I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar, yet I can’t seem to place it
Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name

— Edward Louis Severson III

—

When you run a nudge under 11 miles on a teeny indoor track, you have a lot of time to think. And remember. Things like this.

The date was January 26, 1974. The place was the San Angelo Holiday Inn. The weather was cold and windy, one of those icy West Texas days that the chamber of commerce neglects to mention in the brochures.

I was working as a dishwasher at the hotel. This was purely because Rhonda Hudson was working as a waitress there and would occasionally come into the kitchen to drop off her orders. You would have to be a lovestruck 17-year-old to appreciate this.

On this particular day, we were not in the kitchen. We were upstairs at the front of the hotel, watching through the large window as a highly anticipated tour bus pulled into the parking lot.

The brightly lit sign on the front said simply: “Porter Wagoner.”

As an aspiring hippie, I wasn’t much of a country music fan. But I had spent a good chunk of my misspent youth in Vancourt, Texas, population 6. Two of those folks were my grandparents.

Granddad ran the little combination country store/gas station/post office in the tiny farming community, so the young Smith Boys would hang out there, playing crocinole to the death and eating expired chocolate bars. It was many years later that I discovered Hershey bars weren’t supposed to be sickly white.

The coveted overnight stays with the grandparents meant camping out in their living room, roughly 20 feet from a nonstop serenade of 18-wheelers that roared by on the highway on a timetable not suited for kids. But these visits came with a price: Granddad’s TV shows.

We would watch Lawrence Welk, the Grand Ole Opry and Hee-Haw. Mostly, Granddad loved The Porter Wagoner Show. He was a country singer with a spectacular technicolor sequined suit, later to be appropriated by a little old band from Texas, and a sidekick named Dolly. We must have watched that show about once for every Hershey bar I ate there. A lot.

Several years had passed by the time that bus pulled up at the Holiday Inn, but it still felt like Santa arriving. We didn’t have many celebrities come through town, and I couldn’t recall ever seeing one this close. The tension mounted as the bus sat in the parking lot.

The doors opened. The band started piling out. There was Porter Wagoner, disappointingly dressed in civilian clothes.

And then, Dolly Parton.

She was angelic. I had a pang of remorse for feeling this way with Rhonda Hudson in such close proximity. She stepped off the bus, bundled up against the cold and wind. The blonde mane atop her head was part hair, part halo. It was magnificent.

And then it took off, flying across the parking lot.

It was only at this moment I realized it was a wig. I had been an idealistic youth, assuming that Minnie Pearl went around in real life wearing a hat with a price tag hanging off it, John Wayne was a cowboy, and Dolly Parton had the world’s most fantastic hair.

As it turned out, she did. And it was quite mobile.

Someone from the band was able to capture the wannabe chinchilla before it scurried across the county line, and she placed it back on her head at a slight angle. They continued into the Holiday Inn, which at the time was the swankiest spot in San Angelo, even if the dishwashing was sub-par.

I never saw her after that. I had to be content to stay with Rhonda Hudson, which in hindsight was quite unfortunate. Although I’m fairly certain that was Rhonda Hudson’s actual hair.

I read later that year that Dolly Parton had parted ways with Porter Wagoner to attempt a solo career. This seemed like a profoundly bad idea to me, given that she had a pretty sweet gig and a comfortable future. But I suppose you go wherever your hairpiece leads you.

Now and then I wonder what became of her. The music industry is such a brutal place. Two of the three guys in that little old band from Texas in Porter Wagoner suits died, you know.

Still, I hope things turned out OK. She seemed like she was well grounded, even if her hair was not. A lifetime of angelic work should be rewarded, whether she ever made it to stardom or not. There’s something to be said for working 9 to 5.

I hope heaven is a lot like Dollywood.

And maybe not too windy.

And then the Garmin buzzes, and your run is over.