Margo Price - Maybe Well Make It

AMERICAN MUSIC SERIES

Jessica Hopper and Charles L. Hughes, series editors

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Peter Blackstock and David Menconi, founding editors

Maybe Well Make It

A Memoir

Margo Price

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS PRESS

AUSTIN

Copyright 2022 by Margo Price

All rights reserved

First edition, 2022

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work should be sent to:

Permissions

University of Texas Press

P.O. Box 7819

Austin, TX 78713-7819

utpress.utexas.edu/rp-form

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Names: Price, Margo, 1983 author.

Title: Maybe well make it : a memoir / Margo Price.

Other titles: Maybe well make it | American music series (Austin, Tex.)

Description: First edition. | Austin : University of Texas Press, 2022. | Series: American music series

Identifiers: LCCN 2022002105

ISBN 978-1-4773-2350-2 (cloth)

ISBN 978-1-4773-2626-8 (PDF)

ISBN 978-1-4773-2627-5 (ePub)

Subjects: LCSH: Price, Margo, 1983 | SingersUnited StatesBiography. | Country musiciansUnited StatesBiography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies.

Classification: LCC ML420.P9707 A3 2022 | DDC 781.642092 [B]dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022002105

doi:10.7560/323502

The publication of this book was made possible by the generous support of the BRAD AND MICHELE MOORE ROOTS MUSIC ENDOWMENT.

For Ezra

Contents

Prologue

I stared through the sheer Swiss-dot curtains that hung in the window of my childhood bedroom. I watched the bloodred Midwest sun as it set past the crooked tree line at the edge of our property. I knew staring at the sun was bad for my eyes; still, I couldnt help but watch the ball of fire as it sank beyond the horizon. I felt pulled to it even though I knew looking at it was dangerous.

My west-facing window had a perfect view of McCloud Road, a dusty gravel path that snaked back and forth until it fed, like a tributary of a river, into the two-lane highway. The road led nowhere but I walked it often, kicking gravel, with the hope that one day it might take me somewhere else.

As a little girl, I was plagued by rebellion. My straight blond hair grew long and unruly, into jagged corkscrew curls that turned light auburn. Elusive dreams beckoned me. My lust for life had me chasing after intangible things from the very start. I moved recklessly, running full speed ahead to what, I did not know. But I was always driven to do whatever I set my mind to, even if it meant burning some bridges along the way. I felt compelled to run away from home, which I attempted more than once. I longed for my own life far away and a family of my own.

I would close my eyes, take a big breath, and make a promise and a wish on the dead tufts of dandelion heads. The seeds would parachute through the still summer air, propagating in the Bermuda grass of the yard. I would lie on my back, arms folded behind my head, and search for cherub angels guarding the gates of heaven beyond the clouds. I would scour the sky for a holy face, talking as though someone were always listening, and then strain to hear the whisper of God in my ear.

The first movie I remember watching was The Wizard of Oz. I was three years old and my parents had just bought their first VCR. From that moment on, I imagined I was Dorothy, with her cute little dog and her fairy godmother and her fortune-tellers. I envied her smooth chestnut hair, her blue gingham dress, and those mystical red slippers. I walked on a stack of drying hay bales singing Over the Rainbow and searched for a scarecrow who might come to life and point me in the wrong direction. I wanted to click my heels and be somewhere else. I waited patiently, listening for the sound of the wind to change, and when the moment was right, I would lasso a tornado and ride it straight out of that desolate, worn-down ghost town.

CHAPTER 1

The Unpaved Road

I was born on April 15, 1983, at 8:58 P.M. at the Franciscan Hospital in Rock Island, Illinois. My birth was not an easy one; my mother was petite and had very narrow hips. I was only seven pounds, twelve ounces, but I got stuck in the birth canal. It was then that my nose was broken for the first time. After a grueling, twenty-eight-hour labor, I fell into the arms of my parents, Duane and Candace Price, a farmer and a teacher, respectively. I was mostly healthy, so the doctors placed me in an incubator and called it a day.

After a couple of days, my parents took me home to Aledo, Illinois. They lived down a gravel road off Interstate 94, just five miles north of town. Aledo was home to some 3,600 people, a country church, and some farm animals. The closest town was Hamlet. A wooden sign that still stands there today reads, WELCOME TO HAMLETPOPULATION 42.

My father, Duane, was the third of five children. He worked the family farm with his father, Paul, his mother, Mary, his uncles, three brothers, one sister, and many cousins. They were successful for many years, growing corn and soybeans. None of them pursued higher education because of an unspoken understanding that they would grow up and inherit the family farm. The farm thrived for decades.

My mother, who went by Candy, grew up the third of five children, poor but well loved. My grandfather, Howard Duane Maule, was a chiropractor. In our small town, people thought chiropractic medicine was basically witchcraft, so he didnt have a lot of customers at first. My grandmother, Patricia Louise Fischer, was a homemaker, and though she was very petite, standing only five feet tall, her heart was bigger than the whole damn town. My mother wore hand-me-downs from her older sister and rarely had any new toys or fancy belongings. When they didnt have enough money for a Christmas tree one year, they awoke one morning to find six Douglas fir trees in their yard, a sweet offering from some caring folks in town.