I wasn’t clinically depressed anymore, but the pressures of celebrity compounded bleak feelings I’d had since I was a teenager. “Do I look good enough?” “What are they thinking about me?” “Am I thin enough?”
But now the stakes were much higher: we weren’t in little Newnan, Georgia, anymore, where I was cheerleading captain and a big fish in a tiny pond. We were out in the big leagues, the “real world,” though it didn’t feel quite real at all. People were building us up, polishing the shiny glow of Alan’s celebrity. Money was pouring in. These were big, seductive, confusing forces at work in our world . . . and I was finding that my teenage-sized faith just wasn’t strong enough to counter them.
Chapter 11
DELIGHTS AND DISTRACTIONS
If you want to drive a big limousine
I’ll buy the longest one you’ve ever seen
I’ll buy you tall, tall trees
And all the waters in the seas
I’m a fool, fool, fool for you
If you want to own a great big mansion
Well I’ll give it my utmost attention
I’ll buy you tall, tall trees
And all the waters in the seas
George Jones and Roger Miller, “Tall, Tall Trees”
I buried any feelings of concern or insecurity under the benefits of Alan’s success. I now had the time and money to get my I nails and hair done regularly, to get facials and other spa services as I wished, and to shop and enjoy being with girlfriends. I enjoyed the new role of being the “star wife” and getting tons of attention from fans.
Alan had bought a boat that we enjoyed taking to Center Hill Lake, a beautiful deepwater lake about an hour and a half away. It had a lovely enclosed cabin for Mattie to take naps and get out of the sun. Alan made sure I always had a new Cadillac to drive. No need to work or worry. We had no material needs at all—just more and more luxuries.
One of the high points in Alan’s early career was his induction as a member of the Grand Ole Opry. We invited our parents to come up from Georgia to share the occasion with us. Alan was performing on the show that evening and had to go early for some media interviews. I decided to take our parents out to dinner before we headed to the Opry House.
We headed off to a local catfish restaurant that I knew they’d all enjoy. It was unusually busy that night. I soon realized that we were going to be late to the Opry, so when we finally got our food, I made everyone wolf it down. The problem was, my mother is just not a wolfer. I told her, quite respectfully, to either put her fried fish fillet down, or bring it with her, because we had to leave.
“Mother,” I said, “I have waited a very long time for this night, and I am not going to miss it!”
We left the restaurant, still chewing, and I have never driven so fast in all my life. We flew down the interstate toward the Opry House, whizzing past all the other cars as little Mattie looked out the window, babbling “bye-bye!” to each one. Later, Alan’s daddy had a plaque made for me, commemorating my race-car driving and suggesting that I enter the next Indy 500.
But we made it on time to the Opry.
Dick Clark’s Unanswered Prayer
When Alan was nominated for his first Academy of Country Music Award, we were thrilled. We flew to L.A. for this big Dick Clark production, one of our first live television award shows. As you know, these award shows are very tightly controlled in terms of time. Every award winner is cautioned to keep acceptance speeches short and to the point so the show can keep on schedule with its commercial breaks.
Well, to Alan’s absolute surprise, he won the award for Best New Artist.He walked up onstage, his heart overflowing with joy and wonder, and commenced thanking every single person he could think of.He thanked everyone at the record label and the publishing company.He expressed his deep gratitude to me and our parents. He thanked his second cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, and third-grade teacher. He went on and on.He didn’t want to miss anybody, and he wanted to make sure that if he never, ever won another award, at least he had already expressed his appreciation to everyone who had anything to do with his music career.
* * *
DICK CLARK WAS DOWN ON HIS KNEES, HIS HANDS FOLDED AS IF IN PRAYER, LOOKING AT ALAN AND MOUTHING TO HIM TO PLEASE, PLEASE GET OFF THE STAGE.
* * *
First the teleprompter message came on. “Wrap it up!” it said politely. Alan saw it but kept going.
Then the band started to play to encourage him to stop.Alan kept talking, making himself heard over it.
Finally he looked over to the side of the theater curtains, just offstage, and saw Dick Clark. Dick was down on his knees, his hands folded as if in prayer, looking at Alan and mouthing to him to please, please get off the stage.
Dick’s prayer was not answered. Alan kept on thanking people, and finally the awards show just cut to a commercial.
Ice Cream Cones and Puppy Dogs
Like his first record, Alan’s second album, Don’t Rock the Jukebox, sold more than a million copies and went platinum. He appeared on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, The Late Show with David Letterman, The Today Show, and Good Morning America. He chatted with Regis and Kathy Lee, sang for Oprah, and his long, lanky image filled television screens across America. Jetting from Nashville to New York to L.A., and playing concerts across the country, left him little time to be at home.
When he was home, he wanted to spend as much time with Mattie as possible. One day, when she was a toddler, he told me to get some rest. “Nisey, you take a nap, okay, and I’ll just take Mattie out for some ice cream.” That was especially kind of him, since I was pregnant again and feeling quite tired.
I lay down on our bed, so grateful that my sensitive husband understood how much I needed rest. He is so understanding, I thought as I drowsed off into dreamland. So thoughtful.
