Kentucky Traveler

by Ricky Skaggs

  Sheila and Earl were truly part of our family. Later, after our son Luke was born in ’89, the Greens took the kids to church on Sunday if we were on the road playing weekend shows. And they worked for us for years, even when Sharon was home-schooling the kids for a while, as she did until Molly and Luke were in high school. It took the worry and pressure off Sharon and me to know the kids were with such great folks who loved them as if they were their own. When Mr. Earl passed away, the kids cried their hearts out, they loved him so much. It was like losing a grandparent for them. We were blessed to have the Greens in our lives, and in our family.

  Sharon’s a great mother, and she’s a great musician, too. She has a great voice and great ears as well. I’ve always admired her ability to hear a good song and recognize how it could work for her and the Whites. She knows a good musician when she hears one, too! There have been some great ones that came through the Whites’ band: Jerry Douglas and Tommy White, to name just two. I’ve got so much respect for her musical judgment.

  Sharon has been such a positive force in my life. She believed in me at times when I didn’t have much faith in myself. Like in 1985, when I was up for the CMA’s biggest prize, the Entertainer of the Year award. I figured the competition was too much, going up against top-selling groups like Alabama that were popular not only with fans but with the Music Row establishment.

  In the weeks before the awards show, Sharon kept telling me I was gonna win, saying it was my year. I didn’t think so, and I didn’t want her to get her hopes up only to be disappointed. But nothing I said would change her mind. When the presenter called my name as the winner, I was as surprised as anybody. Not Sharon, though. She just said, “When are you gonna start listening to me?” We both had a big laugh!

  Let me tell you, I was definitely starting to learn. The year before, Sharon had seen something in me that I couldn’t see in myself. That time, I paid attention.

  We had a two-week tour of Canada coming up, and I found myself without an electric guitar player. I couldn’t find a replacement, hard as I tried to. All the guys I knew from Emmylou’s Hot Band were busy or unavailable. Albert Lee was working for Eric Clapton, and I couldn’t afford James Burton, one of the all-time gods of the Fender Telecaster, idolized by everybody from Keith Richards to Clapton, who said it was James that first inspired him to play guitar. Then I thought about Vince Gill from my Boone Creek days, but he was trying to get a record deal for himself, so he wasn’t available, either.

  With only a week to go before the tour started, I was in a serious bind. Sharon saw me worried sick about it, and she said, “Ricky, you can play electric guitar. I’ve heard you play, and I know you can do anything if you set your mind to it.” She’d actually seen me play a little electric Telecaster-style mandolin (I called it a “Mandocaster”) that Joe Glaser had made for me. ’Course, that was an electric mandolin, a whole different animal.

  Now, it’s true I’d played some acoustic lead guitar, but I’d never seriously considered taking over those duties entirely. I told Sharon there was no way I could get comfortable enough on electric guitar in a week to avoid embarrassing myself on stage. But Sharon really persisted, and eventually I started to believe her when she said, “You can do this!”

  That night we went to bed, and I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, Maybe she’s right. About four in the morning, I went downstairs and plugged a guitar into an amp and turned the volume down low and started playing. I knew all the licks in my head; I just had to figure out where they were on the guitar. The hard part was trying to learn the backup fills the lead guitar needed to play while I was singing. It was a tall order, the toughest challenge I’d ever had as a musician.

  So I decided to learn the intros and the turnarounds and the solos on about a dozen songs that absolutely had to have that electric guitar sound. Then I just set down with my records and practiced those backup fills like I used to do with those old Stanley Brothers LPs.

  In less than a week I had the lead guitar down good enough to head out on the tour. Well, I was hoping it was good enough. The first night I was really scared. Not just for myself, but for the whole band. I didn’t want to let them down or embarrass them in front of the fans. Backstage, the guys were as nervous as I was. Everybody was on edge, ’cause we didn’t know how it was gonna turn out.

