At the time it was just plain hard. I remember paying our bills only to discover that there was nothing left, except two more weeks before the next paycheck would come. Each time I cried, Alan tried to cheer me up. He kept saying that it wouldn’t be this way forever. But that didn’t magically change our finances.
Sometimes we’d wonder what in the world we were doing . . . why we were putting ourselves in such dismal situations when we had families and friends who loved us and would have welcomed us back home with open arms. We often thought about all the warm fellowship and wonderful Sunday dinners we were missing at Alan’s mother’s house. Maybe all the stress and cold rejection just wasn’t worth it.
But Alan never gave up. All the disappointments and challenges that we faced just made him more determined to reach his goal.
Hoping for the Best
We had given ourselves five years to make it in Nashville. If things didn’t work out, then we really would go back home. Life there would be different from our big dreams, but it would still be good.
Thankfully, Marty introduced Alan to many people in the music business, like Gary Overton, Keith Stegall, and Barry Coburn. Like Marty, these guys played instrumental roles in Alan’s career. I couldn’t even begin to name all the wonderful people who did so much to help and promote Alan in those early days. We are forever in their debt.
* * *
ONE EXECUTIVE LISTENED TO ALAN’S TAPE AND SIGHED. THEN SHE TOLD ALAN THAT HE JUST DIDN’T HAVE STAR QUALITY AND THAT HE SHOULD GO BACK TO GEORGIA AND GET A JOB DOING SOMETHING ELSE.
* * *
For more than three years Marty did everything he could to spark record label interest in Alan. Time after time he solicited producers to record demo tapes that he would then pitch to executives . . . in fact, every record label in town rejected Alan at least once. Some turned him down twice. One executive listened to Alan’s demo and sighed. Then she told Alan that he just didn’t have star quality and that he should go back to Georgia and get a job doing something else. Later, one label decision-maker actually agreed—verbally—to sign Alan. Marty, his wife Cherie, and Alan and I were so thrilled that we went out to a nice restaurant to celebrate. But the deal never materialized . . . and it was all so discouraging, to say the least.
Eventually Glen Campbell’s music company financed a demo session that allowed Keith Stegall to produce a new tape of Alan singing a few songs that he had co-written. Marty pitched it to his friend Shelby Kennedy, who in turn shared it with his friend, Anthony Von Dollen. Anthony listened to the demo and then convinced Tim Dubois, head of Arista Records in Nashville, to hear Alan perform live in a showcase performance sponsored by Glen Campbell Publishing and Barry Coburn. (Barry would later become Alan’s sole manager.) Tim was a songwriter himself, so perhaps he recognized Alan’s depth and artistic creativity. He took a risk and signed Alan as the very first recording artist for Arista’s new country division.
By this time more than four years had gone by in our five-year Nashville plan. We weren’t kids any longer. I was twenty-nine, and we both felt that perhaps, with this new record deal signed, we could start a family.
To our surprise, I became pregnant right away. We were absolutely thrilled but weren’t sure exactly what in the world we were getting ourselves into. Deciding to try to become pregnant was not nearly as scary as being pregnant. At the time, a flight attendant in my airline could work through her seventh month of pregnancy, and then had to take an unpaid leave of absence. We couldn’t help but wonder what we would do about little things like insurance and money to buy groceries and diapers.
Half the time I was exuberant and happy. I felt great, and the pregnancy progressed wonderfully, even though I eventually had a little trouble in my maternity uniform, making my way up those narrow airplane aisles.
But the other half of the time I was gripped by a cold fear. What would we do if Alan’s record failed?
We waited, hoping, even praying a little, though we had not even thought much about God or been to church since we’d moved to Nashville. There just wasn’t time for it anymore, it seemed, and so, without realizing it, we were drifting from the moorings that had helped to secure us when we were young. Bit by bit, we were usually going with the flow all around us.
