Wynonna was the wild one. Naomi was the mischievous one. The brains, mouthpiece and driving force behind the mother-and-daughter duo from Kentucky who would become the celebrated country act known as the Judds.
Naomi was playful, quick with a smile and a wise word, always with a gleam in her eye that suggested either I-can't-believe-we-made-it joy or fun trouble ahead.
How could you resist the Judds when they emerged in 1984? Wynonna's mature-beyond-her-years voice, Naomi's winsome, flirty ways and a gently twangy folk song called "Mama He's Crazy." I had to meet the Judds the first time they came to Minneapolis.
Sitting in a downtown hotel room, Mom, with her chocolate eyes, ruby hair and creamy skin, looked more like Wynonna's big sister. Naomi was the talker, and Wynonna was the eye-rolling rebellious teen who didn't say much.
Somehow, we bonded over a love of pro wrestling. And here the Judds were about to perform in the Minneapolis Auditorium where, as a high schooler, I'd ushered rasslin' matches for Verne Gagne and the Crusher.
When Naomi learned I'd just written a book about Prince, she asked for a copy and made a wish: that I — or someone — would write a book about the Judds someday. She was always a dreamer.
Those memories flashed back Saturday when Naomi tragically died at age 76 of "the disease of mental illness," according to an announcement from her daughters, Wynonna and Ashley, the actress.
It turned out that Naomi wrote the definitive Judds book, 1993's "Love Can Build a Bridge," as well as eight later books, including 2016's "River of Time: My Descent into Depression and How I Emerged with Hope."
Over the years, I've penned many stories about Naomi and Wynonna, based on interviews and concert performances.
In the joint interviews, Wy, the singing voice of the Judds, might be in the room, but Mom was the mouthpiece. The "imagineer" full of witty one-liners and her own brand of sayings that fell somewhere between the Bible and Hallmark.
Naomi was a caregiver and caretaker, with a generous spirit and maternal instinct.
When my son was born in 1989, she sent him a special porcelain nightlight. When she came to Minneapolis four years later, she wanted to meet him. We headed out to her Bloomington hotel. Andrew was enamored with the plastic beads on her slippers. "Jewels," he called them.
She felt compelled to give him a gift. With nothing at hand except her 546-page book, she grabbed the scoop out of her hotel ice bucket. "It's for your sandbox," she said with that twinkle in her eye.
Having retired from touring three years earlier because of Hepatitis C, Naomi had come to Bloomington to speak to the annual Women in Business Seminar. Before she arrived, she phoned to chat.
"When they called, I said, 'Excuse me. You guys have the wrong number. Business is not a word in my vocabulary. I have no business sense. I start getting real stir-crazy if I'm in an office for more than 10 minutes.' They said, `We really want you to talk about how you've gone from working minimum-wage jobs, from welfare, to financial security.' I said, 'Yeah, I can talk about that transition.' And they said, 'We want you to talk about being a single mother, and from being a battered woman to finding this Prince Charming and this wonderful, solid marriage.' I said, 'Well, I can talk about that.'
"I warned 'em: 'Don't give me no podium. Give me a lavalier mic so I can go out and touch people and see the whites of their eyes. I pretend like they're sitting there at my kitchen table. I'm very irreverent. I never know what I'm going to say.' "
Sure enough, with her portable mic, she roamed the hotel ballroom filled with several hundred women, spewing her Juddisms, punctuated with a smile.
At one point, she came to a table where three or four invited men sat.
"This is Jon Bream," she said, wiggling her fingers through my curls. "He can tell you my story as good as I can."
My face was as red as her Judd hair.
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