I woke to a different thought. Mattie burst into our bed- room, her hands sticky from ice cream, screaming at the top of her small lungs.
“Mommy!” she yelled. “Daddy got me ice cream! And a puppy! His name is Buddy!”
The next thing I knew, a tiny black-and-white dog of unknown parentage was barking, running in circles around our bedroom, and trying to jump up on the bed. His snout was covered with ice cream, and Alan was grinning so much that I realized that even though I didn’t want all the work of taking care of a new puppy, I had no choice. This dog was now a family member. (Fourteen years later, Buddy is still the alpha dog at the Jackson home; he’s even the mascot for Alan’s record label.)
Around the same time we decided that a secluded lake house would be a perfect getaway from our frantic lifestyle, and we wanted our children to grow up with the same great memories of boating and skiing that Alan had growing up. By this point Mattie had grown into a sweet, happy toddler. She was very cooperative and eager to please, and Alan and I were both thrilled about being pregnant with our second child.
Wait, Baby,Wait
This pregnancy was a lot like my first, and again, to the chagrin of my female friends, I wasn’t sick at all, having a very easy time of it until the day my labor pains started. I knew from my birthing classes that the earlier in the labor process that you go to the hospital, the higher your chances for a C-section. I again wanted to have the baby naturally, and since walking brings on labor, I started strolling around the house.
I walked in circles, walking, walking, trying to move the labor along so we could go to the hospital. Mattie trotted along next to me, excited about the new baby on the way, though she had no precise idea of exactly how the baby would come out of Mommy and into the world. Neither did I, really. I walked until the labor pains became so intense that I knew the time was short. I called the doctor.
* * *
ON THE WAY TO THE HOSPITAL I STARTED TO PANIC. I AM GOING TO HAVE THIS BABY RIGHT HERE IN THIS CAR, I THOUGHT. A ND A LAN IS GOING TO HAVE TO DELIVER IT , AND WE ’ RE GOING TO BE ON THE COVER OF EVERY STAR MAGAZINE IN A MERICA . . .
* * *
&nb
sp; It was a lovely summer day. Alan was outside, ready to take me to the hospital, of course, but preoccupied with some kind of car deal. He loved buying, selling, trading, and fixing vehicles, and he was bartering with somebody about a truck.
I called for Alan.
“Okay, I’m coming!” he shouted back.
I grabbed my hospital bag. I felt like things were moving along pretty quickly now. “Alan!” I shouted. “We’ve got to go!”
“I’m coming!” he yelled. He flew into the house, finally abandoning his truck deal, took a look at me, and hustled me into the car. On the way to the hospital I started to panic. I am going to have this baby right here in this car, I thought. And Alan is going to have to deliver it, and we’re going to be on the cover of every star magazine in America. . .
We careened into the hospital. The nurses were calm but clear about the urgency of the situation once they checked me. “This baby’s about to crown,” one said. “Let’s get the doctor.”
He arrived from his office next door and barely had enough time to wash his hands before Alexandra Jane Jackson arrived. (She’s named Jane in honor of my sister.) She was strong, beautiful, and healthy, and we overflowed with gratitude to God.
Alan’s song “Chattahoochee” had hit the top of the charts just before Ali was born, and Arista had already planned a big #1 party for Alan the evening after her birth. Alan sent the head of his video crew to film a greeting from me to be played at the festivities. I held our new baby in my arms and smiled into the camera. “Alan has achieved many accomplishments over the past few years,” I said, “and I’m holding one of his very greatest ones right here in my arms.” Someone who was at the party told me later that Alan had a hard time holding back his tears.
As the weeks went by, Ali developed colic, but the fussiness and discomfort passed within a few weeks. My coping skills were much better the second time around.
“Chattahoochee” stayed at #1 for a month, and its album eventually sold more than six million copies. Then Alan’s first Christmas album was released in October. Our lake house was completed, and we celebrated Thanksgiving there, holding our new baby, playing with Mattie, and looking out over the clear blue waters. We had much to be thankful for.
Return of the T-Bird
The Christmas after Ali was born, I surprised Alan with a gift that I’ll never be able to surpass. With the help of one of Alan’s friends, Doug Channell, and a lot of detective work, I was able to track down the 1955 Thunderbird convertible that had been Alan’s first love. The very same car we had dated in, the car that represented countless hours of Alan’s youth . . . It belonged to a pilot in North Carolina, and he was willing to sell it. I won’t tell you how much it cost me.
The car was delivered to Nashville, and we hid it in the garage of our friend and business manager, Debbie Doebler. On Christmas morning, a light snow was falling, and we opened all our presents. Mattie was happily playing with her new toys, and the baby was sleepy . . . but then I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Alan,” I said, “I have one more present for you, but we have to go over to Debbie Doebler’s to get it.”
He didn’t want to take the little girls out in the snow, but I insisted. We piled into the car. As we pulled into Debbie’s driveway, I pushed the remote door opener I’d brought along, and Debbie’s garage door slowly lifted.Alan knew something was up, of course, and as soon as he saw the front grill of the car, he started to smile.
“You bought a Thunderbird just like my first car!” he said.
“No,” I said. “Alan, that is your car!”
