The Kingdom, and the Power, and the Dolly Forever

Like many of you, I’ve spent the last few days in a fog of tears, disbelief, and deep grief. It seems that most of us have a story of how Dolly Parton impacted our lives. Here’s mine.

Not everyone can say they met God during a 1998 summer afternoon at Dollywood. A chapter from my memoir, Fatulous.

Commuting an hour each way to a daily summer job was inarguably stupid, unless that summer job happened to be at Dollywood. Before working there, I’d never considered myself a theme park person. Not only had I once ralphed spectacularly after a ride in a fake pirate ship, I also preferred to bypass any experience that risked my size-22 derrière getting stuck in a rigid roller coaster seat.

Dollywood was different, though. They had rides ranging from kiddy cars to rampaging river boats, but they balanced it with plenty of entertainment for the old and plump folks. Even if someone was scared to death of Daredevil Falls, they could still stand terrifyingly close to rehabilitated bald eagles or dip handmade candles in hot colored wax while “Baby I’m Burnin” played over rock-shaped outdoor speakers.

Plus, Mom, Sissy, and I adored Dolly Parton. She was practically family. In addition to making East Tennessee proud in general, our great-aunt Irene, also an employee, had rubbed elbows with her plenty of times in the park, making her a blood relative by proxy. Most importantly, Dolly had grown up even poorer than us and managed to earn a bazillion dollars without becoming a stuck-up, big-city defender, creating the Dollywood empire and bringing dignified jobs to her small hometown.

There were only two people who walked on water as far as Mama and I were concerned, and one of them did it in hot pink heels.

Since lunchladies didn’t get paid during school breaks, Mom was used to having a second, or third, job. In years past, she’d slung breakfast at McDonald’s, cleaned hotel rooms for a pittance, and hoisted huge bags of mail at the post office, hoping to get hired on full-time. She was an authority on the worst careers available for the working class, so the fact that she would spend time, money, and effort on something temporary spoke not only to the quality of the job but also her sense of belonging.

All three of us worked in food service at Dollywood. We’d been hired on the spot after a brief glance at our résumés revealed a combined decade of experience. Dish room labor, pizza making, and Sunday waitressing for picky patrons (the bulk of whom were Christian, flush with the Holy Spirit but never cash for tips) weren’t impressive careers, but at Dollywood, we were blessed and highly favored.

My supervisor had asked my preference on where to work in the park, or if I didn’t have a preference, he would decide for me. I knew the importance of choosing for myself. Choice was a non-negotiable freedom in all aspects of a woman’s life. It was particularly crucial when trying to determine one’s potential for heat stroke.

If I’d let someone else pick, I might’ve ended up in Craftsman’s Valley, where the female employees had to wear long calico dresses and beribboned caps no matter the time of year. I wasn’t as strong as my ancestors. I couldn’t bear a sweltering summer with only sweat to cool me off. Even the privilege of squatting over an electric fan all day, a prospect that would’ve had my mountain grandmothers sighing in relief, was inadequate for my easily overheated constitution.

I decided to spend my summer in Jukebox Junction, the section of Dollywood designed to look like Sevierville, TN in the 1950s. Jukebox Junction reminded me of Andy Griffith’s Mayberry. Vintage pastel cars dotted the perimeter of a streetscape lined with faux storefronts for TVs, fashions, and furniture. Authentic commercials played between ‘50s songs on a soundtrack that was surprisingly rockin’, even on repeat.

The uniform for Jukebox Junction was manageable. I wore a white button-down shirt, jeans, and a jaunty polyester scarf I threaded through my collar. The wardrobe department had also offered a poodle skirt, in case the jeans were too warm, but I hadn’t worn anything with a dog on it since I was a toddler, and I wasn’t going to start again now.

The average working day for our family was long, often lasting from park open to close. Sometimes, when business was slow, a manager might close a stand early, giving whoever worked there the rest of the evening off. Of the three of us, this happened to me the most. Guests tended to leave the perimeters of the park as the evening wore on, often returning to the park’s main drag, Showstreet, for the latest country revue and Dolly-related shopping.

Sissy, because of her unusual teenage competence, was given a Showstreet sausage stand to run. She hated her sausage stand with the heat of a thousand suns, which was also the approximate temperature inside the booth. Half the booth’s square footage was occupied by a giant skillet, over which Sissy and her wilted auburn curls presided, grilling kielbasas and onions for delirious Northern tourists. These piteous creatures were clearly affected by malady, for nothing but the fever of dehydration would cause a perspiring man to cram a steaming hot sandwich in his mouth in the middle of July.

