Last week, the Coal Miner’s daughter went home to meet her daddy, her last road trip. Loretta Lynn, the Queen of Country Music, died at age 90, and the news brought me to tears. Losing two queens in four weeks has made me think about my attachments, my loyalties, and who I respect.

Why do Queen Elizabeth’s and Loretta’s deaths seem like extraordinary losses to me? I realized it is because they were both so true to themselves. And I admired their sense of responsibility in a world that seems to be quickly losing that.

Loretta’s story is pretty well-known: born into Appalachian poverty, marrying young, lottsa kids, and an unlikely breakthrough in one of the world’s toughest businesses – the entertainment industry.

She was always clear that without her husband’s encouragement, she never would never have pursued singing and songwriting. I’m so glad she did. And for me, that’s quite a statement, because I never much liked country music.

As a kid, I heard the “twangers” on the jukebox in our hometown diner. I did like the deep, dulcet tones of Jim Reeves, and the heartbreak of Patsy Cline. Then along came rock and roll, and the little bit of country music I actually enjoyed went out the window.

Fifty years later, I never expected to be running a busy historic theater. It was there that I acquired a whole new appreciation for country music, and its hard-working musicians.

Researching our demographics, we realized that our audience in Northwest Pennsylvania and Western New York, loved country music. Why every other station on my car radio was labeled country! So, we booked country acts who every year sold out the house regularly: The Oak Ridge Boys, Clint Black, Diamond Rio, Wynnona, Tanya Tucker, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Crystal Gale, The Gatlin Brothers, and many more. I was thrilled when we engaged Miss Loretta Lynn. Our paths crossed briefly, tenderly, and I’ll never forget her for it.

On the afternoon of her concert, her huge converted coach parked behind the theater alongside the big equipment van. A typical “Bus and Truck” show. I had learned, soon after taking the job, that all acts were fussy about placement, sound checks, floor taping, lighting, all the technical aspects of putting on a show.

The country acts were fastidious, only perfection would do. They were also the most fun and unfailingly polite.

Their mommas would have been proud.

The night of Loretta’s concert, I didn’t meet her until 10 minutes before curtain time. We sent her light supper to the bus while her band and crew ate in the theater. She was in her early 80s by then, had reduced her bookings, and toured under medical supervision. She rested until show time.

She entered the wing space at stage right, wearing an enormous lilac lace gown that any ’50s prom queen would have treasured. I walked forward to welcome her and introduce myself.

In her deep Kentucky accent, she asked, “Miss Marcy are you a grandmother?” My white hair was a dead giveaway.

When I smiled and said yes, she reached out her thin little hand, clasped mine, and said, “We need to sit and chat.” And we did – behind the first wing curtain.

Her band playing two warmup songs, to open the show. Then her middle-aged son, who traveled with the band, decided to sing a song. She leaned over and said, “Look at that danged fool. Fresh from a tavern and sporting that pot belly. No wonder he’s been married five times.”

I was stunned. She just shrugged her shoulders, sighed, and patted my hand that she was still holding after15 minutes.

We really did talk about grandkids. I also asked her about the grind of being on the road.

She was philosophical – said she’d been given the gift of an audience, and she treasured it. I complimented the tailored country-style suits, shirts and ties the band all wore, along with their polished cowboy boots.

“Miss Marcy, people pay good, hard-earned money to come see us. I think we owe them more than ragged tee shirts and torn jeans. They come to see a show.” Then she squeezed my hand, stood up straight, walked on-stage, and sang her heart out. At intermission, she hugged me as she headed for the bus to change her gown.

Beyond family, her audience was her everything. And she was very clear that, “I am them and they are me.” She never forgot where she came from.

In that one night, Miss Loretta taught me to love, and respect, country music. You don’t have to be from Butcher Holler to understand that.

Marcy O’Brien is the retired Executive Director (2007-2018) of the award-winning Struthers Library Theatre in Warren. She can be reached at Moby.32@hotmail.com