THE NIGHT THE STATLER BROTHERS BROUGHT A TOWN BACK TO LIFE
It was the summer of 1972, and Staunton, Virginia — the hometown of The Statler Brothers — had been swallowed by darkness. A violent storm had torn through the Shenandoah Valley, snapping power lines and flooding roads. Bridges were down, the lights were out, and for the first time in years, the usually cheerful town sat still — frightened, wet, and silent.
Late that evening, a familiar car made its slow way down Main Street. Inside were four men — Harold Reid, Don Reid, Phil Balsley, and Lew DeWitt — returning home from a show hours away. They were tired, road-worn, and hoping only for a warm meal and a dry place to rest. What they found instead was a town in mourning, faces pressed against windows lit only by candles.
They pulled into a small roadside diner — one of the few places still open, its power running off a noisy old generator. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy. Locals sat quietly at their tables, hands wrapped around cold cups of coffee, listening to the rain beat against the glass. The jukebox in the corner stood silent, unplugged, forgotten.
Then, something simple and remarkable happened. Harold Reid, ever the mischief-maker with that deep, comforting voice, reached into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. He walked over, gave the old jukebox a gentle thump, and dropped it in. With a flicker and a hum, the lights inside blinked weakly to life. The record that spun next was their own — “Do You Remember These.”
Don Reid started to hum along, quietly at first, almost to himself. Lew DeWitt’s tenor soon joined him, soft but steady. Jimmy Fortune, who would later carry their harmonies into a new era, wasn’t there yet — but the sound of brotherhood was unmistakable. Within moments, the room began to change. Heads lifted. Smiles returned. And then — as if by instinct — the people of Staunton began to sing.
Farmers, mothers, truck drivers, and schoolteachers — all joined in, their voices rising over the wind outside. The thunder faded beneath the laughter. Someone clapped on the table. Someone else danced. For a few precious hours, that little diner became the heart of the valley — a sanctuary of light in a night of darkness.
“We didn’t plan to sing that night,” Harold Reid would later recall in an interview. “But maybe that’s when the song found its true purpose — not on stage, not on television, but right there, when people needed to remember who they were.”
By midnight, the storm had passed. The rain slowed to a whisper, and the generator hummed like a lullaby. The Statlers said their goodbyes, heading back into the quiet streets, their hearts full. Behind them, the diner windows glowed warm with candlelight, and someone — no one could remember who — played the song one more time.
In a world where fame often shines brighter than faith, that night stood as a quiet miracle — a reminder that music’s truest power isn’t in the applause, but in the comfort it brings when the world goes dark.
The storm eventually faded from memory, but the story didn’t. To this day, locals still speak of “the night The Statler Brothers brought Staunton back to life.” And every time “Do You Remember These” drifts through a radio somewhere in Virginia, it carries a little piece of that night — a harmony born of hope, faith, and the unbreakable bond between a band and their hometown.
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