Kentucky Traveler

by Ricky Skaggs

  Me and my brothers and sister, well, we were more than fine with heading back to the holler. I remember seeing the top of the ridges come into view when we got close to Brushy, and how good it felt to be home. I was at an age now when I was old enough to run the woods, and the mountains gave us plenty more space than the suburbs in Nashville. It was great to have freedom to roam the hills and run barefoot with your shirttail flappin’ in the wind, and to stay outside all day long exploring, getting chigger-bites on your legs, and skinning your knees. We kids would come home at night dirty and plumb wore out!

  Back on Brushy Creek, it really didn’t matter how much money you had. People around us were a lot poorer than we were, just scraping by. We had neighbors and relatives right down the creek from us who were as poor as church mice. In those days, we were all poor so we didn’t even notice.

  All the while Dad was trying to get the settlement money for his accident. For a time he had a job down at the Ashland Oil refinery, but the pain became too much to bear. He just couldn’t work anymore. We had to get some government assistance—there was even a time when we were on welfare—and we bought our groceries on credit. I remember my mom wanted to buy us some new clothes and couldn’t, because there was next to nothing coming in money-wise.

  I had just two pair of pants that I could wear to school, so my mom was always washing one or the other so I’d have clean pants for the next day. It was a hard time for us, but we always had plenty to eat, never missed a meal, and if we really needed something we’d go out in the woods and hunt it or raise it in the garden. We could always live off the land.

  Mom’s prayers really increased during this trying time. She knew the Lord would provide what we needed. But that period was awful tough on her. It got to where things were so lean, I’d catch her crying. One Christmas, we kids got one gift each. Mine was a toy Give-a-Show projector, which let you display pictures on the wall or ceiling. Mom was so sorry she couldn’t give us more. We didn’t mind going without, but I know it hurt Mom and Dad.

  One day, trying to be helpful, I suggested, “Well, Dad, can’t you just write a check?” He laughed, and replied, “Son, you’ve got to have something in the bank before you can write a check!” But we always had enough, really. Every Christmas, my mom’s folks up in Ohio, Grandpa and Grandma Thompson, would send us a big basket of fruit with nuts and candy and oranges. It was a lot more than Dad usually got at Christmastime when he was growing up—a piece of hard candy and a pack of firecrackers!

  To be honest, I was too busy being a kid to worry too much about the finances. Besides, I had my own troubles, like the time I faced my first real tragedy—almost losing my Gibson A-40.

  We were over at a neighbor’s house up the road, the Baileys. We played music till real late at night, and by the end, we were all wore out. Dad loaded his guitar in the back trunk, but he’d set my mandolin down and forgot to put it in; it was dark and he was very tired. I was sitting up in between my folks in the front seat. My dad put our Ford Galaxie in reverse. Soon we felt a thumping sound under the car, and we knew we’d run over something.

  I heard Dad whisper, “Oh, my God,” and I knew something bad had happened, but I wasn’t sure just what. He knew, though. Dad shut off the motor and got out. He looked down and saw he’d backed the car right over the mandolin, smashing it pretty bad. I saw it lying on the ground, and I just lost it. Dad never did curse, and he didn’t this time, either. But he saw me bawling like he’d killed my best friend. It’s not that I was mad at him. It was just that my heart was crushed worse than my mandolin. For me, my mandolin was more than my friend. It was my whole life.

  Dad felt so bad he got back in the car, put his head in his hands, and just sat there. He looked at me crying and got hold of himself. “Son, I’m so sorry! We’ll get it fixed, don’t you worry. We’ll send it back to Gibson and get it fixed up like it was before.” It seemed pretty hopeless to me, but my dad always kept his promises.

  He mailed it off the next day to the Gibson manufacturers in Kalamazoo, Michigan. It sure sounded like it was a long way from Cordell, Kentucky. I still don’t know how he managed to pay for the repair. Bad as it looked, it turned out it was only the broken neck that needed fixing. But I wasn’t counting on how long it would take, which wasn’t days or weeks but months.

