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—because 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 someday, 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.
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 bac
k 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 someday, 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 Harden
While my kids were getting used to all them babysitters, 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 onstage. 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. At first, he wouldn’t let me wear any makeup onstage, 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 onstage, 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 onstage, 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 onstage 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 onstage. 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 snip 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 feet 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. Afte
r a while, I’d get out onstage 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.
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