Dolly Parton passing away

Like pretty much any girl born in the greater Southern United States since the mid-1960s, I was born to be a Dolly Parton fan. I've never really considered myself a "super fan," but when she passed away earlier this week, it hit me that she's had a much bigger impact on my pop culture life than I ever really recognized.

I don't typically follow major celebrity culture, and I don't often cry when a celebrity passes away. But when I heard on Tuesday that Dolly had died, I found myself crying for a few minutes. She certainly was an icon, but I loved so much about her.

I've seen people on social media from both sides trying to claim that their side was the only side that could appreciate Dolly when she was alive. One side points to her charitable work and her support for things like COVID vaccine research; the other points to the fact that she was a devout Christian until the day she died. Then there are people saying that she didn't support this cause or that cause and therefore shouldn't be celebrated by people on their side at all.

I have to say, one of my favorite things about Dolly is that she never seemed particularly interested in getting caught up in "sides." She apparently loved people, gave people a fair chance, and spent her energy doing what she thought was worthwhile.

I also know that, however she chose to spend those energies, quite a few of my students in the relatively disadvantaged school district where I worked in Texas got books through her reading program or through other programs that sought to emulate her generosity. Dolly's influence reached children who probably had no idea who she was other than a name on sticker that came on the books. 

When it comes to my personal fandom with Dolly, it starts really early.

For several weeks a year, my sisters and I would be sent to stay with my grandma in a tiny little town not much more than a couple of houses along the highway near Fredericksburg. My grandma had over-the-air TV and about a dozen VHS tapes, one of which was a copy of 9 to 5 that my grandma alone had watched so much that you could hear warbling in the soundtrack and the picture would almost seem like it was bending.

I can't even count how many times we watched that movie.

We didn't just watch it. We would set up a little shed in the backyard as our own Consolidated Companies, Inc., complete with desks we made out of plywood and cinderblocks and an ancient typewriter that, if you pressed one key, pretty much the entire left side would strike the paper.

And we always fought over who was going to get to be Doralee.

Not that we had anything against Lily Tomlin or Jane Fonda. But three blonde sisters are going to want to be the pretty blonde lady.

One day, the fight got so bad that our grandma told us we should all just be Doralee.

I'm about to spill a major family secret here, but we were so into that movie that one day we found where our grandma kept her little pistol. We weren't trying to hurt anyone; we were trying to recreate another scene from 9 to 5. Jenn, always our leader made us pinky promise that we wouldn't pull the trigger--in fact we had no idea how to check if it was loaded.

 Our only intention was to walk out to the back of the property, pick a tree that looked enough like Mr. Hart and recreate the pivotal scene where Judy blasts out the windows to his office. Again no plans to actually shoot at anything. Jess had the gun and thank god she had pointed down the hill and not at us, squeezed the trigger just hard enough that a shot went off. 

It was the loudest thing I have ever heard and a major reason why I hate guns to this day. We screamed and ran back up the hill to the house. 

We were at just getting back and realized that Jess had been so scared that she had dropped the gun as we ran. As we emerged through the trees, Grandma was just pulling up from her trip into town, so we couldn't immediately go look for it. We panicked all night that she would notice it was missing, but we said nothing.

We left as early as we could the next morning and, thank God, found it and put it back where it belonged.

To the best of my knowledge, none of us has ever told a soul about that story until now. And if Grandma ever noticed that there were fewer rounds than there had been before, she never said anything either.

As for my other Dolly stories, whenever we would get to a karaoke bar, I would always make Bubs sing "Islands in the Stream" with me. I still walk around finding myself humming it or singing it without even really noticing what I'm doing. And when I look at my husband, I still mean every single word of that song.

And because I have two gorgeous little redheaded daughters who both see the stars in their father's eyes, "Jolene" has always been more than a little fitting, too. I find myself singing it all the time, especially the part about a beautiful red-haired girl; "...with flaming locks of auburn hair, your beauty is beyond compare...I cannot compete with you Jolene."

But I guess our version of Jolene isn't a sad one, or even a cautionary tale or even a plea. It's just more evidence of how great of a dad Bubs is.

I don't mind losing the battle to my two little Jolenes.

So rest in peace, Dolly Parton.

If Bubs and I are lucky enough to have the kind of marriage Dolly and Carl had—one that lasts a lifetime, grows old together, and still leaves one person looking for the other when it's finally time to go—that's more than I could ever ask for.

Your quote about Carl waiting for you in heaven made me cry more than just a little.

I'm sure he is.