Haggard’s early hits – “The Fugitive,” “Branded Man,” “Mama Tried,” “Hungry Eyes,” “Workin’ Man Blues,” “Okie From Muskogee,” “Sing Me Back Home” – form the backbone of one of the greatest repertoires in all of American music, plain-spoken songs populated by the kinds of working people Haggard grew up with: farmers, hobos, convicts, widows, musicians and drunks. He was 43 years old, twice divorced and 14 years into an amazing streak of 26 Number One country singles, with another dozen to come in the next decade.
“Residents,” he says finally, as they disappear into the trees. He watches them silently, his head cocked in concentration. As he smokes, two fawns wander by, not intimidated by our presence. Haggard fishes a plastic M&M container of weed from the pocket of his camouflage shirt, shrinks low on the seat and lights a black glass pipe. “I need to keep my hands tender,” he says.
I ask Haggard if he takes part in the work. I think that’s a necessary project for me right now.” Below us, workers haul lumber and pour concrete at construction sites. “But I’d like to build me a home with some sanity, where it’s totally green. “I’ve lived in houseboats and motor homes and band houses and cabins,” he says. Just below the crest of the hill, Haggard pulls into a clearing where he’s thinking about building a new house – a place the 72-year-old country singer would like to pass on to his family after he’s gone. Haggard, coughing frequently and speaking with a low, syrupy twang, points out that the grass looks soft but is actually razor-sharp and full of rattlesnakes, some as big around as his calf – better than any fence to keep out trespassers. The hillside is covered in waist-high yellow grass and twisted manzanita. On a perfect summer evening, as the electric-blue sky fades to glowing orange, Haggard’s golf cart strains and lurches up a steep incline on the north perimeter of his property. He’ll check on projects that are always under way but never seem to get finished – the mending of a fence in his sheep pen planting redwood trees the construction of a waterfall – or he might park on a wooden bridge that crosses the lake where he fishes for bass and catfish, and smoke some weed. Some afternoons, when his kids aren’t around and he doesn’t feel like practicing with his band, Merle Haggard will load a pipe, climb onto his John Deere golf cart and take a ride around his property, 200 acres of rugged California ranch land at the northern edge of the San Joaquin Valley.
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