The Seeker: Dolly Parton Found Love in Cast-Offs, Kids, ALL Parties, Genders + Kinds
Phoners are easy. The person on the other end usually can’t tell how gob-smacked you are, and I worked hard at maintaining my composure as a 19-year old student freelancing for, well, a lot of people.
But Dolly Parton? Holy smokes. It might’ve been Heartbreaker, which had the post-feminist vertigo of loneliness-versus-one-night-stands “Single Women” or the mélange of California and Appalachian country shot through with pop Burlap & Satin. But somehow the RCA Nashville people had put me on the schedule.
The voice that came down the line was as warm and friendly as could be. This was the woman who’d knocked me out in “9 To 5,” playing the kind of secretary who needs the job, loves dressing up and is a target for jealous women’s scorn and entitled men’s advances. Never mind that the song – a thumping build about punching the clock while striving for better -- was more infectious than the common cold; country yes, but a Billboard No. 1 Top 40 hit and an Oscar nominee.
The album that song was planted on had the most heart-rending version of Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee (Wreck at Los Gatos),” as well as the homesick “Detroit City,” her own “Poor Folks’ Town” and a haunted “House of the Rising Son.” If she was calling to give me the rah-rah new album spiel, which I’d seen her do ebulliently on the talk shows, I wanted her heart.
“You really think about this stuff, don’t you?” she asked, clearly amused.
“Well, I think you’re so good, and such a smart writer. You’re kind of amazing, the way you recognize hardship, but never give into it. You’re like Bruce Springsteen, giving dignity to people who work so hard.”
She muffled a giggle. “Nobody’s ever compared me to Bruce Springsteen before,” she replied, possibly delighted. “And I don’t know about all that. I try to write what I know, what I see – and be real and true to those things. You know, I was raised to tell the truth…”
I did. I knew her grandpa was a preacher. I wanted to ask how they felt about all that make-up, the high, high heels and the low cut tops, but that was rude – back in the day when propriety existed and internet churn didn’t scratch off every last bit of decorum.
We talked about feminism, how she didn’t think about it, so much as live it. “Performative representation” didn’t exist yet, but I could tell that’s what she was getting at. She didn’t moan or groan about how hard it was – all propers to Tammy Wynette – to be a woman, but she shot me straight about the reality of dignity, self-respect, but getting what you need.
I loved her even more! Starstruck as I was to get that phone call, I hung up thrilled. Her writing – on the albums I’d found at swap meets – often landed between John Steinbeck, Flannery O’Connor Willia Cather and Harper Lee. Vivid stories, small details, tragic circumstances – all drawn so clearly you could close your eyes and see “Me & Little Andy” on that porch, the exhausted mother finally leaving her indifferent husband in “To Daddy,” the scorned female pushing back for tasting life’s pleasures in “Just Because I’m A Woman,” the gratitude in poverty of “Coat of Many Colors” – gave her the same visceral thrust as the great populist writers of the South and beyond.
Growing up in Cleveland, I’d seen her syndicated tv show, the one where she sang “Love Is Like a Butterfly” with her fluttering soprano, blond hair all curled and massive, face painted to perfection. I didn’t know then that she’d been drawn to the glitter of the town hooker as her design key; her Maybelline glamour spoke volumes about being fancy right where you were.
When Linda Ronstadt and Emmylou Harris, two rock/country artists I was obsessed with, did the show, I turned down every invitation that Saturday night, so I could sprawl on the floor of my parents’ room and watch them play Carter Family songs, country gospel and Parton’s spirited “Apple Jack,” as she picked a banjo.
Exotic. Otherworldly. Those Appalachia’s contradictions played out in Glenwillow, Ohio where my uncle’s fuse factory was surrounded by fields and black Angus cattle. People often moved from West Virginia to work there, the threat of the tumblers sometimes exploding wasn’t nearly as daunting as Black Lung disease. Those Russian roulette of options gave people license to feel things, live deeply – whether faith or flesh – and put it all out there.