  Back then, if you got a package too big for the mailbox, they kept it at the post office. So every day for a few months, I’d walk the mile or so from my house to the post office and ask about my mandolin. Every time, the postmaster, Grace Cordel, would say, “Honey, it’s not here today. I’m sorry.” I’d walk the mile back home, and the next day I’d make the same round trip. When the package finally did come, that was one happy day, I’m here to tell you. The wait was worth it. I couldn’t believe they’d put it back together like new.

  Backing over my mandolin was about as upset as Dad ever got, ’cept for one other time, and that was when I saw him when he was scared ’bout half to death. Garold and I were riding home on the school bus one day around Halloween, and we saw big thick clouds of smoke down the road near our place. The bus dropped us off, and we ran around back. Come to find out, my dad was on the hill behind the house fighting a wildfire. He’d been burning piles of brush and debris, part of the usual fall clean-up work he always did, but that afternoon, the autumn wind had picked up and blown the flames out of control toward our house.

  Well, Dad was freaked out, running around and shouting for help. I never saw him so rattled before or after that; he was always solid as a rock, no matter what. Seeing that look of fear on his face, that scared Garold and me real bad. Dad was afraid the house was gonna catch fire with the next big gust of wind. Dad was so upset that he hollered out, “We need some fifarters!” instead of saying “firefighters.” We tried not to laugh at that but it sounded so funny. Garold and I did our best to help, ’cause there wasn’t a fire truck for miles around. We were grabbing blankets and coats and whatever we could find to smother the fire, and after a lot of work, we finally put it out!

  We got the fire put out, but the most important thing in my world was that my little Gibson mandolin had made it back to Brushy Creek good as new, and just in the nick of time, too, because I soon found out the Stanley Brothers were coming to eastern Kentucky! They were booked for shows one weekend in Olive Hill and Prestonsburg, a few counties over and an easy drive from our place. I brought my mandolin along for the first night in Olive Hill, the little town where Tom T. Hall is from and where country music’s “Storyteller” got so much material for his classic songs like “The Year That Clayton Delaney Died.” The show was at a movie theater that sometimes had live entertainment.

  We pulled into the theater, went backstage, and met Carter and Ralph. My dad wasn’t loud or pushy. He could get into those places because of his humility, the same way he got us backstage at the Opry. Dad and Carter hit it off like old pals, and Dad told him, “My boy played mandolin with Bill Monroe when he was six, and last year he played on the Flatt & Scruggs TV show. If y’all could get him on the show, I think he’d do a good job for you.” Friendly as could be, Carter said, “Let’s hear you play, son.” I picked a tune, and he nodded. “Yeah, that’s mighty fine, son. We’ll use you tonight. Can you come to Prestonsburg tomorrow night?”

  And so I played the next night’s show, too. Dad was thrilled, and so was I. Afterward, Carter laid his hand on my shoulder and said, “Son, one of these days Bill Monroe will have to take a backseat to you!” Everybody had a good laugh, and Dad was beaming. At the same time, though, it kinda stung me. Being literal-minded like any kid that age, I thought, Hold on, Mr. Monroe is the Father of Bluegrass. He’ll never take a backseat to anybody, especially some little kid from east Kentucky. And of course, he never did. But we sure became good friends years later.

  It was great to hear Carter say that, even in a joshing way, but I knew he was just being nice. It was the Stanleys’ playing, not mine, that sticks in my mind after all these years. Especially th
at first show. I remember they opened with “Pig in a Pen,” and it was blazing. It’s a great opening number for any bluegrass band. Even now I sometimes use it to kick off my shows, and it’s a tune you can count on to get things started with a bang. One time I even performed “Pig in a Pen” with the Boston Pops Orchestra, and it went over as big in that fancy concert hall as when the Stanleys did it nearly fifty years ago in that little movie theater in Olive Hill.

  The Stanleys only had the one fiddler instead of a whole violin section like the Boston Pops, but boy, he tore it up. The fiddler that night was Ralph Mayo, one of the finest they ever had, and Curly Lambert was on mandolin. I always kept my eye out for the mandolin player, looking for tips on how to pick better. Curly could pick, but he was also an incredible harmony singer who blended beautifully with Carter and Ralph. The Stanleys had a great trio sound, as always.

