On October 30, 1937, eighteen-year-old Ellen Muriel Deason married eighteen-year-old cabinetmaker Johnny Wright in Nashville, beginning a marriage that lasted nearly seventy-four years until his death on September 27, 2011. They had met two years earlier in 1935, when she was sixteen and ironing shirts at a Nashville garment factory for $9 a week. Johnny gave his bride the stage name Kitty Wells, taken from an old folk ballad her father used to sing, and for the next fifteen years they drove from one Southern and Western radio station to another in a crowded car packed with instruments and their three young children, Ruby, Bobby, and Carol Sue. By 1952, tired of years on the road without a major break, Kitty was ready to quit singing and stay home with the children. Johnny talked her into going to Owen Bradley’s studio for a $125 union scale session to record “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” The song made her the first woman to top the Billboard country chart. Even with his own career as part of the duo Johnnie & Jack and a 1965 number-one solo hit, Johnny merged their acts into the Kitty Wells – Johnny Wright Family Show, proudly introducing his wife onstage and handling her business while she cooked family meals, canned preserves, and sewed clothes at home. After their final New Year’s Eve performance in 2000, the couple spent the next eleven years at their home on Old Hickory Lake in Madison, Tennessee, surrounded by three children, eight grandchildren, and thirteen great-grandchildren, drinking morning coffee together on the porch and reading fan mail. When Johnny died at home at age 97, just one month shy of their 74th wedding anniversary, their son Bobby noticed his mother constantly looking toward the chair her husband had occupied for seven decades. Less than ten months later, on July 16, 2012, the 92-year-old singer died at their Madison home following a stroke and was laid to rest beside him at Nashville’s Spring Hill Cemetery.

Photo collage edited with Photo Collage Studio.
Please scroll down for the video. It is at the end of the article!

On May 3, 1952, thirty-two-year-old Ellen Muriel Deason stepped into Owen Bradley’s Castle Studio inside the Tulane Hotel in Nashville to sing J. D. Miller’s answer song, “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels,” largely because her husband, Johnny Wright, talked her into taking the $125 union scale session fee.

At the time, the woman billed as Kitty Wells was preparing to retire from the road to raise their three children—Ruby, born in 1939, Bobby, born in 1942, and Carol Sue. She and Wright had met in 1935 when she was sixteen and ironing shirts for $9 a week at the Washington Manufacturing Company in Nashville, marrying two years later on October 30, 1937, when both were eighteen.

In 1943, Wright gave his wife the stage name Kitty Wells, borrowed from a nineteenth-century folk ballad her father, railroad brakeman Charles Cary Deason, used to play on the guitar. Across the late 1940s, while Wright built his own career alongside brother-in-law Jack Anglin in the duo Johnnie & Jack, the family moved between radio stations in Knoxville, Raleigh, Decatur, and Shreveport’s *Louisiana Hayride*, packing their three children and instrument cases into a single car.

When Decca Records released “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels” in the summer of 1952, the single spent six weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard country chart and sold more than 800,000 copies, making Wells the first solo female artist to top the country charts. Although the Grand Ole Opry initially barred the record from its stage and NBC radio briefly censored its lyrics, the breakthrough turned the mother of three into a headliner earning up to $2,000 a night.

Rather than touring separately as her career surpassed his, Wright combined their dates with Johnnie & Jack and managing partner Jim Denny to keep the household together on the highway. During the school year, the couple returned to their brick home on Lone Oak Road in Madison, Tennessee, along Old Hickory Lake, where Wells cooked family dinners, canned garden vegetables, and sewed gingham stage dresses and clothes for the children.

Whenever summer vacation arrived, Ruby, Bobby, and Carol Sue climbed aboard the tour bus to perform as part of the package. At age eleven, Bobby played his first professional show in spirits and boots at the Buck Lake Ranch in Angola, Indiana, before landing a regular acting role in the 1960s on the ABC television sitcom *McHale’s Navy*, while teenage Ruby signed her own recording contract at age thirteen and later scored a 1964 Top 20 country hit with “Dern Ya,” an answer to Roger Miller’s “Dang Me”.

After Jack Anglin died in a car crash on March 7, 1963, on his way to the memorial service for Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and Hawkshaw Hawkins, Wright reorganized the road unit with bandleader Bill Phillips into the Tennessee Mountain Boys. Two years later, in 1965, Wright reached No. 1 on the Billboard country chart on his own with Tom T. Hall’s recitation song “Hello Vietnam”.

