had gotten cut out of a lot of money on a couple of her hit songs, and now she was in the hospital all banged up. We both felt we wouldn’t try to hurt each other.
I guess the other girls didn’t know about me and Patsy being friends. They called a party at one of their homes to discuss how to stop me from being on the Opry, and they invited Patsy! There were about six of them, younger ones just coming up. I’m not saying who they were, but they know it themselves. The only thing I will say is that Kitty Wells wasn’t one of them. She’s always been my idol, and she was on the road at the time. Plus she’s too good and religious a person to do what the others did. Anyway, inviting Patsy was their mistake. She called me up and told me what the deal was and said we both should go to that meeting. I said I didn’t have anything to wear, and besides the meeting was about me. She said going was the best thing to do. She told me to get my hair done, and she came over to my house with a new outfit she had bought for me and she made me go.
When we got to the house, there were all these Cadillacs belonging to the top women singers in the country. We went in there, and they didn’t say a word. That ended their plan. Patsy put the stamp of approval on me, and I never had any problems with them again. In fact, they are all my friends now. But I made a point of it when new girls came along to give ’em all a chance, because I wouldn’t treat nobody the way they treated me. If you’re good, you’re gonna make it.
Me and Patsy got closer together all the time. She taught me a lot of things about show business, like how to go onto a stage and how to get off. She even bought me a lot of clothes. Many times when she bought something for herself, she would buy me the same thing. She gave me rhinestones—I thought they were real diamonds, and I still have the dresses she bought me, hanging in my closet. She gave me one pair of panties I wore for three years. They were holier than I am!
She even bought curtains and drapes for my house because I was too broke to buy them. And she offered to pay me to go on the road with her just to keep her company. She was a great human being and a great friend.
Patsy loved to cook, and she’d call me up all the time to come over and eat something. Or she would come over to our house and eat rabbit, when Doo shot some. That’s the one thing she loved. Remembering nice things about her, it makes me mad when people say bad things about Patsy. One singer was quoted in some article last year as saying Patsy was “a beer drinker and a cusser, which she got from coming up in a hard life, but she was mostly a good-hearted person.” Well, I never saw Patsy drink too much beer or cuss much more than an ordinary woman, but it was certainly true she was a warm-hearted person, and she ain’t around to defend herself, so I’d rather remember the good part about her.
Patsy was a good old country girl from Winchester, Virginia. I didn’t know it at the time, but her real name was Virginia Patterson Hensley. She started as a dancer but turned to singing, and she worked some mighty rough places. The first time people ever heard of her she was on the Arthur Godfrey Talent Scouts in 1957 singing this song “Walking after Midnight.” She drove ’em wild with that song. Then she did songs like “Crazy,” “She’s Got You,” “Faded Love,” “Leaving,” “On Your Mind,” and “I Fall to Pieces,” one after another. She was really like Hank Williams, the way she got this throb in her voice and really touched people’s emotions.
I remember the last time I saw Patsy alive. It was in Nashville on a Thursday. She came over to my house to hang drapes. Now, that year she was named “Top Female Singer,” replacing Kitty Wells. At this ceremony she told me I would be named number one singer next year. I told her she was wrong, she’d be number one for years to come. Now, imagine the “Most Promising Singer” and the “Top Female Singer” hanging drapes. Pretty wild bunch, wouldn’t you say? Those drapes are now in Doolittle’s office. I’m gonna put ’em in my museum that I’m putting in the mill back home.
Later that same Thursday night, I went over to Patsy’s house because she had some tapes she wanted me to hear from a recording session. At that session she cut “Sweet Dreams.”
I remember that while we listened to the tapes, Patsy embroidered a tablecloth. She did that to relax. Her little boy Randy was on a rocking horse, rocking very hard. I was worried that he’d fall off and get hurt, but Patsy said not to worry. That night we made plans to go shopping when she returned from doing the benefit show in Kansas City for some disc jockey who had gotten hurt in a wreck.