Sometimes after work, I’d hunker in the back of the sausage stand and hang out with Sissy. I admired her approach to these customers. Her tone was sweet, but tart, like the first bite of a Granny Smith apple. Sissy would repeat their order back to them, coolly and politely. Something in her tone would cause the customer to instinctively bristle at the unidentifiable but definite undercurrent of her words. They would retreat confusedly, immediately self-medicating with a bite of their sizzling hoagie in an attempt to deflect her masterly frostiness.

Sissy, who had the all the brains, beauty, and drive needed for world domination, may have been unable to stop them from patronizing her booth in the first place, but her honeyed intimidation guaranteed only the most masochistic would return. And weirdly, they did.

I hardly ever saw Mom. She worked the food line at Aunt Granny’s, the park’s only buffet. Because it was a sit-down restaurant, the employees consistently worked past closing. There was always a group of thoughtless tourists saddling up to the steam trays ten minutes before Dollywood shut down for the night. Aunt Granny’s was hard work, and when I did get a chance to see Mom, she didn’t have time to talk and was usually stinking of an unholy mix of bleach water and fried chicken.

I had the best food service job at Dollywood, hands down. Most days, I was alone in an air-conditioned square box painted to look like Jukebox Junction’s telephone company. I made and sold pretzels. The only reason my booth was air-conditioned was because I worked with raw dough, but once I opened the front hatch on the Tennessee Telephone each morning, the heavy humidity of summer replaced the icy cool within minutes. Still, it was a pleasant location. Soft pretzels were tasty. When matched against the adorable Red’s Diner next door, however, most people flocked to their more traditional ‘50s menu.

I rolled out pretzels a few times a day, but the bulk of my business was selling soda. The rest of the time, I wrote postcards to friends and surreptitiously read Stephen King paperbacks. I was well aware that this was one of the last summers before the responsibilities of adult productivity smothered me, with no relief and no parole until retirement. I intended to enjoy every minute.

I stood in my booth late one afternoon, bopping along mindlessly to a zany song about tan shoes and pink shoelaces. I was making a list of things I’d need to pack to take back to the dorm in a few weeks. The summer had flown by, and I was excited about my return to Kentucky. A lot had happened.

After nine agonizing months, Davy and I had broken up. I’d known from the start we’d never last. I’d ignored my intuition anyway just to have a fun and cute companion at the ready. My body rebelled for disregarding its wisdom, and I’d been anxious and itchier than normal since last autumn.

I’d officially ended things after Davy blew off a Saturday evening with me to fill water balloons for a youth group meeting, yet it was fair to say the breakup was mutual. We’d had a good time, but ultimately, the spark wasn’t there. I was bad about trying to outrun emotional pain, using every available tool of deflection to postpone the task of processing my feelings. However, delaying the inevitable had been unfair to both of us.

I tried to recapture my high school feelings and fall back in love. I really did, but I found nothing but effort and frustration in time-travel.

My brief recollection of the events caused a twitch in my scalp that knocked the diamanté cat-eye sunglasses off my head. They landed on my nose with a painful thump. One thing I knew for sure: I deserved to love and be loved by someone well-suited for me, and the sooner, the better. Anytime God felt like sending him along would be swell.

“Twilight Time” by The Platters replaced the cheerful hiccups of Dodie Stevens, and I took a moment to appreciate the backlot-like quality of my surroundings. Wandering around Dollywood, especially after the park had closed, was like sneaking onto a movie set in the middle of the night. Reality and rose-colored remembrance blended in every corner, from the lye soap makers just south of the Blazing Fury to the living sock-hop of Jukebox Junction. I was as embarrassingly susceptible to the wistful nostalgia as much as any guest was — maybe more so, since I knew by virtue of my blue-collar birth that if born for real in The Olden Days, I’d have starved to death or died of consumption years before adolescence. To me, the park was a laudanum-soaked handkerchief, always ready to lure folks into dreams of a mostly imaginary past. Dollywood’s charm snuck up so effectively, it made me woozy.

I saw my boss round the corner from Showstreet, and I quickly swept my list under the counter so he wouldn’t see. He greeted me and asked for a breakdown of cash, checks, and the souvenir paper money also accepted as real currency in the park. I reported the info, which he scribbled on a clipboard, and then he released me for the day.

After cleaning up, I gathered my things and locked up the Tennessee Telephone. I wadded up my polyester scarf, unpinned my name tag, and tossed both identifying markers into my purse. After a quick trip to drop off the cash bag, I was free to explore the park for the next few hours until Mom waddled out of Aunt Granny’s on tender feet, bestrewn with okra dust like she’d been consecrated by a Southern holy man.

On my way out of Jukebox Junction, I took a right on Showstreet and passed by the sausage stand. As usual, there was a line three-deep of round-bellied middle-aged men waiting to order. I said a brief prayer for Sissy and walked past quickly, hoping a rainstorm would thunder in and drive them out of Dollywood forever.

