Loretta Lynn: Coal Miner's Daughter

by Loretta Lynn;George Vecsey

  Cissy has been a perfect child. She got good grades and finished high school and got a nice job with the water company in Waverly. Now she’s married a boy named Gary, and they had their first child in 1975, named Harold Wayne.

  Cissy was only nine when we had the twins—I’ll tell more about them later—and I think she was a little jealous. Even today, she’ll fuss with ’em and tell ’em she was really the youngest child. And they’re so sassy, they fuss right back at her. There’s always something going on like that around the ranch.

  Looking back, we tried to do the best we could with our kids. We didn’t have much education but one thing we could do was to teach ’em to work hard when they were young. After we got some money, we tried not to spoil ’em, but you know that’s hard when you can afford good things. We still bought our clothes in the same stores as anyone else and they wore hand-me-downs, and they still do.

  We never sent ’em to private school like some people do when they get rich. They went to public school. Sometimes they’d say, “So-and-so said we’re rich, we shouldn’t go to public school.” And I’d say, that’s too bad, you’re going to public school like everybody else. They wasn’t no better than other kids. I kept their report cards, even to this day, to show they got mostly passing grades, as far as they went.

  Still, I would have liked ’em to have more education than they did. Jack and Cissy graduated from high school and two didn’t. I still think maybe Betty Sue will go to college some day, and maybe the other kids, too.

  We still try to help the kids when we can, even though they’ve mostly grown up now. Maybe I try too hard—give ’em too much, because I wasn’t around when they was growing up. If I could start over again, I would still go into show business. But if I could change just one thing, I would be with my children more.

  19

  Performer

  I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back this way again,

  ’Cause the going’s getting rougher every day.…

  —“Blue-Eyed Kentucky Girl,” by Bobby Hardin

  While my kids were getting used to all them baby-sitters, I was out on the road, getting used to being a singer. It was an exciting time for us, seeing our Decca records start to sell, but I still had a lot to learn.

  The Wilburns told me I couldn’t just make records. I had to get out and reach the fans. They set me up on a tour in 1962, and I worked forty-two shows in twenty-five days, at state fairs. Each show paid me twenty-five dollars, and the Wilburns gave me another twenty-five. I felt I was a millionaire. They also had me on their television show, which was seen all over the South. So I had to get used to appearing before bigger crowds than I’d ever seen before.

  Then the Wilburns said they’d take me out with ’em, doing clubs and auditoriums and stuff. Hap Peebles was the promoter, out of Wichita, Kansas. They opened in St. Louis—I wasn’t supposed to be in that particular show, but they introduced me anyway. I was standing around looking like a mess, in curlers and traveling slacks, but I came out and said hello. The Wilburns were trying to see how I behaved on stage. I was still kind of nervous about making conversation.

  They taught me a few jokes but they didn’t like for me to just talk, because they were afraid of what I might say. Doyle used to tell me to just shut up and let him do the thinking.

  I had some sorry times before I got things right. I had to learn to smile when I walked onstage, which wasn’t always easy if the weather was terrible and I missed my babies, and especially if I was getting a migraine headache or stomach cramps.

  Doolittle had to scold me to look happy walking onto that stage. It wasn’t always easy. At first, he wouldn’t let me wear any makeup on stage, but the Wilburns persuaded him—telling him I’d look better with it.

  But makeup couldn’t stop this heifer from being clumsy. I had some adventures up on that stage you wouldn’t believe. The first time I ever wore panty hose, I bought ’em too big, not knowing they came in different sizes. I got on stage, and they slipped right down to my knees. I just kicked ’em off—what else could I do? Another time, I was playing my guitar and my bra strap broke. I was so uncomfortable, I had to stop the show and go offstage and fix it.

  Another time, I was wearing a tight, homemade dress. I used to make dresses myself without a pattern, because I couldn’t read too good. Anyway, this one was so tight that I fell down on the stage trying to walk. And to make things worse, I couldn’t get up. I was wriggling in a circle, telling the band “Help me, help me,” but the audience and the band thought it was a joke. Finally, I got up by myself, but the people thought it was so funny the Wilburns wanted me to do it every show.

