She Always Loved Us

No one was prepared to hear the news about Dolly Parton this week.🦋

She reluctantly postponed plans for a Las Vegas residency last year

She eventually canceled them in May. 

She was heeding doctors' advice to stay close to home in Nashville.

She was being treated at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. 

She was "still healin', still workin'."

Death came for her much too soon.

This one stings the soul.

Reading the bottomless cache of tributes flooding the internet is cathartic. 

What's the opposite of doom-scrolling? Love-scrolling.

My emotional thirst feels quenchless. The remembrances are the metaphorical band-aids that we fruitlessly try to stick onto our hearts, yet they slip off because our hearts weep.

I will bend toward the joy, laughter, and humor (especially the self-deprecating kind) that Dolly projected into the world. This was the intangible currency she lavishly spent on us. 

Up until ten years ago, I was neutral (at best) about Dolly Parton. I locked her talent and music into the country music vault and rarely opened it.

Aside from the obvious glory of her duet with Kenny Rogers covering the Bee Gees tune, Islands in the Stream, her movie debut as Doralee in 9 to 5 with that bouncy, feminist earworm of a title song, the 'leave my man be' warning of Jolene, and her pop crossover tune Here You Come Again, there was little room in my music-loving mind for country.

That all changed when my friend, Susan, who, knowing my fervor for music and concerts, casually asked if I would like to see Dolly perform at the Mann Music Center in 2016. 

I scrunched up my nose, replying, "I'm not really into country music." Poor Susan. Her apparent slam-dunk invitation received a surprisingly glum response. 

She persisted, asserting with urgent disbelief, "But it's DOLLY!"

As a child growing up in Missouri, where the sound of Dolly and Elvis music reliably filled her home, Susan now faced a curious, misinformed roadblock to her fun outing idea. Undaunted, she eventually won me over. 

I am ever grateful for Susan's wise tenacity. She is a college professor who immediately spotted a teachable moment. I also think she felt a little sorry for me and my wayward music limits.

Dolly Parton, Mann Music Center, 2016

Susan and I, 2016, Mann Music Center

                             

The concert was held three days after the horrific shootings at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, where 49 innocents died, with many others injured. It was, at the time, the worst mass shooting in the US. (That dubious marker has long been surpassed in this gun-obsessed country.) 

Enter the salve of Dolly.

The Pure and Simple tour was titled after her 2016 album. Dolly delivered just that - a pure and simple night of songs (28!) from her then five-decade career. She filled that perfect June evening with her infectious warmth, candor, and laughter when our psyches needed it most.

Her spirit not only sparkled, but her instruments (nine to be exact) and costumes exploded with glitter. Her stage patter about growing up poor in Tennessee, how love ruled her life, how leading with kindness was the only way to lead, and how her inclusive faith-driven beliefs welcomed everyone into the Dolly-sphere, entranced us.

Inclusion.

Every. Single. Person.

Her audience defied singular description because it was a diverse cross-section of race, sex, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and age. There we all were - drinking in Dolly in collective gulps.

I remember feeling Dolly's warm embrace all evening. She repeatedly assured us of her love while cracking jokes and sharing stories with the ease of a pro. Her humanity informed her performance style.

It is embarrassing to think I tried to blow off this chance to see Dolly.

It is equally embarrassing that I didn't recognize her prolific songwriting history, especially with I Will Always Love You. She assured the audience that when asked how she felt about Whitney Houston's success with the remarkable 1992 cover, Dolly would say, "I thank Whitney every time I look at my bank statement!" 

The songwriting royalties, estimated at $10 million in the 1990s, were partially used to invest in an office complex and strip mall in a historically black Nashville neighborhood. Dolly called it "the house that Whitney built."

Dolly-related items, such as a cup of ambition wine glass, and a Dolly Parton cookbook, have been lovingly gifted to me by Susan because "it's Dolly!" Susan traveled to Nashville in 2025 to see Dolly Parton: A True Original Musical; in January, I'll join her and another devotee to see it on Broadway. 

Dolly surprised the Newport Folk Festival audience in 2019, appearing (incredibly for the first time) alongside The Highwomen (Brandi Carlile, Maren Morris, Natalie Hemby, and Amanda Shires.) I didn't attend that year but read/heard that the female mega-group closed out the festival with silken harmonies and musicianship excellence, 

Things were always better with the Dolly dazzle.   

