Country Music Broke My Brain (33 page)

Old Black and Whites

I
WAS A “SURPRISE” to my parents. I have one sister, Carole Jean, who is thirteen years older than me. She got married at sixteen and moved out of our home, so I don't know her as well as some family members know each other. I was three and more concerned with making vowel sounds and discovering my feet. We still chat now and then, and recently she sent me a box of old black-and-white pictures my mother had kept in her attic.

My mom was hilarious. As I mentioned earlier, she was on my radio show for years. She was also
not
a hoarder. She threw out most of the things I left behind when I went to college. I could have killed her. My baseball cards—gone. My collection of old records—gone. My entire collection of Hardy Boys books—ditto. All are now probably worth upwards of $285—lost forever.

However, she did keep pictures, and I'm going through them trying to recall who is who. I have a single picture of my dad's mother, Grandmother House. She is right out of the Amish-Mama playbook. She wasn't Amish, but she's wearing that long, black dress. It's tightly buttoned up and very prim. She's got a gray bun and is built like grandmas are supposed to be built—round and firm.

My dad's pop was a character. Will and Emma House lived on a farm in Kentucky. Every single visit, my grandfather asked me to give him a hug because, “Your old grampa won't be here next Christmas.” Those are always lovely words for a six-year-old to hear. “Death is imminent, so get ready for it, sonny boy.” He gave me the same “final hug” speech for about twenty years. My only memory of Grandma is “Grandma is in the kitchen.” I think she was born in there and slept in there. I loved to go to their farm because they had a root cellar. As rural as that sounds, it is. It was a huge mound dug behind their little farmhouse. It had a door on the backside, and you walked down steps to enter. It was beneath the earth. It felt like an adventure. I ran to the root cellar the moment I got there. One time, you were in the dark, cool root cellar and saw the few jars of beans being kept cool. Another time, you saw the hams hanging on a rope. And another time, you looked around at the dim stone walls. Then fun in the root cellar was over. Root cellars are good for storing stuff that spoils in the house and are a real blast for about two minutes. After that, it was time to visit Grandma in the kitchen or discuss the future with Grandpa Kervorkian.

The biggest memory of my life was at age ten. Mom and Dad packed up the car to drive south to the farm for Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving was a big deal back then. It was the only time other than a week's vacation that we went anywhere. My father's family visited and there were other kids. We went to the creek, played in the barn, or, if things got dull, locked one of the girls in the root cellar—all quality activities.

Thanksgiving dinner was the pièce de résistance for me. Grandma produced the greatest food in the world, and my dad reminisced. For weeks ahead of the special day, Dad described the golden brown turkey and the sweet potatoes and how fabulous the stuffing was. There wasn't a restaurant in Paris that could prepare apple pie like Grandma. I wasn't sure they had pie in France, but I went with it. Ten-year-old boys dream about food and bikes and root cellar adventures. Girls aren't in the picture yet.

I do remember some country music playing in the background of my memories of Grandma's house. There was no television to be watched, but a massive wooden radio stood guard in the parlor. The radio was so old that it only had one giant dial to find radio stations. The call letters of the big, 50,000-watt AM stations were printed right on the outside of the dial: WSM/Nashville, KDKA/Pittsburgh, WIL/St Louis, WLW/Cincinnati. I imagine that's where I first heard WSM and that “old-timey” country music. It all now feels like I was in a black-and-white Turner Classics movie.

But back to the turkey dinner. Thanksgiving morning in Kentucky is the same every year. It's gray and cold outside. The ground is partially frozen. When you walk in the woods, things crack beneath your steps, and crows are always bickering somewhere in the distance. You pack some semblance of a suitcase and load up the car for the trip to Grandma's. Dad is already talking about how great dinner is going to be. One last Winston before Dad and Mom and I head down toward Falmouth, Kentucky. I fasted with only a bowl of Cheerios to make sure I had room for the feast. We were gonna arrive a little early, about two in the chilly afternoon, for a little visit, a few stories, and then down to serious drumstick business.