At the fork beside the tunnel, I decided to continue toward The Village and Country Fair rather than climb the hill to Craftsman’s Valley. Dolly’s museum, my favorite place in the park, was just through the tunnel, but I’d been sweating all day and the last thing I wanted to hear was the slow whoosh whoosh of my denim-clad thighs as I made my way to the entrance. Additionally, the museum was downwind of Ham-n-Beans, a popular concession stand that churned out fart-producing pintos by the pound. I didn’t want to be in its fragrant pathway this close to dinner.

Country Fair never held my interest. No matter how charming Dollywood’s version of a carnival was, it would never hold a candle to Knoxville’s Tennessee Valley Fair, where you could judge both prize-winning pumpkins and fist-fighting women, all named Tammy, in the same place.

The Village was better. Decorated like a turn-of-the-century town, it combined the old-timey charm of an enterprising burg with the pleasant but doomed vibe of second-class seating on the Titanic. Many people flocked to The Village’s beautifully restored carousel, but the overwhelming favorite was the Dollywood Express, a real coal-fired steam locomotive that took guests on a 5-mile ride through a lush section of the property.

The train’s whistle was a favorite of mine. It was irritatingly loud and minorly pitched, as lonesome sounding as a grieving mother clinging to the solid posts of the depot, awaiting her doughboy’s return in a pine box. The mournful whistle was the most honest music in the park, except for Dolly’s songs about childhood poverty and her did-they-or-didn’t-they love for Porter Wagoner.

When the train pulled away from the station, the conductor would tug the horn twice, sending soot and a deep woo wooooo flying to the tops of the trees. My heart would clunk sadly with every toot. My sadness felt strangely familiar, like I was remembering a hardscrabble past life where I’d clung to a post of my own. Who knew what spirits were floating around the thickly wooded perimeter beyond the tracks? Most would think me silly because I believed that a psychic residue had sunk deep in this section of Dollywood long ago. What caused it was debatable, but whatever it was, it held on as strongly as the seatbelts on the Mountain Slidewinder.

After strolling past the Berries-N-Cream booth, I paused to greet the train passengers as they chugged past. I felt like the world’s biggest dork waving bye-bye to a bunch of strangers. The tug in my soul told me I was only doing what came naturally, mirroring the affection I wished to receive. I didn’t know if it was an Appalachian apparition beckoning me with a bittersweet memory or merely a hunger fugue created by the mouthwatering smell of Victoria’s Pizza. Either way, I would spend my time here this evening.

At the east end of The Village was the Heartsong Theatre. Heartsong was a short immersive film about Dolly’s childhood and the blazing beauty of the Smoky Mountains. When Dolly sang about flowers, for instance, fragrance would spritz from the corners of the theatre. An animatronic owl would hoot from a perch during a night scene. There was even a live banjo player dressed as Dolly’s crusty mountain neighbor, Applejack, who would stagger out on stage long enough to pick out his namesake tune and then retreat. Immersive presentations were nothing new to people who frequented Anaheim and Orlando. I could count the number of theme parks I’d ever been to on one hand, though, and I found Heartsong truly delightful.

After a dinner of pepperoni pizza and red Powerade, I retreated into the coolness of the theatre. I sighed with contentment as the movie opened with an eagle’s eye view of various scenes of the Smokies. It was easy to take East Tennessee’s loveliness for granted. The quiet exclamations of the audience, many of them far from home, left me awash with fresh gratitude for my birthplace.

The only dumb part of Heartsong was what Sissy and I called the Butterfly Girl Scene, where a child frolicked happily in a field surrounded by animated butterflies. There was so much genuine beauty in the mountains that it seemed unnecessary to rope cartoon insects into a synchronized dance party to serve as background for the soundtrack. This wasn’t the little girl’s fault – she was cute as a button and doing the best with the material she had, but the scene should have been left on the cutting room floor, and the little girl recast as Dolly’s tough school chum or something, the one who smarted off to the teacher and kept hand-rolled cigarettes tucked in the ruffles of her pinafore.

After the Butterfly Girl danced her way into our hearts, the movie transitioned to a section on Dolly’s Christian faith. Dolly’s belief in God was strong and unmistakable, never pushy. I’d seen her preach the gospel countless times just by leading with love and staying the hell out of people’s business. Cynics and Bible-thumpers would say she was simply being business savvy by trying to appeal to everyone. I disagreed. If you were fortunate, you might know one or two people from whom kindness and an abiding serenity radiated constantly. I considered my daddy to be one of these people. Fred Rogers radiated the same way. Dolly was the third member of my personal Trinity.

This special kindness wasn’t the same as perfection or piety. Plenty of people were good-hearted and helpful, but this trait exceeded everyday decency – it was extraordinarily rare and precious. Having known Daddy for eleven whole years before his death, I recognized that same goodness in Dolly, and I’d trounce any press agent or bulging-eyed preacher who suggested otherwise.