“The Sweetest Gift (A Mother’s Smile)” would end up on Linda Ronstadt’s Prisoner in Disguise. Those three voices again, so narcotic and swollen in the best way. Harris was pure silver, Ronstadt good merlot. But Parton was absolute sunshine and ether.
They showed – in their hippie finery, mall Cub Scout uniforms and Parton’s dimestore glam – that people had more in common than you’d think. Seek it out, blend it, find the special. It set me on a path as a writer to not label, but consider what could be, what had been and what mattered not just about the artist, but to the people who loved them.
It wasn’t until those three women united for the Trio project, the mythic album that almost was, then wasn’t, then… in 1985… appeared. One of ten journalists selected to interview all three women at the Universal Hilton, a photo call that was a blinding spectacle of flashes from every direction as the three women sat together for a photo cattle call, followed by one-on-ones in separate suites.
Flown in from West Palm Beach, it was high impact that was faster, more aggressive. The frenzy driven by the money to be made from those pictures, everyone snapping as many frames as possible was unnerving. But seeing these three women who’d become a Holy Trinity of so much I held musically sacred calmed my nerves.
Even finding my altitude, walking into a suite where Parto. in a little skirt, a black turtleback and all that hair piled up and falling down, sat was a full stop. So beautiful, so porcelain-complected, with the delicate cheekbones and the sparkle in her eyes, she was fairy goddess mother pretty in a way you can’t prepare for.
Because I was writing for so many publications – Tower Records’ Pulse, MIX, Palm Beach Post-Miami News-Atlanta Journal Constitution, Cleveland Plain Dealer, several regional music magazines and Country Song Round-Up – the handlers decided my questions would be musically-engaged enough to give a Japanese writer with limited English meaningful content.
“Well, hey, everybody,” Dolly said, smiling at us both. I smiled, said, “Yes” and the Japanese writer bowed a few times. Taking control, she asked, “How’s this gonna work?”
“I think I’m supposed to ask most of the questions. Is that right?” I asked the other writer. He nodded.
“Well, okay, cause if you can’t get a word in, I’d throw you a line…” she joked to the other writer.
I made a face. “Really?”
“You’re that smart little girl from Miami,” she said. I blushed. Did they keep records about this stuff?
“You remember?”
“I don’t get questions like that a lot,” she offered. “I asked about you when we were done.”
“Ahhhh, I hope you weren’t annoyed.”
We had 15 or 20 minutes. Trio, which was practically a hope chest of American musical styles, amassed a treasure trove. Beyond those ethereal harmonies, Trio showed how women’s voices can soothe (“To Know Him Is To Love Him,”) haunt (“Those Memories of You”), heal (“Farther Along”) and embrace forebears including folk’s Jeanie Ritchie (“My Dear Companion), yodeling Jimmie Rodgers (“Hobo’s Meditation”) and the traditional (“Rosewood Casket”). Smithsonian in how lovingly they delved into what was, they elevated in the way the songs came to life.
For Parton, it was a trip to Sevier County, where she grew up one of 12 children. Harvesting all the styles of mountain music, church music, the bluegrass and country that was performed on WIVK’s early morning “Cas Walker Show.” These songs were in her DNA, and when she talked about straddling the worlds of big time show business versus being dirt poor and dreaming big, the fervor for what those songs gave her was palpable.
That night, there was a party for the writers in the Presidential Suite. Being from out-of-town, Bob Merlis or maybe Ronna Rubin asked if I’d like one of the ladies’ suites. OMG! Of course I would. My boyfriend and I would later bounce on the beds and order French fries from room service like we were Eloise at the Plaza; but in this moment, I was a journalist.
“Can I make a request?” I asked, since things were going my way. “Would it be possible to go to ‘The Tonight Show’ with you all? Let me come watch for color for at least a couple of the stories.”
