An Outlaw and a Lady

by Jessi Colter

  Mother’s energy took a different turn. She was more intense. Because God had given her all the gifts of the Spirit, including healing, she felt compelled to use those gifts—and use them extravagantly. She also felt compelled to make me understand that before I was born she had heard God speak my name—Mirriam—and a prophecy was given that I would serve him in a special way.

  Mother’s absolute conviction was that we stood in the heritage of the saints and in the bloodline of Christ Jesus. From infancy on, I watched and heard her preach with piercing eloquence about the grandeur of God’s healing love. Miracles and wonders surrounded my childhood. I bore witness to a dead baby brought back to life. I saw palsied men cured before my very eyes. As a child, I experienced dramatic firsthand evidence of God’s goodness, mercy, and grace.

  And then I experienced something else: music. There was an upright piano in the sanctuary that drew me like a magnet. I was fascinated by the sounds made by those white and black keys. At an early age I could pick out little melodies. When Mother saw my interest, she made certain that I had piano lessons. I also learned accordion.

  All this music, of course, was linked to the love I was feeling in Mother’s church. She could preach, but I soon learned that I could sing. All this came about without effort. The process of channeling music through my heart was—and remains—a natural one. It was clearly a gift. I cannot remember an instance when music ever perplexed or frustrated me. If I heard it in my head, I could play it or sing it.

  I understand that for some making music can be a struggle, but for me, beginning in childhood, music flowed like a clear mountain stream whose source, I learned from Mother, was God on high. Music would prove to be the great instrument of change in my life, the ethereal spirit that would, in one form or another, punctuate my story with one surprise after another.

  Chapter 2

  WHEN TIME AND ETERNITY MEET

  AS AN ADULT, I DISCOVERED THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL words by C. S. Lewis: “For the Present is the point at which time touches eternity. Of the present moment, and of it only, humans have an experience analogous to the experience which God has of reality as a whole.”1 Yet the moment of which he speaks—the moment of experiencing eternal time—happened when I was a child. I didn’t understand the underpinning theology, and I didn’t have to. I processed the phenomenon as pure joy. It was a moment when, in the midst of Sunday services at Mother’s church, I sang a very old hymn whose title echoes the same sentiment as C. S. Lewis’s words:

  When Time and Eternity Meet

  I sat on the banks of a river

  I stood on the crest of a hill

  I gazed at the great modern cities

  The valleys serene and so still.

  I heard the loud roar of the ocean,

  I felt the great desert’s heat.

  Then I thought of the fate of this whole wide world

  Where time and eternity meet.2

  Though music is rooted in time, music took me out of time. It suspended time. Playing and singing music gave me a feeling of freedom. Music made sense to me. Its meters made mathematical sense. I didn’t have to count out the bars and the beats. I felt them. They fell together in a rhythm as natural as the beats of my heart. And the most beautiful thing about my first music—this beatific music of my childhood—was its message. The purpose was praise. And the praise was other-directed and otherworldly. The praise was for God and God alone.

  When my musical ability was praised by Mother and her congregants, that felt good—but not nearly as good as worshipping the goodness of God in song. As a performer, I never felt especially gifted. I was grateful to be able to play and sing, but I took it in stride. I realized I had talent, although that talent never went to my head. If there was a gift that impressed me, it was not my own. It was Mother’s. Her gift—to reflect the sweet compassion of Christ in word and deed—overwhelmed my world. I followed her every thought, watched her every move, mirrored her every prayer.

  Confidence—inexorable confidence—was the hallmark of my parents.

  Mother’s preaching was a study in sincerity. In the rising and falling cadences of her hypnotic sermons, there wasn’t a shred of doubt or duplicity. She wore her heart on her sleeve. The hungry ate at our table. The homeless slept in our sanctuary.

  Father’s confidence was reflected in his focus. If the chore at hand was to repair or even build a tractor, he did so with laser-like concentration. Whether it took him a day or a month, he worked until the task was complete. His obsession to understand the underlying mysteries of minerals had him exploring uncharted territory.

