Kentucky Traveler

by Ricky Skaggs

  Taking a stand made me a target once in a while, but I didn’t mind the scrutiny. That comes with the territory. Add to this the fact that I was suddenly in the public eye for the first time. I had a strong tailwind behind me, not just the chart singles, but an Academy of Country Music award for Best New Male Vocalist. Things were heating up for me in Nashville, in more ways than one.

  There was some strong opposition from some groups to tobacco products, with bans against smoking in public and what not. Marlboro wanted to get in the good graces of country music. They launched a package tour with Hank Williams Jr., Ronnie Milsap, Barbara Mandrell, and other country stars, and I joined up. There was a public outcry against a bunch of singers on a big-money, barnstorming national tour that was sponsored by a cigarette company. People wanted to know what I, a nonsmoker, was doing out there promoting unhealthy habits that could hurt people, especially young people.

  Well, it wasn’t easy defending myself. I tried to explain that I wasn’t encouraging anybody to light up or take a chew or dip snuff. Marlboro never told me or even asked me to promote their products from the stage or anywhere else. To my mind, the company was giving me an opportunity to take my music and a positive message to the mainstream.

  Maybe I was naïve, but I didn’t know any better. Promoters were booking us into arenas and stadiums with twenty thousand people, a huge crowd for a new artist. These weren’t the crowds of bikers, bluegrassers, hippies, and outlaw types I’d seen at shows with Emmylou. They were Middle Americans with families: older people from my parent’s generation, young couples my age, and those couples’ kids, who were just discovering country music for the first time. Being on this tour allowed me to play my kind of music for far bigger crowds than I would have otherwise.

  You see, I was young, too. I was fresh-faced and long-haired, full of the joy of my faith and wanting to share it with everybody. Yeah, I was probably a little full of it, too. I thought I could use the stage as a soapbox to speak my mind and heart. Not that I tried to make speeches or sermons. I just had things I wanted to say, especially with my songs. I was following my heart and my Christian conscience.

  There were a lot of venues where I wasn’t inspired to talk about the Gospel. But whenever I felt moved, I did. If a little story came to mind, I told it. Looking back, I’m sure I said things from the stage I shouldn’t have said. Learning to speak out in public is a hard thing. It takes lots of tries and lots of mistakes.

  But sometimes it felt like I was forcing it on people—I thought it’d please God if I did—and for that I’m sorry. The spirit of God is nowhere close when you have to force Him on someone. I was young and immature, and I realize that now.

  There was every sort of response, from people thanking me to drunks yelling for me to shut up. I even had finger-wagging church ladies tell me I needed to offer a plan of salvation if I was going to save people at my shows. These well-meaning Christians thought I oughta be singing at churches instead of on stage. So I had to contend with both sides: believers with good intentions, and nonbelievers who didn’t want to hear a gospel message at a show they’d paid to see.

  When I look back on this period, I feel like I did my best to follow my conscience. Tell you what, though, it could be a lonely place sometimes. Back then, there wasn’t anybody in country music, or even in bluegrass, willing to talk about Christ from the stage. Except for the Whites. When they sang “Help Me” and “Follow the Leader,” they told the audience what these gospel songs meant to them, and how they believed in what the songs said. They had the courage of their convictions, and they still do.

  You have to remember the way things were in the old days. Bill Monroe and the Stanley Brothers and every bluegrass band worth its salt, they all sang gospel music. But they didn’t talk about the faith—most of ’em weren’t living it, and they didn’t pretend to. For them, “Hymn Time” was great music but just part of the show.

  When I started evangelizing at my country shows, I knew it wasn’t a cool thing to do. I could see I was losing some of the audience. I might talk about Jesus, or sing a gospel song without saying a word, and it was offensive to some people. They were drinking and partying and here I was bringing the church, the name of Jesus, into their party. It went against their notion of a good time.