  Finally the moment of truth came: I was holding a custom-made purple Joe Glaser Fender Telecaster plugged into an amp. I was armed for battle, and I thought I was ready. Then I looked out at 15,000 people in the seats, and I thought, What are you doin’, Skaggs, are you crazy? They’re all gonna know you’re green as a gourd. It was too late to turn back now. We kicked into “Honey (Open That Door),” and it sounded pretty daggone good. The guys gave me a thumbs-up by the first solo, and I could tell by the smiles on their faces it was working. I passed the “Heartbroke” test, and I survived all the breaks on “Highway 40 Blues,” and by then, I knew I could play. To be honest, I’d hate to have to listen to the tape of my performance that night, but it was good enough to get us through the concert.

  After the show, I called Sharon and shouted over the phone, “Thank you so much for telling me I could do this! I love playing this guitar, and I love you, too.” For the next four years, along with my other duties, I played the electric guitar in my band, and I enjoyed every minute. You can hear how much fun we were having on the Live in London album, recorded in 1985, and yes, that’s the purple Glaser Tele that I’m holding in the cover photo. I still have the Tele, and my son Luke’s played it and thinks it rocks. Which it does. Purple used to be my favorite color; now it’s plaid!

  At that time, I had a pretty good-sized organization, with lots of moving parts—a manager, a band, an office staff, and a road crew, as well as two buses and a tractor-trailer to haul our gear to the show dates.

  I always tried to be good to the fans on stage and off. It’s easy to be polite and smiley-faced when it happens to be convenient, but it’s a lot harder when you’re dining out or shopping. Country music fans are as devoted as any you’ll ever find, and most just want that moment to connect in person. Sometimes it was an autograph or a handshake or a hug. Sometimes it was a picture. Those just-off-the-bus, hadn’t-had-a-shower, looked-like-a-dog-and-smelled-like-it-too shots were hard to do, I admit. But most of the time I said yes, because I knew that without those fans, none of the mouths would ever get fed. I had my fans to thank, right after God, for my success, and am so grateful to them.

  To this day, I still remember the wise words of Ernest Tubb, “Be good to your fans, ’cause they’re the ones who got you here,” and that’s the truth.

  Around this time, when I was wrestling with success and learning how to handle it, I was lucky to have Johnny Cash as a friend and a role model. I first met him in 1979 when I worked on the sessions for his Silver album, which Brian Ahern produced. I played fiddle and banjo and 12-string guitar on a few songs, one of the rare times Cash ever used a fiddle on a record. Talk about nervous: Try laying down a fiddle solo with the Man in Black a few feet away staring you down. Then I had a chance to be a part of his 1983 Christmas TV special, which was broadcast from the Carter Family Fold in Hiltons, Virginia. I sang Monroe’s “Christmas Time’s A-Comin’” with my country band. It was such a joy spending time there with John, his wife June, and the Carter Family, especially knowing that all the Carter girls had grown up in Maces Springs, just a ten-minute walk from Hiltons. ’Course, A.P. himself had walked these hills. It’s hallowed ground for country music.

  Well, now John and June were our neighbors in Hendersonville, and we got to know them pretty well. They were wonderful to Sharon and me. The local police used to lock up John every year for a charity fundraiser, and it was always a kick to pick up the phone and hear his voice: “Uh, Ricky, this is John. They’ve got me in jail again, do you think you could help bail me out?” I’d say sure, and he’d play it to the hilt: “Well, whatever you can give will help the Hendersonville Police Department, and help g
et me outta this here cell, too!”

  John was a superstar, but you’d still see him down at the Kroger’s or the post office or wherever; he didn’t want to hide from people and be a celebrity recluse. I appreciated that about John and June both. As much as they could, they didn’t let fame run their lives. Sharon and I took their example and decided we were not gonna let our popularity as country performers keep us from going to the store, to church, or to our kids’ activities. We’re gonna be part of the community just like everybody else.

  John and June loved to entertain and have people over to their house for dinners and social events. We lived close by and were invited a lot, and it was always a treat. Sometimes they had a preacher come over; he’d bring the Word, and we’d have a sort of Bible study after dinnertime was over. It was always great to hear John read the Bible or pray. He was a big inspiration.