In that little farmhouse, the walls were so thin we could hear music in the driveway. The fireplace was smoking, and Grandma was in the kitchen. The stove turned Grandma's kitchen into a sauna. Yes, it was so hot in the kitchen that I couldn't stand the heat. So, like Truman, I stayed out.

The important thing was staking out an area at the big table. I'd been to many a family gathering and had been relegated to the card table—a flimsy foldout eating deal where the “kids” sat. This meant the drumsticks were long gone before the turkey was doled out to the card table ghetto. Not this year. I was already placing markers in front of the chair at the big table.

Time began to slow as I got hungrier. I politely spoke to my cousins. Girls who didn't know about anything that I wanted to discuss: baseball cards, crawdads, drumsticks. Grandpa did his Speech of Impending Doom for some of the newest little critters in the family. It
had
to be close to dinnertime. It was getting near three o'clock, and I'd heard stories of young boys dying of starvation in foreign countries because dinner was not served on time at Thanksgiving.

I finally decided to take matters into my own hands, hoping to get a sneak at ol' Tom in the furnace/kitchen. I braced for the heat and started the conversation. “Grandma? How's the turk-a-lurk [my mother's phrase] coming along? We about ready to sit down?”

Here is where I think I learned about life and expectations. It still scars me to this day to have been informed with the hideousness and unfeeling treatment of gray-haired relatives. I have never fully recovered from the disappointment we call the future. Grandma delivered the fatal blow. “Oh, hi, sweetie darlin'. The turkey? Oh, I don't think he's quite ready for the table yet.”

I'm pretty sure she laughed a mocking laugh—the one people do in front of those who don't know what they know. Vicious, evil, bun-wearing mockers.

“Come here, honey. Look out Grandma's window. See? See? He's right there.”

I stood on the kitchen chair she pulled up for me. I peered through the steamed-up window. There, doing quite a strut, was Tom T. Turkey. He was still
alive!
It was a world gone mad. How could a turkey, filled with stuffing and gravy and using the drumsticks I was assigned to share, be walking around in the yard? For the love of all that's holy,
how?

I ran screaming from the room to warn everyone of the upcoming famine. People of Earth, the end is near! I ran straight into the parlor and saw my father. He had moved my chair to the card table, along with my “markers,” and said, “Hey, Hoss. Come on over here and have a baloney sandwich. Your Grandma says this year we're eatin' at a decent hour like rich folks do. Supper ain't on 'til seven.” He acted like he didn't understand the tragedy that was breaking out all around us. The poor man was oblivious to dying of starvation. Baloney would only prolong the inevitable. We were all going to die. Except for Tom, who let out a mocking gobble and flew on top of the root cellar.

Italians Do It Every Night

IF
I CAN QUOTE Hank Snow again, “I've Been Everywhere.” Of course, not
every
where, but pretty close. I think travel is the best education that you can have. That's why we've dragged our daughter, Autumn, around the world and back: England, Egypt, Japan, France, China, Italy, Morocco, and Cincinnati, Ohio, to name just a few stops. Seeing other cultures and learning to navigate a strange land makes you a better person. Autumn is a fabulously better person.

I also like to see places. I can spend up to fifteen minutes in a museum. I can sit in the front of a Parisian café for five hours. Museums need better wine and waiter service, I think. I could appreciate looking at old broken vases and Victorian chastity belts a lot longer if I had a glass of wine—and a little scooter wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

Al is a reader of little white signs—you know, the little white information cards next to the picture of a guy sitting on a horse with dwarves frolicking around. She wants to know who painted the picture and what the horse's name is. I'm generally through the museum by the time she's figured out how to operate that little tourist guide thingy they give you to explain it all—the thing you hold up to your ear and some guy tells you what century the thing you're looking at was discovered. I've spent most of my life waiting for her to come out of some museum or dungeon.

I thought I might give you some international travel tips. If you like country music, take your own along because it's not on the local FM stations in Italy or China. In China, by the way, they play Country & Eastern music. Although country does pop up in the weirdest places. We were in a taxi on our way out to the Great Pyramids in Egypt, and heard Merle Haggard singing “Mama Tried” on the radio.

