The Last American Dreamer

Growing up in Tennessee, I could hardly walk into a grocery store without hearing “Jolene” playing on the radio. My mom sang fragments of “9 to 5” as she cooked Hamburger Helper on school nights, after clocking out of work. At my babysitter’s house in the summer, where Country Music Television was our ambient noise, she’d shout, “Good golly, Miss Dolly!” every time a Dolly song came on (which was at least every 30 minutes). Dolly Parton was more of an institution than a star to Tennesseans. Her…