  One night, I was more relaxed, and I did Mommy’s little hoedown dance she used to do around the radio on Saturday night. Teddy said to me, “Loretta, that’s a permanent part of your act.”

  “But I’ll ruin my socks,” I said.

  Teddy said it was all right to ruin a pair of stockings every show if the audience enjoyed my dancing. And it was true. The audience used to laugh and applaud like crazy when I’d go into that squaw’s dance. I don’t do it too much anymore. Guess I’m getting old.

  They were honestly trying to teach me things in those days. I didn’t have much to wear, and I was performing in blue jeans, a fringed cowboy hat, and a pair of boots. We were in Salt Lake City, Utah, and it was cold outside. Teddy bought me some winter clothes—a thick car coat, the first overcoat I’d ever owned, and he also bought me a pair of golden slippers with high heels.

  I said I wasn’t going to wear ’em, but Teddy hid my boots just before show time, so I didn’t have anything to do but go on with high heels. My first step, I felt like I was gonna fall on my face. I wobbled out there on stage, looking like I was drunk. I did a couple of songs, but it was no good. Finally, I kicked off my heels, and felt more natural. I still do that today, even on television, and people tease me about it. But in the early days it was really necessary—I was afraid I’d fall.

  I tried to learn how to walk in those clumsy shoes. When I got back to the hotel, I changed into my pedal pushers, tied up my hair and put on them high heels. Then I went out in the hall to practice. But the carpet was thick, and I stumbled and fell down. Teddy heard something go “bump” and he ran to look.

  “Everybody come here and look at Loretta,” he shouted. A big crowd of Wilburns and other people gathered in the hallway to watch me sprawled all over the floor. I was quite a sight.

  Teddy and Doyle did teach me a lot of things—how to wave to the audience, how to get on and off stage, how to speak so people would understand me. But I felt like a little girl lots of times. I remember playing the Hollywood Bowl, around 1963, with Johnny Cash. There were so many thousands of fans out there, and I was used to playing Bill’s Tavern, which held only three hundred people.

  I was getting to be an old professional in lots of ways, handling them good old boys at the country fairs. You can picture ’em—husky boys in their bib overalls, boots still caked with manure. They may not have seen a woman in a dress since Christmas, and if you made your exit through the crowd, they’d show their appreciation by giving you a big old hug. They didn’t mean anything by it, but they could break your ribs if they got too happy. I learned to reach out and pat ’em on the elbow. If you touched ’em first, they’d back off and treat you like a lady.

  I’ve been pretty lucky. I don’t sing sexy the way some of the girls do. I’d say about 99 percent of the men are gentlemen. But, boy oh boy, that other 1 percent!

  I’ve had many a man pass notes up on stage saying they want to sleep with me. One time I glanced offstage and saw this guy exposing himself. I didn’t dare look back for a long time, but the next time I looked he was gone. I hope the cops got him. Another time a guy threw his shorts up on stage. Fortunately, Dave Thornhill, my lead guitar, grabbed ’em quick and threw ’em behind the stage.

  There are a few strange people that spoil it for everybody. Some fans try to grab my clothes for souvenirs, or sn
ip off one of my curls, even my eyelashes—can you believe that? I’ve also had some real bad death threats, which I’ll get into later. Anyway, I’ve got my bus driver, Jim Webb, who’s around six-foot-four, to walk me from the bus to the stage and back again. I’m not trying to hide from my fans, just from that one nut in every crowd. I’d advise anybody with weird ideas to be careful. We country people can be as mean as we are nice.

  I was learning from all my experiences, and I found myself getting booked all over the country. After a while, I’d get out on stage and start enjoying it, just smile and feel that people loved me. I can’t explain what it is. I was always so shy, still am, really, but I found it easier to be natural on the stage.

