On Saturday, my brother-in-law and I spent the day doing some construction and repair work on the deck for the family pool, and we started out the day by listening to Oliver Anthony’s first full-length album, “Hymnal of a Troubled Man’s Mind,” which he released on Easter Sunday. This isn’t a review of the album, but Anthony mines the same territory as his chart-topping single “Rich Men North of Richmond” while expanding on what made him famous.
Bookending many of the songs with scripture readings, Anthony brings a biblical sense of urgency to them. He sings with the same sort of populist, anti-politician fervor that characterized “Rich Men North of Richmond” and adds tunes that describe his personal struggles to the mix.
There’s something identifiable about Anthony’s songs. Even if you haven’t had the same struggles he’s had, he makes you feel like you understand. His frustration with the problems that plague our nation today rings true, and his working-class anthems resonate. As we listened to the album while we worked on the deck, I couldn’t help but think of my dad.
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Last week, April 3 to be exact, was the fourth anniversary of my dad’s passing. Of course, he was on my mind often during the day, but it didn’t occur to me to write anything about him. After all, it wasn’t a milestone anniversary.
I've had a lot of weird, emotional reminders of my dad since he died. A couple of months after he passed away, I watched "Black Panther" (the only Marvel movie I've ever seen — I know, I know) and the father's death in that movie caught me way off guard emotionally. One scene in AppleTV's Steve Martin documentary (which I'll write more about in the coming days) about his relationship with his dad resonated with me, even though my relationship with my dad was infinitely better than Martin's was with his father.
But as I listened to “Hymnal of a Troubled Man’s Mind,” I couldn’t help but think that my dad would love and appreciate Anthony and his music. My dad was a fan of old-school country music, and I think he would have understood the mountain man behind the songs and the Appalachian-ness of the music more deeply than I ever could.
Though they were a generation or two apart, my dad and Anthony came from the same milieu. Anthony’s Virginia mountain upbringing and my dad’s early life in the North Georgia mountains were similar enough that I believe my dad would have identified with many of Anthony’s songs.
My dad didn’t have the same struggles with mental health and substance abuse as Anthony, but he did grow up without much of a future in tiny Epworth, Ga. The area where he grew up has become a tourist-heavy locale, but even when we would visit his family in my younger days, there was barely anything to do. One hot summer day, we were so bored up there that my mom took my brother, sister, and me to play in a car wash!
I'll never forget my dad showing me a spot on a mountain road that he called "Insurance Bluff" because people would push their cars off the mountain at that spot to collect insurance money. I also remember a day when he took my cousins and me on a walk to check out an old swimming hole he frequented as a boy, and we got lost, walked for six hours, and never found the swimming hole.
He drove fast cars and played football, but college wasn’t in the cards for him. He did a stint training to work at a funeral home and spent some time in the Air Force, but he knew he had to get out of Fannin County to find a life.
Eventually, my dad became a truck driver. He met, fell in love with, and married the boss’s daughter, and I came along quickly after that. I recall him taking me on trips when I was really young, and I remember a miserable trip we took as a family of four with my baby sister crying the whole time. Not long after that, my dad quit driving a truck.
After that, my dad worked back-breaking jobs as an industrial mechanic, toiling through long swing-shift days and nights to provide for our family. He lived Anthony’s line about “Overtime hours for bulls**t pay,” and he did it all to make sure that my mom and all three of us kids had what we needed and wanted.
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Even with his crazy work schedule, my dad made sure to support us. He was there for as many of my chorus concerts, my sister’s clogging shows, and my brother’s football games as his schedule would allow. He didn’t complain, either.
After he retired, my dad didn’t stop working. He worked part-time jobs to make extra money; besides, I don’t think he was content to stay at home all day. He doted on my nieces even more than he did us kids. Even when he was in hospice care, he promised my then-15-year-old niece to help her learn to drive and told the younger two nieces that he couldn't wait to watch them play softball.
Listening to mountain man Anthony sing his songs this weekend made me think of the mountain man who helped make me who I am. I’m grateful for the sacrifices my dad made that allowed me to do what I do today, and I sure do miss him.
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