Coal Miner's Daughter

by Coal Miner's Daughter (Expanded

  “Don’t let it show,” Jean says. “That just makes it worse.”

  We just sit there for a while, until Cal Smith comes on the bus. He knows I’m mad, but he can’t resist teasing me.

  “What’s the matter, Clytha June?” he asks me. That’s his nickname for me—meaning I’m all country.

  “When are you going back with Ernest Tubb?” I say.

  But I can’t stay mad at anybody for long. In a few minutes, some of the boys are drinking a soda and talking with us, and it’s all forgotten. We do the second show at 9:30, and it’s 1 a.m. before we get back to the motel. Did you ever try to get a good sandwich at 1 a.m. in Cincinnati? They may have some great restaurants, but that late-sandwich bit can’t be done, folks. I end up eating a cold cheeseburger, and it makes me queasy all night long.

  Saturday, May 6: My stomach still hurts. I don’t order any breakfast, just lie in bed feeling miserable. The bus is leaving at noon, and I just wait until Jim Webb tells me to get packed. We get in the bus and take off. Me and George sit in the back and talk. I keep the shades drawn as we roll on along the interstate highway. Like I said before, I’ve seen the roads too much in my life.

  About three o’clock, we stop in front of another motel. If you ask me, it looks just like the one we left.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Columbus, Ohio,” somebody says.

  I never gave any thought to it, but the boys must be happy this trip. Most of ’em have family around Columbus, particularly Don Ballinger and Chuck Flynn, the new bass player. I look out the window and there’s Chuck with his kids. It’s probably the first time he’s seen ’em since he joined our show a month ago. I get to thinking about Doo and my twins back at the ranch, and I get kind of homesick.

  Up in my motel room, I order a big lunch of liver and potatoes, salad, milk, and pie. Ever since the doctor told me I’ve got high blood pressure, I’ve been trying to build up my iron. I turn on the television set, but I fall asleep until it’s time for the show.

  We take the bus out to the auditorium, and I’m still half-asleep. But I wake up fast when I see my cousin Marie. Oh my gosh, I forgot. We’re in Columbus, Ohio. Half the time I clear forget what town we’re in! Marie’s closer to me than a sister. Her husband died early this year, and I ain’t seen her or talked to her since. I motion for Jim to open the door for her, and she comes in.

  We look at each other, and I can see how broken up she is. We give each other a big hug and a kiss. She’s trembling like she’s freezing.

  “I’m nervous,” Marie says. “I can’t sleep none yet.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral,” I say. “I told Mommy to send flowers.”

  “She did,” Marie says. “It’s been rough. Every time my little grandchildren ask, ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ I just fall apart.”

  We go to the back of the bus. Marie takes a Valium, hoping it will calm her down. She and Charles had their problems, like all married couples, but he was a nice feller. It’s gonna be tough on Marie, I think to myself. She offers to fix my hair, so I lean back and relax. The Valium calms her down a little bit and she does a good job with my hair. We talk about the old days, back in Butcher Holler, and then it’s time for me to do the show—only one show tonight.

  I get out onstage and there’s a different feeling tonight—more sparks. It’s Saturday night and people are out for a good time, or something. Plus, most of our boys have friends and family in the audience, and they’re giving it their best.

  After our first five songs, I stop the show and introduce Chuck Flynn, who replaced John Thornhill on the bass. Chuck walks to the microphone and says in that slow, country style of his, “I come from Mount Vernon, Ohio, just up the road a piece. My fan club was gonna give me a parade, but one got sick, and the other had to work.”

  About fifty people cheer for Chuck. He’s real popular up here. That makes Don Ballinger start pouting like a baby, wanting his attention. I remember I saw his wife, Nancy, offstage somewhere. She’s a pretty gal who’s raised four kids and has a regular job and puts up with Don. I figure, what the heck, it’s family night, so I call Nancy out onstage.

  Can you believe this? Here’s this pretty woman walking out onstage and you know what Don calls her? “The Tank.” He looks her up and down as she walks toward us.

