Kentucky Traveler (19 page)

There were a lot of unspoken rules when you traveled with Ralph. He wanted everybody to keep their minds on the job. He wasn't much for guys listening to music on the bus, unless it was by Ralph Stanley or the Stanley Brothers. Once in a while we'd buy a cassette at a truck stop or whatnot and give it a listen. I remember one time we had a tape by Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton, and Ralph didn't have a problem with it. I guess he had a soft spot for those great duets Porter and Dolly used to sing together, and who doesn't?

Probably the strictest rule Ralph had was about being late. He hated to be late, and he hated for anybody else to be late. He laid down the law when it came to tardiness. Many a Clinch Mountain Boy has been left behind and had to find his own way to the show, or sometimes back home from a show.

Ralph left me once when I was late. My VW Beetle had engine trouble, and I had to get it fixed. I was at the mechanic's, so there was no way to call and let Ralph know I was gonna be about an hour late. When I got to Coeburn, where Ralph kept the motor home parked, they'd already pulled out for Arkansas to play a festival the next day near the Ozarks. I knew it was Ralph teaching me a lesson, and I felt like I'd let him down. So I drove all the way back home, and I was really bummed out. When I told Dad what happened, he said that a neighbor, Charles Cordle, was heading to Arkansas that day to visit with his son, and that I could ride with him.

Well, Charles's son lived in Jacksonville, and the show date was about seventy miles away at the Petit Jean Mountain Bluegrass Festival near Morrilton. So we left Brushy Creek on Friday afternoon and made it to Jacksonville that night real late. On Saturday morning, we drove to Morrilton and pulled into the festival campgrounds just as Ralph and the boys were coming out of the motor home to head for the stage. Show time was minutes away. You can't believe the surprised looks on their faces, and nobody was more surprised than Ralph to see me there, ready to play.

I explained to him why I was late and told him I was sorry. He understood and said it was all right. I ran to the motor home, changed my clothes real quick, tuned up my mandolin and fiddle, and got to the stage right when the announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, please make welcome Ralph Stanley and the Clinch Mountain Boys.” I thought to myself,
YES!!!!

T
he road taught many kinds of lessons, especially lessons in what not to do. I saw things happen that I knew weren't good, at least not for me. I saw things happen that I didn't want to do, and things I knew I shouldn't do. Keith and I were surrounded by much older men, drinking and whatnot. Sometimes I had to learn the hard way what not to do. That's how it is when you're sixteen and still wet behind the ears.

Once we were playing a show in upstate New York. Friends of Ralph's who lived in the area put us up at their place for the night. Sometimes we stayed with people on the road. It was sociable for Ralph, and it was good for the band, too. We got a home-cooked meal and some hospitality. After the show that night, the family fixed us a real nice dinner and stayed up talking with Ralph for a while after they cleared the table. He was the guest of honor, and he repaid the welcome by staying up as long as they wanted.

It was close to midnight, and me and the boys were all tired out. We all went back in the big guest bedroom they'd prepared for us, with cots laid out and fresh towels. We were used to riding all night, pulling into a truck stop to wash up, and then getting on down the highway. This was a whole lot nicer.

Roy Lee wasn't ready for bed, though. He was looking for a nightcap, and not the kind you put on your head, either. He went over and opened the closet door. Then he wheeled around with a big smile. Up on the top shelf were whiskey bottles, lined up in a row like you'd see in a bar. Roy Lee didn't waste a second. He reached up and grabbed a bottle, cracked the seal, and got right into it. He took a good long pull, wiped his lips, and said it was some of the best whiskey he'd ever had. Keith then said, “Give me a drink,” and it went around till it got to me.

Well, I didn't know what to do. It looked like they were having fun, so I took a drink, too. I regretted it the second the liquor hit my tongue. This wasn't for me. But it was too late. The bottle came around again. Then I watched while Roy Lee killed the rest of the fifth of whiskey in a single swallow. I saw it, but I could hardly believe it. He turned the bottle up and downed the whole thing to the last drop before he ever took it from his mouth. He wasn't showing off. I think he'd done that before. Roy Lee was a big ol' boy, about 220 pounds, and built solid as a hog. That much would have laid out most anybody else.