Just before I left her house about midnight, she said she had something for me. Then she gave me a great big box filled with clothes for me to take home. One thing in that box was a little, red, sexy shorty nightgown. She told me, “This is the sexiest thing I’ve ever had. Red is the color men like.” I never did wear that nightgown, though. I’m gonna put that in my museum. (Maybe I just might wear it one of these days—just for my old man, of course. It’s made out of two small Band-Aids and one a little bigger.)
I remember that before we said good-bye, we’d usually hug each other, but that night I was carrying that huge box. Patsy said. “Aren’t you going to hug me?” I put down the box and hugged her. Then came the last words I would hear from her. She said, “Little gal, no matter what people say or do, no matter what happens, you and me are gonna stick together.”
On Sunday evening, March 6, 1963, Patsy, Hawkshaw Hawkins, Cowboy Copas, and Randy Hughes, the pilot, were flying home from the Kansas City benefit, in a twin-engine Comanche, when they ran into a storm near Dyersburg, near where I live today. On Monday morning I wondered why I didn’t hear from Patsy. I was gonna call her up and say, “You lazy-head, why ain’t you here?” Just then, I got a call from Patsy’s booking agent, who told me she was dead. I said, “Baloney, her and me is going shopping.” Then I realized it was true. The radio said her plane was missing, and finally they announced the news that there were no survivors.
That just about broke me up, to think that someone as good as that was gone. And I guess I was selfish enough to mourn almost as much for myself as for her. I was upset because who would I turn to? Patsy was like a mother and a sister to me. When she died, I just about gave up. I thought this was the end for me, too.
They brought four maroon hearses to carry the caskets; then the caskets were put in a large room. Each of the caskets had a picture of the artist on it. Just two days later, Jack Anglin was killed going to a memorial service for Patsy. Me and Doo also just missed being killed by a train at a crossing. We wondered what in the world was going on, it was such a sad, scary time.
The thing that kept me going was remembering how Patsy had told me she was gonna stick with me no matter what. I’ve always felt that Patsy was helping me with my career, even from beyond. I know that she tries to guide me. I feel she’s here. You have to have ESP to feel it, but I know she’s here. It wasn’t but another year before I was named “Top Female Singer,” just like Patsy predicted.
I still think about Patsy a lot. I won’t go anywhere near the place where the plane crashed. I named one of my twins after her. I’ve often thought about doing an album of her songs, but I never have because I know I’d start to cry. I’ve got all her albums and tapes. I think about the way she would hold out one arm, real ladylike, but I can’t be like that. I’ll imitate other singers sometimes. I started by imitating Kitty Wells, a real serious Christian lady who won’t hardly joke around on stage. But there’s something about Patsy I can’t imitate, and I won’t try. To me, Patsy was my best friend and I couldn’t imitate her. It would hurt too much.
18
My Kids
Little handprints on the wall,
Little footsteps in the hall,
Little arms that reach out for me in the night.…
—“One Little Reason,” by Loretta Lynn
Things got better for me after meeting Patsy. But I don’t know if things got better for my kids. They were used to me being around to guide ’em, and now when they were growing up,
I wasn’t there.
Even today, with my four kids in their twenties, I see signs that it wasn’t good for me to leave ’em alone so much. They all live right close to our ranch, and I’m always getting involved in their troubles. Half the time I worry that I didn’t know ’em well enough when they were young. The other half I worry that I’m too involved now. It’s a pretty emotional subject with me—how I wasn’t around when my kids needed me.
Sometimes when I get all worked up over their problems, Doo says we should just let the kids work it out for themselves. But when I’m home, I’m tempted to be an old mother hen. It’s a funny deal. In country music, we’re always singing about home and family. But because I was in country music, I had to neglect my home and family.
I look at Betty and Jack and Ernest and Cissy today, and I think of how I went out on the road. We had this dream about me making it in show business—and it’s paid off, in money and other things. But in certain ways, I don’t know.
