There are some people who leave the world, and then there are people who leave the world different from the one they found it. Dolly Parton was one of those people.
The lights have gone out on one of the brightest, funniest, kindest and most gloriously unmistakable human beings ever to walk onto a stage. Dolly Parton is dead. And somehow, even writing those words feels wrong.
Why? Because Dolly never really seemed like someone who could die. She seemed permanent – like those rhinestones, like a great song, like that favourite friend who somehow knew exactly when you needed feeding, laughing at, or told to pull yourself together.
She belonged to everybody. Country had her. Pop had her. Hollywood had her. Nashville had her. Your mum had her. Your nan absolutely had her. And somewhere along the way, Dolly became something much bigger than a singer. She became Dolly. There is a difference.
Born in Tennessee in 1946, one of twelve children, she came from poverty and turned it into poetry. She took hardship, family, faith, heartbreak, ambition and a frankly outrageous amount of hair and somehow made it all sparkle. She wrote about poor children, lonely women, desire, jealousy, ageing, work, dreaming, leaving, staying and loving people who probably weren’t worth the trouble. She wrote songs that could break your heart and then, just when you thought you couldn’t take another second of it, she’d flash that smile and remind you that life was still worth getting up for.
“Jolene.” “Coat of Many Colors.” “9 to 5.” “I Will Always Love You.” You don’t need to explain those songs. You just say their names and people start remembering where they were when they heard them. That was Dolly’s gift. She made memories for people who had never even met her.
And she did it while looking like she’d been assembled in a glitter factory after three large glasses of champagne.
But underneath the big hair, the tiny waist, the enormous personality and the wardrobe that could probably be seen from space was something remarkably simple: Dolly cared. She cared about people. She cared about children. She cared about books. She cared about her family. She cared about where she came from. And she never seemed embarrassed by any of it.
Her Imagination Library, inspired by her father’s inability to read and write, grew from a local Tennessee project into a global gift, putting books into the hands of children around the world. Think about that for a moment. Some stars leave behind records. Some leave behind films. Dolly left behind readers. Millions of children whose first experience of a book arrived because a woman from the Tennessee mountains decided that imagination should never be something you had to be rich to afford.
And then there was Dollywood. Of course there was Dollywood. Because if Dolly Parton was going to build a theme park, it wasn’t going to be sensible. It was going to be enormous, joyful, musical, ridiculous and completely hers.
That was Dolly’s great trick. She could make excess feel humble. She could make glamour feel welcoming. She could make a joke about her own appearance and, in the same breath, remind you that there was absolutely nothing wrong with being exactly who you are or where you came from…
She understood something many people spend their entire lives trying to learn: you don’t have to become less of yourself to be loved. You can be bigger, louder, kinder, stranger and funnier. You can wear the sequins. You can have the hair. You can dream ridiculously big. And you can still remember the people who helped you get there.
Dolly never appeared to forget. Even at the height of her fame, there was always that Tennessee girl somewhere inside the legend. Perhaps that’s why the loss feels so personal. Because Dolly wasn’t one of those celebrities you merely admired. She was someone you felt you knew and had learned from.
She had that rare ability to look directly through the television screen and make millions of strangers feel as though she’d popped round for a cup of tea. She made the world feel a little less miserable, a little less judgemental, a little more colourful and, frankly, a lot more entertaining.
At 1st 3, we’ve always loved Dolly. And today, we’re not going to pretend we’re above being sentimental about it.
We’re not.
Because sometimes somebody matters. Sometimes a person becomes part of the furniture of your life. You hear their voice and you’re home. You see their face and you smile. You hear the opening notes of a song and suddenly you’re somewhere else entirely.
That’s Dolly.
And now we’re going to have to learn how to live in a world where she isn’t here to make it sparkle quite so brightly.
But here’s the beautiful part: she left an extraordinary amount behind.
The songs aren’t going anywhere. The films aren’t going anywhere. The stories aren’t going anywhere. The books aren’t going anywhere. The laughter isn’t going anywhere. And the rhinestones certainly aren’t going anywhere.
Neither is Dolly. Not really.
Because eighty years is a lifetime. But a legacy like hers? That’s something else.
So tonight, somewhere, put on “9 to 5”. Then play “Jolene”. And when you’re ready to absolutely destroy yourself emotionally, put on “I Will Always Love You”. Raise a glass. Turn it up. Sing badly. Sing loudly. Sing with somebody you love.
And when that voice comes through the speakers, remember what an extraordinary gift it was that Dolly Parton was ever here at all.
She came from a little house in Tennessee. She dreamed. She worked. She wrote. She sang. She laughed. She gave. She loved. And she changed the world.
Not bad for a girl who once arrived with nothing but a song in her heart.
See ya, Dolly.
Thank you for the music. Thank you for the laughter. Thank you for the books. Thank you for the kindness. Thank you for being gloriously, unapologetically, magnificently you.
The world is a little darker tonight. But somewhere, surely, there is a heavenly stage waiting for a woman in six-inch heels.