I grew up with a rock ’n’ roll dad, and so, I’m a rock ’n’ roll girl. Growing up, I never once heard my dad put on a country-western album. From time to time, at my maternal grandparents’ house, my grandpa would unwind by putting on some country-western music that, to me, sounded like music from the ancient of days. It never resonated with me.

My junior year of high school, however, I became a '90s country music fan and I've been a fan ever since. Back then, though, I never traveled back in time to listen to what some would call “true country.” I wasn’t into Johnny Cash, Kenny Rogers, Waylon Jennings, or… Dolly Parton. I knew of their songs, but they weren’t ones that were spinning around in my CD player.

But you can’t escape Dolly.

I watched her in Steel Magnolias and loved her character. I knew that she was the original songwriter and singer of the song “I Will Always Love You,” made uber-famous by Whitney Houston. I was aware that she was Miley Cyrus’ godmother. I’d been to the show at Dolly Parton's Stampede. She was a part of the fabric of American life.

Through the years, my siblings and I have joked that she, along with Willie Nelson, were going to live forever. We also commented pretty frequently about how it seemed everyone had to do a duet with Dolly Parton. It wouldn’t surprise me if there is a Metallica/Dolly Parton collab hidden in a vault somewhere. Maybe that’s the secret song we’ll all hear in 2046.

To be perfectly honest, though, I’ve never been what you would call a fan. I don’t have any of her albums. I know a few of her songs well enough, but her death has weirdly impacted me.

It’s impacted us all in some way, shape, or form.

One of the reasons why is because of what my dad said in a text to me on the day she died: “There are stars, and then there is Dolly. She was larger than life.”

With the advent of social media, there just can’t really be larger-than-life stars anymore. Celebrities are too accessible. We see them too much and we know too much about them. We see pictures of them wandering around LA in their sweat pants and messy hair. The mystic is gone. We aren’t ever going to have another Elvis, Marilyn, or Dolly. They were those iconic American stars who almost didn’t seem real, but they were, and they were ours.

Dolly personified the American Dream. She was born into poverty, worked hard to get out of it, perfected her craft, became mega-famous, but never forgot where she came from.

What is most impressive is that she didn’t let it go to her head. She smiled. She laughed at herself. She didn’t pretend like she didn’t like being rich, yet she gave of her wealth, and she genuinely enjoyed when other people shined.

Mostly importantly, she was joyful, and joy is a magnet.

And I can’t think of another star out there who is as joyful as her, one who makes us feel good about ourselves and the world.

That’s a bit sad.

Even if everything is burning down around you, if you have that one positive, joyful person to look to, you think that things just might turn out okay. Whether you followed her closely or not, she was a part of all of our lives, and I think we all just kind of expected her to always be there.

Now, it feels like there is a big hole, and we need someone to be like her. Deep down, I think we all know that no one is around to fill that hole, and that leaves things feeling heavy. Not only is no one around that fits the bill, but it isn't possible.

One, because nobody could take her place.

And two, nobody seems even remotely capable of being sweet, sassy, patriotic, talented, flashy, colorful, engaging, witty, generous, religious, and grateful. We've lost the one person that we all could rally around. If you've accomplished that in your life, then it was an exceptional life.

She truly was one of a kind.

Rest in Peace, Dolly. Thank you for giving us your best.

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Photo by Wes McFee on Unsplash

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