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 Singer 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 awhile, 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 onstage 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 corn bread—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—Jimmie 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.
Personally, I like to listen to soul music. I love Ray Charles. I listen to Aretha Franklin once in a while. In fact, I try to do a little soul on each of my albums. You listen to “Blueberry Hill” on my One’s on the Way album—I try to really let go. I’ll bet you I’ve got as many black fans as Charley Pride. Of course, I’m Charley’s biggest fan, so it balances out.
Still, I don’t listen much to the radio or other people’s records, because I don’t want to be influenced by ’em. That’s one thing I regret. People tell me about Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan or the Beatles, and I’ve got to admit I don’t know their work. I admire the good songwriters in country music—Kris Kristofferson and Tom T. Hall can tell a story better in one line than most of us can in five. And I think I’ve told a few stories in my songs, too. That song “Don’t Come Home A-D
rinkin’” got to be number one in the nation, and it was also the first album ever made by a woman singer that sold a million dollars.
I got lots of help in my recording sessions from Owen Bradley. If he would make a suggestion, he usually had a good reason. In the past five years, I’ve gotten more experienced about what’s going to sell. So I don’t clear my songs with Owen anymore. I just show up and record ’em.
The last time he didn’t like a song was when I was singing “Wings upon Your Horns.” He turned off all the recording knobs and hollered, “Hey, this can’t go on the air like this. What’s the matter with you?” See, he thought there was something dirty with the lyrics. I was singing “You’re the first to ever make me…” and then I’d take a long pause and sing, “fall in love and then not take me…” Well, I didn’t know “make” was another word for having sex. I told you, I’m real backward. That’s just the way the words broke between the lines. I didn’t plan it that way. Then Owen got all upset about using the word “horns.” He thought it sounded dirty. And all I was trying to do was make a contrast between the devil’s horns and the angel’s wings. What’s dirty about that?
I just hollered right back, “Turn that doggone thing back on. I ain’t through yet.” And it got to be the number one song of the year in Cashbox. We think pretty closely most of the time, though.
It was Owen that provided one of my big thrills in show business. Ernest Tubb, who recorded on Decca, was looking for a duet album, and he had his choice of women singers. Just on Decca alone he could have sung with Kitty Wells or Brenda Lee. But he chose me, after I’d had just a couple of hits. I remember Ernest chose me because, he said, I was an “honest country performer who sang with her heart and soul.” It was a thrill to work with him, and I love him for all he’s done for me. Ernest never tried to hog the songs. He’d just share the melody with me, without getting fancy, and I still think they’re some of the best songs I ever did.
Nowadays I sing my duets with Conway Twitty, but I usually arrange for Ernest to make one tour with me each year. His boys are crazier than my boys are, and they pull some awful stunts. But when I get out onstage with Ernest, I feel like I’m still that little girl huddled on the floor in front of the Philco radio on Saturday night.
21
We Bought the Whole Town
Flies are buzzin’ everywhere; balin’ hay or rockin’ chairs,
Supper’s on, I’m almost there; it’s back to the country life for me…
—“Back to the Country,” by Tracey Lee
Before I knew it, we were making more money than we’d ever dreamed of. I went from twenty-five dollars a show up to fifty, to a hundred, and above. But I still couldn’t believe we had any money.
I still did my own canning and put food away for the winter. I remember telling Grandpa Jones on the Opry one time that I had a bunch of meat and vegetables salted in my smokehouse because “you never know when this show business is going to go kerflooey.” Once you’ve been poor, you always feel in the back of your mind that you’re going to be poor again.
And suddenly the records started to pay off. That meant Doo could give up his job as a mechanic and take more of an interest in my business.
We rented a little house in Madison, Tennessee, but Doo always wanted his own ranch. I think he would have chucked the whole thing and moved back to Washington if we couldn’t have a ranch. He must have spent six months looking before we finally found a forty-five-acre ranch out in Goodlettsville where he could start the rodeo he always wanted to run. We started to fix up the place for a family of four kids. Ha! We had a surprise coming.
After my first four children were born, the doctor fitted me with a diaphragm to stop having more. The Rh thing scared me, too. I didn’t want to take a chance with another birth. But I guess you get careless when you’re on the road, traveling as much as we did. Anyway, late in 1963, I discovered I was pregnant. I couldn’t believe it at first, but the doctor told me it was true.
I suppose this sounds bad the way I say it, but I was unhappy at first. I was just starting to bring in some money, it was getting to be more fun all the time, and now it looked like my career was going to be interrupted or maybe even ended. Plus, I was sure my next baby was going to be affected by the Rh problem.
