George Jones: Flawed, And I Don’t Give a Damn

As a kid, most of my Saturday mornings were spent rumbling along gravel roads in NE Kansas in my dad’s beat-up Chevy truck. We meandered from farm auction to farm auction. He bought a lot of dollar boxes–piles of junk in disintegrating and smelly cardboard, but with the possibility of a little piece of farm-gold contained within. They were all still piled-up in the barn when I cleaned it out 20 years later for our own farm auction–the only one of them I wish I could forget.

On those trips, the radio was always tuned to 61 Country, a Kansas City country and western station. AM, of course. Waylon and Willie were always heard on those mornings. So was Ronnie Milsap, and Johnny Cash, and Conway Twitty,  and even the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.

On the best of those days, there was always at least one offering from George Jones. His tales were the ones that made my dad listen. Really listen.

I listened, too. But, I’d never admit it. As a kid, I couldn’t admit such a thing to my father.

Now, though, I admit it to all of you, wishing I could do the same with my father and sad that one of the voices from my childhood passed today.


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