Recorded at the world famous Bradley Barn on April 25, 1972, on the Decca records label, "They Don't Make 'Em Like My Daddy Anymore" was the first Single on the "Coal Miner's Daughter" Loretta Lynn's album of the same name.

Written by Jerry Crutchfield, "They Don't Make 'Em Like My Daddy Anymore" reached the Number Four position on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart.

Lyrics from "They Don't Make 'Em Like My Daddy Anymore" included:

"My daddy wasn't one that tried to make no big impressions
Just one heck of a man who worked for what he got."

and

"They don't make 'em like my daddy anymore
Guess they've thrown away the pattern through the years
In this great big land of freedom, at a time we really need 'em,
They don't Make 'Em Like My Daddy Anymore"


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THE RECIPIENT I SELECTED HAD AN OVERFLOWING CART FULL OF GROCERIES HE SEPERATED AND PLACED IN WOODEN CRATES IN THE BED OF HIS POWDER BLUE F150 PICKUP TRUCK WITH ITS THREE-PIECE FORGED DRAG RACING WHEELS. That was a real good sign. As I slowly approached, I sized him up and down to form an opinion of the approximately six-foot-tall fashionable social climber. Fortunately, my slanted sentiment was wrong about him. I pondered why he held a handful of receipts and checked each item off as he placed them in his truck. I counted nine sales slips. Later, I discovered the reason for his meticulousness. He was on his monthly grocery shopping trip for his donations in support of the non-profit charities he contributed to around the Nashville area and ensured he did not omit anything. Eventually, I accompanied him on these excursions. They became a family outing for us. Perhaps that is the reason why when I grew up, and learned from his example, I began donating to the local foodbanks here in Nashville. To this day, I still do.

I told myself, "Don't go pointing your finger at nobody, Brett. It's plain to see this guy ain't no saint. He don't do no water walking. No one does."

With continued observation, I contemplated what I was going to say to this gentleman with the daunting whiskers that hung down to the middle of his chest and tended to intimidate. I wondered if I snuggled beneath his beard if the monstrous growth would keep me warmer than the sheer duvet Hermitage Hall provided for my bed. If he had been adorned in a red and white suit, I would have sworn I'd unexpectedly encountered Santy Claus sans the pot belly. Obviously no sugarholic, one look and I knew he had to be some sort of exercise guru. The form and development of his physically refined physique indicated as much. His solid, medium frame displayed narrow hips and very little body fat. I surmised he was probably athletic, possibly a swimmer or the guard on a basketball team. I also noticed the contemporaneous Christian Dior shades on top of his deep version of shoulder-length jet black hair that flowed down his back.

'Good morning, sir," somehow did not appeal to my thought processes. I decided I needed something more enchanting to say to him.

He glanced up and watched me saunter merrily along in no hurry behind the orange Fiat Sport Spider two spaces down from where he parked. Attracted to the shiny machine, I could not keep my hands from touching the dual-door convertible as I passed by and examined the roadster up close. My footsteps slow and relaxed, I imagined what he interpreted of my actions.

As I stood behind the tailgate of his truck, and rested my dirty elbow on it, I made my effort as best as I could with a simple, "Nice ride!"

Silently, I wondered if he used the tailgate as a pregame party area during football games or an outdoor workstation? Maybe he preferred to use the metallic entrance to his truck's bed for a measuring tool?

Straightforward and candid as he placed a couple more bags in the vehicle, all this man of few words unpretentiously said was, "It'll do."

"Bet it rides smoothhhhhh!" I mischieviously stated deliberately stressing the significance of the last word for affect.

"You're playing me, kid, and I don't like when people do. I'm busy here, so what do you want?" He cut to the chase.

His tone enlightened me he had no intention of wasting time on insignificant topics. The gig played its course and this scoundrel had been exposed. I decided I might as well abruptly blurt out what occupied my mind and spoke without thought, "Spare a couple bucks?"

He looked at me but did not utter a syllable.

I felt I had lost the game, and discouraged remarked, "Hey, a boy's gotta eat you know."

With little energy exerted, he heaved a fifty pound bag of Purina dog food into the truck and told me, "Go hustle somebody else, Squirt. I won't give you one red cent!" He paused. Like an angry parent he wondered, "By the way, where's your folks? Do they know you're out here panhandling from strangers, and need to have your tail end worn out for your misbehavior, young man?"

An emotional vibe I never felt before stirred somewhere deep inside me. I knew it wasn't indigestion and turned my face away. That was not my nature. I chided myself, "What's gotten into you all of a sudden? You get your act together. You don't even know this dude!"

He must have noticed my distressed composure. His tempered modulation changed when he said, "Listen, if you're hungry, I'll take you across the street to McDonald's and buy you a burger. But, that's all you're gonna weasel out of me. After that, we go seperate ways."

To use his own word that day, neither one of us realized it at the time but I would continue to weasel what I wanted out of him for about the next decade. Some things much easier than others. Teasingly, as the years went along and I wanted a mundane trinket or another from him, he would call me his "Little Weasler."

My bigger needs required more effort. Looking back, I can honestly say as sure as I breath oxygen, I got a lot of what I wanted from him and much more than I ever imagined. I never expected this chance encounter to have the profound effect, or forever change the course of my life, the way that it did. Although I had no way of knowing it at that precise moment, I had just met my dad.

He fished a key out of the front right pocket of his designer Levis, smiled, and told me, "Climb in already. I'm not walking."

I waited for him to unlock the pickup then scampered into the cab of the truck. That was the extent of our conversation at Walmart. Most of our talking was done while munching Mikey D's.

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter 23, Dusty West and I eat burgers for lunch. But, what went wrong from there?