Kentucky Traveler (21 page)

Keith said, “Then we want ten regular hot dogs, and we want chili and mustard and onions and relish—just blow it out!”

Curly said, “I can't eat ten hot dogs.”

“Look,” I explained to him. “A regular hot dog is six inches long, and a foot-long is just two regulars. You can do it.”

Ralph egged him on, and Curly didn't want to disappoint Mr. Ralph Stanley, his boss man. Keith brings out two boxes of fully loaded hot dogs. We all sat around a picnic table to watch the show. Curly was already big by then. He got one down, then two, then three, four, and five. It was looking pretty good for him when he stopped to catch his breath.

Roy Lee started to put some pressure on. “All right, now, Curly, I ain't got all day to be sitting here. I gotta get home to see my kids.”

“Yeah, Ray,” said Ralph. “You need to go ahead and finish this on up.”

Curly gets down number six, and with every bite slop is falling into the box. At this point we're not even worried about the money. This was better than going to the movies. Down goes number seven and number eight.

Curly was sweating pretty bad by now. “Ralph, I don't believe I can do ten of these things,” he panted.

“Now, Ray, you don't want me to lose no money, do ya?” Ralph was right in the middle of it, just winding it up for all it was worth. He didn't care about that twenty-five dollars. He just wanted to see what would happen.

Roy Lee tightened the screws. “Ain't no way, Curly Ray, ain't no way!”

Jack chimed in; he and Curly were always at each other's throats when things got hot. “He's right, Curly, you can't do it.”

“Shut up, Jack!” Curly barked. Seemed like Jack got Curly so mad it gave him the extra push he needed. Down went number nine, and by this point he was swallowing the thing whole without chewing. Curly inhaled number ten down in much the same way. That box of dogs was now just a bunch of crumbs, chili, and onions.

Keith then handed him a plastic fork and said, “Curly, you gotta finish this, too. Before we pay up, you're gonna eat this, too.”

Curly said, “I can't.”

“Well, the bet's off, then.”

“Gimme that fork!”

And he just shoveled it in, cleaning out the box as best he could. But Keith was on him like a hawk. Finally, Keith took the box and emptied the rest all over Curly's face. Curly looked a mess, but he didn't care. He'd won the bet.

We got back in the camper and drove a while, and everybody was paying Curly. Ralph decided to stop at a liquor store. He said, “Ray, I think a couple big ol' tall boys will be a fine place for them dogs to lay in, don't you?”

Ray said, “Yeah, Ralph, it sure would!” Curly sucked down a can right quick, laughing and joking and counting out his money. He was celebrating big time. He'd won and done his boss man proud, too.

Meanwhile, we were driving through the mountains close by Pound, Virginia, coming down hard around those hairpin curves on Route 23. You can nearly see your taillights beside you it's so awful. Ralph was driving, taking the turns like they were nothing. Finally, near the bottom of the mountain, Ralph said we were low on gas and stopped at a station to fuel up. Now, at this point, for everybody but Curly Ray, the party was over. We were sore we'd lost the money, especially me and Keith. It was almost a whole day's work for us.

At the gas station, Curly was the first one out of the camper, and we didn't think about why he got off so quick. Ralph was fueling up, and back in those days, the gas attendant would come around to work the pump and wash the windshield. Ralph was in the driver's seat with the window open when the attendant poked his head in and said there was an emergency. “Ralph, it's one of your boys. You better come now and hurry! He's real sick! He's making an awful noise!”

We all jumped off the camper as fast as we could go and ran around the side of the gas station to the bathroom, where Curly was coming out. He was pale as a ghost, wiping his hangdog face, covered in sweat.

When we opened the bathroom door, it looked like a disaster zone. There were pieces of hot dog as long as your finger without a toothmark on 'em. It was a sight I've never seen before or since. You just can't make this stuff up!

