DON REID AT 78: A QUIET REMEMBRANCE IN A VIRGINIA FIELD
At 78 years old, Don Reid stood in silence at the edge of a weathered Virginia field where, years ago, the county fair had come alive with laughter, hymns, and the unmistakable harmonies of the Statler Brothers. The wooden stage, once crowned with banners and echoing with four-part gospel blends, now sat empty. The voices that had once filled the air — Harold’s booming bass, Lew’s tender tenor, even the sweet strains of gospel refrains — had long since faded into memory.
Only Phil Balsley remained at Don’s side, standing quietly, hands folded, both men gazing toward the stage not built for crowds this time, but for remembrance. It was not a performance venue anymore, but a monument in its own right — a place where echoes lingered, and where memory held more weight than music.
For Don, the moment was heavy. He had carried the mantle of storyteller and lead singer for decades, always with his brother Harold close by. Together, with Phil and Lew DeWitt, and later Jimmy Fortune, the Statler Brothers became one of the most beloved groups in country and gospel music history. From their breakout with “Flowers on the Wall” in 1965 to their decades of gospel-laced concerts, they were more than entertainers — they were companions in faith and family to millions.
But now, as Don stood in that Virginia field, the harmony had narrowed to two voices. Harold, his brother in life and music, had passed away in 2020. Lew had gone years earlier, in 1990, after a long illness. Even Jimmy Fortune, still performing with vigor, was not here this night. It was only Don and Phil, two men bound not just by songs, but by the ache of memory.
The air was still, the evening sky painted in soft blues and golds, as if nature itself had hushed for the occasion. Don spoke quietly, his voice carrying the cadence of someone accustomed to addressing thousands but now speaking more to himself. “It feels like yesterday,” he said, his gaze never leaving the empty stage. “We sang here, and the people sang back. It was all so alive.”
Phil nodded, silent but steady. Known for his quiet presence throughout the Statlers’ long career, he had always been the anchor in the background — the man whose voice blended without needing the spotlight. Tonight, his presence meant even more. Two old friends, survivors of a golden era, standing together in the place where it all once seemed eternal.
The field itself carried memory. Those who had been there decades ago could still recall the sounds of gospel hymns drifting through the summer night: “Amazing Grace,” “Do You Know You Are My Sunshine,” and the countless spirituals that defined the Statlers’ shows. For fans, the music was never just melody. It was a reminder of home, of faith, of family gatherings and Sunday mornings. For Don, those songs now carried the weight of absence — voices forever etched in memory but no longer by his side.
As the sun dipped lower, Don stepped a little closer to the stage. He placed his hand on one of the posts, weathered now by years of rain and sun. “We built something here,” he whispered. “And it lasted.” It wasn’t boastful. It was reflective, a man measuring not success in fame or fortune, but in the love carried forward through song.
For Don Reid, remembrance is not about clinging to the past, but about honoring it. He has often said that the Statler Brothers’ greatest achievement wasn’t their awards or chart-topping hits, but the way people felt when they heard their music — comforted, uplifted, seen. Standing in that Virginia field, he embodied that belief once more. The harmony may be thinner now, but the legacy is stronger than ever.
As he turned to leave, Phil at his side, the silence of the evening spoke louder than applause ever could. There were no encores, no curtain calls — only memory, heavy and holy, held between two men who once shared it with the world.
In the end, the field did not feel empty. It felt full — full of songs, full of echoes, full of lives intertwined by harmony. And in that fullness, Don Reid, at 78, found peace in knowing that what the Statler Brothers built was not lost. It lived on — in memory, in music, and in every heart still carrying the sound of four voices that once sang as one.