Eulogy

By Rosanne Cash

The first time I saw her in person was in the early '70s at one of my father's "guitar pulls" in his living room, when a lot of musicians and songwriters previewed their new work. I was about 19 years old, with purplish hair and insouciance to spare, and the honored guests were George Jones and Tammy Wynette. I sat slack-jawed and transfixed as they sang (We're Not) the Jet Set. ("No, We're not the Jet Set/ We're the old Chevrolet set/ Our steak and martini/ Is draft beer with weenie"*). She sat on the plush blue antique sofa, hair poufed out to here, with nails, makeup and outfit perfectly coordinated. She looked like a lotus blossom sitting next to George Jones, a perfect foil, but completely herself. It was the most relaxed I was ever to see her. Tammy was sweet, in the way that only Southern women are sweet, and a bundle of nerves. I don't ever think she got over her ascendancy from the beauty parlor. She was a vehicle for her Voice, and it seemed to have ambition of its own, sometimes overreaching her personal understanding or goals. I remember clearly driving by her house in Nashville and staring at the wrought-iron gates with FIRST LADY ACRES scrolled across the top. I think of her--proud but not egotistical (a feat in itself), delicate and strong--and how the world will never be innocent enough again to produce a Tammy Wynette.

--Rosanne Cash

*(We're Not) the Jet Set (c)1973 Sony