Seeing Roy Lee kill the bottle really scared me. I'd never seen anybody do anything like that before. Not Euless, not anybody. I couldn't even comprehend it. I was amazed, and I was afraid. Then I felt the whiskey kick in.

As soon as I lay down on the cot, the room started spinning, and I knew I had to get to the bathroom quick. Here I was, sixteen years old and nothing on except for my underwear, and I was stumbling down the hallway trying to find the bathroom. The family and other friends of Ralph were still out there in the living room gathered around the table. They were talking their grown-up talk, and I was too ashamed to even ask directions.

Somehow I made it into the bathroom in time. I didn't know what was going on. All I know is the first time I ever got drunk, I got sick as a dog. We'd just eaten a big dinner, and I hit everything except the commode. The host's wife was such a kind lady, and I felt so bad about the mess I'd made. She started cleaning it up while I stood there feeling terrible. She didn't get angry or scold me, she just felt sorry for me, and that almost made it worse. “Sweetie,” she said. “You probably shouldn't drink that stuff.”

The upshot was that Roy Lee was drunk the whole next day. We had a show that night, and boy was Ralph upset with him. By the time we went on stage, Roy Lee could sing and play all right, but any musician could have heard he wasn't up to his usual standards. And definitely not up to Ralph Stanley's. As far as me and Keith, Ralph didn't say a word to us about what happened with the whiskey. 'Course, Ralph knew it wouldn't have done much good to lecture me. He saw how bad I felt. I was so ashamed of myself. I kept thinking of the man's sweet wife having to wipe up my mess in the bathroom. The thing was, I was so young and dumb, I didn't learn my lesson. The second time was even worse.

I never did tell my mother about what happened when I drank whiskey. It was something I kept to myself. Twice drunk and twice dumb was enough for me. To this day, there's no way I can drink whiskey. Can't even stand the smell of it. Thanks, Mom! And, thanks God!

I
learned a little about pride around this time, too. I know pride can cause you to make some bad decisions. I know my dad had some mountain pride, and it got him in some trouble, too, the first and last time I ever saw him drunk. This happened one New Year's Eve, before Keith and I joined Ralph's band. He invited us to join him that night for a show at the Country Palace in Columbus, Ohio. This was a much bigger venue than the Astro Inn. You could get three hundred people in the Palace, and that night they had a full house.

On the drive up, we did our usual rehearsing in the backseat while Dad took the wheel; he was as gung-ho as we were. Jimmy Martin was headlining the show that night, and Dad was a longtime fan, especially after Jimmy left Monroe and went solo with his own band, the Sunny Mountain Boys. When we got there, it turned out that Jimmy needed a mandolin player who could sing tenor with him, and he'd heard about me. “Ralph,” he said. “Do you mind if this boy sings with me on my show?” Then Jimmy shot a look at me; he had a reputation as a perfectionist who was tough on his band. “Son,” he said. “Do you know some of my songs?”

So now I was on the spot. Truth was, I didn't know
any
Jimmy Martin songs, not well enough to play 'em on stage, anyhow. I liked Jimmy's music fine, but I just didn't know any of his songs. I sort of looked pleadingly at Ralph to rescue me, but he misunderstood my worried expression.

“If you want to sing with Jimmy tonight, that's all right,” said Ralph. “I don't mind you helping him out.” I could sense that Ralph wanted me to give it a try, because he really loved Jimmy. A lot of people didn't like Jimmy, since he was known to talk big, but Ralph saw through that. They had a bond, maybe because they were so different in temperament. I felt like I was helping Ralph by helping Jimmy, so I said I'd do my best.

Now I had to learn a bunch of Jimmy Martin songs in time for his evening show, and all this before I went on stage with Ralph for his first set. Jimmy started running over the material with me right there. He was a great rhythm guitar player, so he was able to show me the arrangements, and I got those down quick. It was learning the lyrics I was worried about.

I learned a few songs, the choruses at least. It was when I went on stage with Ralph that the trouble started. Not with the music, but in the audience. There was a guy there that night that Dad knew growing up in eastern Kentucky. His name was Whipple Ferguson. He was a distant cousin of my dad's mom. Well, this Whipple Ferguson, he lived in Columbus now. He was a short little smart aleck, and he'd seen me and Dad come into the club.

