I enrolled my newborn in Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library within the first week of life, following a recommendation from her pediatrician. It was May 2020, and the pandemic was only beginning to tighten its grip on the world. I was a brand-new mother, caught in a freefall of sleepless nights, birth trauma, and a grip of isolation that cut me off from the village and the institutions that usually offer support. The outside world was contending with a crisis far larger than the one I was experiencing as a new parent during a global shutdown. Yet my pediatrician pressed ahead with her routine checks. “Have you signed her up for Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library yet?” she asked. “It’s free, and a book will land on your doorstep every month until your child turns five.” I copied the suggestion into my phone’s notes, alongside feeding tips and tummy-time reminders. Dolly Parton had handed me a lifeline.
And true to the doctor’s—and Dolly’s—word, month after month, for five years, a book arrived addressed to my daughter. At first, it felt surreal to see her full given name on mail, but it happened so consistently that we grew accustomed to the idea that one of the world’s most renowned stars was sending her a monthly gift. We could choose English or Spanish, a choice that felt momentous in a country where Spanish-speaking families often take longer to achieve standardized English proficiency compared with other immigrant groups.
Dolly herself hailed from a hollow in East Tennessee, and she understood that any claim to equity begins with something as simple as the alphabet. Her father never learned to read or write, a fact that always troubled her because she could recognize the intelligence he carried. When she launched the Imagination Library in 1995 in Tennessee, it was an act of retrospective affection for a man who never had the chance to dream as big as his daughter could. That detail stays with me, that she spent the last three decades of her life ensuring that no child would grow up like her father did—without access to books. By the time of her passing, the Imagination Library had grown to mail 270 million books to children in five countries.
The books themselves were carefully chosen and matched to each child’s age. Some titles were timeless classics, others were new to me. The portraits depicted a range of children—white, Black, brown, and Asian—reflecting a broad spectrum of American childhood. The books were beautifully illustrated, and the stories felt thoughtfully inspired. Each delivery was an event at home, and on my daughter’s fifth birthday, there arrived in my email an entry from Dolly herself.
In 2020, as nearly every institution struggled under the weight of a global crisis shaping the early years of motherhood, Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library did not falter. It kept arriving month after month, unfailingly.
“Congrats, Graduate,” the message said, addressing my daughter by name and letting her know she had reached the milestone of five years old, the final installment of the Imagination Library, and sending her into school and new friendships with fresh verses about the inner star she carried, about the gems within her, and about how no one should be allowed to block her path or dim the fire in her heart. There was also a personalized video message for her, as there had been on every birthday, wishing her a wonderful year and reminding her that her dreams knew no limits. This, from a woman who didn’t know us and had no children of her own, to every child she had reached with sixty free books simply because she believed they deserved them.
“I will always love you,” Dolly told my daughter at the end. And I understood, in some quiet, undeniable way, that she truly meant it.
Today, when I learned that Dolly Parton had passed away, I cried out in a way that drew my younger child to me for a hug, because sadness had found me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. It’s uncommon to feel the loss of someone you never met as deeply as I do about her, and I found myself thinking about her songs—how she wrote Jolene and I Will Always Love You in the same night—and about her gift of free books to every child she knew, and I felt a deep sense of gratitude for having lived in the same era as Dolly Parton.
On the day of her death, I reflected on how radical the Imagination Library project truly is in a nation facing slipping literacy rates. It isn’t merely donating money to ensure kids have access to books; Dolly conceived a method to deliver a book straight to a mailbox—whether in California, Tennessee, Ontario, or County Cork—with the same promise, indifferent to what kind of insurance a family carries or what their school district can provide. In 2020, as other institutions faltered under the global crisis shaping my early motherhood, Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library did not break down. It kept showing up, month after month, for five years, without conditions, and at no cost.
People will call her the Queen of Country, and that title fit her well. She was witty, sharp, and generous. But in my home, she was also the book lady, and our shelves bear her imprint. I will always love you too, Dolly. Thank you for guiding two more children into a lifelong habit of reading, learning, dreaming, caring, and growing. I hope that, wherever you are, someone nearby is reading to you right now.
