Duets

One of the few TV entertainments my father and I could agree on was The Porter Wagoner Show on Saturday afternoons.

Dad always wanted to watch football, or basketball, or whatever ballgame matched the season. I wanted to watch a movie, preferably some old black-and-white cabled our way, way out in Farmington, New Mexico, via Los Angeles.

Our fight played out the same every weekend. I’d be watching a mid-afternoon movie and Dad would come home from work and immediately change the channel. I’d yell, “It’s not fair! I was watching first!” and he’d come back with, “My house, my TV.” I’d storm off to my room to sulk, and he’d plop down on his recliner with one eye on a newspaper and one eye on the game.

But one time, in the midst of the channel changing battle, one of us came upon a skinny guitar-playing man sporting an outdated pompadour and duded-up in a western-cut sequined suit. With him was a young woman whose big blond hair and ample bosom would one day become her trademark.

Even though their style was so out of sync with the 70s and, to my mind, not cool, there was something about them that made us stop and pay attention.

 “How much Brylcreem did he use?” from Dad.

 “Good God, did he just call her ‘Miss Dolly?’” from me.   

And then she sang. And she was good. And my father and I were hooked. It got to where we actually looked forward to our Saturday afternoons together in front of the TV. We continued to laugh and poke fun at the flashy outfits and mile-high hair-dos, but we also came to appreciate their music and harmonic blend. They became our thing; our common ground. To this day, whenever it’s appropriate to send me flowers, my father signs the card “to Miss Dolly, from Porter.”

Porter Wagoner and I share a birthday, August 12th. He died October 28, 2007. Dolly died two days ago, August 25, 2026.

I think I’ll call Dad.