  A year later, Carter and Ralph were traveling through our area again, this time closer to home, at the high school down the road in Blaine. ’Course, my dad was waiting right there with me when they got out of their old Buick, and he let the Stanleys know they were in our hometown and how much we’d been looking forward to the show.

  Carter remembered me from Olive Hill and Prestonsburg. He asked if I’d brought my mandolin. Well, of course I had. I didn’t go anywhere without it. Sure as anything, Carter said, “We’ll put you on tonight,” and he smiled at me like we were buddies for life. “Go on backstage, son, and set and wait and we’ll call you out.”

  Even though I’d already met him twice, I was still so awestruck I could barely look him in the eye. Carter Stanley was as tall as the ceiling to me, bigger than life. He was so sharp and cool, more like a movie star than a country singer. His suit fit just right, with perfect creases and not a speck of lint. He was wearing these black leather boots buffed up so shiny you could just about see your reflection in them. I remember thinking, I want to be like that when I grow up.

  The dressing area backstage was the high school boys’ locker room. I went on back there and sit by myself on a long wooden bench while my dad and mom and everybody were out in the auditorium watching the show.

  I was alone in the locker room, but I could hear the music and the crowd loving it. Every so often, one of the boys in the band came through in a big hurry. They went right past the commodes to the shower stalls back in the corner. None of ’em stayed long, though, and I never did hear a thing. They’d finish whatever they were doing and make a beeline back out to the stage. First came the fiddler, then Curly, then Ralph, and finally Carter, everyone hitting the same shower stall. I kept wondering what they were coming back for so often and why nobody was using the toilet or faucet.

  Well, I couldn’t figure it out, so I went over and peeked out the door and listened to the show for a little while, kind of wondering when I’d be getting to go on stage. Carter came in again and saw me up off the bench. I guess he could tell I was getting antsy, so he said, “We’ll call you out in just a minute, son.”

  The curiosity finally got to me, and I decided I was gonna find out what they were doing in those shower stalls. I waited for Carter to leave and slipped back there and poked around. At first I didn’t see anything. Then I happened to look up at the ledge where you put the soap and shampoo and what not. There I saw whiskey bottles lined up, little pint bottles they’d hid up there out of sight and out of reach. That’s when I realized they’d been making their little trips to the stall during their breaks to take a little nip or two, or three.

  It was awfully strange to stumble on the Stanley Brothers’ stash of booze. I felt like I’d done something wrong. I don’t think I’d ever seen a real bottle of whiskey before, not up close, anyhow. All I knew was that it was bad for you, and that my mother wouldn’t let Euless bring any whiskey in the house when he came by with his fiddle. I thought to myself, Oh, God, if my mother knew what they were doing back here, she’d be so mad! She’d yank my little ten-year-old Kentucky butt right outta here!

  I knew there were many musicians who drank. Whiskey and the fiddle sort of followed each other. But the Stanley Brothers were heroes to me, and it was an eye-opener when I saw those whiskey bottles in the shower stall. It made me think of them in a different light. Why were my heroes doing this stuff you’re not supposed to do? I had heard the Stanleys sing so many gospel songs and hymns about Jesus and salvation. I thought to myself, Do they really believe those songs? It gave me plenty of doubts.

  I didn’t say anything about it at first, but it weighed on my mind. When we went back home, I finally told Mom and Dad what I’d seen. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” I said. “That’s not good for them.” My folks said it was a shame I’d had to see it, but they told me there was a lesson in it, which was not to judge them.

  And that was true. I was looking at things from the eyes of a ten-year-old kid, and kids can be pretty unforgiving sometimes. I’d never walked in their shoes, so I didn’t know what it was like for them to travel all those miles and be away from their families for so long. I do now. The whiskey was like a painkiller for them.

  Even so, it was a painful moment for me. I lost some innocence that night. I can’t even relate to that innocence now, after all I’ve seen of life and the things people do and the suffering some go through. I’ve come to realize my parents were right, and it wasn’t my place to judge. I understand more what the Stanleys were up against now. Those nips of whiskey helped keep ’em going. It wasn’t partying, it was maintenance.