A few years ago, my husband and I visited the Tennessee side of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park as one stop on a wider Fall road trip through the South. Seeing a chance to possibly visit the iconic Dollywood, we arrived in Pigeon Forge late Monday evening only to find that Tuesdays were the sole days the park was closed in October. Sigh.

As a strange and somewhat anemic consolation prize, that Tuesday we drove around the empty parking lot to lay eyes on something Dollywood. Leaving the area, an exit sign sparkled in Dolly's handwriting, reminding visitors one final time I will always love you!

Another hug. 

In a recent episode of Glennon Doyle's podcast, We Can Do Hard Things, Glennon hosted singer/songwriter Sara Bareilles. Promoting her Good Grief album, due next month, Sara said it grew from her experiences mourning loved ones she had lost in recent years. 

Their conversation challenged writer Jamie Anderson's widely quoted claim that grief is love with nowhere to go.

Glennon offered that instead of burying the dead with our grief, we give grief someplace to go. 

Sara replied, "What if we just carried the dead?" 

Let's be the spiritual pallbearers who carry Dolly forward every day. Let's start with books, just like Dolly. https://imaginationlibrary.com/the-dollywood-foundation/

Let's lead with kindness - just like Dolly.

...and we rely on each other - ah ah. 🦋

9 to 5 cup of ambition from Susan

        

Dollywood, October 2023

Light painting artist Darius Pearson (love his work) created this Instagram post to honor Dolly.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DcgjAMvzBJc/

Link to Philadelphia Magazine's brief 2016 review of Dolly's June 15 concert at the Mann Music Center in Philly. https://www.phillymag.com/things-to-do/2016/06/16/dolly-parton-review/ 

Link to a 2016 WHYY review of Dolly's June 15 concert at the Mann Music Center in Philly

https://whyy.org/articles/hope-and-a-flash-of-unity-at-a-dolly-parton-concert/

Link to a 2026 Boston.com article re: Dolly. https://www.boston.com/culture/celebs/2026/08/26/a-saint-and-a-unicorn-new-englanders-remember-dolly-parton/

Corresponding

What's in your USPS mailbox? 

I am willing to bet it's mostly advertisements. 

Do personal letters/cards ever appear in that mailbox? 

I am also willing to bet the answer is - rarely. 

Handwritten correspondence began to fade when emails roared on the scene in the late 20th century.

And, in what felt like the blink of an eye, email began to morph from chatty personal letters into a who's who of businesses carping for more of your business.

Blink once more, and texting quickly became the #1 way of corresponding, offering more efficiency in this time-challenged world. 

Handwritten notes were, at best, on life support. 

Is letter writing now dead?

A novel published last year by author Virginia Evans offers a refreshing and apparently unintentional return to writing letters. (See the link at the end of this post to Katie Couric's interview with Ms. Evans)

Evans' novel, The Correspondent, celebrates long-form communication, both in emails and letters. We learn about its diverse collection of characters solely from their correspondence with the main character, Sybil Van Antwerp.

The epistolary format is as intriguing as the array of characters.

The novel's letters, initiated by Sybil, celebrate the romance of writing on a sheet of paper, which, until the last several decades, was a staple around the world. I wish the novel's typeface choice included a cursive font for Sybil's letters. 

When necessary, Sybil composes emails instead of letters. While her crisp yet heartfelt manner is showcased in either form, it is the letters that keep my attention. 

I remember a time when I regularly took pen to paper and now wonder why I allowed that practice to wither.   

My written correspondence memories began in grade school when I had a pen pal who lived in England. Her name was Julie. We wrote of our little-girl lives and even swapped comic books. Sadly, those letters and comics have long been tossed. 

It felt incredibly exotic to page through those young girl materials from overseas. The tissue-thin airmail writing paper added to the faraway glamour. My box of blank Eaton's Berkshire airmail stationery was a prized possession because it was filled with possibilities. 

Another airmail-themed memory is with my friend Joyce, a high school and college pal, whom I continue to see regularly. Joyce did something tres exotic in 1973. She studied abroad in Paris at the Sorbonne for a semester. 

We telephoned only once, but we wrote, and wrote, and wrote letters on the translucent airmail paper, squeezing in every drop of news possible. We filled each precious page because adding another meant more weight and serious cost to those international missives. 

We howled when reading those letters aloud in recent years, remembering what our teenage minds wrestled with decades ago. They are inky time capsules.

Corresponding did not always require thousands of miles for permission to write. The senders and receivers could live relatively nearby.