I have never seen Alan Jackson so surprised.He just sat there, tears in his eyes, and then he jumped out of my car and into the Thunderbird, rubbing the seats, checking the gauges, thinking of the hours he and his daddy had spent making that car so special. He opened the trunk, and there was the 1955 license tag that he’d painted as a teenager. He was beside himself.
Later, as I drove the girls back home, I kept looking in my rearview mirror . . . and there was Alan, following in his convertible, grinning ear to ear and looking like an adolescent boy.
But then, just a few months later, the day before my thirty-fourth birthday, came the tragedy I could never have imagined back when we were teenagers . . . or ever, for that matter.
Chapter 12
TURNING MY EYES
I’m lost in the night
The icy wind is howling out your name
And desolation lingers
Like a fog
The fire is growing dimmer
In the wind
I’m out in the rain
The moon has gone behind the cloud again
And I can’t stand to live
Another day
’Cause my bluebird went away
Leon Russell, “Bluebird”
A lan and I had gone to our lake house for an evening alone to celebrate my birthday. Our nanny, Mary Miller, was going to bring Mattie and Ali up the next morning for them to celebrate with us and spend a few days at our new retreat. It was late afternoon; I was sipping iced tea and reading a book on the chaise longue in our spacious mint-green bedroom. I looked up as Alan came in, and his face was white.
My first thought was that my daddy had died. He was eighty years old, and I’d been steeling myself for the day he would pass on.
But I had not prepared myself for what came next.
Alan sat down beside me. “Nisey,” he said slowly, “something terrible has happened to your older brother.”
I held my breath.
“Nisey,” he said again, “Ronald has killed himself.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Ron had been the rock of stability in our family. He was two decades older than me; I had looked up to him all my life as my “young daddy.”While I had watched my twin brother, Danny, struggle with all kinds of uncertainty and unhealthy choices, Ron had seemed so stable and secure.
My Big Brother
After graduating from college, he had built a beautiful home on an unspoiled lake in a very desirable neighborhood. He had worked in management for the same company for thirty years and had a happy family life with grown sons. He was a responsible, hardworking man with high morals and Christian values. I couldn’t believe that my older brother, my hero, had somehow been in so much emotional pain that he could have taken his own life.
Gradually, though, we found out the parts of Ron’s story that we had not known. Like many of us, he had seemed fine on the surface, but was struggling with issues deep inside.
We had known that Ron’s company had gone through a reorganization that forced early retirement for many of its high management employees, including my brother. We didn’t know how much the loss of his long-term position and role shook him, however.He didn’t know what to do, or who would employ him at the level to which he was accustomed, at age fifty-five.
We had offered Ron the opportunity to temporarily move to Tennessee and head a restaurant business we were considering. He could do that, we thought, while he figured out his next career step. He stayed at our lake house while he looked for a restaurant site in the area.
Meanwhile,my father had been going through some difficult times of his own, and Ron took my dad’s struggles to heart more than we realized. My daddy began to show all the classic symptoms of bipolar disorder, with bizarre and uncharacteristic behaviors. He began exhibiting classic signs of mania: he could not sleep, had to have his way, and engaged in all sorts of wild, excessive activities. He decided he was going to set the Coweta County government straight in Newnan; then he was going to fix the state system; and then he was single-handedly going to revamp the entire United States federal government. He’d stay up late at night, typing papers and plans, then call people nonstop, talking fast.
We think now that Daddy probably had a mild stroke that affected his brain . . . but at the time, Ron was evidently worried that he’d end up just like our father, though Ron was more depressed than manic.
When he had no real luck with finding restaurant property for us in Tennessee, we suggested that he return to Newnan. We decided to put the restaurant idea on hold for a while, not knowing how that would compound his anxiety about his future. Soon after Ron returned home from Tennnesse, he would wait for Debby to leave for work and then go to my parent's house wearing his bedroom slippers, unshaven, and ungroomed. He'd lie on my Mother's couch and sleep for hours, returning home later in the afternoon. Although this behavior was certainly out of character for him, my parents thought that he was merely tired . . . no one could see the depth of his despair.
Ron eventually told his wife, Debby, how awful he was feeling. Although he told her he was having suicidal thoughts, he also assured her that he would never hurt her or his family by acting on his thoughts. Debby immediately took my brother to a psychiatrist who put him on Zoloft but didn't insist that he be hospitalized. As a precautionary measure, Debby and their boys removed all the hunting guns from their home. Then Debby and Ron told me, Alan, and my sister Jane about his deep depression. Because my parents were dealing with my father's maniac behavior,we all decided not to burden them with the news of my brother's depression.
Fourteen days after starting his medication, my brother found a gun. He wrote a note to Debby, walked down to the lake...the same lake where he had taught his three boys to fish and where we had all had so many good times together...and ended his horrible pain. Part of the note he left Debby read, "I don't want to become like Daddy." Sadly, we learned later that the most critical time during the treatment of depression is two to three weeks after starting antidepressants. Around this time, the depressed person sometimes finds that he has enough new energy to actually act on his suicidal thoughts but does not have enough medicine in his system to really feel better.
It's All About Him Page 7