Kentucky Traveler (8 page)

That may seem simple enough, but it had me worried to death. I was saying, “Yes, sir,” but in the back of my mind I was thinking,
I'm supposed to go out on stage to interrupt somebody when they're speaking, with my mother sitting right there in the studio audience, seeing me do that?
I knew my mother would never approve. She never let me interrupt anybody when they were talking, especially a grown-up and surely not an Opry star like Lester Flatt. I was not comfortable with the situation. It wasn't singing and playing that worried me. I was nervous about interrupting Lester Flatt in front of my mom.

There was no way out except to get it over with. I sort of sidled out on stage and snuck up behind him while he was busy on the mic plugging Martha White biscuits. I tugged on his coattail, and Lester whirled around as if he were startled. He was an old pro, and he played it perfect.

“What do you want, son?”

“I want to pick!”

“Didja hear that boys? He wants to pick!”

The first one I played was “Foggy Mountain Special,” and I got to do a nice little break on my mandolin, and I didn't even crack a smile I was so focused on getting every note right. The Foggy Mountain Boys stayed behind me all the way. When the song ended, Lester really whooped it up for the studio crowd, and he said, “By dog, he wasn't kidding, was he, fellas, when he said he wanted to pick!”

Then it was back on stage for the second part of the show. We lit into “Ruby,” and I really bore down to stay with the band, like steering a freight train from the engineer's seat. I didn't even think about the fact that I was sharing my little microphone with Earl Scruggs's banjo.

After we finished up, we milled around backstage, and everybody in the band congratulated me; everyone was so nice to this little mountain boy. I didn't know there was a long-standing feud between Lester and Earl and their old boss, Bill Monroe, and this was probably the worst it had been since the split. Flatt & Scruggs were on top of the world with a hit TV show and the Martha White sponsorship, and meanwhile, poor ol' Mr. Bill was just scraping by. There was bad blood in both camps, and I was about to get a taste of it.

At that time, Curly Seckler was singing tenor and playing mandolin for the Foggy Mountain Boys. He was on a lot of their classic records like “Roll in My Sweet Baby's Arms” and “Salty Dog.” Well, Curly's mandolin caught my eye. It had a scroll on the neck just like Monroe's, but the body had a round hole that was different than the F-5 model Mr. Bill played. I was curious about it, so I went up and asked Curly, “Is that mandolin like Bill Monroe's?” It was an innocent question from a seven-year-old. Everybody got quiet, and you coulda heard a pin drop. “Well, son,” Curly said. “I sure hope it ain't!”

Curly started laughing, and all the Foggy Mountain Boys joined in, especially Lester and Earl. I had no idea what was going on, and it didn't feel too good, either. I didn't laugh along with them. It didn't seem a bit funny to me. I had no notion of the hard feelings between Mr. Monroe and Flatt & Scruggs. I just knew I loved Mr. Monroe, and I was thinking they must have said something nasty about him.

Not too long after the taping, the producers called to let us know when the show was gonna air. When the day finally came, we all gathered around the TV to hear the announcer say “special guest Ricky Skaggs.” I watched myself come out on the stage, and I felt this burning excitement in my gut. I ran into my room and hid under the bed and wouldn't come out. I didn't want to watch it. I was so shy and backward, I couldn't watch it. Being from the mountains, I just couldn't understand the whole concept of TV, really. My sweet little grandmother Carrie Skaggs was watching the show on her television back home in Kentucky. She went up to her TV set and kissed me on the screen, thinking I could feel it. TV was still kinda new to us folks from the mountains.

It was more than thirty years before I finally got another chance to see myself on that Martha White TV show. I tried to find a tape of it for years, asking all around Nashville, but nobody had one. One day I was on the road, and my wife, Sharon, called and said she'd got a copy. When I got home, I sat down to watch it, and this time, I didn't run into the bedroom. I had my youngest children, my daughter Molly, who was 10, and my son Luke, who was about five, there with me. More than three decades later, my eyes filled with tears to see my seven-year-old self again. It's funny, because I look at myself on that tape and can see a self-assurance there that I wasn't aware of at the time. I've got this fierce determination on my face, and a very stern expression. I don't look nervous at all. So I had something in me right then, even at seven years old. I had a real inner drive. Some might call it arrogance, and maybe I was arrogant, but I would have never thought of myself that way. I just was so focused on playing music the best I could, and I still try to do that today. I guess I was already Picky Ricky, long before Emmylou Harris gave me that nickname.