My maternal grandparents, Elizabeth and Vincent, split their time living six months in Atlantic City, NJ, and six months around the corner from us in Lansdowne, PA. Just 66 miles separated us in the warmer months, and letters, more than phone calls, connected us.

Elizabeth was a reliable correspondent from South Jersey, making sure one of her newsy notes would arrive weekly at our home. My mom returned the favor religiously. Elizabeth impressively upped her correspondence when I went to college, always reminding me that I was missed and loved. 

Here is one of her notes congratulating me upon entering college. 

Letter from my Grandmom Elizabeth

At college, my mailbox buddy jokingly told me that while I received lots of letters and care package notices, he received dust. In four years, I rarely saw a letter for him in Box 524. He would marvel at my correspondence volume thanks to my dedicated pen pals - my mom and grandmom! After hearing of his plight, my mom even offered to write him! 😊

Mom usually wrote brief one-page letters before she went to work. They were succinct and loving. This brevity resulted in the arrival of two to three letters a week. The combined quantity and quality created the perfect formula for this homesick college coed. 

Below is one of my mom's letters. A red arrow by the 'PS' is particularly noteworthy as it is a reminder of her upcoming phone call on Thursday after 11 PM. 

In the seventies and eighties, long-distance weekday phone calls with my family were ALWAYS relegated to 11:00 PM and later because the phone company rates were lowest then. No exceptions!

Letter from my mom when I was a college coed.

Seeing her sign off - Love from all, Love always, Mom - with her trademark wispy swoosh underneath feels as comforting today as it did in the seventies. Her love always came with flair.

My older brother attended the same college before me. He wrote often, always placing two, $1.00 bills in each letter to me for no particular reason. I still feel the warmth of that older sibling attention from far away. 

In The Correspondent, the character of Sybil, a retired law clerk now in her seventies and living a quiet life in Maryland, corresponds with a Texas suitor who questions her dedication to her writing practice. Sybil's response honors the power and possibility of letter writing when she explains:

.... even if they (letters) remain for the rest of time dispersed across the earth like the fragile blown seeds of a dying dandelion, isn't there something wonderful in that, to think that a story of one's life is preserved in some way, that this very letter may one day mean something, even if it is a very small thing, to someone? 

Letters preserve pieces of lives lived. 

My mother-in-law, Dorothy, who lived in Florida, was a platinum-level correspondent. She would first write a draft of her letters and then commit them to gorgeous note paper in a final version. Her penmanship rivaled any Palmer method devotee. 

The letters were precious in their content with immaculate cursive writing. Here is a sample:

During the summer between my eighth-grade and freshman year of high school, I corresponded with my beloved eighth-grade teacher, Sister Kathleen Thomas. As expected, her penmanship ranked in the stratosphere of beautiful handwriting. More importantly, she always cared deeply about her students, encouraging us to make the most of our expanding lives, as evidenced in the note below:

Letters can bring good news.

My first job in high school was at the J.C. Penney department store, located in Upper Darby's retail-heavy 69th Street. While the offer letter below is a one-way correspondence, it marks my entry into the part-time employment world.

Sentimentality is a core value of mine, so I was not surprised that my almost 16-year-old self was very proud of this particular "first." 

Penney's employed me throughout high school and on breaks from college. They were reliable to me, and I to them. 

My husband's maternal grandmother, Odie, also wrote to me starting while he and I dated. She was a retired school teacher and understood the value of written communication. She loved to share stories, especially from her years of living overseas in the 1960s. I am glad to have kept one of her letters.

Letters are sometimes the writer's final words. 

My mother had two older brothers who served as US Army soldiers in Europe during WWII. Pete, the middle child, died in Germany and is buried in a US cemetery in the Netherlands. 

Letters from Pete detail his soldier's story from basic training in 1943 to fighting facism on the front lines in Germany in 1944. He writes with optimism and reassurance. Pete reliably asks the family in every single letter without fail not to worry and to look after his beloved girlfriend, Gilda.

My grandmother saved over 50 letters from this soldier son.

Below are two particularly precious examples: Pete's last letter home and Elizabeth and Vincent's Christmas card to him. 

They crossed in the mail in October/November 1944. The parents and son had no idea they would be the final written words between them.

First is Pete's last letter, written 10/31/1944. He consoles his mother in what appears to be criticism she received from a friend for not crying or worrying in front of others about her son fighting overseas. 

Pete writes with tender understanding and, as always, a reminder to "keep up your courage and never worry." 