For example, Alan’s new manager thought it would be wise to change Alan’s name, considering that another country artist had a similar name. We considered John Alan …. John Hubert (both versions of Alan’s grandfather’s name), but in the end, we all agreed that he would keep the name he was born with. Thank goodness for that.
Names were one thing, but it was less amusing when they messed with his image. They didn’t want it to seem like he was married. This isn’t unusual; I’ve heard stories of performers’ wives who were told by management to stay home, keep a low profile, pretend you don’t exist. The presence of a wife might affect the new star’s image as the latest new country sex symbol.
In our case, though, it didn’t look like anything was going to happen to make Alan into a hot star anytime soon.
The Real World?
The first album was called Here in the Real World. Its first single was “Blue Blooded Woman,” the song of a redneck man and his higher-class love.
Around this time Alan started going on radio tours, meeting disk jockeys and program directors, promoting himself and his new album. At this point image was everything. The idea was to look like a big star even if you weren’t. We wanted people to see Alan arriving at the radio stations in a long, black limousine. Even if they had never heard of him, they’d think he was someone important when they saw him climb out of his stretch limo wearing his signature torn Wrangler jeans, his Stetson hat, and his custom-made cowboy boots.
The problem was, the radio stations just weren’t going to fork out the bucks for a limo for an unknown like Alan Jackson. One station told Alan and his manager that they’d send transportation to pick them up at the airport . . . and it was a 1970 station wagon with wood panel sides. A station in another state sent an old VW hippie camper with flower decals on the sides and laminated kitchen cabinets inside.
Finally a radio station in West Virginia actually sent a limousine to pick up Alan at the airport. The only problem was it was ancient, with enormous mud-grip truck tires, and the entire rear end had been crumpled by a collision. The driver put Alan’s luggage in the smashed trunk, but the lid wouldn’t close. So he tied it down with a piece of twine and took Alan off to the station, traveling in style.
When “Blue Blooded Woman” was first released, Alan and I bribed our friends Gary and Jan Overton to come over to our basement apartment. We promised them that we would order pizza if they would help us call various country radio stations across the nation to request Alan’s new single. Gary was originally from New Jersey, so he called the Northern ones, requesting that they play “that great song from that new singer, what’s his name, uh, Alan Jackson?”
Meanwhile Alan and I called the Southern stations. “Hi,” I’d drawl. “I’m just calling to see if you could play that really great new song, you know, ‘Blue Blooded Woman’?”
“What?” they’d say to me. “Blue Bloody Woman?? What’s that? Who’s it by?”
“Alan Jackson!” I’d say proudly.
“Never heard of him!” they’d yell.
Well, we didn’t exactly send Alan’s single rocketing up the charts. Neither did anybody else. We watched the country music charts obsessively. “Blue Blooded Woman” made its way up to number 43 . . . and then it absolutely died. Most radio stations in the country never even played it.
Chapter 8
DREAMS COME TRUE
Wish I were down on some blue bayou
With a bamboo cane stuck in the sand
But the road I’m on, don’t seem to go there
So I just dream, keep on bein’ the way I am
Sonny Throckmorton, “The Way I Am”
Even as Alan’s first single shrank, the baby inside of me continued to grow
. Arista got ready to release Alan’s next single. I felt like time was running out. Typically a label will release two—or possibly three—singles from a new artist, and if they don’t do well, you’re done. Plenty of great singers are waiting in the wings, vying for their own chance for stardom.
“We’re going to be living in a trailer on food stamps!” I’d say to Alan. “That’s our baby’s destiny!”
I was kidding, but my fears were real. What would really happen to us, and our baby-to-be, if the label dropped him?
#1!
The second single came out in early 1990. Like the album, it was called “Here in the Real World.” I flew my usual routes with Piedmont, which had by now been bought by USAir, and came home to our little mismatched basement apartment with Alan’s bittersweet song ringing in my ears:
Love is a sweet dream that always comes true
Oh, if life were like the movies, I’d never be blue
but here in the real world
it’s not that easy at all
’Cause when hearts get broken
It’s real tears that fall . . .
