We didn’t plan on finding our forever song that day.
We were just newlyweds in Bryan, Texas—shopping the used vinyl bin at Half Price Books. I think we picked up Phil Collins, The Cure, a John Travolta disco record just for fun… and Randy Travis.
That album—Old 8x10—wasn’t trendy.
But it felt like home.
We brought it back to our little place, slipped it onto our modern-meets-vintage record player—one of those all-in-one models with a CD slot and built-in speakers—and let it spin.
Deeper Than the Holler came on, and we danced in the kitchen for the first of what would be many times. It wasn’t a flashy song. It was steady. Rooted. Honest. The kind of song that holds you still and tells you: this is what love sounds like when it’s real.
We weren’t necessarily big country fans. But we were Texas kids. And Randy had that voice—low, true, like the hum of something built to last.
We moved. First to Hot Springs, Texas again, then California, and back to Hot Springs. Each place had a new kitchen. But the same song.
We danced to it barefoot, in pajamas, in the quiet of late nights and the golden light of slow Saturdays. We kept that record with us every step of the way. We didn’t have much, but we had music, and a sky full of stars to dance under.
When our son Jaxon was born, Jamie sang him to sleep with it. Sometimes in the rocking chair, sometimes squatting on the Total Gym like a multitasking dad-hero. He memorized every word—looked them up just to get it right, even though he already knew them by heart.
That voice I fell in love with—now singing to the tiny person we made together. And I’d just stand there, holding my breath, watching the two people I loved most move in rhythm with a song that had raised us.
There’s something sacred about the songs you carry through time. Something about vinyl—how it crackles, how it waits for you to flip it. Like a love that asks you to stay, and stay again.
And Deeper Than the Holler?
It’s not just our song. It’s the thread that’s tied every kitchen, every slow dance, every season of us. A love that’s stayed steady—through moves, babies, memories, and quiet moments that mattered more than we knew at the time. We still have the record. We still play it. And every time it spins, it sounds like home.
Jamie’s voice in the dark, rocking a baby to sleep. Our kitchen in Bryan. Our life in California. Our heart in Hot Springs. It’s not just a song—it’s the soundtrack to everything good we built, and everything we’re still holding close.