Pete's last letter home written 10/31/1944
(1 week after his 21st birthday & 1 week before he died in combat)

Next is the Christmas card sent from Elizabeth and Vincent, mailed in October, 1944. It expresses hope that this will be their son's last holiday overseas. It includes Vincent's signature. He never learned to read or write, but he could, with Elizabeth's encouragement and guidance, sign his name. 

(Every card my siblings and I received from Elizabeth and Vincent that celebrated a holiday, birthday, graduation, etc. included Vincent's signature emphasizing the moment's importance.) 

I can't imagine the searing emotion my mom and grandparents felt seeing this Christmas card returned to them during the seven months Pete was MIA. 

Note inside the Christmas card from Elizabeth & Vincent to my Uncle Pete postmarked 10/18/1944

  

Christmas card - Elizabeth & Vincent's signatures    postmarked 10/18/1944

Softly moving my index finger across the words stills me. These fragments are emotional portals, and I am a willing traveler. I honor this uncle whom I would never meet. I honor his parents' unsinkable love, which I luckily had for 21 years.

Such is the pulse of written correspondence.  

We not only hold something the writer once held, but we see something of their personality in their unique script, whether it is chicken scratch or elegant. They are embedded within each pen stroke. 

I remember touring Boston University with my eldest daughter and stopping in the school's library. There, protected in a glass case, were letters written by Dr. Martin Luther King in the 1950s when he was a BU student earning his PhD. 

Seeing his longhand felt so personal. It was visual oxygen breathing life back into this martyred leader. The handwriting brought him closer. 

History is saturated with letters penned by notable and mundane figures. They are treasures because they capture a moment in time, in the voice of the time, as experienced by the author. No filters. No AI. Just thoughts. 

From hieroglyphs to early alphabets, to modern languages, the urge to communicate affirms the essential human desire to be seen/heard. 

Letters freeze time.

A friend's daughter chose a love letter as a wedding ceremony reading. It was from her grandfather, who was serving as a US soldier during the Korean conflict, to her grandmother. Hearing those loving contents not only moved those of us who were guests; they landed powerfully for their recipient, the bride's grandmother, who was also in attendance without her deceased spouse. 

However, in a Cyrano de Bergerac twist, it was discovered that the grandfather deputized a fellow soldier all those years ago to use his eloquent writing skills to pen the love letter. He would then copy it onto his own notepaper and mail it to his stateside sweetheart.  

Authorship aside, the loving intention won the day, and they married shortly after he returned home from duty. 

Inspired by The Correspondent, a friend has initiated a pen pal effort with me, even though we live relatively near each other. I even have a few sheets of my mother-in-law's pretty writing paper to use.

Sitting in a quiet space, holding a particular pen, and writing one's thoughts in that moment feels different from a phone conversation or a text. It fuels contemplation.

Taking time to write forces my mind to slow down and think about the next word, which cannot be easily deleted by a quick tap of a keyboard key.  

It is emancipating and painstaking. 

It is art. 

Author Virginia Evans summons our inner correspondent. 

Let's heed the call.

 

*QUESTION: What handwritten letters have you saved from your past? Why have you kept them? 

*VIRGINIA EVANS INTERVIEW: Katie Couric interviews the author re: The Correspondent. 

 https://katiecouric.substack.com/p/my-first-kcbc-talk

*SUGGESTED READING: Want to read some letters written by notable historical figures? Click the link below. The website, The Marginalian, has been produced solely by Maria Popova since 2006, and offers insights via literature, science, philosophy, and human behavior themes. 

"Letters from The Greats"

https://www.themarginalian.org/2012/01/16/famous-correspondence/ 

*SOME ADDITIONAL WWII ERA CORRESPONDENCE

Letter to Elizabeth and Vincent identifying their son's gravesite in the Netherlands

Letter to Elizabeth and Vincent that accompanied their son's Purple Heart medal.

November 1944 telegram confirming Elizabeth and Vincent's son is missing in action.

June 1945 telegram confirming Elizabeth and Vincent's son was killed in action.

 

Corporal Peter J. Labate, US Army
112th Infantry Regiment
28th Division
October 21, 1923-November 7,1944

Things I Learned in 2025

Happy New Year! Here are some random thoughts on 2025 .

Music is a moral law. It gives a soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, gaiety, and life to everything. It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good, just, and beautiful. - Plato

Plato nailed it.

The addition of Pips to the assortment of the daily NYTimes Games energizes my dominoes-loving inner child. 

