My daddy was probably the happiest man in heaven yesterday. Dolly Parton arrived. As long as I can remember, she was the be-all and end-all for my father. He was fascinated by her story, her music, and her larger-than-life persona. He said one time that she could have snagged him for marriage, but my mother got to him first. But he never forsook his love for Dolly. Never.
Now, to the story.
My father had bought a brand-new Dodge Charger. He wanted to protect it from the elements, and every day he parked that baby in the garage. He was cautious pulling in and getting out, but he was deeply bothered by the concrete section that was the step-up to his workspace at the very front of the garage. Pull in too far, and his shiny new bumper was going to be scratched, dented, or crumpled. He was having none of that.
So one day, he went for a ride in that Gray Goose (as I called it) and came home with a poster. It was all wrapped in cellophane, tightly rolled, and not a soul asked him what he was doing as he headed to the garage with the poster in his hand. He was gone a while, and the garage door could be heard opening and shutting repeatedly.
Imagine our surprise when the next time we went to get in the car, we were met by a picture of Dolly reclined against a nest of hay, wearing a short little blue and black hot pants outfit, blonde hair teased to heaven, and staring sensuously in our direction. My mother muttered something that sounded like “Grow up,” and my brother went to whistling and gawking. My sister and I just chalked it up to old people doing old people things, but we all got in the car.
He didn’t start it up immediately. He just sat there, staring out the driver-side window, and said, “Now would anyone like an explanation for Dolly’s placement?” as Consider removing the second “as he gazed lovingly out his driver-side window” (already stated immediately before). My mother’s answer was, “Not really, but I know you’re going to tell us.”
And tell us he did. He gave us a synopsis reaching way back to the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Dolly. He said he’d never liked Porter Wagoner and he was glad Dolly had parted ways with him. He sang a few lines from some of her hits, and then he told us the truth. The truth was that Dolly was protecting the Gray Goose from getting her front end scuffed up by the concrete step up to the workshop. He had devised a way to pull in until his eyes met Dolly’s, and he knew to stop. It worked like a charm. He could ease on into the garage every day, and never have to worry about crunching anything. That poster hung there for years. Even after my dad’s death, Dolly was out in the garage waiting for him. He loved her.
So when the news came yesterday about Dolly’s death, the only thing I could do was to sit down and cry. She was light in a dark place. She was a beacon of hope to the hopeless. She was smart, shrewd in ways that made great business sense. She cared about children even though she never had any of her own. We were all Dolly’s children.
I suppose we should all be grateful that her life was composed of eighty caring years. Eighty years is a good piece of time, but a little more time with the Queen would have been nice.
She did, however, leave us a present. There is “My Place in History”
I probably won’t be alive when the Dream Box is opened, but I bet my daddy has already asked her to sing that song to him. And I bet he’s told her how much he appreciates her protecting the Gray Goose.
Me? I can simply listen to the songs she penned and sang in my ear for sixty years. I leave you with my favorite.
“Little sparrow, little sparrow
Precious fragile little thing
Little Sparrow, little sparrow
Flies so high and feels no pain.”
Fly high, Dolly. We know you feel no pain.