By 1969, the couple brought their touring revue onto television with the syndicated weekly program *The Kitty Wells-Johnny Wright Family Show*, featuring Wright as emcee alongside Wells, Ruby, Bobby, and Carol Sue. Even after Wells earned her induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1976 and received the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 1991, Wright continued handling her bookings, stepping onto the stage every night to introduce his wife as the “Queen of Country Music”.

In the 1980s, the pair opened the Family Country Junction museum and studio across from Rivergate Mall in Madison to display her gingham dresses, gold records, and his custom furniture. They remained on the road roughly a hundred days a year until December 31, 2000, when eighty-one-year-old Wells and eighty-six-year-old Wright played their final concert together at their grandson John Sturdivant Jr.’s Long Hollow Jamboree in Goodlettsville, Tennessee.

For the next eleven years, the retired couple stayed at their lakeside residence in Madison, surrounded by three children, eight grandchildren, and thirteen great-grandchildren. Every morning, they sat together on the porch overlooking Old Hickory Lake to drink coffee and read fan mail, and on October 30, 2010, family members gathered at the house to celebrate their seventy-third wedding anniversary.

When Wright died at their Madison home on September 27, 2011, at age 97—thirty-three days before their seventy-fourth anniversary—their son Bobby noticed his mother repeatedly turning her head toward the empty chair in the living room where her husband had sat for decades.

Less than ten months later, on July 16, 2012, ninety-two-year-old Wells died at the same Madison home following complications from a stroke and was buried beside Wright at Spring Hill Cemetery in Nashville, just down the road from where two eighteen-year-olds had started their life together in 1937.

Related Post

In the spring of 1966, Monument Records told a twenty-year-old Dolly Parton that she needed to put her wedding on hold for at least a year. The label worried that becoming a married woman would damage her image as a rising solo artist and hurt the sales of her debut release. Parton and her twenty-three-year-old fiancé, Carl Dean, refused to compromise their commitment for the music business. On Memorial Day, May 30, 1966, the young couple drove across the Tennessee state line to Ringgold, Georgia, keeping their plans entirely secret from the Nashville press. They walked into Ringgold Baptist Church for a ceremony stripped of fanfare. There was no grand reception, no guest list of industry executives, and no lavish decor. The only witnesses standing beside them were Dolly’s mother, Avie Lee Parton, the officiating pastor, and the pastor’s wife. Parton wore a simple short white lace dress that her mother had cut and sewn by hand, paired with a small veil and a modest handheld bouquet. After reciting their vows, the newlyweds celebrated with a simple meal on the road before heading home, keeping their marriage out of the public eye. Dean spent the next several decades working in asphalt paving, deliberately stepping back from red carpets and flashing cameras while his wife became a global icon. That quiet roadside church in Georgia became the foundation for more than fifty years of marriage, built on the conviction that private devotion mattered far more than public applause.

In the fall of 2014, Dan McGurk, a devoted fan from Ohio, posted a series of online videos sharing his bedroom filled with records, posters, and memorabilia. Turning thirty was a monumental milestone, and his one heartfelt wish was simply to meet his musical hero. Instead of sending a routine greeting over social media, the singer quietly reached out to Dan’s family. Without alerting cameras, reporters, or publicists, he coordinated a completely unannounced trip to give the milestone birthday the personal attention it deserved. On the evening of October 27, 2014, Dan was sitting with his family for dinner at the Clarkston Union Woodshop restaurant in Clarkston, Michigan. Mid-meal, a figure slipped quietly behind his chair carrying a birthday cake glowing with lit candles and softly singing happy birthday. When Dan turned around and realized who was standing there, the shock broke into tears as he threw his arms around the musician. The singer sat beside him throughout the evening, setting aside his rugged stage persona to eat cake, blow out candles, and talk like an old friend. Along with custom shirts, hats, and lifetime passes to future shows, he handed Dan an acoustic guitar personalized with a direct, hand-carved message and his signature. There was no press release or promotional agenda behind the dinner, just an unhurried evening carved out for one loyal supporter. For Dan and his family, the gift went far beyond music merchandise. It stood as a permanent reminder that genuine kindness needs no spotlight to change a life.

