OldiesSong

Greatest Hits Oldies But Goodies Ever

On September 27, 1948, 23-year-old World War II Navy veteran Marty Robbins married 16-year-old Marizona Baldwin in Arizona long before he owned a single recording contract. At the time of their wedding, Robbins was completely unknown outside a handful of small nightspots around Phoenix. Still carrying the weight of a difficult childhood and his years in the service, he pieced together an uncertain living working construction jobs by day and singing for modest pay in local bars and beer joints at night. Marizona stepped into that lean life at just 16, accepting simple meals and late nights while her young husband tried to find his footing. Long before the rest of the country heard his voice, she cherished his dream of becoming a singing cowboy and sat as his earliest loyal supporter inside the small venues of the Southwest. That quiet belief gave Robbins the first steady anchor he had ever known. When hit records and Grand Ole Opry appearances later brought wealth and relentless attention in Nashville, an industry known for short marriages, his gratitude to Marizona kept him grounded. The simple vows they exchanged on September 27, 1948 held intact for 34 years until the end of his life in 1982. Through every decade of applause and temptation, Robbins protected his bond with the 16-year-old girl who had placed her whole future in his hands when all he had was a guitar and a construction job in Phoenix.

Please scroll down for the video. It is at the end of the article!

When Martin David Robinson returned to Maricopa County, Arizona, after his discharge from the United States Navy in 1947, he met Marizona Baldwin at Upton’s Ice Cream Parlor at the corner of Glendale and 58th avenues in downtown Glendale. By the time they married on September 27, 1948, a day after his 23rd birthday, the future Marty Robbins had no recording contract and relied on daytime manual labor and small nightclub gigs around Phoenix to support his teenage bride.

Born on September 26, 1925, on the outskirts of Glendale, Robbins had grown up in extreme poverty as one of 10 children in a household fractured by his father’s heavy drinking and his parents’ 1937 divorce. After leaving high school to help his mother pay bills and serving as a Navy coxswain on an amphibious landing craft in the Solomon Islands during World War II, he came home to Arizona with a guitar he had taught himself to play in the Pacific.

During the first year of their marriage, Robbins worked construction and odd jobs while taking night shifts playing guitar and singing in local beer joints for a few dollars an evening. At first, he performed under the alias “Jack Robinson” so his mother would not discover he was working inside Phoenix bars.

In April 1949, six months into their marriage, Marizona gave birth to their first child, Ronald Canson Robinson, known as Ronny, while the young family lived in a modest rear apartment on North Third Street in Glendale. That same year, when singer Frankie Starr left his post at Fred Kares’s Phoenix club, Vern and Don’s, Robbins stepped in as lead vocalist with the K-Bar Boys alongside guitarist Floyd Lanning and steel player Jimmy Farmer.

As crowds began lining up outside Vern and Don’s to hear him, Robbins told Marizona that he was going to make records and bring their family to the Grand Ole Opry. Soon he was hosting a daily radio show on KTYL in Mesa and a weekly local television program, *Western Caravan*, on KPHO-TV in Phoenix.

His break arrived in 1951 when Grand Ole Opry star Little Jimmy Dickens visited Phoenix, appeared as a guest on Robbins’ television broadcast, and urged Columbia Records executives to sign him. After Robbins wrote and recorded “I’ll Go On Alone,” which climbed to number one on the Billboard country chart in late 1952, he packed up Marizona and young Ronny and moved to Nashville to join the Grand Ole Opry in January 1953.

Over the next decade, Robbins became one of Columbia’s signature crossover stars with hits including “Singing the Blues,” “A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation),” and “El Paso,” which won a Grammy Award and topped both the country and pop charts at the end of 1959. In January 1959, he and Marizona welcomed their second child, a daughter named Janet, and settled on a quiet property in Brentwood, south of Nashville, away from the business offices of Music Row.

Even as movie roles, 35 NASCAR stock car races, and hundreds of annual tour dates pulled Robbins across North America, he frequently chartered private planes after his Saturday night Opry performances or Sunday afternoon races to get straight back to Brentwood. Marizona avoided industry banquets and press cameras, choosing instead to manage the family’s finances and raise Ronny and Janet at home.

After suffering a severe heart attack in August 1969 and undergoing triple bypass surgery, Robbins released his self-penned tribute to her, “My Woman, My Woman, My Wife,” in January 1970. The ballad reached number one on the country chart and earned the Grammy Award for Best Country Song, followed three years later by his top-ten single “Love Me,” which looked back affectionately on their early courtship in Arizona.