T
hat appearance on the Flatt & Scruggs TV show was my highest-paying gig yet. I remember I got a check for $52.50, and in 1961 that was a lot of money, especially for a kid! I guess I thought I was pretty hot stuff. It wasn't always easy on my sister and brothers, with me getting most of the attention. But they were accepting of the situation, least as far as I could tell. We've never talked much about it in the years since, but they never showed jealousy or ugliness toward me. I know they probably felt Dad was spending a lot of time with me, practicing and playing. But he spent a lot of time with Garold, too, hunting and fishing. My sister and my mom spent a lot of time together, and she was already involved in lot of school activities. My younger brother, Gary, he was the baby, and he got plenty of love. We all did. It was such a blessing to grow up in a house full of peace.

Dad's job at the TVA plant in Paradise kept him busy. He and Glair would usually stay there during the week. This job was government-regulated with the highest safety standards. Dad might do a half day of welding, and then the federal inspectors would x-ray the work he did. If there was a crack in the pipe bigger than one-sixty-fourth of an inch, they'd have to grind it out and re-weld the joint. They couldn't afford to take a chance on one of those welds breaking and causing an accident. It was a high-pressure situation for my dad, and it really wore on him.

So when Dad came back home on weekends, it was such a joy for him to be able to see his family and to sing and play music like we did back in Kentucky. He looked forward to these picking parties all week long. We'd usually have friends and neighbors come by and play. We'd scoot all the furniture back against the wall so we'd have a clear place in the center of the room. Mom, Dad, and I would play, along with whoever brought along their instrument. Usually we'd have a fiddler and a banjo player, too. Inevitably, a few folks would jump out of their chairs and get to dancing in the middle. And we'd do our best to keep 'em dancing till they were wore out, which usually wasn't till way past my normal bedtime.

Sometimes my Dad would have to tell people it was getting late and time to leave, with hints like, “Well, if I wasn't home, I'd go!” Or he'd say, “If y'all are setting up just for me, I'm feeling better!” If they still wouldn't budge, he'd finally holler, “Dorothy, I guess we oughta go on to bed, or these people might wanna go home!” That one usually did the trick.

These pickings were the most wonderful fun. In Ireland, they're called a ceili, and I went to several over there when I was on tour in the late '70s. On those nights on Fannin Drive, I saw what music did to people. You'd see the folks coming through the door, and they'd be worn out from the workweek. Then, after a few songs, you'd see the change in their faces. That is the only way I can describe it. I saw how music can truly bring joy, and joy kills sorrow.

I try to remember that whenever I play. I know some people come to a show and they're stressed out from work or they're depressed over problems at home or finances. Whatever the case may be, there's something in the music we play that can help bring peace and joy to people, at least for a little while. They may not get out of their seats and dance, but they sure do get their feet tapping.

One of the musicians who really encouraged me at that time was Benny Martin. He'd come over to pickings at our house in Goodlettsville. Dad had met him backstage at the Opry, and it turned out he lived nearby. Benny was an incredible fiddler, and he'd pulled stints with Monroe and Flatt & Scruggs, playing on some of their greatest recordings. He was on his own by then as a solo artist.

My dad invited Benny a few times, and he brought his wife and children. Benny was one of those musicians who could do it all. I've got a recording of my mother singing “Mule Skinner Blues” with Benny backing her on fiddle. Talk about a dynamic duo. Tell you what, it's something to hear your mom get as wild as that. Benny could hardly keep up with her. Benny was very supportive of my musical development. He listened to me play and offered advice and tips. He even wrote a song for me, something he thought would be perfect for a little kid musician like me. It was called “Changing Playmates.” Benny knew I'd moved to Tennessee from the only place I'd known back in Brushy Hollow, and he figured I was lonesome and missing my little mountain pals. He thought it'd do me some good to sing a song from a child's perspective about leaving your old friends behind and making new ones.