A quick conference, a fast yes. The details were given to myself and Dan Einstein, my boyfriend, who they sensed would map it for me. The plan was simple. Meet in the lobby of Warner Bros Burbank’s redwood chalet-looking headquarters.
When we arrived, the women hadn’t yet come down from – if I remember – Lenny Waronker or Mo Ostin’s office. Soundcheck had to be done, as Ronstadt was notoriously meticulous, so it would just be a few minutes.
The trouble was: the paparazzi had gotten wind of where the ladies were. Ronstadt’s dating life – a spectacular feast of the best available men – made her a target. The longer it took them to arrive, the bigger the crowd became.
Finally they arrived with a few handlers, Rubin, Merlis, Gloria Boyce for Ronstadt. Another quick conference, lots of head-shaking. Clearly each lady had their own way of dealing with what would be supermarket check-out scandal or salaciousness.
Emmylou offered to go first. In her Manuel blazer and rhinestoned cowgirl boots, she walked past the fray, offered a slight smile and was let into the limo. Not too bad, and nobody got hurt.
Parton looked around, as if to say “I got this.” Secretly, people were hoping the crowd would dissipate once they got their Dolly images. Smoothing her skirt, she put on that 40,000 watt smile, someone swung the heavy door and she stepped onto the top step. Walking forward a bit, she turned, said, “Hey, everybody…” and waved.
She pivoted into a variation on the same pose with the other side forward. Maybe she tossed her head back a little bit. The clicking of all the cameras sounded like a rat stampede from a sinking ship or burning building.
Maybe a minute, minute-fifteen. Parton started moving forward and the shooters split to let her pass. Turning before she sank into the limousine like a ribbon falling to the floor, she waved again and said, “Thank you.”
They’d already turned to get ready for Ronstadt. Shy, avoidant, she was their target. With a jacket over her bobbed hair, magazines held open over her head and a few people all around, they charged towards the car as the photographers chased them.
Knowing they’d fly towards W. Alameda, Boulevard where NBC’s West Coast studios were located, we raced to my mosquito rental car – jumped in, prepared to chase the limo. We needed to be in the convoy, or we wouldn’t get behind the studio gates.
Mission accomplished, we walked to the soundstage, found seats and waited as the ladies got touched up. Even with long sleeves, it was cold. Cold enough to keep you awake like Waffle House, 3 a.m. cold.
When the women came down for soundcheck, the staff wasn’t quite ready. Seeing a chance, I wandered over to Parton. Thanking her for the interview, I asked if I could ask a question maybe not for the story, but to understand.
“Sure, hon…,” she ventured.
“When all those paparazzi were out there,” I started, “and clearly they came for the pictures, it was scary watching what happened to Linda. How were you as cool as a cucumber?”
She looked at me, considering. Context, I thought, offer context.
“Growing uo, you lived literally in my grocery store check-out line. Every week, it was something. Never your music, always some heartbreak, are they real, what’s going on… You have to see it, too.” She nodded as I continued, “It seems like something that could make you crazy.”
That’s when she laughed. “And you want to know why I walk out there so calmly?”
“Yes, I guess, I do. It feels… I’m not sure.”
“Well, here’s how I see it,” she said patiently. “All of those people out there with the cameras, they’re just trying to feed their families. That’s their job, the work they do – and they’re going to do it.” I nodded along.
“I can put up a fuss, make it hard for them to get their picture. But then I lose. They may lose, too, because they don’t have anything they can sell, but I definitely don’t win if they’ve only got ugly pictures. So, I’m being practical – make sure the pictures are flattering – and I’m recognizing this is what they do, so I might as well respect that.”
She looked out at the band, which was assembling. I couldn’t believe I was talking to her, and she was so honest about something I had no business asking. But no publicist had swept in to stop me, no harried look crossed her face.