In October 1982, two months before a third heart attack ended his life at age 57 on December 8, 1982, Robbins stood on stage at the Country Music Hall of Fame induction ceremony with Marizona still at his side, 34 years after their wedding day in Arizona.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NuX79Ud8zI

Related Post

On the night of November 7, 2001, Alan Jackson walked off the 35th Annual CMA Awards stage at the Grand Ole Opry House with his hands still trembling. Seconds earlier, he had finished singing “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” for the first time in front of millions of live television viewers. Fighting to keep his composure beneath the bright lights had left him exhausted, and he still carried a lingering fear that the public might misunderstand his motives for addressing the pain of September 11. Out in the auditorium, George Strait had not stayed in his seat to watch the rest of the broadcast. Known throughout his career as a quiet, composed man who kept his emotions private, Strait had slipped out of the crowd during the applause and made his way backstage to wait in the wings. The moment Jackson stepped past the stage curtain, Strait walked up to his friend and pulled him into a tight embrace. Standing there out of view of the cameras, Strait told him, “You did something wonderful for the whole country tonight.” Hearing those words from a peer he deeply respected washed away the last of Jackson’s hesitation, confirming that the song had delivered the comfort he hoped for. On a night designed for industry competition and trophies, the truest measure of the performance happened behind the curtain, where one country singer held up another after he had carried the weight of a grieving nation.

On February 23, 2003, inside New York City’s Madison Square Garden, Alan Jackson won the first Grammy Award of his career for “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning).” Throughout the previous decade, Jackson had sent dozens of upbeat hits to the top of the country charts without ever taking home a golden gramophone. When the 45th Annual Grammy Awards finally called his name for Best Country Song, the honor arrived through a quiet ballad born at four in the morning out of national grief. Receiving that trophy in Manhattan carried a rare weight for everyone inside the arena. Ground Zero sat just a few miles south of the stage, and the city was still living with the daily ache of September 11. Walking up to the microphone in his cowboy hat, the southern singer set aside any talk of personal triumph or industry pride. Rather than treating the trophy as a career milestone, he used his time at the podium to remember the innocent people lost in the attacks and to bow his head in gratitude to the firefighters, police officers, and rescue workers who ran into the smoke to save their fellow citizens. Standing in the heart of New York with music’s highest honor in his hands, Jackson made sure the moment belonged to the people who carried the real burden of that day. From a quiet room in Tennessee to the stage of Madison Square Garden, he never once claimed the song for his own glory, turning his first Grammy into a public thank-you to the heroes and families of September 11.

When Alan Jackson wrote “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” in late 2001, he left out every graphic image of smoke, fire, and falling steel. At a time when much of the entertainment world leaned toward dramatic scenes of conflict or loud calls for retaliation, Jackson turned his focus toward ordinary Americans caught in the middle of a routine Tuesday morning. Rather than recounting the violence of September 11, his songwriting pictured everyday working people across the country, from a teacher in front of a classroom and a farmer out in a field to a patient waiting for a doctor or someone staring up in shock at a clear blue sky. Setting those quiet daily habits against a sudden national tragedy awakened the exact moment the news broke for hundreds of millions of people. Hearing those familiar, everyday scenes prompted listeners everywhere to remember precisely where they were standing and what they were doing when their sense of safety vanished. By centering the story on unnamed working citizens, the record quietly erased geographic, social, and political lines across the United States. People did not cry during the song out of fear of destruction. They cried because they saw their own lives and families in those verses, recognizing just how fragile an ordinary morning could be. Refusing to dwell on rubble or fury, Jackson established a gentler way to honor a national loss, turning a simple country ballad into a shared mirror where millions of isolated memories could come together and heal.

After “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” was released in November 2001, tens of thousands of handwritten letters flooded Alan Jackson’s management office and his Tennessee home. The most moving stacks of mail arrived from New York, written by the widows, mothers, and relatives of fallen FDNY firefighters, rescue workers, and victims lost at Ground Zero. While recovery crews were still searching through the smoke and rubble for the remains of their loved ones, grieving families took the time to write to a country singer hundreds of miles away. None of those notes treated Jackson like a celebrity. Instead, families explained that listening to his quiet voice over small radios was the only comfort getting them through sleepless nights when the loss felt unbearable. They simply wanted to thank a stranger for putting their heartbreak into words without anger or judgment. Sitting in the quiet of his Tennessee house, Jackson broke down in tears as he read through the pages sent by spouses and parents who had lost everything. Before releasing the song, he had agonized over whether people might accuse him of profiting from a national tragedy. Those envelopes from New York washed that fear away, proving that following his conscience had given hurting people a place to lean. Across a career filled with platinum plaques and industry trophies, Jackson carefully saved those handwritten letters from 2001, keeping the words of Ground Zero families as the truest measure of what his music had done.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Alan Jackson stood inside his home outside Nashville, Tennessee, watching the World Trade Center towers fall on live television. The weight of what he saw on that screen left the country singer numb and withdrawn for weeks. Raised on simple small-town values, he found himself unable to pick up a guitar or write a single measure of music. Instead, he spent long days walking around his Tennessee property, looking at his young daughters and worrying about the uncertain future waiting for their generation. Across Nashville, the music industry quickly responded with a wave of loud, fiery patriotic records calling for retaliation. Jackson quietly stepped back from the trend and stayed completely silent. He held to a firm personal conviction that he would never commercialize a national tragedy or appear to profit from the loss suffered by thousands of innocent victims and their grieving families. While he understood how easily anger could stir a crowd, Jackson felt that people sitting in mourning did not need songs filled with fury. They needed a quiet space to hold their families close and begin to heal. For nearly two months, he honored their loss by keeping his guitar put away. That long stretch of silence and restraint carried all the way to late October, when the emotion he had refused to force finally woke him before dawn as a simple prayer for a hurting country.

