Stretches of time to sit and write were as rare as hens’ teeth when I worked full time, but now that I’ve retired, they are frequent and savored like a warm croissant drizzled with cinnamon honey butter. I’ve recently completed my late father’s unfinished novel with a fellow writer, a family friend more considered friendly family. Writing groups, monthly challenges and yearly challenges are springing up everywhere. Even though the official site closed down last year, November is still Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month), and alternative sites and resources are in full swing, Poetry Outdoors is happening, and one of my favorite Substackers, Tammy Evans, has a Flash Fiction challenge going on as well. Writing opportunities are everywhere! The Audrey Gidman prompts for November are always inspiring, and I could spend all day at home in the drizzling rain just writing.
First things first, though.
The countdown to Christmas is on now that Halloween is over, and I’ve found the perfect tea I couldn’t wait to share. It’s the mint hot cocoa of tea, and I found it in The Fresh Market in Peachtree City earlier this week when my sister in law and I went shopping for Mahjong sales in Heirloom Market next door. On a whim, we walked over to take a stroll and see what trouble we could find in The Fresh Market. I’m making the switch back to decaf, and I needed tea and coffee.
This tea is the perfect writer’s tea. I think the minty taste and aroma might actually wake up my brain more in the wee hours when I rise to write, before the dogs get stirred up and I help get my husband out the door to go to work. If you’re in the market for a new fireside drink with a zing of mint to awaken the senses but you can’t decide between hot chocolate and tea, here’s your answer!
My brother and I have spent nearly a year and a half shuffling through our late father’s things, using what we can and letting go of the rest. I replaced my great grandmother’s table I’d refinished so that I could incorporate our childhood breakfast table into my kitchen, next to the corner cabinet that I also brought here to the farm. The practical and sentimental things have been easiest to decide. But there were oddball things, too, like entire albums of vintage postcards and ephemera. Tons of costume jewelry picked up at estate sales. Old dishes, collectible Andre birds and baseball cards and old Corning Ware and Pyrex and McCoy ceramics. The books filled seven storage units, boxed human-high in rows down the. middle.
So what about those postcards? A year into the sorting of things, I began to realize that perhaps they had a use I could never have predicted. It came in my monthly small group Stafford Challenge writing conversations when Denise Krebs of California, Barb Edler of Iowa, and Glenda Funk of Idaho and I sat together in a Zoom and they invited me to become a part of the Cascadia Postcard Poetry Fest. I was dealing with a family emergency at the time, and almost let the opportunity pass. Thank goodness they persuaded me to take a stab at it.
I’m so glad I said yes. I created some postcards with various art techniques, and also added a few of Dad’s vintage postcards, sending them out in the mix after airing them out a little so they could breathe outside the plastic covers. Nothing crumbled, and the stamps stuck, so I sent out a few to test the system. I wondered if recipients even knew that underneath the stamp, it said “Place 1 cent postage here” inside a tiny stamp guideline.
After the July challenge to send postcards to the folks on our lists, a smaller group invitation came out for those who wanted to continue writing postcard poetry each month. All we had to do was email Barbara Robinette at rosablue722@gmail.com and request to be on the list. She sends the addresses and the instructions at the end of each month for the following month. The group is still open for new participants, and if you’re interested, you can email her at the address above.
I spent time last weekend organizing many of the vintage postcards into monthly piles and Ziplock bags so that I can work ahead a little, since I like to send out postcards to everyone on the list and not just the required three. I like to think of the history of each postcard as many decades later, it realizes its potential and comes alive like some buried time capsule unearthed into a new resurrected life. I wonder what shop it sat in, waiting to be purchased all those years ago, and who purchased it with the intention to send it to someone. I wonder why they didn’t send it as planned.
And I wonder what it says about hope. If postcards older than I can suddenly spring to life and travel across the globe with stamps as their passports to new places as they bring smiles to faces at 32 mailboxes each month, how can any of us give up hope of a miracle happening?