  Venturing deep into these two territories—the spiritual and the material—defined the excitement of my childhood. As my mother’s reputation grew, she accepted invitations to faraway churches and tent revivals. I was thrilled to travel with her. And as my father’s molybdenum fixation intensified, I trekked with him to our mine in the middle of nowhere.

  Seen through the eyes of a child, these were exotic excursions. Among the first trips I took with Mother was one to Fort Worth, where on the outskirts of the city I watched a tent go up. Workers hammered poles into the earth. A great tarp was anchored and spread. Wooden folding chairs were set in a semicircle. Naked lightbulbs were strung from one side to the other. A makeshift wooden pulpit was placed in the center. A small upright piano was wheeled in. Anticipation was in the air.

  I watched the setting sun turn orange, then pink, then violet, then blue-black. People began pouring in—women with children, men who looked lost, the young, the old, the sturdy, the feeble. Black folks came as well.

  “Everyone Welcome!” said the sign outside the tent. “Revival meeting tonight! Helen D. Johnson, Evangelist.”

  I walked to the piano and, with all the force at my command, I struck the opening notes of stirring hymns like “Showers of Blessings,” “Oh, How I Love Jesus,” and “Just Over in the Glory Land.” Because I was a one-girl band, I needed to project. Big chords and big beats were required. I had to get things rolling. Fortunately some folks brought their own tambourines and helped me ride the rhythm. Others began singing along with me. It didn’t take long for the Spirit to arrive. Of course it was Mother who encompassed that Spirit and gave it voice.

  It was Mother who spoke of the Holy Ghost as a living, breathing force who had swept into the tent, ready to invade our hearts and heads. It was Mother who spoke thrillingly of the glory of God, not a God who punished, but a God who replenished and renewed, a God of hope, a God of salvation, a God whose incomprehensible parental sacrifice proved his love for all his children, a God who could and would and will give our lives new purpose, new meaning, new energy, new joy—a God who, above all, healed both the spirit and the body. Through her love of God, my mother healed with her hands. People came to her in faith—the young, the elderly, the crippled, the blind.

  My favorite part of the service, aside from Mother’s stirring message, was the altar call. Here I was called upon to sing “Just as I Am.” I felt that, in my own small way, I might be able to touch the hearts of those who were hesitant. I saw that the sweeter I sang, the more immediate the response: worshippers rising from their chairs and walking toward Mother to accept the salvation of their Savior.

  When the service was over, I felt a great burden had been lifted from the shoulders of people who had entered as strangers but now stood beside my mother as sisters and brothers in Christ. As they exited, I could feel their gratitude. Sometimes, just because my spirit was overflowing, I’d pick up my accordion and play “The Love of God” until the tent was empty and it was just Mother and me standing there. I’d put down my instrument and she’d open her arms. She’d embrace me and say, “Thank you, Mirriam. God has been served.”

  These were heady days of the great revivalists of the fifties. Traveling the road, from California to Arkansas, from Texas to Tennessee, we would encounter legendary preachers like William Branham. The beloved Brother Branham was a leading light in the post–World War II
evangelical movement. There was also Kathryn Kuhlman, another renowned faith healer; and, of course, the incandescent Billy Graham, who removed the ropes segregating whites from blacks at his meetings and, more than anyone in this sacred movement, found universal favor.

  When the road wasn’t leading to out-of-state revival meetings, it was leading to our twelve-hundred-acre mining property. Those two-hour car trips to the mine were part of the Johnson family lore. We’d load up in Daddy’s old Lincoln and head out of Mesa, past Ray (that housed a huge copper mine), past Superior and Kearney, up to the gates of Diamond Ranch, beyond which were the makeshift roads that meandered through the expansive washes. The desert landscape was a wonder to behold, the sun blazing down on rugged rock formations and the graceful Palo Verde and Chilean pine trees as we drove under the imposing silhouette of Superstition Mountain.

  The cabin itself, built by Daddy’s hands, was a two-story stucco construction near the Gila River. It was basic but comfortable. Daddy and my brothers had also managed to dig a mine shaft. Sometimes they would set off dynamite. The explosive booms could be heard for miles around. We’d take walks around the abandoned railroad tracks and hear stories of Silver Mining Jake and tales of buried gold. Rather than reading a children’s story, I felt myself living inside one.