On November 7, 2001, at the Grand Ole Opry House in Nashville, Alan Jackson stepped onto the 35th Annual CMA Awards stage with a song finished less than two weeks earlier. Show organizers and his crew had originally scheduled an upbeat number to match the bright lights and formal evening wear of the broadcast. Instead, Jackson insisted at the last minute on changing the plan to perform “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” for the first time in front of millions of live television viewers. Standing with an acoustic guitar and his familiar white cowboy hat, he kept his head bowed low. From the first measure to the close, his voice wavered as he fought to keep his composure, turning a commercial award show into a quiet space of remembrance for a nation still grieving the events of September 11. When the final guitar note faded, the auditorium of thousands of guests and peers fell into total silence for several seconds. Out in the crowd, fellow stars including George Strait, Vince Gill, and Reba McEntire openly wept, putting the night’s competition aside as the entire hall rose to its feet for a tearful ovation that stretched on for minutes. By the next morning, radio stations across the United States were flooded with requests from listeners asking to hear the live performance again. On an evening built for trophies and applause, those quiet seconds beneath the brim of a white cowboy hat gave a hurting country the comfort it needed most.

One morning in late October 2001, Alan Jackson sat in his Franklin, Tennessee living room with an acoustic guitar to play a new song for his wife, Denise. Hours earlier, at four in the morning, he had woken up and recorded the melody for “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” before it could slip away. Seated across from him in the quiet house, Denise became the first person to hear the piece from start to finish, breaking into tears during the opening lines as the music gave voice to the grief millions of American families had carried for weeks. Even as he watched his wife cry, Jackson hesitated to take the song any further. He worried that releasing a record tied to the attacks of September 11 would be misunderstood by the public as an opportunistic grab for money or attention, and he would rather keep the melody hidden at home than appear to exploit the pain of his fellow citizens. Denise reached out, held his hand tightly, and steadied his conscience. Speaking as a wife who understood the weight in the room rather than someone looking at commercial potential, she told him that the song did not belong only to him anymore, because a broken country desperately needed the healing it offered. That conversation between husband and wife cleared away his fear and convinced Jackson to carry the song straight to the CMA Awards stage just days later. Across the country, listeners received the performance without controversy, finding quiet comfort in a song that only left that Franklin living room because Denise refused to let him hide it.

One night in late October 2001, Alan Jackson woke up at four in the morning inside his Franklin, Tennessee home with a melody already formed in his mind. In the weeks since the attacks of September 11, Jackson had purposely avoided writing about the tragedy because he refused to exploit national grief for commercial gain. Afraid the melody would fade before daylight, he walked downstairs in his sleepwear, picked up an acoustic guitar, and sang the piece into a small handheld cassette recorder in the quiet of his house. Instead of anger or politics, the song focused on the everyday confusion of an ordinary husband and father holding onto faith, hope, and love while watching a wounded country try to heal. When Jackson played that rough tape for his wife, Denise, the next morning, they both sat in tears, recognizing the weight of what had been recorded in the middle of the night. On November 7, 2001, Jackson performed “Where Were You (When the World Stopped Turning)” in public for the first time at the CMA Awards. When he finished the final notes, the entire auditorium rose in quiet, tearful respect, turning a late-night voice memo into one of the most comforting moments in modern American television. Even after the performance reached millions of grieving homes, Jackson refused to take personal credit for writing it, insisting the song was a spiritual gift placed in his mind from above. What began at four in the morning on a handheld tape recorder in Franklin never belonged to his career alone; he simply passed it on to a country that needed it.

Throughout the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, as Marty Robbins became one of the busiest entertainers in America, his wife, Marizona Baldwin, stayed almost entirely out of the public eye to run their Nashville home and raise their two children, Ronny and Janet. Robbins kept a schedule that barely left room to breathe. Between headlining the Grand Ole Opry, touring across the country, filming movies, and strapping into high-speed NASCAR stock cars on the weekends, he was away from home for hundreds of days and nights each year. While crowds packed arenas to cheer for him, Marizona stayed behind in Nashville, managing the household alone and carrying the quiet worry that came every time her husband climbed into a race car. Rarely seen in press photos or on red carpets, Marizona never sought a share of her husband’s fame. Yet Robbins knew the heavy personal cost she paid for being married to a touring star. Rather than taking her patience for granted, he poured his remorse and gratitude into his songwriting, openly acknowledging the loneliness and emotional strain she endured while holding their family together from a distance. Until the end of Robbins’s life in 1982, Marizona remained in the background where she felt most at peace, keeping a steady Nashville home waiting for a husband whose career never slowed down.