To tell the truth, it was a little soft for me. I sort of turned my nose up at it. He was just trying to be helpful, but the whole idea behind a song like that seemed kind of silly and childish. The odd thing was that Benny's own kids were mean as snakes, and they didn't make good playmates at all. They just ran wild while Benny fiddled.

So while he was trying to teach me the song, I was thinking to myself, you know, I can't handle this, Mr. Benny. I mean, my favorite songs were real-life, grown-up, sad-as-all-get-out country records like “Pinball Machine,” the hit from 1960 by Lonnie Irving. It was about a truck driver who lost everything he loved because he loved pinball more than anything. It was one of those tragic recitations you heard on country radio back then, and I knew every word. From the time I started playing, I wasn't singing kids' songs at all. I think some people probably thought it was a little strange for me to sing “Ruby, Are You Mad at Your Man?” And it was pretty salty for a kid my age, when you think about it. But it didn't seem strange to me. I'd grown up loving the old songs from the mountains, the ones my dad was teaching me. I just sort of absorbed them like coal dust on a miner's child; they just seeped into me.

One song really had me spooked. It was called “The Little Girl and the Dreadful Snake,” a bluegrass tune Bill Monroe and Jimmy Martin sang in the late '50s. It was about this girl who wanders out in the woods, gets bit by a snake, and dies. Her father hears her screaming, but he gets there too late. That song made me so afraid of snakes that I avoid them to this day. By and large, most of the music that us mountain kids heard back then was the same music that grown-ups listened to, songs that came into the mountains with Scots-Irish immigrants in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—songs of loss and sorry like “Little Bessie” and “Pretty Polly” and “Little Rosewood Casket.” It could be about the death of a loved one—the passing of your mother or the killing of your uncle—or hope for the afterlife, or what happens if you don't have salvation. Songs were about life and death.

Those old songs never lose their power. They have lasted because they're about real things and real emotions and they helped people face hard truths. They put something in the back of your mind to ponder. They would challenge you to think, and prepare you for things that could happen. Because life was as sad as it was happy. There was death, sickness, accidents, tragedies.

We got our own taste of trouble when my dad got hurt real bad at the job in Paradise. He and another man were carrying a section of heavy pipe, and the guy slipped on a small piece of pipe lying in the walkway. He dropped his end, and all the weight of the pipe crushed my dad's back. He went down to the ground all twisted up, rupturing two vertebrae in his lower back.

Boy, poor Dad was in a mess. He just rolled up in a ball and couldn't hardly move for days. His legs got numb, his feet got numb. Finally he had an operation to ease the pain, but there wasn't much they could do in the way of repair in those days. He could walk, but he was never the same strength-wise or stamina-wise after the accident. He had to get a lawyer and sue to get his workers' compensation. But it took years to get all that together.

I felt so bad for my Dad. He was in so much pain. He was hurting not just in his body, but also in his mind. He had always been a provider, and now he was disabled. It hurt his pride, but he tried not to let it get him down. He had music to help keep his spirits up. His injury was bad for his work, but it didn't keep him from playing guitar. To tell the truth, I was glad to have him around the house more. It gave us more time to practice together, and he could teach me more songs. Singin' and playin' with Dad; that was my paradise.

What is a home without sunshine

To spread its bright rays from above?

You may have wealth and its pleasures

But what is a home without love?

—“What Is Home Without Love,” by the Monroe Brothers, 1936

N
ot long after Dad's accident, we left Goodlettsville and moved back to the old home place where I was born. Mom gave her okay after making Dad promise he'd renovate the old house so we'd have some of the modern conveniences we'd gotten used to in Tennessee. Our home on Brushy Creek was very small, and Mom gave Dad her list of renovation needs. Dad got busy making plans and recruiting folks to help out. He got some help from Papaw Skaggs and a few of his uncles and cousins, and they built us some more bedrooms and put in a new bathroom and a nice kitchen for mom.