Who I am has a lot to do with my family and where and how I grew up. Sure I was living my dream, but that hadn’t happened overnight. So, where did that dream start? Partly on the stages where I watched my daddy perform. But mostly on our farm in Franklin, Tennessee, with a bunch of horses, cows, chickens, and my family.
People think that a farm is a lot of work, but if you’re not, like, harvesting crops, it’s not too hard to take care of animals. Horses can live in the wild, so you don’t always have to do a lot for them.
We put them out to pasture in one meadow, the cows in another. They eat the grass. The grass grows back. They eat more grass. Sometimes we ride them (the horses—not the cows); they’re cool with it, and besides that, we just let them do their thing.
As for chickens, you can kind of make them into pets. My chicken, Lucy, will sit in your lap and let you pet her for hours on end. But you gotta start when they’re little, or they turn mean. Lucy’s our only sweet chicken. You’re going to begin thinking I’m really back-country when I tell you this, but chickens are pretty darn fun to watch. They walk around bobbing their wonky heads. Seriously, there’s nothing more relaxing than to kick back and watch chickens be chickens.
My mom always says that before I started school, our lives and schedules were based on an entertainer’s schedule. My dad was on the road a lot, playing shows, coming home late. He often didn’t get home until ten or eleven, so they’d let me stay up till all hours of the night, and then we’d all sleep late. Our time together was almost sacred.
Like I already said, when my dad was home I was his little shadow. I was four, maybe five years old when he’d saddle me up on a slow walking horse and take me, Braison, and Brandi out on the trails around our house.
(Trace was absolutely scared of horses and didn’t like to go.) Or he’d sit me in front of him, and we’d go four-wheeling or dirt biking all day, ending up at the top of a hill where there’s a tipi to camp in. (There’s even a real totem pole that Pappy gave Dad!) Then Dad would build a fire and we’d roast marshmallows. We’d sit there next to that fire, with the trees and the big Tennessee sky. It was easy to start dreaming big under all those stars. I felt like the sky was never-ending, like I could see Pluto. I spent most of my childhood outside with my dad.
As we got older, we still spent tons of time hanging out on the farm. Even when I was suffering through sixth grade, I’d come home and play a game of basketball with Braison or spend hours on the trampoline with Brandi. Out on the trampoline, we’d talk and laugh about . . . who knows? Nothing that made sense. That’s the best part about hanging with a sister. You’re not having conversations with beginnings, middles, and ends. You’re just letting unformed thoughts bounce up and down and around and around.
At some point Trazz started building a treehouse between two beautiful trees. It was a work-in-progress for quite a while. Dad got into finishing it, but then he bashed his finger with a hammer and quit. Once I decided to help out. But since I have no clue how to build things, I just draped some blankets around what they’d built to make walls and a ceiling. You know, like a little kid’s fort. But I kinda forgot to consider the rain factor. Yeah. Rain. Not so good when your little house has walls made from quilts. Still, the treehouse is very sweet as is. Whenever we go back to Nashville, Brazz and I like to sit up in the trees and play checkers. Our own little hideaway, where dreams can grow as big as we want.
Our family has never been really competitive. We always let each other win when we have games of chicken in the pool. We’re careful of one another’s feelings.
Too bad that caution with feelings didn’t exactly translate into caution with vehicles. Let the
record show that not one picture of me on a horse or a four-wheeler has me wearing a helmet. Dad always says he could’ve given some of those celebrity moms a run for their money in the unsafe parenting department. It never occurred to him to put us kids in helmets. Or to wear one himself, for that matter. (He has gotten better!)
One time, when I was pretty young, Dad went four-wheeling with me in a papoose that he wore like a backpack. (Don't try this at home!) Again, no helmets. He was flying through the woods, going pretty fast, zig-zagging along when he came to a tree that had fallen across the path. He ducked under it, but only as he ducked did he remember that I was on his back. Whack! He brought me home with a huge knot on my forehead. I can only imagine what I might have achieved if Dad hadn’t given me minor brain damage. I’m still trying to come up with creative ways for him to make it up to me. Most of them start with the letters C-A-R.