Dolly Parton: The Soundtrack of a Life
- Angela Sanford
- Aug 28
- 4 min read
by Angela Sanford
We've all got a little Dolly Parton in our lives.
Even if you aren’t a country music fan, Dolly is an icon.
Long ago, she transcended country music, moving effortlessly into film, television, songwriting and so many other corners of our world. But perhaps her greatest gift was giving us songs that became attached to our own lives.
Many of us remember our lives through music. The details may fade into the shadows, but somehow a song can bring an entire moment rushing back.
I remember, vividly, a handful of neighbourhood kids congregating at the Hamilton homestead, turning the front doorstep into our own little karaoke stage. We studied the lyrics in Song Hits magazine and then belted out our performances for our friends—and for the cars passing by.
Our cassette tapes, recorded from the radio, provided the background music. Songs were sung between games of Red Light, Green Light and Mother May I. And whenever a new issue of Song Hits was purchased by someone, we'd be studying the lyrics to the next big hit and preparing for another performance.
A few years later, music publishers began including lyrics inside cassette covers, making rehearsals in front of our bedroom mirrors considerably easier.
But around that same time, the summer concert series at the Hamilton's slowly declined until, one day, like so many things in life, it simply never happened again.
One of the first songs Wanda, Jackie and I sang together, loudly and completely without self-consciousness, was Dolly Parton's “9 to 5.”
So, when I heard the news of Dolly's passing, that was the first song that came to mind.
At the time we were singing it, I was too young to understand the magnitude of the woman behind the song. I didn't understand what an icon she was or the impact she would have around the world.
I understand it now.
And somehow, I don't think of Dolly as an icon or even as a celebrity. I think of her as that friend you lose touch with for years, only to run into them again and fall right back into step as though not a single day has passed.
No, I've never met Dolly. But somehow, her presence always felt familiar.
Maybe it was because she never seemed to take herself too seriously. Maybe it was her humour, her unmistakable voice, her rhinestones and big hair, or her ability to tell a story through a song. Whatever it was, Dolly always seemed larger than life while remaining remarkably approachable.
She was certainly larger than Truvy Jones, the character she played in Steel Magnolias. Truvy gave us plenty of laughs—and some memorable wisdom. “There is no such thing as natural beauty.”
But despite all the makeup, wigs, costumes and carefully created image, Dolly's real beauty was never something that needed creating. It came from who she was.
And perhaps that's one of the things I admire most about her. She never seemed interested in telling women what they should look like. She simply created the version of herself that made her happy and owned it completely.
Then there were the songs.
“9 to 5” became her signature crossover hit, but it was only one chapter in a career filled with songs that found their way into our lives.
There was “Coat of Many Colors,” a story about poverty, family and the things that matter far more than what money can buy.
There was “Jolene,” the song that made generations of women simultaneously plead, worry and sing at the top of their lungs.
There were the cheekier Dolly songs—“Two Doors Down” and “Why'd You Come in Here Lookin' Like That?”—that reminded us Dolly could be playful, flirtatious and just a little bit naughty.
And for generations of lovers, there was “I Will Always Love You.” Dolly wrote it and recorded it first, but Whitney Houston's unforgettable version introduced the song to an entirely new generation.
That's the thing about Dolly. Her music didn't belong to one generation. It stuck around.
And somewhere along the way, those songs became ours.
I think that's why Dolly's passing feels so surreal.
People like Dolly aren't supposed to disappear. Their voices have been woven so deeply into our memories that it seems impossible to imagine a world without them.
But perhaps that's the trick.
Dolly's physical life may have ended, but the life of her music hasn't. There will always be a little girl discovering Coat of Many Colors. Someone will hear the opening notes of 9 to 5 and remember their first job. Friends will sing Jolene together in a car. Someone will fall in love to I Will Always Love You. And somewhere, someday, a group of kids will find a song, learn every word and perform it far too loudly for anyone who asked them to.
Just like we did. Maybe that's how a life that was so big becomes something even bigger.
It doesn't really end. It gets passed along—in songs, in stories, in laughter, and in the memories of everyone who sang along.
And as long as someone somewhere is still singing a Dolly Parton song, Dolly's life will never really be over.
The music just keeps playing.
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