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Greatest Hits Oldies But Goodies Ever

On January 4, 1953, three-year-old Randall Hank Williams was led by his mother Audrey past guitar-shaped floral arrangements at the Montgomery Municipal Auditorium to see his father’s open silver casket, surrounded by more than 25,000 mourners in the Alabama rain. Three days earlier, on New Year’s Day, twenty-nine-year-old Hank Williams Sr. had died in the back seat of a blue Cadillac at a gas station in Oak Hill, West Virginia, while seventeen-year-old college student Charles Carr drove him through a snowstorm toward a show in Canton, Ohio, after years of spina bifida pain, alcohol use, morphine, and chloral hydrate. Born on May 26, 1949, the boy grew up with almost no personal memory of his father’s voice or embrace, holding onto the childhood nickname Bocephus, taken from Grand Ole Opry comedian Rod Brasfield’s ventriloquist dummy, while piecing his father together through old shellac records and other people’s stories. By 1957, Audrey had put her eight-year-old son onstage in miniature versions of his father’s suits to sing Hank Sr.’s songs and copy every vocal break alongside the Drifting Cowboys. Backstage, older fans wept and touched the boy’s cheeks searching for the man they had lost in 1953. Nearly two decades of living as a substitute for his father pushed him into alcohol, pills, a fear of dying before thirty, and a near-fatal overdose in Nashville in 1974. Moving to Alabama to blend country with Southern rock, he survived a nearly 500-foot fall down Montana’s Ajax Peak on August 8, 1975, emerging from facial reconstruction behind a full beard, dark glasses, and a black cowboy hat that finally let Bocephus stop looking like his father’s ghost and live under his own name.

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When twenty-six-year-old Hank Williams Jr. woke up in a Missoula, Montana, hospital bed after falling nearly five hundred feet down Ajax Peak in August 1975, the first two faces he saw beside him belonged to Johnny Cash and June Carter.

For almost twenty years before that afternoon in the Beaverhead Mountains, the singer born Randall Hank Williams on May 26, 1949, had lived inside someone else’s outline. On January 1, 1953, his twenty-nine-year-old father died in the back seat of a blue Cadillac at an Oak Hill, West Virginia, gas station while seventeen-year-old college student Charles Carr drove him through a snowstorm toward a date in Canton, Ohio, following years of spina bifida pain, heavy drinking, morphine, and chloral hydrate.

Three days later, on January 4, more than 25,000 mourners stood in the rain outside the Montgomery Municipal Auditorium in Alabama as Audrey Williams led her three-year-old son past guitar-shaped floral arrangements to his father’s open silver casket.

Growing up with virtually no firsthand memories of his father’s voice, the boy held onto the childhood nickname Bocephus, borrowed from Grand Ole Opry comedian Rod Brasfield’s ventriloquist dummy, and pieced his father together through old 78 rpm records. By 1957, Audrey had put her eight-year-old son onstage in miniature tailored western suits to tour with the Drifting Cowboys, teaching him to replicate every vocal break while older fans backstage wept and touched his cheeks.

Even after he provided the singing voice for the 1964 biopic *Your Cheatin’ Heart* and scored his own country chart-toppers, audiences still expected a living monument to 1953. Haunted by the belief that he would also die before turning thirty, Williams spiraled into alcohol and prescription pills until a near-fatal overdose in Nashville in March 1974 forced a break.

That year, he relocated to Alabama and assembled Southern rock players in Muscle Shoals, including Charlie Daniels and Toy Caldwell, to record the album *Hank Williams Jr. and Friends*. Before the record could redefine him on the road, he traveled west in August 1975 to scout mountain goats near Wisdom, Montana, with local rancher and outfitter Dick Willey and Willey’s eleven-year-old son, Walt.

On August 8, the three climbed toward the Continental Divide on Ajax Peak along the Montana-Idaho border. Crossing a steep, six-foot-thick snowpack near the summit, Williams stepped directly into his guide’s footprint, only for the sun-rotted snow bridge beneath his boots to collapse.

He slid and tumbled nearly five hundred feet down the rocky face, striking a boulder at the bottom.

While eleven-year-old Walt stayed with the injured singer on the mountainside, Dick Willey hiked miles down the rugged terrain to summon a rescue crew and a Vietnam-era Bell 47G-3B-1 helicopter. Flown first to Barrett Hospital in Dillon and then to St. Patrick Hospital in Missoula, Williams underwent more than seven hours of emergency neurosurgery and plastic reconstruction to repair multiple skull and facial fractures.

As nurses cut away his clothes in the emergency room, a conscious Williams pointed to his neck and insisted they not cut off his cross. When he opened his eyes in recovery, Cash and Carter were standing by his bed, and Carter placed another cross on him while assuring him that he would pull through.