  In any case, finding those whiskey bottles in the shower stall didn’t stop me from loving the Stanleys and their music, and I was still a loyal fan.

  Not long after that, my teenage sister Linda came home with a couple of new 45-rpm singles by the Beatles. She put ’em on the turntable, and the house filled with a kind of music I’d never heard before. It was fresh, exciting, and new. But there was something in the harmonies and the singing structure that wasn’t foreign to me.

  When I heard John and Paul sing together, I said to myself, There’s another brother duet! I could hear the Everly Brothers in their harmonies. Now where did that apple fall from? Not far from the tree. ’Cause I knew there was something in the Beatles’ way of singing that was kin to the Everlys and Ira and Charlie Louvin and the Stanleys, and even all the way back to Bill and Charlie Monroe.

  So when I heard the Beatles, I heard my British cousins. They were an updated brother harmony team. Turns out they were huge fans of Phil and Don Everly. John and Paul sounded like Phil and Don, and Phil and Don sounded like Ira and Charlie, and Ira and Charlie sounded like Ralph and Carter, and Ralph and Carter sounded like Bill and Charlie. It was a cycle come full circle.

  There was so much country in early rock and roll, with roots in that old brothers-style, close-harmony singing. It’s a special vocal sound that has inspired so many people through the years. All this music is just one big family, in a way. My son Luke has turned me on to a lot of new acoustic modern folk music, like Mumford & Sons, Fleet Foxes, and Iron & Wine. Some of that isn’t too different from the mountain music I was raised on.

  I thank God I had an older teenage sister. I owe a lot to Linda for introducing me to the Beatles so early on and bringing the British Invasion into our house on Brushy Creek. If she hadn’t bought “Love Me Do” and “Please Please Me,” I might not have been exposed to the Beatles till much later. She cranked those 45s from her bedroom, and my parents were playing the Stanley Brothers in the living room.

  Mom and Dad at first just put up with the Beatles, but soon they came to like them. Now, Dad certainly liked Red Foley better than he liked Ringo Starr, but he had a fine old ear no matter what type of music, and he appreciated their talent. He even told me one time, “Them boys are good!”

  I remember the night the Beatles were on The Ed Sullivan Show. At our house we could get Channel 13, the ABC affiliate, and Channel 3, the NBC affiliate, out of Huntington, West Virginia, where Flatt & Scruggs’s and Porter Wagoner’s shows were broadcast.
Grandpa Skaggs lived across the bottomland, and he could pick up Channel 5, the CBS affiliate out of Charleston, West Virginia that aired the Sullivan show every Sunday night. It was wintertime, so we got ourselves bundled up and walked through the snow to my grandpa’s house after dinner that evening.

  The Beatles came on the TV, and my sister went wild. She was screaming and pulling her hair out and going nuts, hollering, “Aren’t they great? They’re the best group I ever saw in my whole life!” She wouldn’t let up until my Dad finally said, “Well, they’re pretty good.” I punched Dad in the arm and said, “The Beatles ain’t as good as the Stanley Brothers, though, right, Dad?” I was smart-mouthing my older sister, but Dad let it go because he was on my side of the argument.

  Truth be told, I loved the Beatles right along with my Stanleys. Just like I loved the Rolling Stones and the Hollies along with my Flatt & Scruggs and Bill Monroe. One of my favorite records was “Look Through Any Window” by the Hollies. I was such a huge harmony freak, and the Hollies floored me with their vocal arrangements. I feel blessed to have grown up in that era, because it was such a great time for all kinds of music.

  The day after The Ed Sullivan Show, all the kids came to our school with their hair combed down like the Beatles. It was unbelievable. With my vacation Bible school flattop, I didn’t have any bangs to pull down, but I sure would have! The Beatles had a look that was new and kinda strange, but it made its way to Brushy Creek. When you think about it, it wasn’t any stranger than when Bill Monroe walked onto the Opry stage in 1939 dressed like a Kentucky fox hunter, with riding pants and jodhpurs and hat.