  Doolittle said he used to stand in the back of the theater and listen to people’s comments. They said they didn’t quite know how to take me, that I was half like a sister and half like a woman of the world. One man wrote he didn’t know if he should pat me on the head or hug me.

  I tried aiming my show more at the women, even though some of ’em got the wrong idea. One time I was playing this club in Baltimore and this old tank comes up to me and says, “So you’re the woman that’s in my husband’s life. That’s all I hear, before I go to bed, when I wake up in the morning, is Loretta Lynn. And I’m gonna break your neck.”

  I said, “Woman, I don’t even know your husband. But if you touch me, I’m gonna kick the tar out of you.” Before I got the chance, a bouncer threw her out of the club.

  Most of the women liked me, though. They could see I was Loretta Lynn, a mother and a wife and a daughter, who had feelings just like other women. Sure, I wanted men to like me, but the women were something special. They’d come around the bus after the show and they’d ask to talk to me. They felt I had the answers to their problems because my life was just like theirs.

  Of course, it was impossible to find time to talk to each one or to answer every letter that came along. I ain’t Dear Abby with nine secretaries answering the mail. Besides, I had a few problems maybe they could have solved for me. Sometimes I think some people were disappointed when they met me and found out I wasn’t any smarter or happier than they were. I’m proud and I’ve got my own ideas, but I ain’t no better than nobody else. I’ve often wondered why I became so popular, and maybe that’s the reason. I think I reach people because I’m with ’em, not apart from ’em. It’s not the fancy clothes I wear, or the way I fix my hair, and it sure ain’t my looks because I don’t think I’m anything special. It’s the way I talk to people. You can tell when you meet somebody—in their eyes, or the way they stand—if they think they’re above you or below you.

  After I was performing for a while, I got to like being with a crowd. I loved to get right down with ’em, with a long cord on my microphone, if I could. And if I was at a state fair or something, where they put you too far from the audience, I’d say, “This ain’t the way I like it.”

  And if they couldn’t hear me, if they was really from the country, they’d holler back, “We can’t hear you.” See, they knew I cared about ’em. I knew they saved their money for weeks to see my show. I’ve always had a feeling for people who didn’t have anything. When I’m singing to them, I feel like I’m right at home.

  Anyhow, I was getting more popular all the time. I went from being fourth on the “Most Promising” list in 1960 to “Top Female Vocalist” for 1964 in Billboard magazine. My first album, “Loretta Lynn Sings,” got to be Number One in 1963. And I got invited back to the Grand Ole Opry for seventeen straight shows, which was a record for anybody who wasn’t a member. Finally, they asked me to join, which was a big honor.

  Since then, I’ve made hundreds of appearances on the Opry whenever I’m around Nashville on a Saturday. After I was in show business a while, it was the only place where I’d get nervous. Just standing around backstage with all my heroes was enough to make me shaky. But it was a good family feeling, joking with all the stagehands.

  That was in the old Opry building, the Ryman Auditorium downtown, which was too old and crowded for television shows and stuff, but which felt like the good, old-time music halls. I was sorry when they decided to build Opryland out east of town and move the show to the new Opry building.

  Since they’ve moved the show, I’ve got to admit that the new building is beautiful, with red brick and wood in a style to look like the old church building that the Ryman was. They’ve put in a section of the old Opry stage, right in the center of the new stage, for good luck. And they gave all of us members a present of one brick from the old Ryman, with our names printed in gold. The new building has modern dressing rooms and a huge backstage and lots of lights for television, and they’re packing ’em in weekends, with three or four shows. But I don’t get the same feeling from the new Opry. To me, it’s just another new arena, just like the other cities have. When I go on stage at the new Opry, I ain’t even nervous anymore.

  20

  Songwriter

  Liquor and Love, they just don’t mix,

  Leave the bottle or me behind.…

  —“Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’ (with Lovin’ on Your Mind),”

  by Peggy Sue Wells and Loretta Lynn

  I don’t know what it’s like for a book writer or a doctor or a teacher as they work to get established in their jobs. But for a singer, you’ve got to continue to grow or else you’re just like last night’s cornbread—stale and dry.