The recovery stretched across two years and seventeen surgeries, requiring doctors to rebuild his nose, forehead, and jaw while he relearned how to speak and sing from scratch.

When he finally stepped back into public view, he grew a thick beard to cover the surgical scars along his jawline, put on dark sunglasses to shield his reconstructed eye sockets, and pulled a black cowboy hat low over his forehead.

What started as a medical cover for his scars erased the clean-shaven resemblance that had tied him to his father’s ghost since childhood, leaving him free to build a rowdy, multi-platinum outlaw run in the late 1970s and 1980s under a look and sound that belonged solely to Bocephus.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GdDyEqnhvNI

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When Conway Twitty signed his will on July 18, 1984, he made sure the first $50,000 of his estate would go directly to his mother, Velma Dunaway. Long before the world knew him as a country superstar with 55 number-one hits, he was Harold Lloyd Jenkins, growing up in lean times in Friars Point, Mississippi, and Helena, Arkansas. His mother raised him through those hard early years and stayed close as his music carried him to national fame. When he opened his nine-acre Twitty City complex in Hendersonville, Tennessee, in 1982, he built a home right on the property for Velma alongside houses for his children so he could look after her every day. Two years later, while married to his second wife, Mickey Temple Jenkins, he put that same duty into legal writing, later adding two codicils to adjust his estate. That preparation was tested sooner than anyone expected. On June 4, 1993, after performing at the Jim Stafford Theatre in Branson, Missouri, the 59-year-old singer fell ill on his tour bus. He died the next morning at Cox South Hospital in Springfield from an abdominal aortic aneurysm. Because the 1984 will had not been fully updated following his 1987 marriage to his third wife, Delores “Dee” Henry, an eight-year legal dispute erupted between his widow and his four adult children, Michael, Kathy, Joni, and Jimmy. While courts and auctions eventually divided Twitty City and his music rights through 2001, the $50,000 instruction for his mother stood clear and untouched. Velma Dunaway lived nearly nine years after losing her son, passing away in March 2002 at age 88, still cared for by a promise he had locked in paper nearly a decade before his final road trip.

Years of arena tours and chart-topping records gave Carrie Underwood the means to live in any gated neighborhood in Tennessee, yet she never felt at home behind subdivision walls. After a fall outside her previous house in late 2017, Underwood and her husband, Mike Fisher, decided to leave suburban life behind and finish building their forever home on roughly four hundred acres of rural land outside Nashville. Moving out to the country brought Underwood back to the rhythms of her childhood in Checotah, Oklahoma, where she grew up on her parents’ cattle farm. Away from the cameras and award shows, she planted a large vegetable garden and orchard, spending hours in the kitchen canning tomatoes, pickling vegetables, and storing jars of homemade jam for the winter. Outside, she and Fisher stocked the pastures and barns with cattle, horses, and a flock of chickens. For Underwood, the move was mostly about how she wanted to raise their two sons, Isaiah and Jacob. Instead of growing up surrounded by music industry luxury, the boys spend their days barefoot in the dirt, gathering eggs from the coop, and helping with daily chores around the property. When the tour buses park and the stage lights go dark, the voice known to millions of country fans returns to four hundred acres of Tennessee pasture, trading red carpets for garden soil and a quiet farmhouse kitchen.

Before Carrie Underwood married NHL player Mike Fisher in July 2010, she sat down in 2009 with songwriters Kara DioGuardi, Marti Frederiksen, and Luke Laird to write a song for the woman who would have to let her go. Growing up in Checotah, Oklahoma, Carrie was the youngest of three daughters by several years. After her older sisters, Shanna and Stephanie, married and moved out, Carrie and her mother, Carole Underwood, spent years as close companions. Carole was a local elementary school teacher who sewed Carrie’s clothes and drove her to church singings and county fairs across Oklahoma. Preparing to build a marriage of her own, Carrie knew her wedding would leave the family home in Checotah quiet. The result was “Mama’s Song,” recorded for her third studio album, Play On. Rather than focusing only on romance, the ballad addressed a mother’s quiet worry when handing her daughter over to another man, reassuring Carole that Fisher would treat her well. When Carrie first played the finished recording for her mother before its release, the longtime schoolteacher broke down in tears. Released as a single on September 13, 2010, two months after the couple’s wedding, the track climbed to number two on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart and earned a Grammy nomination for Best Female Country Vocal Performance. For the music video directed by Shaun Silva around Nashville and Franklin, Tennessee, Carrie brought both Carole and Mike Fisher onto the set. It was the first time her mother and new husband appeared together in one of her videos. Standing beside the retired teacher from Checotah and the hockey player who had just married her youngest daughter, Carrie turned a chart hit into a family promise that thousands of brides have played for their own mothers on their wedding days ever since.