  Most of ’em were good loyal fans. They appreciated the kind of old-school music I was trying to bring back, but they weren’t too pleased with the old-fashioned values I was trying to promote along with it. Anyhow, I had my stadium-sized soapbox, and I had my say—and there was a price to pay. Back in the ’80s, it was scandalous to some audiences for an entertainer to be a Christian and to be vocal about it. Speaking about your faith, especially in the record business at that time, was an invitation for people to mock your beliefs. There’s nothing new about this. You know, the apostles Peter and John, they were rejoicing in prison, happy for the chance to suffer for the sake of Christ. Believe me, I don’t try to pick a fight with the Devil every day, or try to pick a fight with the world. I just have the desire to live my faith as Peter and John did. Now, you won’t win a popularity contest by doing that. But God called us to be faithful, not famous.

  These days, I’m glad to say, you have proud, strong Christians in public life—whether in entertainment, sports, or politics—who are encouraged to be up front about their faith.

  I’ve learned to go on faith, not feelings, and I’m still learning. Trying to put the Gospel salt into a show or a stage presentation is no easy thing. There’s an artful way to get your message across. For example, I’d never tell an audience they need to go to church. What I might say is, “We’re gonna do one more song for you tonight, ’cause we need to get out of here so we can get back home and get to church in the morning. Haven’t been to church in a month!” I am just dropping that subtle hint that I think there’s value in going to church. My hope is that maybe this is enough to reach someone in the audience who has strayed from the fold.

  But when I was twenty-six, having country hits and talking about Jesus in front of twenty thousand people, I hadn’t learned the lessons that actions speak louder than words. I was too sure of myself in my own conviction. There was a big risk in what I was doing, career-wise. I know for sure that it was unpopular with radio programmers and industry people. I sure heard plenty from my label when I came off the road.

  The top guys at Epic weren’t happy with it, and they told me so. They’d say, “Ricky, we heard you were preaching from the stage again, and that wasn’t part of the deal we made.” I was called into the office more than once to have a meeting to discuss my actions.

  As much as I understood what they were up against, I wanted them to understand my side, too. My faith wasn’t like a suit of clothes that you hang in the closet the whole week long and then put on for church Sunday morning. It was how I tried to live my life, and I couldn’t separate myself from the core of who I was. I wasn’t a Christian artist, but an artist who’s a Christian, same as I am today. My faith is more than just a religion to me. It’s my relationship with Christ.

  In those early years, at least, the record execs tried to get me to stop talking about my faith. But something happened that made them cool down a little bit, and it wasn’t a conversion in the front office. In 1982, less than a year after my debut, my second album, Highways & Heartaches, was released. It went straight to number one and was certified gold. Rick Blackburn’s long-shot sure was turning out a winner at the bettor’s window. Not just a flash in the pan, but a tried and true Kentucky racehorse who was in it for the long haul.

  Of course, it was a two-way street. My record sales put me on a longer leash as far as speaking out was concerned, but Epic was still calling the shots as far as what kind of music I was contracted to play. I wasn’t so free I could just hand over a bluegrass gospel album like Emmy’s Light of the Stable, or satisfy a craving to cut a solo acoustic record, the way I can now. It took some hard knocks down the road to get me that freedom, and man, I am so glad I made it
out alive and can make the music I want to and sell it on my own.

  In 1982, I won the Country Music Association’s Horizon Award and Male Vocalist of the Year. Every single we released made the charts. The awards and the hit records were awesome, but nothing could compare with the thrill of joining the Grand Ole Opry. It was a dream of mine ever since I was a little boy on my Papaw’s lap, listening to the Opry on the radio in his 1952 Ford pickup truck.

  One day out of the blue, Opry manager Hal Durham phoned and invited me out to lunch. We’d barely sat down when he said, “Son, you’re setting the woods on fire! What would it mean to you to become a member of the Opry?” Well, I about swallowed my fork. I told him what an honor it would be, and how much it would mean to me, and my family, if I were a member. And it still does mean a lot, thirty years later. You know, trophies tarnish and gather dust, and hit songs dry up. But that honor you carry as a member of the Opry is for life, if you want it to be.

  On May 15, 1982, I became one the youngest country performers to be inducted into the Grand Ole Opry. I was twenty-seven years old. They made it official during the weekly broadcast from the Opry House, where so many of my heroes had stood. It was about the only stage in the world that could give me butterflies, and that night I sure was nervous—as my dad used to say, as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs! I was on the Ernest Tubb segment of the show, thank God, and ol’ E.T. helped calm me down for the big moment. Ernest read some telegrams, and one came from Bill Monroe, who sent his congratulations. Bill wanted me to know how happy he was that I was a part of the Opry family. It was such an honor, something I’ll never forget. It’s still one of the highlights of my career.

