In Memory Of: Loretta Lynn

"Miss, I'm thinking you're in the wrong spot," he said, taking his cap into his hands. "We don't get white wings here; you sit tight, and I'll call someone." "Here 'cause I wanna be here," she said. "I'm singin' tonight." He stared at her, speechless. "I sure appreciate you lookin' after me and wantin' to keep me safe," she continued. "What's your name, Darlin'?" "Uh ... Chapman," he stammered, pulling out a dirty handkerchief in an attempt to wipe his face (which was dirtier still). "Arnold Lee." "Well, Chapman Arnold Lee," she repeated (softly with a smile), "I'm gonna dedicate a song to you; you just sit down and take a load off." He made a couple of awkward little bows in his shock and folded into his seat. A hush came over the place when she stepped out onto the stage; she was radiant - with a smile for days and piles of Southern big hair that did their mamas proud; no spotlight was needed. "Makes no sense cryin' 'bout the past, so let's get lively and shake some dust off," she called out to them, and they hooted and stomped on command, broad grins bright in coal-covered faces, lights flickering on and off from old miners' lamps strapped to their heads. Grey wings, white wings; it was no never mind to her. She was one of them and would never forget it.