For the first seven months of their marriage, Carrie Underwood and NHL center Mike Fisher lived more than a thousand miles apart across two countries. After their wedding in Georgia on July 10, 2010, Fisher returned to Canada to play for the Ottawa Senators, the team he had served since he was nineteen. Underwood stayed rooted in Nashville for her recording sessions, songwriting, and tour schedule. Their early married life ran on late-night phone calls, texts after games and concerts, and exhausting cross-border flights for one or two days together before another airport goodbye. That distance ended on February 10, 2011, through an unexpected act of kindness from the Ottawa front office. Facing a mid-season rebuild, Senators general manager Bryan Murray had to start trading veteran players for future draft picks. Having watched Fisher give eleven years to the franchise and local children’s charities, Murray told reporters that if he had to let him go, he wanted to send him somewhere he could play hockey and still go home to his new wife at night. Fisher held a no-trade clause in his contract that allowed him to block a move. When he learned the deal would send him to the Nashville Predators in exchange for two draft picks, he waived the clause at age thirty, leaving the only NHL city he had ever known to live under the same roof as Underwood. When Fisher called to tell her the news that day, Underwood broke down in tears. An Ottawa radio station briefly banned her songs in frustration over losing a hometown favorite, while thousands of Canadian fans sent messages thanking Fisher for a decade of loyalty. Days later, when Fisher skated onto the ice at Bridgestone Arena in Predators gold and blue, the Nashville crowd gave him a standing ovation, welcoming him home to the city where he and Underwood would finally wake up in the same house and raise their children.

When Carrie Underwood announced her Blown Away Tour in May 2012, she quietly attached one dollar of every North American ticket to the American Red Cross before a single storm hit the headlines. Raised on a farm in Checotah, Oklahoma, she grew up knowing what severe weather could do to a small town. The tour itself was named after a hit song centered on a tornado, and its arena production used wind and storm visuals night after night. Long before the trucks rolled out, she made sure the real money behind those shows would go to families facing actual disasters. That decision took on urgent weight in late October 2012 when Hurricane Sandy tore through the East Coast, knocking out power and leaving thousands of families in New York and New Jersey facing early winter cold without heat or shelter. On November 2, 2012, Underwood went to a New York studio to perform on NBC’s Hurricane Sandy: Coming Together telethon, helping raise national relief funds while her tour continued collecting dollar by dollar across the country. By the time the North American run wrapped in May 2013, more than one million fans had filled over one hundred sold-out arenas. Those single dollars added up to a $1,000,000 check for the Red Cross Disaster Responder Program, paying for warm meals, blankets, and emergency shelter. Days later, on May 20, 2013, an EF5 tornado devastated Moore, Oklahoma. Rather than stopping at the Red Cross pledge she had just fulfilled, Underwood took another $1,000,000 directly from her Blown Away Tour proceeds and sent it home to help her fellow Oklahomans rebuild. Two million dollars from one tour went straight back into broken neighborhoods, turning a year of arena lights into roofs, warm beds, and recovery for people she would never meet.

In 1983, sixty-nine-year-old Ernest Tubb walked into a recording studio while battling advanced emphysema to sing beside Hank Williams Jr. and Waylon Jennings on “Leave Them Boys Alone,” three decades after he sang at the 1953 funeral of Hank Jr.’s father. Written by Dean Dillon, Gary Stewart, and Tanya Tucker for Hank Jr.’s album Strong Stuff, the collaboration brought together three distinct generations of country music during the slick Urban Cowboy era of the early 1980s. Tubb had pioneered traditional honky-tonk, Jennings had led the 1970s outlaw movement, and Hank Jr. was carrying the family name into a louder brand of country rock. For the younger men, inviting the frail Texas Troubadour into the studio was an act of deep respect. In the late 1940s, Tubb had been Hank Williams Sr.’s early musical hero and close friend, personally lobbying WSM executives to bring the younger singer into the Grand Ole Opry cast in 1949. Having lost his father when he was only three years old, Hank Jr. stood at the microphone beside a living witness to his father’s life, while Tubb heard the voice of his late friend echoed in the son. Though chronic lung disease had left Tubb short of breath and roughened his famous baritone, he delivered his lines with the calm authority of an elder stepping in to defend two rowdy younger singers from their Nashville critics. The single climbed to Number 6 on the Billboard country chart in the fall of 1983. It stood as one of the final recordings of Tubb’s career before he passed away in Nashville on September 6, 1984, at age seventy, leaving behind a studio farewell where he stood up one last time for the son of the friend he had laid to rest thirty-one years earlier.

