Bluegrass-legend Lester Flatt and his wife Gladys invited my parents, my sister, and me to their home for a visit in 1964. My father, a small-town Southern preacher, was a distant cousin, close friend, and mirror image of the Baron of Bluegrass.

Daddy played the harmonica just as well as he quoted scripture. He had even performed with Lester a few times and traveled with him on the Martha White bus. As a young girl in ‘64, I had not yet begun to rebel against my parents’ taste in music, and Flatt & Scruggs had recently acquired celebrity status by recorded the theme song for The Beverly Hillbillies so I was as excited as my parents about our visit to White County. It was a 45-minute ride to their home, which was between our house in Murfreesboro and where my grandparents lived in Bloomington Springs.

Author Cindy Phiffer’s third-grade photo

There was no ostentatious display of honors or prestigious awards in the house, but I remember feeling as though we were surely in a special place. It wasn’t because I appreciated Lester’s distinctive voice—although he certainly had one—or because he could flat-out pick a Martin guitar. Perhaps it was the way he treated us with respect, even though we were children. He listened when we talked and seemed genuinely interested in what we had to say.

This unassuming man had been one of the first bluegrass performers to appear at Carnegie Hall, but my knowledge of that venue was limited to the fact that Daddy seemed to be impressed by the accomplishment. Lester had also played on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry, but the Opry was almost as familiar to us as the church where Daddy preached.

My family made regular trips to the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville where the Grand Ole Opry radio show came to life. In my earliest memories, my feet swung to and fro beneath the sturdy pews that were already old and worn. During the summer months, the heat that made my curls stick to the back of my neck was so familiar as to go unnoticed until Mama lifted my hair and waved her fan back and forth, stirring the heavy air and sending goose bumps all over my body. The relief came as a surprise.

A visit to the Opry was a chance to see Roy Acuff balance his fiddle bow and make a yo-yo walk. It was a place where Minnie Pearl’s earpiercing “How-dee!”elicited a response from the entire audience, to which she replied, “I’m justs’ proud to be here.”And sooner or later, Lester’s familiar voice introduced his portion of the program with,“Now you bake right with Martha White.”His band and our entire row agreed,“Yes, ma’am”and “Uh-huh”at the appropriate times.

Since 1953, Flatt & Scruggs had crisscrossed the South, appearing on radio and television shows and singing the praises of Martha White Self-Rising Flour with Hot Rize Plus.Women who already had their hands full raising families, mopping floors, and ironing cotton dresses welcomed all-purpose flour with open arms. The Flatt & Scruggs tour bus became a rolling billboard for both the flour company and the band.

Daddy (Leamon Flatt, right) and his cousin, Lester

The stage of the Opry—first host to worship services, then to theatrical productions, symphonic concerts, and, yes, operatic performances—now placed country and bluegrass music front and center. It was a time before the sounds of progress threatened to drown out the music.There was no gift shop; your ticket stub served as your souvenir. People willingly stood in line to see musicians perform live without the aid of electronic enhancements or prerecorded tracks.

In hindsight, these were historic times for both the Opry and for bluegrass. But to us, it was just how it was.We couldn’t imagine it would ever be otherwise.

With the mounting commercial viability of rock in the ‘60s, bluegrass groups found it increasingly difficult to find an audience. The popularity of folk music’s social commentary and the advent of folk-music festivals provided new venues for traditional bluegrass players, but many began to feel the pressure to change.

During the mid-to-late ‘60s, bluegrass morphed into a blend of folk, Southern rock, and country music.When the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band released “the Circle album” (Will the Circle Be Unbroken, United Artists) in 1972, I smugly added it to my Christmas list, resulting in a heated exchange with my dad.

“Here’s my list,”I announced, handing him a slip of paper.

He perused the list silently until his eyes reached the last item.

“Will the Circle Be Unbroken?You want a Carter Family record? I thought you said their music was old timey.”

Any self-respecting father can annoy his 16-year-old with one hand tied behind his back, but Dad’s ignorance made me furious.

“It’s not the Carter Family.”I rolled my eyes and wondered how we could possibly be related.“It’s the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.”