To my left, I heard a man’s voice: “Dolly.” It was Johnny Carson with two English bulldogs on leashes. Leaving me, she went over and started talking to the host, bending down to scratch the dogs’ heads. They laughed, talked back and forth just like old friends or neighbors do. Someone mentioned Carson rarely came to rehearsal...
When the women took their places, it was wonderous. Those harmonies felt heaven sent. Sitting in an empty studio, chin resting on my knuckles, I couldn’t believe my life. Never mind the thousands upon thousands of words I’d need to write for the privilege of being here; telling the story in so many different ways was its own privilege.
And what stood out was how normally these women moved through the magic, too. All deeply committed to their craft, their sense of self and who they were informed the musical choices they made; for Parton, the songs she also wrote.
Never mind they were each defining sex symbols for varying stripes of culture, they transcended the objectification and delivered a sense of beauty that was artful. To look at them was to see the ripeness of creative spirits contained in some pretty fabulous bodies.
Over the years, I’d interview Dolly off and on, cover stories for Saturday Evening Post, touring trade POLLSTAR and insiders music trade HITS, Nashville’s homeless bimonthly paper The Contributor, which was syndicated globally and nominated for the International Network of Street Papers’ Best Cultural Reporting/Best Feature for “Dolly Parton Has Always Been for the Underdog.” We spoke for major daily papers, Tower Records Pulse, CD Now. Different perspectives, ways of looking at the woman, the music, the meaning. But always the positivity, the standing up for the little guy, the pushed down, the unseen underscored everything.
Sometimes those talks were by phone. Other times, in Hollywood power-manager Sandy Gallin’s fancy office, high above Santa Monica Boulevard, her childhood friend – and aide de camp -- Judy Ogle stood close by. Even after plenty of movies, the massive crossover duets and tours with Kenny Rogers, including their still ubiquitous “Islands in the Stream,” she kept home close.
She understood the power of presence. One year in a long-sleeved beaded white tulip hemmed gown, she delivered “He’s Alive” with such fervor on the “CMA Awards,” it felt like the massive choir might levitate. That spark of faith defined the granddaughter of a small-town Southern preacher as much as the bawdy one-liners that made her Carson’s perennial favorite – and a cynical industry crowd swept to their feet in what felt like genuine rapture.
The transformative power of Dolly Parton was matched only by her generosity in the moment. People know about the Imagination Library, which has sent children from newborn through five years old a book every month – over 300 million strong – around the globe. Inspired by her father, who couldn’t read, she wanted all children to not just have the opportunity, but the love for reading.
Dollywood, with its water flume, downhome food and music shows in the Smoky Mountains, was only a fitting tribute for the woman’s rhinestone-reality, which cried out for a larger than life expression. But it also created jobs for where she grew up. Practical skills, whether training for a life in entertainment as CMA Female Vocalist Carly Pearce and the Ryman-introduced jukebox musical “Always Patsy” Patsy Cline originator Mandy Barnett, or basic business functions, were as much what the park stood for as the families enjoying something a far more affordable than Disneyworld.
Even her donation of a million dollars to help fast track Moderna’s COVID vaccine, and being public enough that people who were afraid could say, “Well, Dolly did…” or championing the LGBTQ community long before there were Pride Days, put her on the cutting edge of tolerance and acceptance. She never told people what to do – but she tried to crack open the door to compassion, grace, even kindness for anyone who needed a hand.
When 1993’s Slow Dancing With the Moon was getting ready to drop, she’d captured the moment by adding blazing hot Billy Ray Cyrus to her Mary Chapin Carpenter-Kathy Mattea-Mary Chapin Carpenter girl anthem “Romeo.” With her little chuckle and wide-open sense of humor, she’d written the line, “I may not be in love, but let me tell you I’m in heat…”
Qu’elle scandal! Innocent naughtiness, but somehow a radio programmer got his panties in a twist. Joe Casey, the ferocious, sometimes gun-toting Columbia Nashville promo head, was incensed. “Who’d do that to Dolly?” he fumed. “And who would be mad if she did?”
