Too many years of my youth, Hunter Valley, New South Wales

Last year I wrote a piece about my mum and her morning medicinal musical feat — cleaning the house at full volume. On the news of Dolly Parton’s passing, may she rest in peace, I was brought back not just to one memory of this song, but to an unexpected flood of them.
My mother used music as an escape — that’s how I see it now, anyway. We had a lot in common, and music was always a quick few moments of another life, a place I’ve felt free. Certain songs can transport me, change my mood, flip my world on its head. I think it was the same for her.
Especially the songs in Mum’s collection — they all told a story.
The story of Dolly’s Coat of Many Colours, how her mumma made it for her, and she wore it so proudly, was told in my home growing up, extensively. Even now, years since I last played it, the lyrics need no googling. They’re burnt into my memory, along with the visual flashbacks of my own private concert, held nearly every weekend.
Picture a young girl living in a small country town with her parents and sister. It’s a Saturday morning, somewhere between 7 and 8am. You’re either still asleep or just waking, maybe even watching cartoons on the rare morning you woke early enough.
Our computer had a wonderful sound system, we never had surround sound for the TV, or any extra speakers at all, but boy, did we have them for the computer. Our home was built in the early 1900s, and even after renovations, the walls still vibrated and the glass still trembled under the speakers and Dolly’s shimmering, twanging voice.
By my teenage years, I suspect Mum used it to punish me for staying out past curfew, or because she didn’t believe it was food poisoning and not a hangover. I’m sure the neighbours knew every detail of Dolly’s special coat too.
At the time, it was the worst alarm clock I’d ever experienced. Since losing Mum, it’s become my regular wake-up song. It never fails to make me smile, even on the days I miss her most.
Dolly doing what she does best. My mum, free, moving around the house without a care in the world, the outside world gone, even the rest of us in the house gone. All that existed on those mornings, when Dolly came to visit, was my mum and her very good friend of many years.
Their conversations varied, but I often caught snatches of a beautiful coat sewn with love, a Tennessee mountain home (which must have been near some islands in a stream), a bitchy woman named Jolene trying to steal her husband, and how she’d always love him regardless.
This was my life for at least a decade, from age eight to eighteen.
Memories I cherish now, and a song I’ve cursed plenty of times, but it remains one of the closest to my heart, always bringing me back to being that little girl at the kitchen bench while my mum cleaned, tidied, and sang at the top of her lungs.
And just like that, the words mean so much more, and I finally get it.
Back through the years
I go wonderin’ once again
Back to the seasons of my youth
Thank you, Dolly.
(Please don’t get a restraining order on my mum for stalking you in heaven — she just wants to be your best friend, I promise. X)

 

Stereo Story 896

Samantha Siech is a mother, full-time worker, and aspiring author writing her way back to herself, one story at a time. She writes personal essays and poetry at @samanthasiech on Substack and shares the process — messy drafts and all — across Instagram and Threads @samanthasiechwrites