Long before she ever held a microphone as the Queen of Country Music, Kitty Wells spent the 1940s navigating the backroads of North Carolina, West Virginia, and Louisiana just to keep food on the table. Touring alongside her husband, Johnnie Wright, and his duo Johnnie & Jack, life was measured in cheap roadside boarding houses, dusty dirt roads, and endless exhaustion. Income was sparse and fragile. The family scraped together a living through early morning live radio broadcasts at 5:30 AM, followed by evening shows in rural schoolhouses where admission was twenty-five cents. With infants in tow and basic conveniences out of reach, Wells carried the dual burden of motherhood and band logistics, tending to crying babies between rough highway miles while ensuring the performers looked presentable. Late at night, when the rest of the touring party had finally fallen asleep, Wells remained awake. In cramped boarding rooms lit only by a faint glow, she washed stage clothes by hand and turned to a small portable kerosene stove. That simple burner, carried along primarily to warm milk bottles for her babies, became her drying rack as she held each clean white dress shirt over the gentle heat so her husband could step in front of the morning radio microphones looking dignified. Those clean, crisp collars carried an unspoken pride. No matter how poor the circumstances or how drafty the room, Wells refused to let hardship show on the stage. That quiet resolve laid the foundation for a marriage to Johnnie that endured for more than seventy years. When she eventually stepped into a studio to sing for working women across America, her voice carried the unmistakable truth of someone who had spent her youth keeping the fire burning through the cold mountain nights.

In the spring of 1952, Kitty Wells was quietly preparing to leave the music business behind. After RCA Victor dropped her recording contract, the industry consensus seemed final: women simply could not sell country records. She was ready to settle into family life and raise her three children. Then Decca Records producer Paul Cohen reached out with an offer to cut a single at Owen Bradley’s studio on 16th Avenue South in Nashville. Wells did not accept out of ambition or a desire to reshape the genre. The session paid the union scale fee of $125, an immediate sum that meant groceries, clothes, and practical relief for her household. On May 30, 1952, Wells stepped in front of the studio microphone and recorded “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” Written by J.D. Miller as a direct answer to Hank Thompson’s hit “The Wild Side of Life,” the song challenged the familiar habit of laying blame entirely on women for fractured relationships. Delivering the lines in an unvarnished, hymn-steeped Appalachian voice, Wells gave working women a voice that rural radio had rarely permitted. Conservative institutions pushed back immediately. NBC placed the recording on a restricted broadcast list, and the Grand Ole Opry refused to let her perform it on their stage. Yet the radio bans only deepened public demand. Across the country, everyday listeners kept putting nickels into jukeboxes and buying the 78s. The single eventually surpassed 800,000 copies sold, driving Kitty Wells to No. 1 on the Billboard country chart as the first solo woman in history to claim the top spot. The sheer momentum forced the Grand Ole Opry to lift its barriers and welcome her to the stage. What had begun as an ordinary afternoon of work to provide for her children permanently opened the doors for every woman in country music who followed.

In April 1941, while twenty-one-year-old Kitty Wells and her husband, Johnny Wright, were scraping out a living singing on early-morning Southern radio shows, their three-month-old son, Johnny Wright Jr., died suddenly in his sleep. Married since 1937 and raising their first daughter, Ruby, born in 1939, the young couple had been moving from town to town through Greensboro and Raleigh, North Carolina, Knoxville, Tennessee, and Charleston, West Virginia, alongside bandmate Jack Anglin and Johnny’s sister Louise. Kitty woke at four or five in the morning for live radio broadcasts, washed diapers by hand, and rode hundreds of miles over rough rural roads in a crowded car to play small schoolhouses and country venues for sparse gate receipts. Born in January 1941, baby Johnny Jr. carried his father’s name for only three months before passing away from what was later understood as sudden infant death syndrome. With no permanent home and nearly empty pockets in the lean years before America entered World War II, the twenty-one-year-old parents relied on their families back in Nashville to help bury their infant son. Leaning on the Christian faith handed down by her mother and her husband’s steady support, Kitty held her marriage together through the grief. When their son Bobby arrived in August 1942 and daughter Carol Sue followed in 1945, Kitty refused to leave her children behind, packing all three into the car for every radio stop so she could wake up beside them each morning. A quiet Southern woman, she rarely spoke to reporters about the spring of 1941, pouring that private sorrow into the gospel hymns she recorded throughout her life and the natural ache in her voice that music historians later heard across her career. When Johnny passed away at ninety-seven in 2011 and Kitty followed at ninety-two in 2012, family members took comfort in believing the couple had finally returned to the infant son they laid to rest seventy-one years earlier.