C
urly Ray didn't mind playing the fool, off stage or on. He liked to have his fun, but on the downside, he was misunderstood. A lot of people thought that Curly could only play Ralph's music, and that he had no real depth to him. But there was a lot more to Curly than that. He was a fantastic, talented musician, and he took his music seriously. Curly was deep, and he was versatile. He wasn't only an old-time, high-lonesome fiddler—that was just one of the roles he played with Ralph. He could play jazz and swing and a lot of different styles. He just didn't get the chance to show it all that often.

Curly's job was to fit into Ralph's sound. He played the way Ralph sang. He did the job he was hired for. He was willing to sacrifice himself for the greater glory of the band. Some musicians don't understand that.

Sometimes, though, he'd get the chance to shine on his own, like when they'd bring out all the fiddlers on stage for a big jam session to close down a festival. Head-to-head, there wasn't a fiddler around who could outdo him.

What I liked about Curly as a musician was the emotion he put into his playing. What I learned most from Curly wasn't so much technical. He was the type of musician who could only teach by example. If you asked him to show you something, he'd play it as many times as you wanted, but it would always be different than the time before. It was mountain-style fiddling, for sure, but it was hard to emulate, 'cause Curly played so much out of his heart and not his head. That was the lesson I took with me.

Being on the road with Curly Ray was an education in showmanship. Real showmanship is different than showing off; it's knowing your audience and loving your audience. It's a love that feeds on the connection between a performer and the people. Curly believed music was about joy, and his job was to share that joy. He had a gift for knowing how to touch your heart and put a smile on your face, whether he was cutting up on stage or taking a fiddle break just as pretty as you please. I'd watch Curly work a crowd, and I'd say to myself,
I don't know how to do what he's doing, but I need to learn!

I
loved my time as a Clinch Mountain Boy. I loved working for Ralph. His knowledge of music and the feeling he put into it helped me grow as a musician, especially as a harmony singer. He helped me refine the tenor singing I'd grown up with. It was the best training I could have asked for.

But there's only one way to play Ralph's music, and that's Ralph's way. I wanted to try to branch out and do something more my own style. I got tired of playing the same mandolin break I had the night before. I wanted to try new things. So I started stretching out a little, and Ralph didn't mind as long as I stayed within the boundaries of his music. When you're as young as I was, you need limits to become a disciplined player. I wanted to push those limits. There were other factors, too. Ralph was paying what he could afford, but it wasn't much. Meals weren't cheap, and the thrill of riding the bus was getting old. I didn't have the stamina of the other seasoned players in the band. After a full week on the road, they'd be getting their second wind, and I'd be fried. I needed to rest and decide what my next move would be.

Two and a half years is a long time when you're still in your teens, and that's how long I'd been with the Clinch Mountain Boys. I called Ralph on the phone, sort of dreading how he'd react. I told him I needed a break. And he said, “Well, Rick, if you ever want to come back, you're welcome here any ol' time.” I was so thankful that he understood. Ralph knew it wasn't personal. I felt like he gave me his blessing to try something new. And here's something interesting—it was years before Ralph hired another mandolin player.

I was looking for a paycheck and a more stable sort of life. I thought it was time to give that a shot, so I moved up to Manassas, Virginia, in the suburbs of Washington, D.C., to be closer to my girlfriend and to work a regular job. We'd been thinking pretty strong about getting married, and everything sort of happened at once. It was a big change, and it felt right at the time.

So we set a date for the wedding. My new bride was a pretty mountain girl, Brenda Stanley. She was kin to Ralph. I met her at a campaign rally when Ralph was running for treasurer of Dickenson County. Ralph loved politics, and he'd decided to throw his hat in the ring. And why not? Roy Acuff had run for governor of Tennessee back in the '40s, and he almost won.

Brenda was out in the crowd when we were on stage singing for votes at one of Ralph's campaign stops, and she caught my eye. We talked afterward, and I liked her and she liked me. Ralph ended up losing the election, so I guess I did a lot better on the campaign trail than he did! Brenda and I started dating soon after, and for the next year, whenever I'd go down to Coeburn, I would stop in and see Brenda. We got serious pretty quick.