“I have an idea,” I said. Telling Mike Martinovich, the music-forward SVP of Marketing, I had a plan, I went to to write a press release. Back then, releases were FAXed to the recipients, often individually. Pick your targets, send across the telephone lines. Follow up if needed.
Around 10 pm, Steve Buckingham, Columbia’s head of A&R and Parton’s producer, came back from a session. Backtracking when he heard the sound of outgoing FAXes, he inquired increduously, “What are you doing?”
“Creating a controversy,” I grinned. “Just wait.”
The next morning, “Dolly Parton: BANNED” was everywhere. The response from America was immediate. I’m not sure the station added the song, but the solidarity with Parton was absolute. Clearly, she got a kick out of it.
At the video shoot, with the suddenly-superstar Cyrus being circled by tabloids, Parton called me over to ask if I was the girl who’d struck up all that controversy. I nodded. She laughed. She said, “Well, good work…” She knew the value of being newsworthy, but also keeping one’s sense of humor and not taking it to heart.
It didn’t seem like that big a thing. Until I realized, she was showing the sex symbol rising that controversy and tabloid-ery didn’t have to be a bad thing; it’s all how you look at it. On that set, she was a broker of joviality, sisterhood and the kind of irony that saw her walking off the leading man because “after all, I am paying for all of this.”
But her sharing the spotlight – and the knowing wink – didn’t stop there. As Slow Dancing’s tv tour began, “I Will Always Love You,” the aching ballad written as Parton severed her business relationship with Porter Wagoner, was having a second life. Dominating pop radio as Whitney Houston’s tour du force performance from “The Bodyguard,” it registered 14 consecutive weeks at No. 1!
Everywhere people were dying to talk about the song, success, and her songwriting. Dolly steadfastly refused to make a fuss, even though this was a song Elvis had wanted to cut and she’d refused as his people had asked for the publishing. Finally getting its moment, that wasn’t what she was concerned about.
Leaving “The View” en route to “The Joan Rivers Show,” I had to ask. The song was masterful in eschewing blame, hurt, any emotion beyond love, it offered a masterclass in appreciation for what was. Tilting her head, she looked at me like I’d told her the sun was green.
“But Holly, this is Whitney’s moment,” she said kindly. “I don’t want to step in the middle of her success. She doesn’t need me glomming onto her light, and I’m so happy for her, I just want to let her have all the attention.”
So many artists, especially losing out on a coveted Elvis Presley cut, would’ve marched around in a sandwich board with a bass drum. Not Dolly. She had enough. Let the woman who’d sung the song with such soul-searing power have the roses.
The roses were what she was always ready to spread. “Eagle When She Flies,” a mid-90s hit of female empowerment, measured the potency of what women were made of. Not a checklist or a daisy chain of cliches, she took the toughness and strength that set women apart, put it across a soaring melody and stitched it together with the tenderness and vulnerability that made women empathetic.
It’s why when radio wasn’t so available to artists – Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, who’d come to Nashville in the ‘60s trying to make a name at the same time she had – of a certain age, she enlisted her cousin Richie Owens and made Hungry Again. Returning to her Tennessee Mountain Home cabin in the Smokeys, she found her muse, writing so many songs that came straight from her roots.
Inspired, she signed with Americana stalwart Sugarhill Records, stripped things back, turned inward as a writer. She made bluegrass with The Grass Is Blue and the Appalachian, grass’n’gospel Little Sparrow, the latter containing Collective Soul’s “Shine,” which won the Country Female Vocal Performance Grammy. Later came Americana albums, modern Dolly country, songwriter stuff, intriguing covers – but always with a sense her narrative and truth was a mirror for anyone looking to be more in spite of how the cards might’ve been dealt.