If you’re on the fence, thinking you might like to join the challenge but a little intimidated about writing a poem on a postcard, please take a leap and start with a short form like a haiku or an acrostic. No one has to be a famous writer to participate in this. It’s about the sense of community it brings and the ways we can share with each other to make a positive difference. Plus, you may receive a vintage postcard that wriggled its way out of a time warp to make its way to you.
Halloween held all the fun with friends human and furry – and even one with feathers. I attended a Mahjoween gathering at the home of a friend on Friday, and she had rescued an injured duck from the highway on the way home from a birthday dinner in town the night before. She brought the hen to the sanctuary of her fenced back yard to protect it from predators before she released it back into a nearby lake, and this little lady took a liking to her oasis. Have you ever played Mahjong poolside where there was a duck quacking and paddling, happy to be alive in a saltwater swimming pool? Because let me tell you: it’s a little surreal. Someone yells “Mahjong!” and there is a congratulatory quack chorus happening like a drunk uncle’s loud holiday party laugh in the midst of all the cheers.
My husband and I spent quieter time at home with our three dogs on Saturday. Since we, too, live deep in the country and don’t get trick-or-treaters down our two/tenths-of-a-mile driveway, we still always prepare for the evening with a small bag of just-in-case candy and spend extra time playing in the yard with the dogs for exercise on a night when they won’t get to go back out again until much later – – just to be on the safe side. We secretly wonder how long the cupboard candy will last, between the two of us sneaking Snickers here and there.
This year’s tricks included Zoomies with the newbie, Jay, who is catching on quickly about what it means to have brothers and what it means to play. He’s had two main people play with him in his six years, then a couple of foster dogs including a Husky he detested (he does not like big breeds, according to the lady who was fostering him, which she discovered at the dog park where he’d lunged with terroristic threats at the fence dividing the big dogs and the little dogs). And now here he is, learning what it means to belong and have fun, zipping around in Funny Farm-style figure 8s.
What a treat to share life and admire the antics of the people and the dogs and the wildlife we love!
It’s hard to believe October is coming to a close tonight. The time will soon drop back an hour, and we’ll crawl in bed at 6 p.m. because it will look like 9 p.m. and we’ll have to convince our minds and bodies it’s all a cruel trick. We’ll be thicker into the holiday season as we seek coziness. There is already Christmas music playing in stores, and the bells will be ringing outside shops as we enter and exit, plenty before any Thanksgiving blessings are offered.
I have to keep busy, so I’ll be sewing porch goose clothes. I recently gave a pair of the 21 inch geese with fishing outfits to my brother and sister in law to go at their lake house on the dock, and I adore this trend of dressing a goose. We don’t get a lot of people stopping by this deep in the country, so I decided a 7 inch goose would be a better fit for me. I like having it up by the sink next to the coffee pot so I can feel the morning cheer. Something about a cute goose gets the day started with a smile.
I’ve made a few outfits already by using some of the outfits I purchased to make patterns for more in different styles and colors. I enjoy naming the outfits rather than the goose. It brings back all the feels of when I was young and got a new Barbie Doll. Back in those days, they came with a little catalog-style brochure of Barbie in all different outfits, and I remember dreaming of all the outfits I wanted for my dolls. Skiing Barbie, ready for the Alpine slopes. Business Meeting Barbie, ready to pitch a campaign. Teacher Barbie, ready to write on the chalkboard and explain some math steps. I wanted them all. This goose lets ME design the clothes and bring them to life on my late mother’s Bernina.
A friend’s daughter is a first-year teacher, and I will make a few for her teacher’s desk goose, too. Here is a glimpse of my first attempt at creating goose clothing.
The Daphne
The Betty Sue
The Georgia Lee
The Thelma Lou
If you’d told me a year ago that I would find joy in dressing porch geese in retirement, I’d have laughed out loud.
But here I am, filling bobbins and stitching rick rack.
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” – Anne Shirley,
from L.M. Montgomery’s 1908 classic novel Anne of Green Gables
Fall is, without any close seasonal competition, my favorite time of year. It’s cool but not cold, warm but not hot, and unlike springtime, there are fewer allergens and no pollen blanketing everything outdoors. And there is also no mad rush for holiday preparation, either. Don’t get me wrong – – I do enjoy holidays, but fall brings the peace before the chaos, the calm before the storm of Christmas shopping, baking, and gatherings. The dogs are still content and settled, not yet stirred up in all the changes in routine and visitors.