It happened as natural as could be. Brenda loved my folks, and they loved her. She came from a big family and was raised in the mountains around country people same as we were, so everybody got along great. Her dad, Oakley Stanley, was first or second cousin to Ralph and had been the sheriff in Dickenson County for a good while. Everybody knew and respected him.

I went and asked Oakley for his permission to marry Brenda. He said, “So you're the thief come here to steal away my baby girl!”'Course, he was joshing, and he gave me his blessing and told me to take care of his daughter. He liked me, the whole family did, and I felt the same way about them. He wasn't a big music fan; he looked at my character and the kind of person I was, and I guess he was satisfied with what he saw. I think he was glad that I wasn't some couch potato and that I'd been out working hard and making a living with my music for several years.

Our wedding was a small ceremony, just family and a few friends. We both thought we were ready. 'Course, you couldn't tell me I wasn't ready. I was as headstrong as they come, and I was sure I was doing the right thing. My parents got married young, and they were still happy together. Why shouldn't it be the same for us? My dad, bless his heart, knew full well I wasn't ready for the responsibilities of marriage. He told me, “Son, you don't need to get married.” And I said, “But Dad, I
want
to get married.”

Not just get married, mind you, but work a regular job. Brenda had been staying with her sister in northern Virginia, and that's where we went to start our new life together. My new brother-in-law was working for Virginia Electric and Power Company, or VEPCO. He told me they were hiring. So I went down and put in an application. They called back in three days. I had the job.

When I told Dad the news, he was glad to hear it. He was proud of me for taking on new duties and obligations as a married man. He knew that working for VEPCO wasn't something I really liked or wanted to pursue as a profession, but it was necessary at that time. He respected that I was making a sacrifice. He never said anything negative like “Why are you quitting music?” I think he knew me well enough to realize it would just be a matter of time before I'd be back playing music again.

I heard Dad's words of caution about marriage, but I didn't really
listen
. I was probably too focused on trying to be a grown-up to take heed. Looking back now, I guess I pushed aside any doubts I may have had. I felt like I knew what I was doing, despite what Dad said about not rushing things. With eastern Kentucky in my rearview mirror, I really believed I'd prove him wrong.

I love you, Dad
, I thought to myself,
but I know what's best for me
.

It wasn't the first time my Dad was right, and it wouldn't be the last.

In March 1974 a lengthy
Washington Post
article was headlined “D.C. Is Also Nation's Bluegrass Capitol.” . . . The entire region had long been a center for migrants from the eastern side of the southern Appalachians. By the 1950s the children of Appalachian migrants were joining their parents in playing music once called old-time or hillbilly and now labeled by some as bluegrass
.

—
Bluegrass: A History
, by Neil V. Rosenberg

About that time, the Country Gentlemen had Ricky Skaggs and Jerry Douglas in the band. There were all these young guys and you wondered, “Where did they come from? How did they get so good? How did they end up in D.C.?
”

—
Folk musician
Robin Williams

S
ome people go to Washington, D.C., to change the world. They go into politics and try to make their mark. I went up to Washington, D.C., 'cause I wanted to put some bread on the table. I ended up right back doing what I loved, but it took a while to get back to music. At the time, I didn't even know if a career in music was an option. I'd put that dream on hold to punch a time clock at VEPCO. I worked in the basement boiler room of the power plant at Possum Point in Dumfries, Virginia, about a half hour south of D.C. Sometimes you have to start at the bottom. This job may not sound like much, but it was very important to me at the time. As a newly married man, steady employment gave me a sense of responsibility when I needed it.

The only problem was that I hated the job from day one, and it never did get any better. I had the worst rotating shifts, one week of 7 a.m. to 3 p.m., then a week of 3 p.m. to 11 p.m., and then the midnight shift, from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. A week of this, a week of that, a week of the other—I could never get any regular sleep.

I wasn't getting to spend much time with Brenda, either. She was working a day job as a secretary for the Daughters of the American Revolution in D.C., so along with my crazy shifts, it seemed like we only got to see each other coming or going. It was a tough way to start a marriage.