I remember bawling when I told the Johnson girls I was pregnant. They told me not to worry, that things would work out for the best. Doo seemed kind of pleased to see there was life in the old boy yet. I cried for nine months, worrying while they gave me shots to control the Rh thing.
Then we had another surprise. There were twins in my mommy’s family, but nobody ever told me that they skip a generation. It was time for twins to pop up again. We had a young doctor and he seemed more surprised than we were when he told us he suspected there might be two.
One morning in August, I canned thirty-eight quarts of green beans. That evening I went to the hospital to deliver two of the prettiest little twins you ever saw, early the next morning, August 6, 1964—one of the best days of my life.
The young doctor had never delivered twins before, and when it was over, you couldn’t tell who was the father the way Doo and the doc were shaking hands and congratulating each other.
I named one Patsy, after Patsy Cline, and the other one Peggy, after my oldest sister. They were as bright and happy as could be, and they’ve been a blessing on us ever since. They are my angels, my God-sent children. It’s been a whole second life for me and Doo. Our first kids came when we didn’t have any money, and no time to devote to them. I felt younger with the twins than I did when I was eighteen. Our two boys always said they wouldn’t accept a baby if it was a girl. But when they saw those twins, Jack claimed Patsy and Ernest claimed Peggy. It’s funny how their personalities matched just right.
We decided not to have any more kids after that, so Doolittle got his vasectomy. When they start coming in pairs, it’s time to quit! But we were never sorry for a day after those babies were born. You know that record, “One’s on the Way,” where the mother is going crazy raising her babies? At the end of the song I say, “Gee, I hope it ain’t twins again.” Patsy and Peggy don’t like the song for that reason. I guess that’s why Dolly Parton is their favorite singer.
I knew I wanted to go back to singing again. Betty got married at this time, and the other kids were all busy in school. We had an older woman housekeeper, but she left when I had the twins because it was too much for her. Then we got fortunate and hired Gloria Land, who had two years of college. She’s a religious lady who took real responsibility for the babies, and now it’s almost like they’re hers. She’s not like a babysitter or a maid. She’s really like a mother to them. She yells at ’em, and they yell at her, but she runs the house, and we all love her like a member of the family.
In fact, when I go home, I’m more like some favorite aunt that’s visiting for a while, until the twins get used to me again. If I sit down next to Doolittle at the dinner table, they’ll give me dirty looks until I move. They’re closer to him because they see him all the time. They don’t like me moving in on their father.
The twins don’t believe I can cook, either. Gloria is a good cook—good, old-fashioned roasts with plenty of fresh vegetables. We don’t eat real fancy—just put it on the table in the kitchen and everybody eats (after the twins say the blessing). But if I ask the twins if they want me to cook, you should see the panicked look on their faces. They won’t eat my cooking, not even a sandwich or a hamburger or anything. What do they think I was doing the first eleven years I was married?
But when they were little, I was on the road. Doolittle can remember trying to wash the two of ’em at once in soapy water and being scared one of ’em was gonna slip out of his hands onto the bathroom floor. Finally he rigged up a little tub on the floor and covered the floor in towels. Later the doctor told him he wasn’t supposed to use soap anyway but baby oil instead.
Another time, Peggy got a real high fever in the middle of the night, and o
ver the telephone the doctor said to put her in ice water. Doo put her in a tub of cold water. But when the doctor got there, he yelled at Doolittle, “I meant ice water, dammit!” And he began tossing ice cubes in the water, so she wouldn’t get brain damage from the fever. Doo said he was so shook he just jumped in his jeep and rode around the ranch until Doc said Peggy was all right. And meanwhile, I was on the road someplace.
I take them with me sometimes. They sleep in the back of the bus with me, when I open up the two queen-sized beds. They both talk in their sleep, just like me, and they’re both kickers, too. But I like having them around me. They’re both boy crazy. There’s one friend who promises he’s going to take them sight-seeing in New York City. All they want to know is, “Are there any boys in New York City?”
The babies are really funny. They have so much energy. Everybody says they see me in them. They’re real talkative, always have an answer. They’re identical twins, but you can tell ’em apart if you’re real careful. Peggy stands real straight, and Patsy tends to slouch a little. Usually I can tell, but if I make a mistake, they’re horrified. Doolittle can always tell them apart because he’s around so much. It hurts me if I get it wrong. If I’m not sure, I’ll say, “Hey, Twin, get over here.” But that doesn’t fool them. They’ll pout on me. It’s the same with strangers. One fellow tried to make conversation with ’em by saying, “When do you think I’ll be able to tell you apart?” And one of ’em looked at him like he was really stupid and said in her Southern drawl, “Prob-ly never.”
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