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By Root 1098 0

the scrappy, struggling single mom, her musical, rebellious daughter, and the constant bickering and fighting between them became integral to the act, the dysfunction became part of the family “brand,” and it’s often been exploited—internally and externally—to my detriment. Additionally, anything we did in public—a movie, a meal after church—became the Judds making an appearance, and I resented the way my mother and sister could not set and maintain boundaries with fans but just welcomed them into what should have been a moment of family time. I have at times also grown terribly weary of the copious amounts of misinformation that have become part of the Judd canon. I once attempted to correct a gross inaccuracy printed in an interview I gave to a British publication. The editor in chief of the magazine responded, “This information is on The Times microfiche. We will not change it.” The family myths were increasingly entrenched and apparently incorrigible.

So I was fixing for an argument when I called the home, and a gentleman named R.L. answered the phone. I love country people and rural accents, and he had one of the best I’d ever heard in my life. But it didn’t make me feel any more confident about Shades of Hope. These people are trained professionals? What is this place? I was thinking, quite unfairly, while R.L. went to fetch his wife. Then another voice came on the phone, as soft and dry as a West Texas breeze. “Hi, I’m Tennie. And I want you to know how much it means for you to be here.…” Before I knew what had happened to me, I had been charmed. I was arriving on Sunday and leaving on Friday. What’s more, I was excited about it.

I hung up the phone and said to Dario, “You have to come do this thing! It sounds amazing!” But he was not having any of it. He had something to do that week and could not be persuaded to be anything more than mildly interested in Shades, even though he loved my sister and was glad she was somewhere she could be helped.

On Sunday evening, I arrived alone at a charming village in the farm country south of Abilene. The tiny, bewitchingly decorated bed-and-breakfast where I was staying was a short walk from the cozy-looking treatment center. Actually, everything in Buffalo Gap is a short walk from everything else. After I settled in, I took a stroll around the quiet streets lined with picket fences twining with roses, rows of ancient-sized live oaks, and winter plants such as lamb’s ear, which I loved as a child. I noticed that in lieu of garbage cans, each block of modest homes shared a Dumpster set right out on the curb. To spruce them up, people had painted them with fanciful sunsets and forests, or bucolic pastoral scenes with horses, which I found annoying. They seemed tacky and interfered with the otherwise picture-perfect loveliness of the village.

The destination of my evening ramble was a cluster of yellow clapboard buildings set among leaf-blown lawns and little rock-lined flower beds. There was no fence separating the Shades of Hope center from the rest of the town, and nothing seemed institutional about the facilities. The main building looked like an old, overgrown farmhouse, a bit frayed at the edges, with rocking chairs and porch swings set to enjoy the views. I stood in the dark street, trying to peer inside from a safe distance, and sure enough, I saw my sister through a large beveled window. She was standing at the water cooler, having a conversation with someone just out of view. She obviously belonged. It was a wistful moment for me; I was the outsider looking in, a deep, unarticulated idea already forming that I wanted some of the benefit of this experience for myself, but with no clue how, or why, or that in a week’s time I would be the one standing by that water cooler.

I woke up early Monday morning and met joyfully with Sister in the center, where we were permitted to visit for thirty minutes before the serious business of family week began. I was impressed with the client art on the walls, replete with healing and promise, the upbeat and loving atmosphere, the