Being a good person does not mean you are universally beloved.

Look at Joan of Arc, for example. She was very good, a future saint, and yet the French for whom she sacrificed her youth and her wardrobe — battle armor is a hard look to carry off — burned her at the stake. So much for gratitude.

But in the case of Dolly Parton, there is no question the Venn diagram of goodness and adoration is, like a solar eclipse, the same indistinguishable circle.

The girl from Locust Ridge, Tenn., has gone to heaven, leaving the rest of us wiping our eyes and wondering how we will live in the diminished light.

It’s strange, because 99% of us never met Dolly, never went to one of her concerts, never had the opportunity to see that blinding smile inches from our own.

And yet, this legend who transcended music genres, evolving fashion, decades and political ideologies — more on that later — seemed to be a personal friend to everyone who heard one of her songs, saw one of her movies, or watched one of her interviews.

She was a human plate of lemon souffle, with a cherry pie mouth, eyes that would rival Betty Boop’s, and teeth that were on loan from an oyster. None of that was real. All of it was a confection for our mutual pleasure.

But Dolly was the most authentic creature that walked this Earth, sweet, unspoiled, tough as nails, and who possessed an uncanny ability to make you her eternal ally as she pummeled you. If Tammy Faye Bakker and Muhammad Ali had a child, it would be Dolly.

When people die, the tendency, unless they were truly terrible stains on humanity, is to say nice things.

Some, like Bill Cosby, will elicit mixed and muted epitaphs, some focusing on his talent and the joy he brought to generations, and others seeing only the alleged crimes. And let’s not even talk about President Donald Trump, whose memorials will contain both shame and glory.

Even poor Mother Theresa had haters, the most famous of whom was Christopher Hitchens, who wrote a scathing and completely fictional hit job on the saint. I hope she set him straight, assuming he made it to heaven.

There is simply nothing ambiguous in the salutes to Dolly. She, among all the other pop culture figures who have graced us over the many decades, is uniquely loved.

Like vanilla ice cream, spring breezes, ice-cold water on a scorching August afternoon, the gurgle of a newborn child and puppies, Dolly Parton was pure and unadulterated goodness. And writing those words, which seem as trite as the inside of a Hallmark Card, is just a feeble way of trying to capture the evanescent light that she radiated.

Through her charities and her desire to be an auntie to all, regardless of their race, sexual orientation, political views or nationality, Dolly was an international gift.

And about those political views.

We have no idea what they were, except they encompassed being compassionate. You do the math. She never embraced any president or king, never said “I pick you over him,” and never gave her name to a campaign.

That might be because, as one of my friends said, she was a savvy businesswoman. But I think it was actually because she refused to wear a label. The only thing she wore was designer clothes.

I noticed some people on social media trying to tell conservatives that Dolly hated us, and that we needed to shut up because she despised Trump and everything he stood for.

I was personally attacked when I posted a tribute to her moments after hearing the news of her death. I doubt Dolly Parton would have been down with that sort of proprietary smugness.

That’s because she really was one of us, one of all of us, a good woman with a smart and savvy head for business, capped in alemon meringue wig of frivolity and eyelashes that looked like Charlotte’s largest web.

She’s home now, with her beloved Carl, the man she shared that exceptional life with for almost 60 years.

And we will miss her, bone-deep. But like the words of her most glorious song, we will always love her.

Copyright 2026 Christine Flowers