If I’ve learned anything in my forty-three years it’s that my thought process is as random as a ricochet. I can be trucking along ninety to nothing and then my brain hits something and it sends me shooting off in a totally different direction and I never know where it will stop. It might be something I look at, something I hear, or even just a smell that triggers a memory or a thought and off I go. This morning it was music that rearranged my trajectory for the day, or at least for a moment or two. I’m supposed to be working right now. I have been for three hours and I’ve got at least five more that I need to put in today, but I’ve got an emotional itch I’ve just got to scratch for a few minutes first.
I decided it was too quiet in this office and I needed a little background sound to keep my head humming so I clicked on my Spotify and hit play. The first thing to pop up was Dolly Parton. The song selections may be the result of an algorithm or artificial intelligence, but the emotions it stirs up are anything but artificial. I didn’t make it to the chorus of “Here You Come Again” before my mind was a million miles away. Maybe not quite a million miles, more like five hundred. I was back home and I was back in time. No particular year, just somewhere between 1975 and 1995, and no particular place, just somewhere around Big Mama’s house or Fall River Road. Maybe ricochet is too strong of a word because I don’t make these journeys in a rocket ship. I usually drift back slowly on a river of tears. Tears that spring from my head and my heart, a mixture of sadness and gratitude, regrets and joy. Truth is, those songs just turned the spigot, but the well was primed yesterday while I was preaching about Big Mama. I find myself compelled to do that more and more. I haven’t sat and talked with her in years, but she can still bring out the best in me just by talking about her. She obviously possessed a special kind of magic to be able to do that from beyond the grave.
Regardless of the origin of this emotional odyssey, by the time Dolly got to singing about kids with June bugs on a string in “My Tennessee Mountain Home” I was practically drowning in salt water. And so here I sit, not writing a tear stained letter, but a saline soaked blog post.
Occasionally I’ll surprise an “old timer” with my knowledge and love of old country music. They figure a man my age doesn’t go further back than Alan Jackson, or Garth and George Strait, so when I bring up Ferlin Husky and Jerry Reed, or Patsy Cline their face tends to light up. Without fail the next question is, “How did you come to like all that music from before your time.” Secretly, I’m always glad they ask. The simple fact is that a lot of that old country music and several of those artists remind me of my family.
Whenever I hear Dolly Parton I think of my aunt Brenda. They don’t necessarily look or sound alike, but they both have an infectious laugh and personality that just put you in a good mood. As far as I’m concerned Loretta Lynn is just a black headed version of my aunt (momma) Dot. Both of them are pint sized dynamite and you never know what they’re going to say. I can’t hear a George Jones song without thinking of my uncle Lloyd. They look absolutely nothing alike, but I think it’s something about the way they wore their hair back in the 70’s. I know he doesn’t qualify as “old country” but still, Zac Brown is the spitting image of my uncle Dale when he was in his thirties. Speaking of my Uncle Dale, his wife Linda and Crystal Gale could have been sisters in the early eighties. Uncle Miles doesn’t remind me of anyone in particular but he definitely looked like a rock star.
These bizarre correlations aren’t always connected to musicians. My uncle Ricky still reminds me of Robin Williams and can make me laugh just as much. He was always “on” and when I was a kid he seemed to have an endless stream of jokes, voices and impressions. It probably had something to do with being the baby of nearly a dozen kids and having to find a way not to get lost in the crowd. My cousins Kevin and Kendal always pop in my head when I see the Dukes of Hazard because they too were brown and blonde headed brothers, and we used to watch the Duke boys together when we were at Big Mama’s house. My cousin Felecia is the real life Ella May Clampett because I never saw her without some kind of animal, and usually a “wild” one like a coon or a deer.
Not every family member reminds me of some country music singer or actor or character, and for the ones that do it’s not easy to explain why they do. It may be something different with each one, but it’s usually a blend of several things. Appearance, personality, hairstyle, voice. I imagine some of it is just associated with what music was playing in their homes when I was a kid or maybe stories that overlap with the lyrics of certain songs. I can’t explain it anymore than I can explain how a music app randomly playing songs always seems to know exactly what kind of musical mood I’m in. All I know is that my memories of my family back home are inseparably intertwined with classic country music.
This may not make any sense to any one but me and that’s ok. For whatever reason, this music makes me think of my family and more than that it makes me feel close to them when I can’t be. To quote the old country singer Bobby Bare, “I’m 500 miles away from home” and that means I don’t get to physically be with my family very often. It’s rare that I’m in town for family reunions, Christmas gatherings, and funerals, so Loretta and Dolly and Conway are the best I can do most days.
It may be silly and I may be the only one who thinks this way, but I just needed to follow this stray bullet from my mind wherever it went. Thanks for taking the journey with me. Now if you will excuse me, it’s back to the future. I’ve got work to do and I’ve got to mop up all this water.
(My Uncle Dale/Zac Brown in first picture, and my Aunt Linda, Uncle Loyd, and Aunt Dot in the background of the bottom pic).
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