At first, Doolittle stayed with the kids a lot. While we were still living in Washington, he’d cook their dinners and take ’em places like the drive-in movies. He’s always been a good father with his kids. He taught ’em to survive and be independent. But when he joined me on the road, we left the kids, first with my brother, then with our mothers in Indiana.
When the kids came to Nashville, we left ’em with baby-sitters. Now baby-sitters are all right, if you keep the same ones. But we didn’t. We’d hire one baby-sitter for a month, then she’d quit or we’d fire her or something. It was hard on the kids and hard on me. I’d be in some motel room not knowing if the babies was eating right or going to school regular.
Betty Sue, the oldest—I think it bothered her the most. Me and her are real close to begin with—I’ve known her since I was fourteen. She was always such a bright, sensitive little girl, and sometimes these are the ones that suffer the most. Betty can remember those real old days when we were poor—how I made her bloomers out of cut-down burlap bags when she went to school for the first time.
When I started traveling, Betty was already in grade school. She didn’t want to move to Nashville and she still talks in a Washington accent rather than a Southern accent. Sometimes she talks about moving back there, although she and her husband are doing real good in Tennessee.
I’d say the moving bothered her a lot. When I’d come home from the road, I’d tell her to do one thing and she would do the opposite. She might tell you moving didn’t bother her. But deep down inside, it did. When I was needed, I wasn’t there. I came home from the road one time and Betty said she was getting married. She wasn’t much older than I was when I got married. We tried to talk her out of it but she said, “You got married before you were fourteen.” So what could we say? We knew she was gonna do it anyway, so what was the sense in arguing? It was just like me telling my Mommy I was getting married. What could she do?
Betty was still young when she had two babies. Then she didn’t have any more. The first baby was called Loretta Lynn, but everybody calls her Lynn now. The second is named Audrey. I treasure those two beautiful girls who made me a grandmother when I was twenty-nine.
Betty was in a pretty bad way after having the babies. She was supposed to take these shots, but sometimes she didn’t have any money. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, dreaming about spanking Betty, and that would be a sign that Betty was sick. I’d call Gloria, the housekeeper, and she’d tell me Betty wasn’t looking good. Or I’d call Betty and say, “You better go get a shot, and I’ll pay the fifteen dollars.” Other times I’d wake up dreaming about Betty Sue smiling, and I’d know she was all right.
Me and Betty Sue are really close, but we can get into it sometimes. She still likes to do opposite things, just to be mean. She’s smart. People who visit my house always enjoy meeting Betty because she’s so smart. She’s got dark hair and a nice smile, and she’s real pretty. But if I’m around—watch out! We can get into it pretty good.
It’s all right for me to say these things because they’re my kids. But if somebody else criticizes my kids, they’d better be careful. See, I know my kids’ good points, too, and I ain’t bashful about telling ’em.
Betty Sue is talented. She’s a decorator and she’s written three or four songs under the name of “Tracey Lee” that I’ve recorded. She’s happily married to Paul Markworth, a real smart boy from up in Milwaukee who’s been real good for Betty because he’s considerate. He has a business in land management near Waverly, and she helps him. They’re making good money, and it looks like a good future.
Jack Benny is my first son. He’s real small, like Doolittle, and he even walks like Doo—with that cowboy shuffle, like he just got off a horse. In fact, Jack used to be a jockey when he was younger. He raced at a few tracks in Tennessee and even down South where they’ve got legal betting. But he’s just a little too big now to be a jockey. He still rides in the rodeos around home—he even rides the bulls, which scares the daylights out of me.
Jack is kind of quiet. When he’s got problems, his face gets kind of worked up, like Doolittle, but he don’t talk about things very easy. When I see Jack is upset, it just tears me up inside, like I want to put my arms around him and comfort him. Of all my kids, he’s the one I feel most sentimental about.