A sweet scene filmed in a small, white chapel followed Dolly’s voiceover, and then we heard a loud crack of thunder and the sound of a torrential downpour.

Dolly, dressed in a white sequined gown, exactly like the angels on high, strode out on a porch and began to sing “He’s Alive.” The lyrics, though not her own, majestically proclaimed the news of Jesus’ resurrection, a joyful declaration of the hope of eternal life. Her voice, backed by a mighty choir, rang true and strong.

Inside the theatre, misty rain began to fall.

Several in the audience clapped, and one person uttered a hearty, “Amen!” I didn’t clap. In fact, I didn’t move. I was trying my best to prevent tears from rolling out of my eyes. I felt a great ache in my soul, a longing from every flawed fiber of my being that hoped God was real and loving. There was so much evidence in my life, often unwittingly supplied by Christian authorities, that God was nothing but an imaginary pliant deity — tough when humans needed evidence of His wrath to control and oppress, but weak when it came to protecting His children, feebly giving cover to humans for failing to help the least of these.

Despite my best efforts, tears spilled down my face. My nose started in on the fun, pouring snot so as to not be outdone by my eyes. I wiped my face on the sleeve of my button-down shirt, trying to collect myself. Crying in front of strangers was almost as embarrassing as experiencing a genuine theological moment packaged by slick corporate creatives. Normally, I was proud of my sensitivity. Infiltrating my deep longing was a quiet humiliation that Dolly’s marketing team might have found the perfect sucker, one willing to transform her catharsis into a CD sale. Of course, when I really thought about it, megachurches were rarely different, willing to jerk the heartstrings of the congregation to sponsor a missionary or upgrade the sound system and coffee bar in Jesus’ name.

The same psychic tug I’d felt outside suddenly occupied the nearby space, something unexplained and tremendous. The energy that settled around me was hallowed and playful –a powerful benevolence, mostly unknowable in this plane, yet sparkling with amusement for us all. And loving. So loving.

The soft rain continued for a few seconds, landing gently on my head and forearms, and then came to a stop. The energy had dissipated, too, gone as fast as it had arrived. Heartsong concluded with a reprise of the title track and a replay of clips from the film, and then it was over. There was more applause, and after that, we filed out into The Village.

My legs circled back of their own accord. I walked into a nearby shop and purchased the Heartsong album. With my employee discount, and the fact that I chose to buy an outdated cassette tape instead of a CD, the album cost next to nothing. I decided I could live with myself since I hadn’t been manipulated into giving too much to the Dollywood coffers. As far as what had happened inside the theatre, I’d never know the answer. Maybe God – Whatever God was – popped by to remind me He was never far away, never further than the next train car or row of theme park seats, even if He always kept quiet.

Or perhaps, my pepperoni heartburn and Powerade-nourished tears, along with an effective filmmaking strategy, caused me to hallucinate so I wouldn’t feel so lonely. Either way, I’d had a breakthrough.

I wasn’t ready to stop believing in Something.

Dusk was approaching and the park would soon be closing. I returned to Showstreet. Sissy was busy counting her register drawer, so I sat on a bench between Sausage Works and Aunt Granny’s to wait. After taking her money to the cash office, Sissy sat down next to me as we waited for Mom. Employees from other parts of the park shambled past us on their way to clock out, a zombie graveyard of glass blowers and Gibson girls and bobby soxers worn out from the day.

Eventually, Mama and the rest of Aunt Granny’s spilled out of the restaurant. Sissy and I joined the group, walking back toward Jukebox Junction and the employee entrance that would take us back to the parking lot.

“So, how was y’all’s day?” Mom asked jokingly. Sissy rolled her eyes, perpetually irritated by a day filled with bratwurst bros. I snorted with laughter, grabbing Mom’s reusable Daredevil Falls mug out of her hand for a sip of flat Mr. Pibb.

“Heather, did you get off early? What did you do?” Mom said to me.

I went to church was the thought I had, but I kept it inside. There was too much to explain, especially in mixed company. “Oh, nothing special,” I replied. “Had some pizza and took in a show. It was a good day.”

“I’m glad,” she said, retrieving her mug for a long, satisfying drink.

Once outside the park, we climbed into the complementary shuttle that took us up a steep hill to the employee parking lot. Now it was time for the long drive home. Before getting into our car, I paused to look at the dimmed lights of Dollywood below, respectfully extinguished like altar candles after a sermon.

“Another day, another Dolly Dollar,” I said to no one in particular.

“Get in this car, Punkinhead,” Mom shouted, muffled from inside.

Tomorrow, we’d do it all again. I was eager for another religious experience. If God was everywhere, that would be wonderful, but if He sometimes needed a place to park it in East Tennessee, He could do worse than the contrived, sublime streets of Dollywood.