I quickly morphed into being a Sporty Spice when tickets for Super Bowl LIX were purchased hours before the big game in NOLA. 

Being in the Superdome to witness the Birds eviscerate the Kansas City Chiefs in February defines bliss.

Can someone send word to Taylor and Travis that I am patiently waiting for the nod to be their officiant? (Pay no attention to my previous Super Bowl musings)

Despite the above sports entries, I am, as the kids say, sports adjacent.

Hospitals are stressful labyrinths. Hospital volunteers are stress-relieving angels.

It is unclear why anyone would move out of the state of Colorado – she is magnificent!

Choosing the wrong option when trying to transfer my Apple iphone photos to my Microsoft Surface laptop resulted in the loss of thousands of photos. It is a massive disappointment. It is also strangely liberating.

A muffuletta sandwich from New Orleans Central Grocery & Deli is the closest I will ever come to sandwich paradise. (I see you DiNics roast pork sandwich with broccoli rabe!)

I believe in magic when a couple marry at ages 73 and 74 and describe their delight this way: Sometimes love comes and gives you a fairytale!

Officiating is magical.

Combining vodka and many vanilla beans makes homemade vanilla extract. Leave the bottle sit in a cool, dry place for 6-12 months and voila! Best kitchen hack.  

Driving around Albuquerque, NM, visiting various filming locations used in Breaking Bad re-ignited my obsession with that show.

Having your kitchen knives professionally sharpened is a culinary imperative. (I'm embarrassed to say how infrequently I've had it done.)

Keeping a box of Band-Aids near said knives is also an imperative. 

What we run from pursues us. What we face transforms us.                        Author David Kessler on grief.

While taking a sheet of cookies out of the 400-degree oven, one of my earbuds fell into the crease between the door and oven. Fishing it out quickly while avoiding third-degree burns took unknown dexterity. 

Bonus: that earbud was unphased and is working properly.

Country singer Luke Combs was not on my list of ‘must-see’ artists until he closed Saturday’s performances at the Newport Folk Festival. His vulnerability and beautifully curated set turned me into a fan.

Big Bend National Park is, well, BIG! Texas is BIG. That’s right – my first visit in February confirmed what I’ve been told my entire life.

Regarding Texas politics - pfffft. 

Hospice workers elevate humanity when we are at our most vulnerable. 

Preparing your parents’ home of 47 years for sale is a bittersweet labor of love that also includes a strange exhale on settlement day.

MAGA is outsized white folk fear untethered. It worships a convicted felon. It terrorizes immigrants and defaces democracy. I am tired of re-learning this every darn day. Mid-term elections are coming.

Ken Burns’ “The American Revolution” is a respectful study of all aspects of how this country was colonized and the global impact – warts and all. It should be required viewing in every HS History class.

Author Wally Lamb taught creative writing at York Correctional Institution for Women for over 20 years, facilitating writing workshops that led to published anthologies. 

Thanks to the Merriam-Webster daily Instagram posts, these words are new to me:

Librocubicularist – (this is me) n. A person who reads in bed. From the Latin 'liber' (“book”) and 'cubiculum' (“bedroom”). The word was originally coined by Christopher Morley in his novel 'The Haunted Bookshop' (1919).

Psithurism – (glorious nature!) n. Greek. The sound of wind in the trees and the rustling of leaves.

Kakistocracy – (MAGA) n. government by the least suitable or competent citizens of a state. A state or society governed by its least suitable or competent citizens. 

This new-to-me bird is described perfectly by this humorous content creator:

                                                            

Taking us into 2026, glorious Patti Smith reminds us who has the power. I have this on repeat. 

***

Raul Malo’s voice may have been silenced this year, but it lives on in the ethers. Treat yourself to 6+ minutes of his soulful baritone and guitar licks singing Blue Moon with The Mavericks.  

***

Spoken word poet, Andrea Gibson, appropriately has the final say to close out this post. They died at age 49 in July. Please read any of their books or watch any of their performances via youtube videos.  

They are lightning. 

I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color

but I've seen flowers bloom at midnight

I've seen kites fly in gray skies

and they were real close to looking like the sunrise,

and sometimes it takes the most wounded wings

the most broken things

to notice how strong the breeze is,

how precious the flight.

***

Dear Reader ~ If you've made it this far into this annual vanity post, bless you! I am grateful and humbled to have your attention. Here's to a satisfying start to 2026. Let love and truth be our guide.