On April 1, 1932, twenty-four-year-old radio singer Gene Autry and twenty-two-year-old education student Ina Mae Spivey were married so quietly in St. Louis, Missouri, that their friends at Chicago’s WLS radio station and the Frisco Railroad laughed it off as an April Fools’ Day prank. Even the bride’s uncle, railroad dispatcher and songwriter Jimmy Long, who had introduced the couple and sung duets with Autry, was caught off guard by how quickly the wedding happened. America was deep in the Great Depression, and Autry had only recently stepped away from his telegraph key on the railroad to try his luck singing on the airwaves. Spivey had been studying at a teachers college in Springfield, Missouri, with a steady career ahead of her, yet she chose to bet her future on a struggling singer with a guitar. There was no lavish reception or honeymoon. Right after signing the marriage certificate, the newlyweds climbed back into an old car and drove toward Chicago so Autry could make his broadcast slot on the National Barn Dance. As Autry rose into Hollywood’s Singing Cowboy and recorded classics like “Back in the Saddle Again” and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Spivey managed their finances and kept him grounded far from the spending habits and short-lived marriages of the movie capital. Though they never had children, the two remained inseparable partners at home and in business, building a media, music, and film empire worth hundreds of millions of dollars while celebrating their anniversary every April Fools’ Day. Their forty-eight-year marriage lasted until Spivey passed away at age seventy on May 19, 1980. For the rest of his ninety-one years, Autry looked back on the 1932 wedding his friends had mistaken for an April Fools’ joke as the truest decision of his life.

In the late 1920s, while working the night shift as a telegraph operator for the Frisco Railroad in Oklahoma, a young Gene Autry began spending his evenings practicing guitar in the home of an older railroad dispatcher named Jimmy Long, where he met Long’s niece, Ina Mae Spivey. Long before America knew him as the Singing Cowboy, Autry was a broke railroad worker trying to find a foothold on local radio stations like KVOO in Tulsa and later WLS in Chicago. In the living rooms and kitchens of the Long family homes in Tulsa and Springfield, Autry and Jimmy Long worked through harmonies and wrote songs together, including their classic recording “That Silver Haired Daddy of Mine.” While the two men practiced, Spivey, a quiet education student, sat listening and became the first steady believer in the young telegrapher’s voice. On April 1, 1932, in the middle of the Great Depression, Autry and Spivey were married in St. Louis, Missouri. With very little money to their names, the new bride set aside a settled life to ride beside him in an old car along dusty Midwestern roads from one small-town fair date to the next. When an offer came from Hollywood in 1934 to try musical Western films, Autry hesitated over his lack of acting experience, and it was Spivey who urged him to leave Chicago and take the chance. As he rose into one of the biggest box-office draws of the late 1930s, she stayed out of the Hollywood spotlight, reviewing his scripts and new songs first and later conceiving the original story idea for his 1948 film The Strawberry Roan. During World War II, while Autry served as a transport pilot in the United States Army Air Forces flying over the Hump in the Himalayas, she managed their business affairs at home, helping guide the investments in broadcasting, real estate, and the California Angels baseball team that made him a fortune. When Ina Mae passed away on May 19, 1980, at age seventy, the media mogul and baseball owner lost the partner who had shared his life for forty-eight years, dating back to the evenings when she sat in her uncle’s living room listening to a night-shift railroad man play his guitar.

On November 7, 2022, multi-instrumentalist and harmony vocalist Jeff Cook passed away at age seventy-three at his home in Destin, Florida, with his wife of forty-six years, Lisa Williams Cook, by his side, ending a decade-long fight with Parkinson’s disease. Born and raised around the cotton fields of Lookout Mountain near Fort Payne, Alabama, Cook teamed up with his cousins Randy Owen and Teddy Gentry in 1969 to form Young Country, later known as Wildcountry before becoming Alabama in 1977. During the lean years of the 1970s, the three cousins hauled their own sound equipment into bars along Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, playing for tips and sharing loaves of bread long before they sold more than eighty million records worldwide. While Owen sang lead and Gentry anchored the bass, Cook shaped the group’s blend of country and Southern rock with his fast, effortless command of both the electric guitar and the fiddle. Doctors diagnosed Cook with Parkinson’s disease in 2012, an illness that gradually took away the steadiness of the hands he had used to play strings for fifty years. Unwilling to let fans worry or look at him with pity, he kept the diagnosis private for five years, enduring the worsening tremors and loss of balance backstage so he could keep walking out for Alabama’s anniversary tours. When his health finally forced him to step back from regular touring in April 2017, Owen and Gentry refused to replace him. Instead, they kept his microphone and instrument stand set up on stage so their cousin could join them whenever he felt strong enough. During his final major appearances with the group, including at the Country Music Hall of Fame, Owen and Gentry gently steadied Cook as they walked him out to standing ovations. In the tribute shows that followed November 2022, Owen stood at the center microphone and looked toward the open space on the right side of the stage where his cousin had stood with a fiddle and a quiet smile under his cowboy hat for more than fifty years.