  We looked forward to our visits to John and June’s, and we became good friends. They were like everybody’s grandparents, really, especially in the way they doted on their guests. They followed the old-time tradition of folks in the country, giving something to their guests when they left at the end of an evening. June would want Sharon to pick out a dress or an outfit she liked from her wardrobe, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Aw, Sharon, honey, I’ve got so much stuff. I’ll never be able to wear it all.”

  One time John took me back to his closet room, where he had his pocketknives and watches and keepsakes he’d collected over the years. John knew that I loved antique pocket watches, and during one of our visits he wanted to give me a rare vintage railroad watch from France, the kind that conductors carried in their pockets. I held it in my hands. It was forged from coin silver, and you could feel the craftsmanship that went into it. Solid and built to last. I told him, “No, John, that’s way too nice to give away,” and he said, “No, you take that home and enjoy it. I’ve got more of these watches than I’ll ever be able to wind up.”

  And that’s the way John was, as humble and generous as anybody I’ve ever met. I knew the watch was a token of friendship and affection, and it came from the heart of a man who’d been through a lot of suffering and pain and grace and redemption. I’ve kept it to this day, and I will always cherish it. It still works when I wind ’er up. I wouldn’t take anything for that ol’ railroad watch. Thanks, John.

  Chapter 18

  HIGHWAYS & HEARTACHES

  Talk about suffering here below, and let’s keep following Jesus.

  —“Talk About Suffering,” by Doc Watson, 1964

  In 1986, I was at the top of my game. About every song we’d released as a single had gone to the top of the country charts. I’d had eleven number-one hits in five years. It was almost more than I could believe.

  That summer, I had a few days off from the road. It was nice to rest up and spend time with the family at home, doing not much at all. We were living in Hendersonville, a few miles north of Nashville, and we loved the peace and quiet.

  On August 17, 1986, Sharon and I were coming home from evening church service. As I pulled into the garage, the phone rang in the house, and I ran to get it while Sharon got Molly out of her car seat.

  It was Brenda. That weekend, she and Andrew had gone to northern Virginia for a family reunion while Mandy had stayed with my folks in Kentucky. Brenda was raising the kids as a single mom in Lexington. We tried our best to be civil, and we were on pretty good terms with each other, as good as we could be. It’s never a good divorce, no matter what you try to do. Anyhow, we stayed in touch, so I figured Brenda was just letting me know they’d made it back home safe. I was wrong.

  “Andrew’s been shot,” she said. “We’re at the hospital in Roanoke, Virginia. Get here as quick as you can!”

  “Oh, no. Where’d he get shot?”

  “In the face.”

  That was all she could tell me right then. She was so distraught she could hardly talk, and I could tell she was in shock. I’d never heard her sound like that. I told her I’d get there as soon as I possibly could.

  I called my manager Chip Peay in a panic, and he arranged for a plane to take us to Virginia immediately. Then I called a close friend, Milton Carroll, who knew how to pray, and I asked him to come along with us. We left around midnight.

  On the flight, my mind was spinning. I was wondering how in the world Andrew had been shot. He was seven years old, and he knew better than to fool with guns. The only thing I could imagine was a freak accident at the reunion. Maybe his older cousins were out banging around in the woods with a .22 rifle, and Andrew tagged along. Maybe someone had accidentally shot him.

  We got to Roanoke Memorial Hospital at two in the morning, and I went straight to Andrew’s room in the pediatric intensive care unit. His face was swollen, and he had a hole above his mouth. He was breathing with the help of a machine. He was in real bad shape, worse than I’d imagined. It was awful to see him like that. I just wanted to hold his hand for a while.

