At 74, Randy Owen still carries his mother’s voice with him — not in recordings, but in the way her words rise up in quiet moments. She wasn’t famous. She never stood under a spotlight. But in a small kitchen in Fort Payne, with the smell of cornbread in the air and a radio humming low, she gave him his first lessons in melody and grace.
“She taught me more than how to sing,” Randy once said softly. “She taught me how to mean it.”
On Sundays, she’d hum old hymns while folding laundry, her voice steady and sure, even when life wasn’t. She believed songs were meant to be felt before they were sung — a truth Randy carried onto every stage.
Now, when the lights go down and the crowd fades into silence, he sometimes hears her again — that gentle, unshakable voice, reminding him that music is nothing without heart. And in that moment, it feels like she’s still right there, standing beside him.