Halos & Horns had a version of “Stairway To Heaven,” because her husband Carl Dean loved rock & roll. Her voice gave it that ethereal mountain folk that permeated much of Led Zeppelin’s oeuvre. Backwoods Barbie’s title track told the story of an aesthetic sense that allowed even poor girls to have some flash’n’glam; the perfect song for a girl who’d use wild berries to blush her cheeks and lips.
Let the business do what it would, Dolly was more creative than she’d ever been. For the woman who’d made her acting debut opposite double Academy Award winner Jane Fonda and double Tony, Grammy and Emmy winner Lily Tomlin in “9 To 5,” a working class comedy about secretaries standing up for themselves, then holding down a smalltown beauty shop in “Steel Magnolias” opposite Sally Field, Shirley McClain, Olympia Dukakis and breaking out Julia Roberts and Daryl Hanna, Parton came real and embodied the pragmatic spunk and kindness of generations of Southern women most people never saw.
Yes, she would make caricature-troping films, including “The Best Little Whorehouse” opposite Burt Reynolds and “Rhinestone” with Sylvester Stallone. But for Parton, it was both the reach and the storytelling that showed how she felt about the world
Whether starring in or producing movies, especially the Jennifer Anniston Netflix project, “Dumplin,’” about a former beauty queen mom with a chunky daughter and the drag queens who transform the girl with enough je ne sais crois and self-esteem to demonstrate how beautiful we all are, Parton wasn’t just about the art, but the empowerment. It’s the practical wisdom, as much as the magic, that made her such a favorite.
That was secret sauce: Dolly was the embodiment of St Francis of Assisi’s Prayer. Quick to share, always willing to speak up for those who couldn’t be heard. When Nashville’s homeless paper The Contributor dispatched me to interview her, she wanted to know what I’d been doing. Showing her Woman Walk The Line: How the Women of Country Music Changed Our Lives, she didn’t just pose with the book, she insisted I get in the picture.
She loved everything about that cover story, headlined, “Dolly Parton Has Always Been For the Underdog.” Championing the less fortunate in a bi-monthly sold on street corners across Music City, she gave dignity to people reclaiming their lives. Her candor on tolerance, grace, giving people the help they need earned the piece a Best Cultural Reporting/Best Feature nomination alongside stories at the global International Network of Street Papers Awards, having also run in similar publications across Europe, Asia, Canada and Australia.
When Dolly was voted into the Rock Hall and attempted to turn the honor down, she finally found someone who wouldn’t buckle. She was going in, like it or not, whether it made sense to her – or left her concerned about the deserving person not being inducted because she was.
Talking to her for a POLLSTAR cover, she was hilarious explaining herself. Even though she’d covered REO Speedwagon, Billy Joel, Bon Jovi (“Lay Your Hands On Me” was more healing than salacious), John Lennon, Bob Dylan and others, she had a strong sense of “what” rock was.
“You tell me,” she said, as we unpacked the attributes that made her rock. It was easy: the absolute conviction about what her music – and worth – was, dressing to please herself in spite of naysayers, sex positivity, candor, the unbridled way she put herself across onstage.
Most likely not wanting to listen to a laundry list of her attributes. Finally, she surrendered, “Okay, OKAY.”
Then she cracked open her real purpose. “I’m going to make a rock & roll record,” she began. “If they’re going to put me in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, then I’m gonna earn it and deserve it! You think I can?”
What couldn’t this woman do? Beyond bringing people together regardless of politics, religion, gender definition, sexual orientation, color, age or favorite kind of music, people agreed on – and with – Dolly. Could she? Of course. Would she? I hoped so, if only for the love of Carl Dean.