  There was also a sense of danger. Climbing the steep mountains, I’d sometimes fall and suffer bloody scrapes. But that didn’t stop me or any other family member from exploring. I was once bit by a small but deadly scorpion. Mother immediately prayed for me while Daddy stuck a pin in my finger to extract the bloody venom. I was a little shaken, but fine. According to my sister Sharon, I also swallowed a baby hummingbird. If that is true—and I doubt it—it happened when I was too young to remember. Sharon swore the hummingbird was the source of my musical talent.

  Between these twin paths—the path to salvation and the path to discovery—I witnessed two extraordinary beings fully committed to their lifelong truths. My mother and father never tired. Their enthusiasm never lagged. And as they aged, their commitment to their causes only strengthened. Facing the future, they were fearless.

  “God will provide,” said Mother, in spite of the fact that her congregation was poor and the income derived from her revival meetings was meager.

  “I will provide,” said Daddy, who, because his mine never resulted in much money, worked a dizzying array of other jobs and other trades.

  In the end, God did provide, and so did Daddy.

  “Carnal Arnold,” Mother would sometimes call him, referring to the fact that he would discuss money matters at the dinner table while she wanted talk to center on our Creator. And yet this divide between husband and wife wasn’t really a divide at all. It was more like a bridge built of mutual respect. Mother respected Daddy’s mind. Daddy respected Mother’s faith. This was the bridge over which I walked as a child, the bridge that led to the world beyond our home, our church, and our mine—the world of Mesa, Arizona, the small city where, in midcentury America, I came of age.

  Chapter 3

  BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS OF THE MOON

  ALTHOUGH FOR MUCH OF MY PROFESSIONAL ADULT LIFE I’D BE associated with rock and roll and outlaw country, I must confess that my cultural influences were not rooted in rebellion. To a large degree, I was a typical fifties girl. I loved Patti Page asking, “How much is that doggie in the window?” I loved Doris Day singing “Que Sera, Sera.” I loved Teresa Brewer’s “Ricochet Romance,” Johnny Mathis’s “Chances Are,” and Rosemary Clooney’s “Hey There.” I loved James Dean and June Allyson, Grace Kelly and Gregory Peck. And, of course, like the rest of the universe, I absolutely adored Elvis the minute I saw him on The Ed Sullivan Show.

  As a budding musician, though, I found that other kinds of music excited my imagination. I remember listening late at night to faraway stations broadcasting black blues that mysteriously accessed my soul. At a young age I learned “St. Louis Blues.”

  Cowboy culture is an essential part of Arizona. As a girl, I felt that influence. I dressed up like Dale Evans. I considered Roy Rogers heroic. Who could resist a handsome singing cowboy? Yet I wasn’t a country music fan. When I heard the classic country crooners like Hank Williams, I was too young to appreciate their profound gifts. I considered their music corny. My tastes ran to the more modern sounds of Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill” and Johnnie Ray’s “The Little White Cloud That Cried.”

  Mesa was predominantly Mormon. You’d think that because we were pentecostal Christians I’d be made to feel like an outsider. My mother’s mission was totally outside the bounds of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Yet I cannot recall a single instance when my faith was called into question by any of my teachers or friends. I proudly and openly believed what I believed. I never tried to hide my identity as an evangelical. All you had to do was come to my home and see the bright white neon sign marking my mother’s Lighthouse Mission. Sister Helen was known throughout the region. Yet no one scorned, belittled, or mocked me. My parents assumed that the foundation of my faith was strong enough to withstand the influence of the majority culture. And it was. At least for as long as I lived at home.

  Grounded in the love ethos of the living God, Mother had no fear that the secular world would taint my faith. She never restricted my school activities. I could read whatever books and see whatever movies caught my fancy. When I started singing the popular songs of the day, Mother didn’t object. At an early age—ten or eleven—I also began writing songs. Some had a religious theme while others didn’t. Mother was simply happy that I had found a creative outlet. When it comes to the wider world, pentecostals are not known for being open-minded. But the pentecostal who shaped my world, Helen D. Johnson, was entirely open when her daughter began composing little ditties about teenage heartaches.