“The Ditty Bitty what?”

Maybe I was adopted.

“The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band,”I repeated through clenched teeth.“They’re a rock band.”

As soon as I opened the album on Christmas morning, I put Side 1 on the record player. My dad listened for about eight beats and said,“I thought you said they were a rock band.That’s bluegrass.” He checked the credits on the album cover and said,“ Hey! Mother Maybell’s on here…and Earl…and Roy…and Doc Watson….”

I tried to imagine how a man with multiple degrees could possibly be so enamored by the old fogeys who had been allowed to sing with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. Fearing that his ridiculous comments would ruin the album for me, I quickly took it off and returned it to its cover to be enjoyed later out of his earshot.

Two years later, I headed off to the University of Tennessee, where I studied all kinds of music. My childhood experiences with the world of bluegrass seemed embarrassingly simple, and I distanced myself from it by learning everything I could about classical music, marching band drills, music theory, and orchestral instrumentation.

College was followed by marriage and several moves. My older son was conceived while we lived in North Carolina and born after we moved to Virginia. Our next home was in New Jersey, and my first husband and I divorced after we moved to Massachusetts. My broken heart and wounded spirit left me weary and heavy laden, and I turned to music for refuge.

First I listened to Carole King’s Tapestry, which had served as the soundtrack to my freshman year in high school. After several days of singing along from start to finish, I was ready for something different. I came across my Circle album and wondered why it had been so special to me. From the very first note, the music tapped the depths of my soul, awakening feelings of stability and strength, hope and home. I heard things in the music that only now seemed to make complete sense.

I would eventually remarry and return to Middle Tennessee, where my second son was born.

My “boys” are now 23 and 19. Each has a place of his own and unique tastes in everything, including music. Not long ago, we had them both over for dinner, and the conversation turned to family history. They wanted to know how we were related to Lester Flatt.

After a brief explanation, I repeated stories about meeting him backstage at various performances and about the time Daddy took me on Lester’s bus.When one of my sons asked if I had ever been to Lester’s house, I told them about the visit years before.

“When it came time to eat, Lester and Gladys said they’d like to take us to a restaurant for dinner. I was as impressed as an eight-year-old girl could be. Eating at a restaurant was a rare treat indeed.”

The boys rolled their eyes and muttered things like, “Back in the day.…” under their breath, but even their ridicule couldn’t dash my spirits.

“I remember that your Aunt Phyllis and I wanted hamburgers. The adults thought that was cute.When Mama and Daddy politely ordered the same, Lester and Gladys insisted that they order steaks.”

My sons stared at me as if to say, “That’s it?” And I sheepishly admitted there was one other thing I remembered about that day.

“When we got ready to leave, Lester told us to go up to the counter where the cash register was and pick something out.” The boys’ eyes lit up, preparing to learn of a treasured family heirloom.

“All sorts of shiny things lined the shelves behind the counter. There were delicate trinkets, ceramic knickknacks, and the most beautifully intricate dolls I had ever seen.”

Dollar signs flashed in my sons’ eyes.

“Well, what did you get?”The oldest spoke first, quickly followed by his brother’s “What’s it worth?”

“I’m afraid it’s long gone.”

Now I waited as the boys insisted that I should have taken better care of it and that whatever it was would have certainly set us up for life.

They finally hushed and looked at me, demanding an explanation.

“Now, remember that we were just little girls…” Both expectant faces fell. “…and we hadn’t had dessert...”

At this point, the boys started to groan and shake their heads.

“…so we each got a roll of hard candy.”

It may take a few more years before my sons forgive me for eating their birthright. But maybe someday they’ll understand that the present is built on the past, their mother is not quite as dimwitted as she may appear, and precious memories are truly a sweet inheritance.


Cindy Phiffer credits her parents, Leamon and Lu Flatt, with her love and appreciation of music. The Detroit-born woman lives in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, where she considers herself a Southerner by heart. She and her siblings perform as The Flatt Sisters, proudly carrying on the traditions of the oldtimers by singing gospel songs a cappella, and they continue to evolve musically, experimenting with other musical genres and mixing them together with care.