The Opry

One of the sharpest memories you have is of your daddy.

You’re maybe 9. In his truck. Saturday night. The “Grand Ole Opry” is on the radio. Daddy’s driving past the ugly side of town.

It pains him to see this place. He’s emotional. Maybe a little drunk. He points out the house he grew up in as Minnie Pearl is on 650 WSM.

Daddy is telling you something. Something you’ve always remembered: “Poverty’s all about isolation,” he says. “Being poor is just another way of saying you’re lonely.”

You’ve thought about this. Over the years, you’ve come to the conclusion that Daddy was right.

When you’re isolated, you’re lonely. When you’re lonely, you have no network. No network; no opportunities. No opportunities equals no job. When you have no job, you have no money. When you have no money, you have a problem.

In the end, it comes down to people. If you have no people, you got nothing.

But then you already know this. Because you grew up poor. After your father took his own life, you had no support system.

Mama’s family was split. Daddy’s family was even worse. Your boyhood friends quit calling. You quit going to Little League. Quit Boy Scouts. Dropped out of school.

A lot of people in those days didn’t know what to think about suicide, so they tried not to think about it at all.

But none of that matters now. What matters is that you grew up and something changed. Somehow you went to college. Somehow you became a writer and performer.

And much to your surprise, you started meeting new people. Lots of people. Good people.

Suddenly, you were meeting new friends at every event. You were still living in a 28-foot trailer, mind you. But you weren’t isolated anymore.

There was the little girl with spina bifida, who came to your first ever performance. She bought one of your books and got her picture with you. At her funeral, you read a poem you composed for her.

You met an old woman who raised horses, who had terminal cancer. She had undergone chemo six times. You remember the time she clapped you on the shoulder and said:

“Do you believe horses go to heaven?” You said you did. And you also believe she is with heavenly horses now.

You met a blind little girl named Becca who changed your life.

You met people who told you that you were so much more than sorry white trash. They were your teachers, your therapists, coworkers. Your friends.

And, of course, you won’t ever forget the time you performed on the Grand Ole Opry.

There’s something weird that happens backstage at the Opry. You start thinking.

You realize your performance is going to be broadcast, live, through the speakers of some random daddy’s truck. And inside that truck will be a kid. That kid might feel alone. Or isolated.

You know how he feels. You know what he’s going through. Because you WERE that tragic kid. You were that poverty-stricken reject.

But not anymore. Today, you’re here to tell that poor kid that this is not the end. You’re here to tell him that ugly childhoods make beautiful people.

And on April 26, 2024, when you stand on the Grand Ole Opry stage again, you will say as much.