  I thought of Mom and Dad. I knew it meant more to them to hear me on the Opry broadcast on the radio back home on Brushy than it would for them to be there in person. In later years, they came down to Nashville from time to time for visits, and sometimes I’d be on the Opry while they were there, and they enjoyed going. But I think it was always more special for them to stay home and hear it on the radio, thinking of all the days and nights we’d worked together, all that they’d poured into me, and all the prayers they saw answered. It was sweet for them to share that together. I still listen to the Opry on weekends when I’m on the road touring, and now I can listen on my iPhone no matter where in the world I’m at.

  After the show, Roy Acuff congratulated me backstage. Mr. Acuff was top dog of the Opry’s cast of stars, and he could be as gruff as they come. He said, “Well, son, we made you a member, but I know it won’t be long ’fore you’ll be gone. Just like all the rest of these kids we bring in here. You’ll be out doing shows and making so much money on the road that I reckon you’ll forget the Opry, same as the rest of ’em.”

  Well, it really got under my feathers to hear him say that. I looked at him dead serious and said, “Mr. Acuff, you don’t know me. You don’t know my heart for this music and for the Opry. You just wait and see. I’m not made that way. I’m true to my word. I didn’t join the Opry just for the name.” In my mind, I wanted to tell him off—I wanted to say, “Old man, you’re gonna eat those words!”—but I didn’t because I respected him too much. Instead of mouthing off, I was gonna show him what this Kentucky mountain boy was made of. Every weekend when I wasn’t on the road, I wanted to play at the Opry. I’d make sure I went to his dressing room to tell him that I was there. I’d poke my head in the door and say, “Hey, Mr. Acuff, just wanted you to know I’m here again this weekend.” And he’d say, “Okay, son, I’m glad you’re here.” It almost got to be where I was pestering him; I wanted him to eat a little crow. I finally wore him out. One night, he said, “You win. I don’t want to hear it anymore.” It’s been twenty years since Mr. Acuff passed away, and I’m still showing up pretty regular. I hope I never get to where I don’t want to play the Opry.

  I loved Mr. Acuff and the Opry elders, Hank Snow, Minnie Pearl, Little Jimmy Dickens, Grandpa Jones, Jimmy C. Newman, and all the rest. They welcomed me with open arms. I’ve tried to show that same hospitality to every new member. Monroe was right when he said the Opry is a family. I’m grateful to have gotten to know all of them, not just as entertainers, but as husbands and wives and fathers and mothers.

  Everybody was scared to death of Mr. Acuff, which was understandable, ’cause he could be a little intimidating. Nobody except Bill Monroe and Minnie Pearl called him Roy. He was the senior statesman, and he didn’t take any guff. As serious and business-oriented as Acuff was, though, he always made time for music. You’d always find folks in his dressing room, strumming on banjos and playing fiddles. He never forgot that the Opry was about enjoying the music and having fun. There was a plaque on his door that said, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna come up today that me and the Lord can’t handle.”

  Mr. Acuff and Minnie Pearl were the heart and soul of the Opry ever since they joined the roster before World War II. Nobody was nicer to me than Minnie, country’s first lady of comedy. She could light up a stage with her smile and her straw hat with the $1.98 price tag. You could hear her wild “Howdee!” for a country mile. She loved the Minnie Pearl character as much as the crowd, but Minnie was just a character to her. She kept her comedienne role separate from her personal life.

  Off the stage, she was Sarah Cannon, a kindhearted and dignified lady. She was married for nearly fifty years to Henry Cannon, a pilot who was also her manager, and they were a wonderful example of a strong, joyful marriage. The Whites and I worked several Opry package tours with her, and we loved both Sarah and Henry dearly. Sarah didn’t tell a lot of jokes, ’cause she didn’t feel the need. She saved the laughs for Minnie and the show.

