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About I Lived To Tell It All
Product Description Strong and sober, George Jones looks back on his life with searing candor. From his roots in an impoverished East Texas family to his years of womanizing, boozing, brawling, and singing with the voice that made him a star, his story is a nonstop rollercoaster ride of the price of fame. It is also the story of how the love of a good woman, his wife Nancy, helped him clean up his act. From the Publisher Strong and sober, George Jones looks back on his life with searing candor. From his roots in an impoverished East Texas family to his years of womanizing, boozing, brawling, and singing with the voice that made him a star, his story is a nonstop rollercoaster ride of the price of fame. It is also the story of how the love of a good woman, his wife Nancy, helped him clean up his act. From the Inside Flap ober, George Jones looks back on his life with searing candor. From his roots in an impoverished East Texas family to his years of womanizing, boozing, brawling, and singing with the voice that made him a star, his story is a nonstop rollercoaster ride of the price of fame. It is also the story of how the love of a good woman, his wife Nancy, helped him clean up his act. About the Author George Jones has been called the greatest country singer of our time. He lives in Nashville with his wife, Nancy. Tom Carter has co-authored books with Ralph Emery, Reba McEntire among others. He lives in Nashville. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1 The grasshoppers were so thick that summer their swarming blocked the sunlight. Like the Old Testament locusts that fell on Egypt, they covered the parched East Texas ground like a rug. I had a brother-in-law, W. T. “Dub” Scroggins, who was much older than me, and I called him my uncle. His cash crop, cotton, had survived hail and high winds that year. But it would never stand up to the bugs. Dub was never one to get hysterical, and he kept his composure when others lost theirs. His head was always as level as his spirit was sweet. He had a wisdom that sprang from the soil. He gave the ground his toil, and it gave him a savvy that made him smarter than his years. I stayed with him and his wife, my sister Helen, on their farm twenty miles southeast of Waco during summers when I was a boy. I lived the rest of the year with my parents, brother, and sisters in one of three humble houses in East Texas. Dub woke me one day that summer before daylight. “George,” he said, “the grasshoppers are going to take the cotton. I don’t give it much more than a week. They’re devouring every farm in this county. I’ve been thinking about it, and today we’re going to take back what’s ours.” We ate breakfast before sunrise, but that was not early enough to beat the insects to the field. By the time we had walked to Dub’s seventy acres, the grasshoppers had already flown from the weeds into the cotton, where they’d eat all day. At sundown they’d fly back into the weeds, where they would roost, filled with the cotton that Dub had planted by hand. There was probably a drop of his sweat in every boll. My sister Helen is ten years older than me, and she was married at sixteen, before I started the first grade. I looked up to Dub, literally and figuratively, and thought he looked the way God would if God wore denim. This time, I was looking to Dub to see what he would do. Even as a child, I understood the tragedy that was happening before me—tons of ruin from insects weighing less than an ounce each. From inside Dub’s barn, I heard the swing of his hammer. He was driving nails into scrap lumber, fashioning it into a sled. It was no more than a four-foot-square platform surrounded by two-by-fours that were waist-high to me. It had a rail, and I was supposed to hang on while I drove Dub’s mule through the cotton. He opened a burlap sack filled with bran. Dust boiled inside the barn’s stale air when Dub thrust a scoop into
