Loretta Lynn_ Coal Miner's Daughter - Loretta Lynn [105]
We’ve only got a couple of rules about the boys. Doo says they’re not supposed to bring more than two beers apiece onto the bus. Usually, they follow the rules, but once in a while they’ll slip. I’ll start crying and then they’ll bring me ice cream and presents, so I can’t stay mad at ’em.
Just recently I decided they were blackguarding too much, so I set up fines. A dollar a cuss. Right now they’re arguing whether certain words are cusses. Bob Hempker, my steel guitar player, and Ken Riley, the drummer, are talking it over with Don Ballinger. I know they’re just being real foxy. This just gives ’em the chance to say the words over and over again. So I decide to settle things.
Me: What’s the problem?
Ken: Kenny Starr said “By God,” and that’s cussing.
Bob: It ain’t cussing. God’s name is in the Bible.
Don: Yeah, but you can’t say “By God.” That’s cussing.
Me: That’s right. Where is that little devil?
Ken: He’s asleep in his bunk.
Me: Well, I’m gonna fine him three dollars right out of his paycheck. Then we’ll put it in the piggy bank.
Don: Mom, you’re running one of those company stores. Next thing you know, you’ll be paying us in scrip, like in the coal camps. It’s almost that bad now.
Me: You hush up, Don Ballinger. I’m the boss here. I’ll fine you for sassing the boss.
Don: Sassing’s not a crime.
Me: On my bus it is.
Anyway, that’s the way it goes for the next hour, just arguing about fines for the fun of it. There’s already fifty dollars in there, mostly from Jim Webb and Cal Smith. When the tour is over, we’ll throw a party or something—if the boys don’t get the money when I’m not looking. I don’t know how Jim Webb finds time to cuss. He’s so busy driving the bus and making conversation on our citizen-band radio. He’s always talking to truck drivers about “Smokey the Bear.” I thought maybe Jim was just interested in stopping forest fires, but it turns out Smokey is the nickname for the state troopers. They didn’t used to bother us, but since the interstates dropped their speed to fifty-five, they’ve been a problem. You ain’t supposed to give messages about state troopers on the radio. That’s why they talk about bears so much.
We pull into Toledo around noon. The boys are all starving. There’s a big diner, but it’s packed with folks coming from church. We usually like McDonald’s and avoid Howard Johnson’s. But this time we see a fish-and-chips place that looks empty. The reason it’s empty is because they don’t open until the stroke of noon. The boys go out, around nine of ’em, and breathe heavy on the clean glass doors, until the women get disgusted with ’em and open the restaurant. The boys know I can’t go into restaurants because my fans would surround us and wouldn’t let us eat. So they bring some fried fish back into my room as we drive to the auditorium. It’s a beautiful new place out in the country. You don’t even see Toledo. I’m thinking of getting more sleep but there’s a reporter from the Toledo newspaper who wants an interview. I always like to meet writers because they’ve been nice to me over the years. This man is named Seymour Rothman. He acts like he don’t know too much about country music—asking me simple questions like do I enjoy one-night stands, how do I write my songs, stuff I’ve answered a thousand times before. I can see Jim Webb and Cal Smith laughing at the questions. They start to clown around, pretending to play poker and stuff. But the man is so nice, I answer all his questions. Then his photographer wants to take a picture of me out on the lawn. It’s country music, see, so they want to get some green grass. All right. Only it’s dropped to around forty degrees, there’s this vicious wind blowing, and the rain is starting to feel like wet snow on my cheeks. The photographer keeps clicking away and my hair is blowing all over the lot.
“You’re gonna make me look like a mess,” I complain.
“Just one more,” the photographer says. That’s what they all say.
Finally we’re done. We go back in the bus while I thaw out. I’m convinced that article is going to be a disaster. (Six weeks later,