  Brenda then explained what had happened. On Sunday night, she and Andrew were southbound on Interstate 81, heading home to Kentucky after the family reunion in Virginia. She was driving, and Andrew was up front with her. A few miles north of Roanoke, she got behind an eighteen-wheeler that was weaving in and out of the lanes, and it nearly ran her off the road a couple times. She tried to pass, but there was a construction zone, so she was stuck behind the driver for some time. This trucker was driving like a maniac, and it was making Brenda nervous. She had a long drive ahead of her, and it was already getting dark.

  When the highway went back to four lanes, she tried to get past him again. By now, he was swerving his truck all over the road. She flashed her headlights and laid on the horn to warn him. She was trying to steer away from a bad situation before it got worse. All she knew was she wanted to get clear of this crazy driver.

  What Brenda didn’t know was that the trucker was high on drugs and out of his mind. He’d just driven a coast-to-coast run, and he’d been awake for days. He was so high he didn’t even know he was headed south on I-81. He was supposed to be hauling his rig north back to Maryland. When he saw Brenda’s car trying to pass, he became totally enraged.

  As she drove by in the left lane, Andrew was in the passenger seat. He was looking up at the trucker and making the ol’ arm-pump motion to get the guy to blow his horn, the way kids do when they see a big rig rolling down the highway. ’Course, the only one laying on the horn just then was Brenda. At that moment, the trucker shot into the car with a pistol.

  Now, if Andrew had been looking straight ahead, that bullet would have likely hit him in the temple and killed him instantly. But because his head was turned, and he was looking up at the cab of the truck, the trajectory was such that the bullet hit him above the upper lip and went through his mouth and lodged in the backside of his neck. A single shot through the passenger-side window. Andrew fell over, bleeding all over the seat. Brenda was screaming as she pulled off I-81 at a truckers’ weigh station to get help.

  Hours later at the hospital, Brenda was still shaken up. While I was trying to make sense of what had happened, Andrew was fighting for his life. The bullet had ripped a hole above his mouth and damaged his palate, five or six teeth, his tongue, and one of his tonsils. There were shards of broken glass from the window embedded in his face and right eye.

  That morning, surgeons from the trauma team were able to remove the bullet, and they tried to clean out as many of the glass fragments as they could. The operation went as well as they’d hoped it would, and it looked like he was out of danger. We thanked God that He had spared Andrew’s life, but it was an incredibly close call.

  Turned out the bullet was a .38-caliber. Now, how did that bullet go through his teeth and bones—right past the jugular vein and his carotid artery—and get lodged in the backside of his neck without touching any major blood vessels or doing deadly harm? I don’t believe that part of it was an accident. I know who guided the bullet and saved Andrew from a certain death. The Lor
d, strong and mighty, in whom there is no weakness!

  Most of all, I was just grateful Andrew was alive. But there was a real sense of anger, too, at first. It was such a senseless, random act of violence that had happened to my son. I was emotionally blown away. I was thinking, Why him, Lord? That question ate at me: The Lord had promised me when my kids were born that He’d take care of them, and I believed Him. I now had a lot of unanswered questions.

  This was a situation where I knew I couldn’t trust my feelings. I had to go to a deeper place and put my faith in God.

  It was hard to get a grip on the rage I felt for the man who almost killed my son. We found out later that he’d been listening to his CB radio and heard about a little boy who’d been shot by a trucker on I-81. He realized what he’d done and stopped at a weigh station and turned himself in. Authorities searched the cab of his truck and found drugs and pills. And there was the pistol, loaded with bullets. One had been fired. It was a case of road rage that turned violent.

  Andrew happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, fine, but I was still angry inside. How could I feel anything else toward the person who caused Andrew so much pain and suffering? And poor Brenda, I’m sure she went through that whole scene a hundred times in her mind. How could a parent not have bitterness in his or her heart? But it was Andrew who showed me a way out. We were in his hospital room after the operation, and he was able to talk a little with us. He was having a hard time understanding why it happened. I told him that the police had caught the man who shot him. I tried to explain that the man wasn’t in his right mind. It was just a terrible accident. Andrew looked at me real sad and said, “Daddy, we need to pray for that man, and we need to forgive him, too, ’cause he doesn’t have Jesus in his heart.”