Again, of course,we watched the Billboard charts every week, our stomachs in knots. The folks at Arista were doing all they could to fan the flame. Alan’s song rose steadily in the charts. It got to the twenties and didn’t stall. After all the years and tears and hopes and fears, were our dreams about to come true?
Yes.
Alan’s song got bigger and bigger, even as my stomach swelled and I got bigger and bigger too. At the end of March, “Here in the Real World” hit number one on the country music charts. We could not believe it.
April 6 was my thirtieth birthday, and Arista threw a “#1” party for Alan. I have to confess that I had always had these mental pictures of myself as the lovely “star wife” if Alan ever made it big. Instead, I was big . . . seven months pregnant, like a swollen balloon, with fat ankles and a very large maternity outfit. Not exactly what I’d had in mind for our first taste of celebrity.
But even at that point, something had changed. We were treated differently. There was a certain excitement and energy in the room. Where did it come from? Record sales? Radio airplay? The scent of big money? Alan was the same as he’d always been, but now there was something intangibly powerful, seductive, and fun that followed him, and people suddenly wanted to be nearby.
* * *
I HAVE TO CONFESS THAT I HAD ALWAYS HAD THESE MENTAL PICTURES OF MYSELF AS THE LOVELY “STAR WIFE” IF ALAN EVER MADE IT BIG. INSTEAD, I WAS BIG . . . SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT, LIKE A SWOLLEN BALLOON, WITH FAT ANKLES AND A VERY LARGE MATERNITY OUTFIT.
* * *
Our phone began to ring nonstop from well-wishers who were all of a sudden very interested in what was going on in Alan’s career. Distant family members whom we’d never met came forward, hoping to connect with their long-lost relative. Word spread around Nashville about this hot new country singer on Arista Records. The buzz was big.
At first, it was so flattering to be recognized by admiring fans, and we both experienced a “honeymoon” phase when life could not have been better. We loved the kind attention, Alan’s music was getting the kudos it had long deserved, and we both felt like our dreams were coming true. The celebrity lifestyle tasted quite sweet to both of us.
I didn’t really analyze it all back then. Too much was happening all around us, and I was, of course, also preoccupied with what was happening inside of me. Even though the baby was due on June 8, she seemed quite content to hang out there, so we scheduled labor to be induced on June 19, two days after Alan got home from his weekend shows.
Labor of Love
Because I was having signs that labor might start sooner, while Alan was gone, I stayed on the couch the whole weekend, trying not to move, hoping that would keep the contractions from starting. Alan made it home on that Sunday night, and on Tuesday morning, the scheduled day to induce, I went into labor on my own.
It was disconcerting, but I wanted to make sure I looked half-decent for this momentous day. I was sitting at the mirror, putting on makeup, when Alan appeared with the video camera. “Okay, it’s June 19,” he narrated, sticking the camera in my face and then zooming in on my gigantic abdomen, “and Nisey’s in labor!”
“Go away!” I said nicely. “Now!”
He loaded me into our Jeep Wagoneer, and we sped away to the hospital. My goal was to have the baby without medication, and with as little intervention as possible, as had been encouraged in the childbirth classes we attended. In our training, Alan had been instructed how to rub my back and make supportive comments and be totally compliant with the process. So I lay in the fetal position for hours, with Alan quietly feeding me ice chips when I asked—and only when I asked. I told him to shut the curtains and not to talk. Dr. Trabue came in every once in a while, and he finally told me that I could continue to labor for several more hours, or he could break my water and we would have a baby very soon.
I had wanted to go through the process without intervention, but this was getting to be a bit much.
“Break it!” I said.
We had not found out the baby’s sex ahead of time. We wanted it to be a surprise. But unbeknownst to me, Alan had seen the hospital bassinet set up in the birthing room. The baby’s little bracelet was already in it, ready for the birth, and it said “MALE” on it. So all day, Alan thought that the nurses had somehow known that we were going to have a boy. But he didn’t tell me.
