Loretta Lynn_ Coal Miner's Daughter - Loretta Lynn [65]
But makeup couldn’t stop this heifer from being clumsy. I had some adventures up on that stage you wouldn’t believe. The first time I ever wore panty hose, I bought ’em too big, not knowing they came in different sizes. I got on stage, and they slipped right down to my knees. I just kicked ’em off—what else could I do? Another time, I was playing my guitar and my bra strap broke. I was so uncomfortable, I had to stop the show and go offstage and fix it.
Another time, I was wearing a tight, homemade dress. I used to make dresses myself without a pattern, because I couldn’t read too good. Anyway, this one was so tight that I fell down on the stage trying to walk. And to make things worse, I couldn’t get up. I was wriggling in a circle, telling the band “Help me, help me,” but the audience and the band thought it was a joke. Finally, I got up by myself, but the people thought it was so funny the Wilburns wanted me to do it every show.
One night, I was more relaxed, and I did Mommy’s little hoedown dance she used to do around the radio on Saturday night. Teddy said to me, “Loretta, that’s a permanent part of your act.”
“But I’ll ruin my socks,” I said.
Teddy said it was all right to ruin a pair of stockings every show if the audience enjoyed my dancing. And it was true. The audience used to laugh and applaud like crazy when I’d go into that squaw’s dance. I don’t do it too much anymore. Guess I’m getting old.
They were honestly trying to teach me things in those days. I didn’t have much to wear, and I was performing in blue jeans, a fringed cowboy hat, and a pair of boots. We were in Salt Lake City, Utah, and it was cold outside. Teddy bought me some winter clothes—a thick car coat, the first overcoat I’d ever owned, and he also bought me a pair of golden slippers with high heels.
I said I wasn’t going to wear ’em, but Teddy hid my boots just before show time, so I didn’t have anything to do but go on with high heels. My first step, I felt like I was gonna fall on my face. I wobbled out there on stage, looking like I was drunk. I did a couple of songs, but it was no good. Finally, I kicked off my heels, and felt more natural. I still do that today, even on television, and people tease me about it. But in the early days it was really necessary—I was afraid I’d fall.
I tried to learn how to walk in those clumsy shoes. When I got back to the hotel, I changed into my pedal pushers, tied up my hair and put on them high heels. Then I went out in the hall to practice. But the carpet was thick, and I stumbled and fell down. Teddy heard something go “bump” and he ran to look.
“Everybody come here and look at Loretta,” he shouted. A big crowd of Wilburns and other people gathered in the hallway to watch me sprawled all over the floor. I was quite a sight.
Teddy and Doyle did teach me a lot of things—how to wave to the audience, how to get on and off stage, how to speak so people would understand me. But I felt like a little girl lots of times. I remember playing the Hollywood Bowl, around 1963, with Johnny Cash. There were so many thousands of fans out there, and I was used to playing Bill’s Tavern, which held only three hundred people.
I was getting to be an old professional in lots of ways, handling them good old boys at the country fairs. You can picture ’em—husky boys in their bib overalls, boots still caked with manure. They may not have seen a woman in a dress since Christmas, and if you made your exit through the crowd, they’d show their appreciation by giving you a big old hug. They didn’t mean anything by it, but they could break your ribs if they got too happy. I learned to reach out and pat ’em on the elbow. If you touched ’em first, they’d back off and treat you like a lady.
I’ve been pretty lucky. I don’t sing sexy the way some of the girls do. I’d say about 99 percent of the men are gentlemen. But, boy oh boy, that other 1 percent!
I’ve had many a man pass notes up on stage saying they want to sleep with me. One time I glanced offstage and saw