Near the tail end of the first set I played with Ralph, Whipple walked over to my dad's table and sat down, and they caught up on old times like anybody does. He pointed his finger at me, and then he got right in Dad's face. “I wish to God Ricky would learn how to stand on stage,” he said. “Just look up there at him! He's just standing there like an old country stick!”

Whipple was a little ornery cuss with a big ol' chip on his shoulder. He'd been drinking, and it made him feel bold enough to mouth off to my dad, I guess. About the only thing that could make Dad upset was if someone tried to put down his family, especially one of his kids. It was too much to take. My dad's pride wouldn't let him sit back and stay quiet.

Whipple had pushed him too far, and Dad lost it. He stood right up and yelled, “Damn you, Whipple Ferguson! I'll tell you one thing! He'll be standing there when you're long gone!” Dad hadn't been drinking; he wasn't one to drink, after all. But it aggravated him so much that this sassy cousin he hadn't seen in years would go after his son.

There was a half-hour break in between shows, and I guess my dad wanted to calm himself down a little bit. He headed to the bar and got himself a Pabst Blue Ribbon or two.

I hadn't seen any of what happened with Whipple, but I knew something was up when I saw Dad standing right at the front of the stage, hollering through his cupped hands as if they were a bullhorn. “Jimmy, that's my boy up there! That boy singing with you!” I'd never seen him get rowdy in my whole life. I could tell he was tipsy, and I didn't know what to do. Dad then started shouting out requests from the Jimmy Martin songbook. “Hey, Jimmy! Why don't you sing that ‘Tennessee, I Hear You Calling Me'!”

My dad was feeling no pain, and it was more comical than it was threatening. Of course, Jimmy didn't know who my dad was. He must have figured he was just another customer who'd been over-served at the bar. He tried to calm him down as best he could. “Awwww right, sir, we'll get to that one a little later. Go back and sit down.” For Dad to make such a scene in public was strange, but it was funny, too. He didn't talk about it after the show, and I didn't ask him.

Next day we were driving home to Kentucky, and that's when he started to tell me and Keith some of what happened. First off he wanted me to know how awful he felt for making a fool of himself in front of the crowd. He said he had some Blue Ribbon to steady his nerves and to keep from punching Whipple Ferguson in the nose. “I'm sorry, son. You know I'm not a drinker, but he made me so dang mad. I had to keep from hurting him somehow, so I walked straight to the bar. Well, I won't be doing that ever again. I'm sure sorry.”

He said he felt sick, but not from the Pabst. He hadn't had enough for a hangover. What was gnawing at him was how bad he'd acted in front of me. He just felt rattled. The thing was, I didn't feel bad about what he'd done, and neither did Keith. When he finally gave us the whole story, we laughed about it so hard we just slid to the floor of the car.

W
e sure didn't feel like kids anymore our second summer with Ralph. By then we'd gotten a big raise and had cars of our own. Ralph hiked our pay to thirty dollars for Friday shows, and thirty-five dollars for Saturdays and Sundays, so we could make a hundred dollars for a three-day weekend of show dates. That was pretty good money for a couple of teenagers.

Now that I was making some more money, I bought myself my first car, a new Volkswagen Super Beetle. I remember going up to the auto dealership in Prestonsburg and picking it out. It was a nice bright yellow bug, like Herbie in the Disney movie
The Love Bug
. My dad cosigned for it. My first car, and boy, was it cool.

Not long after that, I wrecked it, and it was all my fault.

I was coming home from Virginia. I'd been on the road with Ralph, and I was heading through Lawrence County back to Brushy Creek. It was one of those things that happens when you're young and impatient and not being careful. The closer I got to our house, the more I could smell my mom's fried chicken. So I was taking those curves between Louisa and Blaine a little faster than I should have.

About five miles from home, it started to rain. Not much, but enough to slick the asphalt road top. I had James Taylor's new album
Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon
cranked up in the eight-track machine. I was coming down a hill, and I took the curve at the bottom too fast and started sliding. I tried to straighten it up, but ended up off the road and flipped over.

It was a pretty bad crash, and I had to climb out through the passenger door. Thank the Lord I wasn't hurt, but I was pretty shook up, and my new Bug was totaled. And you know what? The engine stopped running, but J.T. kept right on singing.