In the late 1930s, to save rent money during the Great Depression and stay close to river work in Friars Point, Mississippi, Conway Twitty’s parents moved their young family directly onto a wooden houseboat moored along the Mississippi River. Born Harold Lloyd Jenkins, the boy grew up right on the muddy water while his father, Floyd Jenkins, worked as a river ferryboat pilot. Whenever heavy cargo barges passed or Delta storms rolled in at night, the floating wooden house creaked and pitched, keeping Floyd and his wife, Velma, awake to check the mooring lines while their children slept. To young Harold, what his parents accepted out of financial necessity felt like what he later called a Huckleberry Finn childhood. He spent his days running along the levees, fishing straight off the houseboat porch, and sitting on the bow at dusk watching cotton steamers disappear into the river fog while their low horns echoed downstream. Life at the river crossing between Mississippi and Arkansas also surrounded the boy with the music of the Mississippi Delta. From the deck and ferry landings, he heard work chants and gospel singing rising from Black churches along the riverbank alongside Delta blues, before coming inside at night to listen to country shows on the family’s battery-powered radio. When Harold was four or five, Floyd returned from ferry shifts, set his son on his lap on the rocking deck, and taught him his first chords on a cheap toy guitar while river waves slapped against the hull. That blend of Delta soul and traditional country stayed in his voice long after he took the stage name Conway Twitty. Even decades later, living on his estate in Hendersonville, Tennessee, he said the sound of Mississippi River water lapping against that Friars Point houseboat remained the most peaceful lullaby of his life.

Born Harold Lloyd Jenkins in Friars Point, Mississippi, on September 1, 1933, Conway Twitty grew up during the Great Depression watching his mother, Velma McGinnis Jenkins, carry the family whenever river work dried up. His father, Floyd Jenkins, worked as a Mississippi River ferryboat pilot whose pay depended on the weather and river traffic. Even when money was scarce, Floyd saved enough from his river wages to buy four-year-old Harold his first toy guitar and taught him basic chords between ferry runs. When Harold turned ten in 1943, the family crossed the river to the port town of Helena, Arkansas, hoping for steadier work. As work on the river remained unpredictable, Velma became the family’s primary breadwinner, working from early morning until late at night and counting loose change under an oil lamp to keep a roof over Floyd and their three children, Harold, Howard, and Norma Jean. Wanting to ease his mother’s burden, young Harold took weekend odd jobs in Helena and formed his first band, The Phillips County Ramblers, before he was a teenager, playing on local radio station KFFA to bring extra money home. After graduating high school in Helena and completing two years of military service in Japan from 1954 to 1956, Harold passed up a professional baseball contract to pursue music full-time under the name Conway Twitty, determined to lift his parents and younger siblings out of poverty. As he went on to record 55 number-one Billboard country hits, he brought his brother Howard and sister Norma Jean into his music business and kept the promise he made along the Mississippi River. In 1982, when he opened his nine-acre Twitty City complex in Hendersonville, Tennessee, he took the work-worn hands of the mother who had carried their family through the Depression and walked her into a home of her own where she never had to work again.

In August 1993, seventy-eight-year-old Velma McGinnis Jenkins died just sixty days after her son, country music star Conway Twitty, collapsed on his tour bus and passed away at age fifty-nine. Born Harold Lloyd Jenkins in Friars Point, Mississippi, during the Great Depression in 1933, Conway grew up along the Mississippi River in Mississippi and Helena, Arkansas, where his mother worked to support the family and backed his choice to turn down a professional baseball contract with the Philadelphia Phillies for a guitar and military service in Japan. When he opened his nine-acre Twitty City complex in Hendersonville, Tennessee, in 1982 after earning dozens of number-one records, he built separate houses on the grounds so Velma and his four children, Michael, Joni, Kathy, and Jimmy, could live beside him and greet visiting fans every day. That family gathering place changed overnight in June 1993. While returning from a Father’s Day performance at the Jim Stafford Theatre in Branson, Missouri, Conway collapsed on his bus and died early on June 5 at Cox Medical Center South in Springfield from a ruptured abdominal aortic aneurysm. Because he left behind an outdated will written years before his 1987 marriage to his fourth wife, Dee Henry, his estate immediately fell into a bitter legal dispute under Tennessee law between his widow and his four children. According to his children, their grandmother had been healthy and sharp before June, yet after standing before her son’s casket, she watched the compound he built for them face court battles and the threat of auctioning off family homes and memorabilia. Unable to bear the sudden absence of the son who visited her every morning and the division of the family he had gathered at Twitty City, Velma declined rapidly over two summer months. She was laid to rest in the family crypt at Sumner Memorial Gardens in Gallatin, Tennessee, directly beside the plaque bearing only her son’s birth name, Harold L. Jenkins.