Legacy
It’s common knowledge that Southerners have colorful family histories. Just about everyone has, say, an incarcerated great aunt who burned down her neighbor’s house out of spite, or perhaps a cousin who worked on the International Space Station. After all, most of us appreciate eccentrics, dramatics, and rascals, and we are eager to share our relation to them. Sometimes we even find out that our ancestors were actual villains. This is humiliating to the very depths of our souls, but does nothing to refute the stereotype that each of us is descended from storybook characters.
My family is no different. I’ve spent years simultaneously bragging on them and questioning their life choices. My paternal grandfather and great-uncle were well-liked musicians in the 1940s East Tennessee country music scene. Calling themselves the Burchfield Brothers, they signed with Capitol Records in 1947 and cut a couple of records on Capitol’s Americana label.
Later, they dissolved their contract with Capitol at the height of their popularity. Why they dissolved it has been a matter of speculation over the years. Some members of my family say that while my great-uncle wanted to focus on gospel music, my grandfather preferred country. Others say my great-uncle’s wife, a good-hearted Christian lady, didn’t want him on the road all the time where he’d be exposed to the enticing temptations of touring life. My daddy, however, suggested that my grandfather’s drinking played a role in the matter.
After the Burchfield Brothers broke up, my grandfather focused on making my daddy a star. My daddy, Tommy, was a musical prodigy. He was able to pick up any instrument and play proficiently in a fraction of the time it took the average person. By age 14, he was an accomplished fiddle player and was playing local gigs booked by my grandfather. He shared the stage with many of country music’s greats, but still dutifully handed my grandmother his paycheck after every event.
My daddy revealed that during this period, he sometimes had to drive home after playing shows because Papaw was too drunk to get back safely. Feeling the weight of responsibility on his young shoulders, Daddy began to hate the performances, the practice, the pressure.
He quit playing the fiddle, forever.
I often think about how different my life would be if either my grandfather or my father had found continued success in the country music biz. There’s a decent chance they would have hit it big. They both had the talent and both were in the right place at the right time. Maybe they would have cut another record that sold a million copies and made them radio stars. If they had, maybe I would now be zipping around Nashville in a custom candy-pink convertible, owing my lifestyle to royalties and monstrously prideful of someone else’s accomplishments.
My father became a Christian in his teens. He played rock and roll for a little while, gigging occasionally with The Elrods and other Knoxville favorites, but eventually he gave up music for the ministry. Later, he became a pastor, and at the end of his life, he was a radio announcer for a gospel AM station in town.
Many years after his death, a man and woman struck up a conversation with my cousin while shopping on Market Square. They exchanged pleasantries and my cousin introduced herself.
Recognizing her last name, the man said, “Are you related to Tommy?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied cheerfully. “He was my uncle.”
“I have to tell you how much we loved your uncle,” the man said.
“My wife and I listened to him every day when my boy was battling cancer. He would talk about the Lord and say encouraging things to us between songs. He was such a blessing.”
My cousin was touched. A remarkably random meeting with strangers revealed a family legacy more important than a record contract.
In the end, I guess the Lord wanted Daddy on the radio, after all.
Papaw and Daddy with Archie Campbell, center
Daddy with Minnie Pearl, center, and a local performer, “Mickey, WATE TV”
