Introduction:
Few artists embodied the soul of American country music quite like Merle Haggard. A towering figure of the genre, Haggard built a legacy not on polish or perfection, but on truth. His songs carried the weight of hard-earned wisdom—prison time, heartbreak, redemption, and the complicated beauty of love. And perhaps no story captures that emotional depth more profoundly than the last time he visited his second wife, Bonnie Owens, before her passing in 2006.
Haggard was married five times over the course of his life, but his union with Owens—lasting from 1965 to 1978—proved to be one of the most creatively significant chapters of his career. Owens was far more than a spouse; she was an accomplished artist in her own right, winning the ACM Female Vocalist of the Year award in 1965. That same year, she married Haggard, joined him on tour, and helped care for his children from a previous marriage.
More importantly, she became the quiet force behind some of his most enduring classics. Haggard often credited Owens with capturing the lyrics that would become “Mama Tried” and “Working Man Blues.” If he hinted at writing, she was there with pad and pen, ensuring no line was lost to the air. During 1968 and 1969 alone, he received six BMI awards—many for songs she had diligently transcribed as inspiration struck.
One of the most beloved songs tied to their relationship was “Today I Started Loving You Again.” Written after a brief reunion during a grueling Texas tour, the title came from a tender exchange at Los Angeles International Airport. Haggard remarked that they hadn’t had time to properly greet each other. “Today I started loving you again,” he told her. Ever the businesswoman, Owens replied, “What a great idea for a song.”
The track appeared on his 1968 album The Legend of Bonnie and Clyde and later on his 1970 release The Fightin’ Side of Me. Though it never cracked the Top 10, it became a country standard, later covered by icons such as Waylon Jennings, Conway Twitty, and Kenny Rogers.
In a telling anecdote, Haggard once revealed he scribbled the song’s lyrics on a hamburger wrapper during tour. Financially, it became one of his most lucrative compositions. Yet because he had originally gifted Owens half the publishing—and later, the remaining half in their divorce—he retained only 12 percent of the royalties. He never seemed to regret it.
Ironically, it was their divorce that allowed their relationship to evolve into something steadier. They remained close friends for decades. Then came the moment that would leave even the famously stoic Haggard in tears.
Years into Alzheimer’s, Owens invited him into her room during his final visit. Behind her bed hung a large photograph of the two of them. She pointed to it and said softly, “He’s my favorite.” She did not recognize the man beside her in the picture.
For Haggard, who had built a career singing about memory, loss, and longing, the moment was almost unbearable. Love had outlasted marriage. Friendship had survived failure. But memory—memory had slipped away.
In that quiet room, the man who once sang about freedom confronted something no lyric could mend. And in doing so, he reminded us that even legends are, at heart, simply human.