  “It’s sad how much she’s aged since the last time I saw her,” Don says.

  I give Don a shove and tell him to stop smarting off. Now you see why I’m on the women’s side. We get on with the music and finish up good. Afterward, I decide I feel well enough to sign autographs. I sit at a table and sign, while the fans line up. Some of ’em just stare when they get close while others ask questions.

  “Do you know so-and-so from Paintsville?” somebody asks.

  “How are the twins?”

  “Is that your real hair?”

  While I’m signing, I catch a glimpse of an old friend of mine from Van Lear—Audrey Blevins Honaker. She was one of the coal-camp girls who works in a supermarket in Columbus now. When I got started in show business, she used to have me over to her house and she’d fix chicken and dumplings and corn bread and pinto beans—my favorite meal. But lately it seems like my schedule is too tight and we never see each other.

  “Did you get the food?” Audrey asks.

  I don’t remember any food.

  “The pie and cookies I put on the bus,” Audrey says.

  I never saw ’em, but I tell her I did.

  “They were terrific,” I say. Hmmm. My boys must have eaten ’em.

  “Next time, you come out to the house,” Audrey says.

  I promise I will, and keep signing. Seven hundred autographs later, I go back to the bus and I find the boys have saved me half of Audrey’s strawberry pie and a few peanut butter cookies. Me and Marie eat and talk in the back of the bus until the boys have loaded their equipment. I give Marie another big hug—her starting to tremble again, me not knowing what I can do or say that will really help my cousin. We hold hands for a minute, and then she leaves the bus.

  The bus goes back to the motel. All the boys are invited out to Frontier Ranch, where they used to play. I just go up to my room and try to find a Gregory Peck movie on television, then stay awake until three o’clock, just tossing and talking to myself, and thinking about my babies and Marie and my headaches. And finally I fall asleep.

  Sunday, May 7: It’s raining ugly out. Just a mean, gray day, and I don’t feel like getting up for nothing. But Jim Webb knocks on my door and tells me we’ve got to leave by nine. You mean it ain’t nine yet? I stumble around, throw my clothes on, grab my little red overnight bag, and we take the elevator down. There’re some of my fans in the lobby. Take a good look, fans—now you’re seeing the real Loretta Lynn. Ain’t she something?

  I climb right back in my bed on the bus and sleep until eleven o’clock. Then I freshen myself up and visit the front of the bus. Somebody tells me we’re playing a four o’clock show in Toledo, Ohio. That’s fine with me. Nothing I can do about it anyway. Just go up there and sing.

  I enjoy sitting up front with my boys. We talk about our problems and I’ll give ’em advice. I’ve even lent ’em money when they need it, though Doo says I shouldn’t get so close to the boys. But I can’t help it. When you’re living in the same bus with people you like, you can’t help but get interested in them.

  We’ve only got a couple of rules about the boys. Doo says they’re not supposed to bring more than two beers apiece onto the bus. Usually, they follow the rules, but once in a while they’ll slip. I’ll start crying and then they’ll bring me ice cream and presents, so I can’t stay mad at ’em.

  Just recently I decided they were blackguarding too much, so I set up fines. A dollar a cuss. Right now they’re arguing whether certain words are cusses. Bob Hempker, my steel guitar player, and Ken Riley, the drummer, are talking it over with Don Ballinger. I know they’re just being real foxy. This just gives ’em the chance to say the wo
rds over and over again. So I decide to settle things.

  Me: What’s the problem?

  Ken: Kenny Starr said, “By God,” and that’s cussing.

  Bob: It ain’t cussing. God’s name is in the Bible.

  Don: Yeah, but you can’t say, “By God.” That’s cussing.

  Me: That’s right. Where is that little devil?

  Ken: He’s asleep in his bunk.

  Me: Well, I’m gonna fine him three dollars right out of his paycheck. Then we’ll put it in the piggy bank.

  Don: Mom, you’re running one of those company stores. Next thing you know, you’ll be paying us in scrip, like in the coal camps. It’s almost that bad now.

  Me: You hush up, Don Ballinger. I’m the boss here. I’ll fine you for sassing the boss.