Rock Star landed one year after a ceremony-closing induction performance that saw Rob Halford, Judas Priest’s fiery leader transformed into a lamb who gazed adoringly at Dolly during an all-star “Jolene,” which also featured Annie Lennox, Pink, Sheryl Crow, Brandi Carlile, Duran Duran’s Simon LeBon and Pat Benatar. Many of those artists, as well as a redux of her “Freebird” recording with Lynyrd Skynyrd, John Fogerty, Ann Wilson of Heart, Lizzo, John Fogerty, Halford, Joan Jett, Debbie Harry, Steven Tyler, Sir Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, and Stevie Nicks signed on.
Even more than the guests, Parton delivered the goods. Not that there was a doubt. After appearing at the Rock Hall Induction in a skin-tight patent leather catsuit with chains and a low slung guitar. This was a fait a compli, delivered beyond people’s wildest expectations.
She was tickled the rock people wanted to sing with her. She didn’t feel entitled, but loved every interaction, sopping up things they did to thread into her own purview.
There would be a Broadway musical based on the songs; coffee based on the line “Pour yourself a cup of ambition” from “9 To 5”; three New York Times best-sellers, about songwriting, about her clothes and the live moments; a truck stop in East Tennessee to rival Buc-Eees; a line of Doggy Parton pet supples.
Indeed, the inspiration for the White Limozeen bar at Nashville’s Graduate gave way to the development of The Songteller Hotel with the Dolly Parton Museum on the third floor. There are cake and biscuit mixes; frozen meals; Hallmark Cards and even more music.
Whether playing the Glastonbury Festival in the UK, where she wowed the crowd on a gray day, welcoming people to Dollywood or doing the talk show circuit for a project, she was always utterly, absolutely real. For someone in 5” heels, cotton candy hair and perfect make-up, the amazement is how those things aren’t oxymorons, but absolute truth.
Mostly, it’s the deep desire to make a difference for people. When a publicist at a label Parton had recorded for slid into very early dementia, then outlived the life plan her caregivers had worked out with social services, the imminent threat of a state facility for a pretty 50-something woman seemed real. Reaching out to people who might help, Parton’s team was top of my ask list; two hours after I hit send, a $15,000 anonymous donation hit the GoFundMe page. BOOM!
Patty Loveless, the Country Music Hall of Fame member, who’d met Dolly as a preternaturally talented 11-, 12-year old who’d taken the Greyhound from Kentucky with her older brother to try to get their foot in the door, was taken under Parton’s wing while Parton was still singing with Porter Wagoner. As much an older sister to the starstruck girl, she offered insight and wisdom, as well as make-up tips without ever being heavy handed.
Loveless, whose own husband has been plagued with health issues, understood Dolly pulling back to care for Dean after 59 years of marriage. People you love aren’t hand off to people who don’t know your loved ones.
“I get it,” she texted. Along with a picture of them singing together at Wagoner’s 50th Opry Anniversary. Both women looked so euphoric, so alive, I smiled.
We finished texting. I started getting calls about interviews for me to do, friends in shock. I had an essay to write, things to say, music to make sure people heard. And then, like Mojo Nixon, Raul Malo, Jeremy Tepper, Dave Marsh, people who were all so alive, such beacons of where to fly and how to get there, it hit me: she’s gone.
Dolly Parton, maybe the most present tense person in the world, would never have an active verb again. She’d slipped into the rhinestones, stars being too mundane. No doubt her faith took her straight to the Pearly Gates, past St Michael and into the arms of grace, God and Carl Dean. Her parents and siblings, grandparents, favorite people were no doubt all there.
Maybe that’s “super active tense,” where she can be extra present in multiple places. If Dolly Parton was a saint on earth, someone who loved all kinds, not just people like her, then getting her wings allows her to swoop in, drop some pixie dust or a miracle and cut through the mortal coils that bind and undermine us.
Wishful thinking maybe. But as her songs shoot to the top of the streaming charts, as people talk about what she meant and what she valued, I wouldn’t bet against it. If anyone can change hearts and minds from the other side, it’s Dolly Parton. Don’t think she’s ready to retire just because she’s gone to heaven.
24 August 2026
www.hollygleason.com