After hours of pushing, straining, and the loss of all dignity on my part, our beautiful baby finally arrived. Alan looked her over.
There’s, uh, something missing, he thought. She’s a she!
Later he asked the nurse about the bracelet that had said she was a boy.
“Oh,” she said, “they’re all labeled ‘MALE’ until after the birth. Then, like in your case, we add ‘FE’ if it’s a girl!”
The doctor asked Alan if he wanted to cut the cord. “I think I’ll let you do that,” he said. Then they cleaned up our baby and handed her to me. My body started trembling uncontrollably. Alan and I cried and held her, and thanked God that she was beautiful, with all her fingers and toes.
We named her Mattie Denise, in honor of Alan’s mother and me. We were overwhelmed with joy and a strange, sweet surge of adrenaline, and we talked uncontrollably about everything that had happened. It was one of those rare times when everything else drops away completely, one of those moments when time seems to stop and you’re at the still hub of life’s big wheel.
Then the wheel started turning again. I stayed in the hospital for a day and a half. There was a radio in the room, and it seemed like Alan’s song was playing every hour on the hour. I was overwhelmed. Alan’s career was taking off in a big way, and more importantly, our beautiful baby daughter had arrived. It was as if all of our dreams were finally coming true, right before our eyes.
But that didn’t last long.
Chapter 9
LIFE THROWS CURVES
We lived and learned, life threw curves
There was joy, there was hurt
Remember when
Alan Jackson, “Remember When,”
Nothing made me happier than holding our tiny, precious baby girl and knowing that she was healthy and normal. I prided myself on the fact that I had rigorously watched my diet and made sure to get just the right amount of protein every day. We had learned in our childbirth classes that this was important for strong brain development. (Indeed,Mattie has proven herself to be an exceptionally intelligent girl over the years. Never mind the great genes she must have gotten from both her parents!)
But with this new joy came tremendous disappointment as I realized that Alan had to leave town the day before I’d go home from the hospital. While I was grateful that he had been present for the birth, and that I hadn’t gone into labor while he was on the road, performing, I was also sad that he wouldn’t be with me to bring our first baby home.
I had held a happy homecoming picture i
n my mind—both of us laughing and carrying our new baby into our little home, together—ever since we found out I was pregnant.Now it would just be me. And though I didn’t really realize it at the time, a lot of the happy expectations I’d had about our dream-come-true life were, in fact, rather different from its reality.
Marty Gamblin’s wonderful wife Cherie, who had been such a good friend to us over the years, offered to bring Mattie and me home. She helped us pack up everything, including many massive flower arrangements from Arista, record executives, and family and friends, and then joined a couple of nurses as they pushed the wheelchair holding me and Mattie outside to her minivan. There was no fanfare as there would have been if Alan had been with us. Even though he had had only two singles out by then, people were already recognizing him from his first CD cover.
I rode in the back with Mattie next to me in her new car seat. Even with the extra padding around her, she seemed so small and scrunched. I was just beginning to realize that as a new mother, I was going to worry about everything: Is she straight enough, is the sun in her eyes, is she cold, is she hot, is she wet, is she hungry? She made it home to our basement apartment in much better shape than I did.
Tears and Fears
As a teenager I’d never done babysitting, and as the youngest in our family, I hadn’t helped to take care of little siblings. I realized—belatedly—that I knew just about nothing about the care and feeding of babies.
Cherie helped unload all the stuff that we had accumulated at the hospital. We had all kinds of pamphlets on child safety, choosing a doctor for your baby, tips on breastfeeding, postpartum depression, and a thousand other topics that I had never had reason to think about before, but that now seemed quite important.
All four of our parents had driven up from Georgia the day after Mattie was born. Alan’s mother and daddy offered to stay with me until Alan returned from his trip that weekend. Alan’s mother prepared meals and took care of our little house so I could tend to Mattie. I was like a nervous cat. I could not relax, even though Mattie seemed content to eat and sleep. I stood over her bassinet, watching her anxiously.
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