  Don: Sassing’s not a crime.

  Me: On my bus it is.

  Anyway, that’s the way it goes for the next hour, just arguing about fines for the fun of it. There’s already fifty dollars in there, mostly from Jim Webb and Cal Smith. When the tour is over, we’ll throw a party or something—if the boys don’t get the money when I’m not looking. I don’t know how Jim Webb finds time to cuss. He’s so busy driving the bus and making conversation on our citizens band radio. He’s always talking to truck drivers about “Smokey the Bear.” I thought maybe Jim was just interested in stopping forest fires, but it turns out Smokey is the nickname for the state troopers. They didn’t used to bother us, but since the interstates dropped their speed to fifty-five, they’ve been a problem. You ain’t supposed to give messages about state troopers on the radio. That’s why they talk about bears so much.

  We pull into Toledo around noon. The boys are all starving. There’s a big diner, but it’s packed with folks coming from church. We usually like McDonald’s and avoid Howard Johnson’s. But this time we see a fish-and-chips place that looks empty. The reason it’s empty is because they don’t open until the stroke of noon. The boys go out, around nine of ’em, and breathe heavy on the clean glass doors, until the women get disgusted with ’em and open the restaurant. The boys know I can’t go into restaurants because my fans would surround us and wouldn’t let us eat. So they bring some fried fish back into my room as we drive to the auditorium. It’s a beautiful new place out in the country. You don’t even see Toledo. I’m thinking of getting more sleep but there’s a reporter from the Toledo newspaper who wants an interview. I always like to meet writers because they’ve been nice to me over the years. This man is named Seymour Rothman. He acts like he don’t know too much about country music, asking me simple questions like do I enjoy one-night stands, how do I write my songs—stuff I’ve answered a thousand times before. I can see Jim Webb and Cal Smith laughing at the questions. They start to clown around, pretending to play poker and stuff. But the man is so nice I answer all his questions. Then his photographer wants to take a picture of me out on the lawn. It’s country music, see, so they want to get some green grass. All right. Only it’s dropped to around forty degrees, there’s this vicious wind blowing, and the rain is starting to feel like wet snow on my cheeks. The photographer keeps clicking away and my hair is blowing all over the lot.

  “You’re gonna make me look like a mess,” I complain.

  “Just one more,” the photographer says. That’s what they all say.

  Finally we’re done. We go back in the bus while I thaw out. I’m convinced that article is going to be a disaster. (Six weeks later, Seymour Rothman writes a cover article for his paper’s Sunday magazine. The picture of me is beautiful—and the article goes into all the main points of my career. A real nice job. I should have known he was a professional. The only thing that makes me mad is he guessed too high on my age.)

  Anyway, we do two shows in Toledo. In between, they feed us a nice chicken dinner in the backstage cafeteria. This is a first-class operation here. We’re all exhausted from the long trip. After the second show, we drive back to Columbus.

  The bus needs some fixing at the home garage, so we’re going to stay in Columbus for a few off days, then head to Canada and upstate New York. I’m looking forward to nothing but resting. It may not sound too exciting—three days off in Columbus—but it means sleep. I probably should fly home to the ranch and see my babies, but by the time I got there, it would be time to start packing again. So I’m just gonna sleep. We get back to the motel in Columbus, and there’re no Gregory Peck movies on the television set tonight, either. So it’s just me and the four walls.

  31

  What’s Next?

  And love is the foundation we lean on,

  All you need is love to ease your mind…

  —“Love Is the Foundation,” by William C. Hall

  This is my life today, my “glamorous” life. Sometimes I ask myself, How long is this gonna go on? My twins are always asking, “Mommy, when are you going to stay home?” And my doctor tries to cut down my travel time because of my migraines and high blood pressure.

  I hear people in Nashville gossip that I’m gonna wear myself out. But other singers keep traveling until they’re fifty or sixty. Look at Ernest Tubb. He’s learned not to wear himself down. He just does what he needs to do, and he’s still going.