I always think of Dolly whenever I visit the Great Pyramids. I don't know why, I just do. They're enormous. The pyramids, that is. Every single guy in Egypt has a cousin who rents camels, and they
all
insist you ride a damn camel for awhile. It's fun . . . once. After that, trying to do anything involves telling the taxi driver you
do not want to ride a camel
to go to your hotel.

Allyson and I still say one of the most exciting sights we've ever seen were the giant wooden doors as you walk out of the Cairo airport. We weren't ready for the culture shock. You stand behind the doors, and they open onto total chaos. Nobody pays any attention to traffic lights. People are praying on mats beside the road. Camels are available for hire to take you to your bus. You're surrounded by teeming masses of humanity. It's like stepping into a life-size beehive.

You should also be forewarned that the fabulous exotic Great Pyramids of Giza, the three famous monoliths in the desert, are not as exotic as you thought. You always see them photographed from the front. If you took a picture from the other side, you'd see the Holiday Inn and Taco Bell about a half-mile away. The actual pyramids are amazing. Being from Nashville and in the music business, I can only imagine how many roadies it took to set these things up. As you read this, Egypt is probably not safe enough to visit. I know I'm glad I went, but I was happy to leave. Walking around with two blondes and a big American face is like strolling around at Talladega in a tuxedo. You tend to stick out a bit.

If you do decide to risk it, take a side trip to Luxor, the Valley of the Kings. I know Steve Martin visited there, because King Tut is buried there. King Tut was the Toby Keith of his day. The temperature at Luxor is usually around 146 degrees. No rain, and the sun is brutal. It's like the old days at Fan Fair at the Nashville Fairgrounds. And just like Fan Fair, the only word you need to know is
baksheesh.
When somebody has his or her hand out for a tip, a favor, a drink, or a bribe, that's
baksheesh.
I'm used to it because I am in radio and the music business. I'm used to somebody needing something to get something done. It's an art form in Egypt. Did I mention that you can also take a camel ride on the way to the airport?

My wife is relentlessly cheerful, as I've said a hundred times. It's just so irritating to be with someone who is always happy and says things that make you bend over laughing. I deserve a medal, don't I? On vacays, it's my job to plan the hotels, the itinerary, and most important, where we eat. I
love
it. I can spend hours on the computer before any trip, reading reviews of restaurants and hotels that used to be nunneries. We were in Rome having a glorious time when I noticed a tragedy in my schedule. I confessed to Allyson, “I made a drastic error in restaurant schedules. Tonight's designated dinner stop will mark the third evening in a row that we have rezzies at an Italian restaurant.” I don't know what I was thinking. It was a glaring misstep of epic proportions.

Her reply? “No problem, hon. The Italians do it every night.”

Me: “Do what every night?”

Her: “Have Italian for dinner. I bet they go for months before they have anything but Italian, 'cause they're Italian. Imagine how many nights they have Japanese in Japan.”

We had Italian that night, and it was fabulous. She was right.

Speaking of Japan, it was tough. Tokyo and the lights and the sights were amazing. The Ginza shopping district makes Times Square look like Dothan, Alabama. The Japanese really like their buildings covered in advertising. I warn you, however, these people are serious about their language. You can go for days and not find a person who speaks anything but Japanese. There are a few printed signs, but overall it's full-frontal Japan. If you're jet-lagged, as we were, and wake up at three thirty in the morning, go to Tsukiji. It's the fish market and the source of all the seafood eaten every day by the people of Tokyo. We got up, dressed, and caught a taxi that took us to the most amazing collection of things from the sea I'd even seen. It's enormous and it's squiggly. I once had sushi with Jeff Cook of Alabama, who explained all about raw fish to me. Jeff Cook is from Ft. Payne and not Shinjuku. He has not a clue what real sushi is. It's businessmen at a counter eating from a plate of live, squirming eels. It's things served as a delicacy that look like they fell off a garbage truck. Japanese cuisine is
seeeeaaaa
food. It's the Patsy Cline of raw fish. We once walked thirty blocks because we saw an arrow pointing to a McDonald's. I'm not sure what was in that Big Mac, but it was a welcome relief.