Bill Anderson's Wonderful Tribute to Jimmy Dean

Much of the time, we know an artist's public persona, but it's very rare that we learn about the private side of their life.  This afternoon, I had the pleasure of reading a post that country great Bill Anderson wrote on his website about the Jimmy Dean that he knew.  It was moving and something that I strongly felt should be shared with as many people as possible.

I contacted Mr. Anderson asking for permission to reprint the tribute and, being one of the true gentlemen of country music, he quickly wrote back saying he would be happy to share.  Bill's journal is filled with some wonderful writing about his career and other aspects of the music business.   I urge you to visit his website at www.billanderson.com.

June 15, 2010

Hi Gang:

There was a light-hearted sound to Jimmy Dean's voice back in the Spring that I had not heard for almost a year, ever since he had lost his home and so many of his possessions to a horrific house fire. Like always, I was excited to see his name on the Caller ID panel of my cell phone.

"Well, Bill-O, I'm not sure I believe it," he began, "but I think they're finally gonna let me in the Hall of Fame. I just got the call a few minutes ago."

I was closer to screaming than I was to whispering. "All Right! Congratulations! It's about time!"

"You're the first person I've called," he said. He paused and then added, "You know you're the only friend I have down there anymore."

"No, I'm not," I shot back. "I'm just the only one who's willing to put up with all your b.s.!"

He roared with laughter. And when Jimmy Dean laughed, the windows rattled. I laughed too.

We had known each other since the early sixties. We had done radio and television shows together, played golf together, wined and dined together, but not until the mid-nineties when we discovered a mutual love for vacationing on the coast of Maine had we become the close friends we turned out to be.

Jimmy and his wife, Donna, invited me and Little Jimmy Dickens to join them for a week of sun and fun on his yacht, the Big Bad John, around 1995, and for the first time I felt as though I got to know the "real" Jimmy Dean. We went fishing. He introduced me to fresh lobster "with so much butter it'll run down your elbows." We sat up until all hours of the night passing around the guitar, Jimmy and Donna singing old country songs at the piano. Then he'd stand on the back of his boat at breakfast time and yell to passers-by, "Buy sausage!!"

On the surface, to folks who didn't know or understand him, he could sometimes appear to be brash, sarcastic, or egotistical. He knew he had a talent for rubbing some people the wrong way, but beneath that veneer was one of the funniest, most generous, caring human beings I ever knew. Those first few days aboard his boat cemented a friendship that was to last until his death this past Sunday.

I laid awake Sunday night remembering other boat trips, plane trips, and vacations. I laughed all over again at corny jokes he would call and tell me at all hours of the day and night. I remembered his introducing me to the first President Bush when he stopped by the boat to wish Jimmy a happy birthday. I recalled the generosity I saw him display to a young college student who was working as a waiter over the winter holidays, trying to make enough money to go back to school. Jimmy ordered a ten-dollar sandwich and left the young man a two-hundred dollar tip. The boy had no idea who Jimmy Dean even was.

He came to Commerce, Georgia, for one of our City Lights Festivals, helping us raise money to build a Performing Arts Center in my adopted hometown. When one of our auction items didn't bring in as much money as he thought it should, he tossed in a check for a thousand dollars. He donated big money to a school back in his native Texas. Sure, he made a lot of money, sold a lot of records and even more sausage. But he shared his good fortune with others. And not once did I ever see him do it for publicity.

The last time I spoke with him was the day after he had heard about the Nashville floods. "Are you o.k.?" he asked several times. I assured him that I was fine.

The next day he called back again. "Are you o.k.??"

"I told you yesterday I was fine."

"Yeah, but you know how you lie." We both cracked up.

He skipped a day then called back again. "Listen, Bill-O, you need to get out of Nashville and come up here and stare at the river with me." He had rebuilt his house, remodeled his guest house, and wanted me to come see the results. "But I'm on my way to Canada for ten days," I answered.

"Well, to hell with you then," he said. We both laughed. "Love ya', Bill-O," he added.

"Love you, too, J.D."

Those were the last words two old friends spoke to each other.

May his soul rest in peace.

Bill