  Minnie knew I appreciated the Opry’s history, and she told me stories about the early years, like the night Hank Williams made his debut appearance on the Grand Ole Opry. It was June 11, 1949, and he was twenty-five years old. He sang “Lovesick Blues” and got six encores. The crowd at the Ryman Auditorium wouldn’t let him leave the stage. Opry management had to tell the crowd to stop so the other scheduled artists could go on. How amazing is that? Minnie said there was a mysterious blue light that hung over Hank’s head that night. She told me she never saw anything like it in her life.

  Speaking of one-of-a-kind, Grandpa Jones was quite a character, too. Only thing was, though, Grandpa wasn’t play-acting. He was an all-around funny guy all the time, and he was even funnier off stage. He told jokes and stories and kept everybody in stitches when he was around. You never knew what he was gonna say or to do. He was unpredictable, sometimes as nutty as a Payday bar, and he had a stormy side, too. You just didn’t know which Grandpa you were gonna get.

  There was once a comedy roast for Grandpa, and the place was packed with some real comic pistols, from George Lindsey to Roger Miller to Tennessee Ernie Ford. The party afterward was unbelievable, I’m telling you what. Everywhere you turned, somebody was cracking a joke or cracking up after they’d heard one, so I walked around, listened in here and there, and laughed till my sides about split. The biggest noise came from where Grandpa held court. He had the sharpest comebacks, and when he threw out a zinger, anybody in earshot would double over. He about had ’em on the floor!

  Let me give you a taste of classic Grandpa humor. One time he called up Jumpin’ Bill Carlisle, his friend and an Opry member for years. He was a neighbor of Grandpa’s in Ridgetop, north of Nashville, where they both had farms. Grandpa asked if he’d seen his cow, and Carlisle said, “No, I ain’t seen your cow.”

  “Well, if he shows up over at your place, call me, and I’ll come and get him.”

  A week went by, Grandpa called again, and he said, “Bill, I found my cow.”

  “You did? Where was it at?”

  “In my deep freezer!” Grandpa had killed his cow and had it butchered and stored the meat in his freezer and then forgot all about it. Talk about your senior moment!

  Grandpa often forgot things. Sometimes he’d forget the punch lines to old jokes he knew by heart. Mostly he
’d forget the names of people, even folks he’d known for years. One night, he was introducing the Osborne Brothers, Bobby and Sonny. He couldn’t remember their names, and they’d been members of the Opry for fifteen years. They were backstage waiting on Grandpa, and the audience was waiting, too. He finally hollered, “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s a couple ol’ boys from up in Kentucky, and they got a fine sound . . . Here’s him, and him!” The boys laughed so hard at Grandpa’s flub they could hardly sing.

  Another time Grandpa and his wife of fifty years, Ramona, hosted the cast and crew of Hee Haw up at his farm for a Sunday afternoon dinner. They’d been working hard all week filming the show, so Grandpa invited the whole gang over for a big cookout. Everyone was out in the backyard, gathered along these picnic tables. Well, Ramona wanted Grandpa to give the blessing. There must have been fifty or more people there.

  Grandpa bowed his head to say grace over the food, and everybody bowed their heads. Then he just froze up for a while, not saying a word. It was dead silence, ’cause everybody knew he was having a Grandpa moment. Only this time he was having trouble with the name of the Man Upstairs. He was red-faced and mad as a hornet trying to remember. “I know His name as good as I know my own,” he snarled, and everybody cracked up, ’cause it was classic Grandpa. He ended up thinking it was funny, too. He loved to make fun of himself more than anything.

  Grandpa could be moody, too, and some things just set him off. Some of you may remember the knee-high work boots Grandpa always wore for his act. They were old leather mountain boots, and I’m talking old. He wore ’em for fifty years, and when he first got ’em during the Depression, they were already fifty years old. He had those boots resoled many a time, and he loved ’em to death. They were a big part of his stage persona, and he kept wearing ’em years after he got rid of his fake mustache. Years ago, Grandpa was working an outdoor show on the road somewhere. I heard that a drunk broke into his dressing room and stole his boots and took off before anybody could nab him. Grandpa was devastated. Folks said they never saw him as angry as they did that day. Somehow, he chased down the thief, who’d passed out in the woods wearing those boots. He was caught red-footed. From what they say, Grandpa had to yank ’em off the old drunk to get ’em back.