  I’d say material is 80 percent of a singer’s career. You can have a great voice, but you’d also better have a new song that fits your style. And the best way is to write the songs yourself.

  People forget that I’m a songwriter. They think of me as just a lady up on the stage, with a band backing her up. Well, let me tell you, I’ve sat in my room all night, scratching out most of my songs, going all the way back to those sorry little songs I wrote back in Washington.

  People say I can’t read or write, but what about “Coal Miner’s Daughter”? I wrote every line, just from things I remember from my childhood.

  The way most of my songs got started was I’d hear a good line or make one up. When I get a good first line, I’ll scribble it down on a piece of paper, hotel stationery, paper bag, or whatever, and slip it into my purse. Usually I write my songs at night. When I get ’em written down, I’m relaxed and I go to sleep. In the morning, I finish the song and try to find a tune for it, just starting with the first line and humming to myself. After I get the tune, I get somebody else to write down the notes for me because I still can’t read music after all these years. But I don’t think many country musicians are good at reading music. You go to one of our recording sessions and somebody will say, “Hey, how about doing it this way?” And he’ll rip off a few notes on the guitar. And somebody else will say, “Oh, you mean like this?” And he’ll rip off a few more notes. It’s like they communicate with their own music language. Those studio musicians don’t need written notes.

  When I first started writing songs, Teddy Wilburn used to work with me, suggesting the next line or changing something. Since we’ve had that split-up, Teddy tells people he was to me like Fred Rose was to Hank Williams, only he didn’t get any of the credit for it. Well, I don’t know how Rose and Williams worked together because I never did meet Hank Williams. He was before my time.

  I’ll say this: Teddy Wilburn did work with me on lines for some of my songs. But they were my songs. And if he wants credit for a line here and there, why, I’ve worked with lots of other singers, giving ’em advice, changing tunes, writing a line, and I never took credit. That’s just the way it goes. You’re riding along in a bus somewhere and trying to work something out. You ask somebody you respect, “Hey, how does this sound?” And they give you a tip. But that don’t make it their song. I don’t plan to name names, but my friends know who I’ve helped on songs. And I don’t want no credit for it.

  Most of my songs were from the woman’s point of view. In the old days, country music was directed at the men—truck-driving songs
, easy women, cheating songs. I remember how excited I got back in 1952, the first time I heard Kitty Wells sing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky-Tonk Angels.” That was the women’s answer to that Hank Thompson record called “The Wild Side of Life.” See, Kitty was presenting the woman’s point of view, which is different from the man’s. And I always remembered that when I started writing songs.

  It certainly helped to have Kitty Wells and Patsy Cline come before me. The way I see it, the time was right for country music to get bigger. You think of some of the great artists in the Country Music Hall of Fame—Jimmy Rodgers, people like that. How many people really got to hear ’em in those days? They got on the Opry, and they had their fans, and they sold records, too. But it was like country music was a little club or something, a specialty.

  But it seemed like the whole country was really ripe for country music in the 1960s, and I’m gonna tell you why: in my opinion, Ray Charles helped make country music more popular with more fans. Now I know what you’re saying: Ray Charles is black, and he’s a soul singer. That’s right. And country music used to mean all white. But you think about it. How much difference is there between soul music and blues and some of our old-fashioned country songs? All of it is people letting their feelings out. Then Ray Charles took “our” songs and he gave a soul feeling to ’em. He made that song, “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” and new people got the taste for country.

  Ray Charles was a big man in show business. After hearing him, people were more prepared for Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard—and Loretta Lynn. When Charley Pride came along, sure, he had some problems being the first black country star. But he sang just like white men do—you listen to his records and he’s not a soul singer. Well, Ray Charles made it easier for all of us to reach a bigger audience, and I don’t feel he’s ever gotten the credit he deserves from Nashville.