Mourning A Stage Mama
Did I ever tell you about the time I almost didn’t make it on the Grand Ole Opry?
I was cast in a musical called “Smoke on the Mountain” at the Ryman Auditorium, which is like a Carnegie Hall for rednecks. But so much more. The history is infectious.
Gaylord Entertainment had us appear on the Grand Ole Opry (across town) as a cross-marketing effort to sell tickets to our show at the Ryman. For the first one, we would appear on the 30-minute televised portion of the Opry (which is actually the country’s longest-running live radio show).
Well, standing in the green room about 20 minutes before our time-slot, a producer brings us release forms to sign. It’s a typical release saying that the producer owns the right to use your likeness for this broadcast and any future re-use of the tapes.
Well, Bobby Taylor, who was playing my father (Burl) in the show, said, “I’m not signing anything my lawyer hasn’t had a chance to look at.”
Bobby had just had a major hit as a songwriter with “Hillbilly Shoes” by Montgomery Gentry. And given the nature of the music business, I’m sure he was right to be cautious.
But he was about to get between me and my first night on the Grand Ole Opry.
My grandfather, Willie T. Davis, died when I was four. But I have vivid memories of him sitting on the small back porch on an upside-down bucket, drinking beer and listening to the Opry on the radio.
My hometown newspaper (this paper, of course) had run a Sunday feature on this television appearance and my family and friends were watching.
I was, at that very moment, about to whack Bobby Taylor with my tightly-tuned mandolin.
Then, Steve Buchanan, the Opry’s head-honcho came in and said, “What’s this about signing the release, are there questions I can answer?”
Bobby argued his point, but how convincing can a man be in a depression-era mountaineer costume?
Buchanan (who went on to be the creator and Executive Producer of ABC’s Nashville) said, and I may be paraphrasing, “Sign it or Kathy Mattea is going on instead.”
Well, then, the room was quiet. One of those male-ego showdown-types of quiet.
And Rhondda Wallace, who played the stern-fisted mother in the show, said in the most calm and matronly voice, “Burl, we don’t want to disappoint the children.”
We all laughed, Bobby signed the release, and we were shuffled to the stage. In the most non-threatening way possible, and using character names, Rhondda saved the day.
And I felt Willie Davis’ spirit so strongly when I stood behind that WSM – Grand Ole Opry microphone and sang bouncy bluegrass hymns to a massive wall of lights.
I attended the memorial service of Rhondda Wallace in Milton, West Virginia on Sunday. She was 67 and it was complications from gastrointestinal surgery. At my best calculation, she played my Mama for 228 performances from Nashville to Vero Beach, FL.
The last time we worked together was Spring of 2014 in Wytheville, Virginia where she was the director and I had “graduated” to the “Uncle Stanley” role in the “Smoke on The Mountain” series.
I’ve always enjoyed having theatre work to fall back on when my business career didn’t pan out.
Rhondda had it written into her contracts as an actress and director that she could travel with her 30-pound cat named Zeb.
Now, that’s the kind of clout that’s earned.
This article first appeared May 23, 2018 in Riggan’s weekly column in the Henderson Dispatch.