When Jack and his wife broke up, I just started bawling, because I love Pat like a sister. I wouldn’t take sides because I love ’em both. Pat is from a nice family right over in Waverly. Jack got married before he got out of high school and then he joined the army for four years because his brother went into the marines, and Jack didn’t want Ernest Ray to get anything on him. Jack got shipped to Korea, which didn’t help his marriage. They had a girl, Lora Kay, and a boy, Jeffrey Allen, who is the apple of my eye. He looks and walks just like Jack and Doo. You should see the three of ’em walking side by side.
Jack just finished up the army at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. Some days he talks about taking off for California on his motorcycle. Other times he talks about going to veterinarian college because he loves animals.
Jack used to work on the ranch, but it was too much responsibility. We’d be on the road and he’d be having trouble with the help, so we had to let him give it up. Ernest Ray, our second boy, had the same problem. When he works on the ranch, we make sure to give him a separate job, where he won’t bother the help. Ernest don’t mind working hard and getting all dirty—when he wants to. When he doesn’t, you can’t make him do anything.
Ernest is the boy on all my religious albums. He’s the most handsome boy you ever saw in your life, but is he ever mean! Ernest can tie you up with his little finger when he’s sweet. He’ll go over to old people and listen to ’em for hours, and they’ll swear he’s the sweetest boy they ever met. But he’s the same boy that’s always getting into car wrecks and stuff. He just hasn’t grown up yet.
He’s always been so beautiful. I never cut his brown curly hair until he was three years old. When we did it, I cried more than he did. Ernest liked being a baby. After we had Cissy, he used to swipe her bottles during the night. We’d get up in the morning and he’d be top-heavy from drinking three or four of her bottles.
When he was little, I put Ernest on my religious album because he had such a sweet face. He can sing and play the guitar real good. I even take him on trips with me, after warning my boys not to get him in trouble. But it turned out the joke was on me. When Ernest was around fourteen, we were on some long bus trip, and he was up front with the band. I got to wondering if my boys were protecting him. I went up front after a while and there was my band, rolling on the floor, laughing. I asked Don Ballinger what was so funny and he said, “Mom, Ernest Ray told us a story that was dirtier than anything we know!”
I also told the boys to keep Ernest out of trouble when we got to the big cities. But it was no use. Ernest could find trouble if you tied him in chains.
But he could sure sell albums. He would tell the crowd, “Buy two Loretta Lynn albums from me—becau
se I’m her son!” He’d come back to the bus with his hands loaded with dollars. He’d sell more than my whole band.
Ernest got married a few years ago to a sweet little girl named Cindy. They live at our place most of the time. We keep telling him he’s got to get himself a life of his own, but he doesn’t want to push himself. We told him we’d stop paying for all the things he bought, but he’s too smart to believe us. I know he’d like to have his own car-repair shop—when he came back from the marines, he offered to fix Jack’s motor. He swore to Jack that he’d worked in the marines’ repair shop. So he fixed Jack’s motor—then it blew up! Later Ernest admitted that his job was sweeping the floor at the repair shop. He’s had a couple of motors blow up on him since then. Sometimes I see signs that Ernest is growing up a little. He’s been singing in my show again recently, and some people say that boy has got a lot of talent. I think so—but I’m his mother. Anyway, I hope Ernest straightens out. It’s like somebody told me about Tom Sawyer—Ernest might be president of the United States some day, if they don’t hang him first.
Cissy is my fourth child. And if I had ten kids, I’d want ’em all to be like her. She’s just so smart, but what’s more important is she’s so pleasant. I call her “The Waverly Newspaper” because I can talk to her for half an hour and catch up on all the news. People who visit the ranch feel like they’ve known Cissy all their lives.
I remember how upset I was when I got pregnant with Cissy. The doctor out in Washington thought I didn’t want that baby, so after delivery he put her right on my chest and said, “Here’s your little girl.” She wouldn’t cry at first, and he was putting her in ice water, just to make her lungs work. Finally, he whipped her little behind so hard, I was ready to get out of bed and whip him. I took one look at that little girl with the sandy-colored hair, and I was on her side for life.
Loretta Lynn: Coal Miner's Daughter Page 14