  Mother also was not hesitant to take me to talent contests at the Big Apple, a ranch-styled restaurant that was a popular spot in the midfifties. There were yodelers, guitarists, jugglers, flamenco dancers, and little ol’ me singing “St. Louis Blues.” The flamenco dancers won.

  The flamenco dancers also won all the talent contests at my junior and high schools where I continued to perform in public. I floated in and out of girl groups appearing on The Lew King Show, Mesa’s answer to Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour. I also sang with a variety of bands. In all instances, I was hardly a sensation. At the same time, I felt comfortable onstage and felt little fear—even standing in front of a television camera.

  I don’t think I had an overabundance of charisma. And I was hardly cocky. I saw my talent realistically: I could play the piano pleasingly; I could write an original song; I could sing on key in a voice that had personality. My own personality was perky, and it came out in my music. I was a happy teenager, delighted to present myself as a budding musical artist. But I had no delusions of grandeur or fantasies of stardom. Of course I wanted to win the contests I entered, but when I didn’t, I was fine.

  My parents and siblings were especially supportive. They kept insisting I was special. My big brother Paul was always trumpeting my musical achievements. When Mom and Dad weren’t available, Paul drove me to the various venues, insisting all the while I was a surefire winner. Sister Sharon felt much the same. Two years my senior, she was a firecracker, a gorgeous young woman who at age sixteen became pregnant by a sailor handsome enough to be a movie star. Becoming a young mother, though, didn’t slow Sharon down. She was a rebel and a ringleader. Men adored her. At any given time, at least a half dozen men were hot on her trail.

  Sharon had more than style and sex appeal. She knew no strangers. To one intimate degree or another, everyone became her friend. Of course her freewheeling ways put her at odds with Mother, who expected her children to behave with decorum. Even staring at the definition in a dictionary, Sharon didn’t know the meaning of decorum. She was my parents’ wild child.

  Without trying, I became the golden child, the gifted one who, as Sister Helen had prophesied, had some special purpos
e. It wasn’t a role I relished, but neither was it a role I rejected. It was hardly a chore to sing in church or join Mother at her revival meetings. It was a privilege that I thoroughly enjoyed. And while I admired Sharon’s spunk and welcomed her support, the fact of her pregnancy did much to alert my fourteen-year-old mind to the dangers of promiscuity.

  Not that I was shy around boys. By high school, my steady boy-friend was Don Swartz, one of the most popular guys on the football team. Don was tall and lanky, with dreamy brown eyes and a laid-back demeanor. He wasn’t a braggart like some of the athletes, and he wasn’t too forward. Although we never discussed theology, he took his Mormonism as seriously as I took my religion. He talked about becoming a missionary.

  At the same time, my romantic connection to Don was deep enough to describe as love. Not long into our courtship, we professed our love to each other. He was the man I fully expected to marry.

  In some ways, we were model teenagers—he a gridiron hero, me a member of the Rabbettes cheering squad. On dates I’d wear cute squaw boots, low-cut Riders, and tight western shirts. In the front seat of his mother’s Buick, we’d cuddle up below the big screen at the Pioneer Drive-In, watching in wonder as Charlton Heston commanded his chariot in Ben Hur and Rock Hudson pursued Doris Day in Pillow Talk. Under a full moon on lover’s lane, we made out to the Platters’ “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and Dion and the Belmonts’ “A Teenager in Love.” Yet in spite of our intense desire, neither of us dared go all the way.

  Were my memory sharper, I could explain exactly how my faith was challenged during my teen years. I’m afraid, though, all I can recall is an indefinite and uncomfortable period of time in which I found myself angry with God. This is hardly unusual for a young person brought up on strict beliefs. But it wasn’t the tenets of my mother’s religion that I was railing against. It was some amorphous complaint that had me uneasy. And like all mortal souls, I harbored some doubts.