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Mayme Alice Smith and Dolly Parton could’ve been sisters.
Both grew up poor, in the hollers of Tennessee. Both grew up without running water and electricity. Dolly was born in Locust Ridge. Mayme Alice, in Walnut Shade. Both were blonde and beautiful.
One became a music legend. One became my mama.
As a child, Dolly knew she had a gift for song. Many folks in the Appalachians do. Settlers arrived on this land from the British Isles and Ireland, with music and poetry in their DNA.
My mother recalled such phrases uttered by relatives. “I say to Nathan and Nathan says he” or “She looks like the devil before daylight.”
To some people in Sevierville, Tennessee, the town tramp did look like the devil before daylight. But not to Dolly. She wanted to be just like her. Dolly modeled her trashy look after this woman, painted herself like a tart, balancing her busty fame on heels beyond high.
Mom didn’t aspire to such over-the-top theatrics. But like Dolly, she wanted to be in show business. She had the lead in all the school plays, knew all the lines by heart. And like Dolly, mom was drop-dead gorgeous.
Her parents didn’t like that idea, not one bit. How could a girl from these hollers make a living in Hollywood? No. Better she marry a good man.
Mom had some offers. Instead, she saw names written on the side of a traveling panel truck looking for pen pals. In 1945, no dating apps existed, so youth connected the old-fashioned way: writing letters. Mom chose the name of one man in South Texas because his name, she recalled, sounded exotic, like actor Ricardo Montalban.
After graduating at 16 from high school (like Dolly, mom was smart) she high-tailed it out of Red Springs as fast as she could. She moved to Nashville, roomed in a boarding house with a girlfriend, and got a job as a phone operator with Southern Bell. And she kept up correspondence with this man.
Meanwhile, Dolly’s career was taking off. At age 13, she performed at the Grand Ole Opry for the first time. Her breakthrough came in 1967 with two singles: “Dumb Blonde” and “Something Fishy.” Later that year, Dolly joined The Porter Wagoner Show, beginning the partnership that would become a household name.
Meanwhile, mom married dad, moving to South Texas to live in a Mexican barrio and raise nine children. She never found the spotlight but the theatrical bug never left her. When the family moved from Texas to Philadelphia, mom dragged us to every Broadway play.
Dad, who had always worked behind the scenes in television, landed mom a bit part in a movie filmed in Philly. The scene was cut. But mom had her day, handing a teacup to Tom Skerritt and meeting Patti LuPone.
Mom’s life wasn’t easy. But she always smiled, humming “Oh, what a beautiful morning” as she made enough chili to feed an army. And when she wasn’t hanging diapers on the line, her face was always in a book. She loved reading. She, like Dolly, saw the lack of education in the hills and hollers and wanted us to read, to be educated. When most of her children were grown, mom went on to earn her master’s degree in English literature—at 62.
Mom gave generously to all she met, in simple ways. Her unconditional love shone on every person she met or welcomed into our home. Dolly’s love poured out in her own exceptional ways, some known and some quietly. Their giving, I believe, was borne from their strong faith in God. Both had grown up in the mountains where Bible and belief are bedfellows.
When mom died, I wept. When Dolly died, I wept. I felt I had lost mom again. They had both lived full and beautiful lives, each in their unique ways.
In my wandering thoughts, I like to picture mom and Dolly together in heaven, making each other giggle. Mama says to Dolly, “You look like the devil before daylight,” and Dolly, says she, “I may look fake, but I’m real where it counts.”
They both were.
~
author: Marielena Zuniga
Image: Author's own
Editor: Nicole Cameron
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