  But you can’t be halfway in this business. If you don’t meet the fans, you lose all you’ve got. And I love people and I love to sing—that’s what keeps me going. But when we get to the point where we don’t need another penny, I’d have to think about it. I’ve done everything there is in this business. Maybe there’s something else I could do that would help people more.

  A lot of people say I’d really miss show business if I quit. Well, I’d miss some of it. But I never realized it would be like this when I started—all this traveling. Now it’s the only life I know.

  I’ve never developed any other activities over the years—don’t play cards anymore, don’t read much, don’t play tennis. I was never on a golf course in my life until Ernest Tubb dragged me out to watch him play in 1974. I told him I’d rather watch baseball, where you can see the ball. So I guess I won’t take up golf when I retire. Really, I don’t know what I’d do with myself. Wash dishes? Heck, we just got ourselves a dishwasher last year.

  Maybe I could spend more time with the kids. The twins are gonna need me around as they get into being teenagers. I want them to graduate from high school and maybe go on to college. I believe in education and wish I had a better one. Maybe I could help my older kids, too, on account of not being around when they were growing. They’ve got kids of their own now. I could be a real grandmother—babysit and stuff like that. But I don’t feel like a grandmother. And don’t tell me Doo is a grandfather—who wants to be married to a grandfather?

  It’s been almost fifteen years since me and Doolittle had what I’d call a normal life, if we ever were normal, that is. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I stayed home. We argue like crazy when I stay home for a day or two. It’s really kind of funny. I’ve worked all my life and now I’m in a spot where men tell me how to run my business, and when I go home, other people tell me how to run my home.

  But all that is changing. I’m not the bashful little girl I was fifteen years ago, when my only dream was a comfortable house for my family. In those days, if Doolittle disappeared for a day or two, I just accepted it. I got mad—but I accepted it. I’m different today. I refuse to be pushed around anymore.

  I know how lucky I’ve been. I wouldn’t have dared to ask God for all that He’s given me. I’m just grateful for the benefits my family has enjoyed. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have done it on my own. I thank God every day for what I have.

  I told you I don’t go to church regular. But I pray for answers to my problems. Am I doing God’s wishes by performing the same songs, over and over again, until I’m fifty or sixty? Am I living the way I was meant to live?

  Some people would be afraid to ask themselves those questions. Well, I’m not afraid. I want more out of life than I’ve gotten—and I want to give more, too. I�
�d love to travel more to other countries, particularly the Holy Land. I’d love to work more with the American Indians, my people.

  It’s like I said at the beginning of the book. I feel things starting to change in me again. I’m starting to dress more modern. I’m watching how the young people are looking for answers. I’m putting my life in God’s hands, nobody else’s. So that’s where the book ends, folks. I can’t give you the entire Loretta Lynn story, because I’m positive there’s more to come.

  You just watch.

  What Came Next

  Forty More Years

  with Loretta Lynn

  32

  The View from the

  Mountain Top

  Well my daddy worked down in the dark coal mine

  Shovelin’ that coal one shovel at a time

  Never made a lot money didn’t have much

  But we’re high on life and rich in love…

  —“High on a Mountain Top,” by Loretta Lynn and Patsy Lynn Russell

  Go for your dreams!” People say that all the time, especially when they want fame and fortune. They think it’ll be sunshine and cherry pie 24/7.

  Folks, that’s a load of bull.

  When Coal Miner’s Daughter came out in 1976, I was on top. I had hit records. I’d been named the first ever female CMA Entertainer of the Year. I had my own band. I traveled in a tour bus that was custom-made for the band and me. Me and Doo even owned a whole town!

  Let me tell you something. I’d have traded it all to just be normal.

  I never wanted to be rich or famous. Growing up in Kentucky we were poor as dirt and livin’ in the backwoods. That’s the way it was. We didn’t know any different. I never thought of leaving that little place. Then came Doo. I loved him enough to leave my family and everything I knew behind. Four babies later, Doo put a guitar in my hands and got me onstage. That’s how it all got started. Not me chasing a dream. Just lovin’ a man, and a lot of years of hard work. And a few lucky breaks.