And the leaves. Nature’s masterpiece has matured from her springtime buds, ripened to her full bloom in the summer, and in fall has crisped to all the gorgeous shades of an artist’s palette. It’s stunning to step outside and look to a valley resplendent with fall colors for miles in every direction from the top of a mountain.
That’s why we love camping at F. D. Roosevelt State Park so much. It’s at the tip top of Pine Mountain, less than an hour west from home but feels like it’s a long way off, and the mountain gives us a taste of North Georgia without actually being there. This morning, it’s 45 degrees out, and that sweater weather I’ve been craving has surpassed the mark and gone to sturdy jacket weather for the first dog peeing window of the morning. You can still smell the smoke from last night’s campfires in the air and on your clothes, see the acorns someone before you left on the picnic table for you to enjoy, and feel the stirrings of cold wind brush your cheek and send leaves swirling to the ground all around you. Fellow dog walkers are out with their own camping dogs, and early birds are preparing to cook breakfast. Soon there will be the smell of bacon sizzling in every direction. For now, though, my coffee is brewing and its rich aroma greets me like the welcoming home of a family member from an it’s-been-too-long scolding. I’ll step inside and finish morning prayers a few hundred feet closer to heaven today than I am at home, in location and in mindset.
In a few minutes, I’ll slice fresh baked pumpkin bread and share a bite with three tiny waggy tail patient waiters with perked up ears and the cutest cocked heads, a trio of rescues who have never ever committed a single wrong in their entire lives and never will, if you ask them. One is on his first camping trip – maybe ever – but at least in the Wayfarer with us. He’s still learning how all this works, and the good Lord allowed him a quick lesson that putting his nose in my piping hot coffee cup and trying to steal a quick taste has its own consequence.
A while later, I’ll build a fire and cuddle up under a blanket in the padded chair to read out by the warmth where life is buzzing with relaxed morning enjoyment by the good-spirited folks who walk past in wrinkled flannel shirts and one-notch-above-pajama pants but way short of a matching sweatsuit, further still from social attire required anywhere but on a campground, everyone’s hair still tousled from last night and holding a dog leash in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. I’m going back and forth between Road Trip by Mary Kay Andrews and two of my favorite memoir-ish country living volumes by Gladys Taber: Especially Dogs and Stillmeadow Road. A good while after that, in between walking dogs and birdwatching with Merlin at the helm and pimento cheese sandwiches and few games of computer mahjong, I’ll change into actual blue jeans and bring out the real tiles and racks and light an apple cider candle while I play a couple of hands of Messy.
Sensei Susan, me, and friend and fellow Mahj enthusiast Christian
I’ve never played pickleball, but I’ve heard that the craze is so fast and furious that new players kidnap all their friends and drive them to the courts, taking extra clothes and gear and even letting complete strangers use whatever equipment they need to join in the game with zero awareness of any rules as they walk onto the court all bewildered. There, they hand them a paddle and explain all about the kitchen and who can go into the kitchen and who should stay out of the kitchen and a hodgepodge of rules that sound like the Charlie Brown teacher to a bunch of head-scratching people who suddenly find themselves in a surreal moment they didn’t choose, pinching their forearms and wondering how they actually got there. And then, these same clueless people now caught up in the madness are the next wave of new players grabbing all their unsuspecting non-pickleball-playing friends the next week and bringing them back for an initiation into the cult sport.
That’s a lot like Mahjong, only with far fewer physical risks of injury for the older folks who do not need additional help finding the ground and suffering injuries. My husband’s father experienced this when he played pickleball and ended up with knee surgery and months of physical therapy. But where crossword puzzles and Sudoku have been the traditional seniors’ choice for cognitive exercise to stave off the inevitable decline of functional brain cells and memory, Mahjong emerged onto the American scene like an Asian tsunami across the globe and up through the cracked-earth dust of history straight outta ancient China and settled in the homes of women who are now going broke buying tablescapes and four-layered theme tiles they store in Michael’s clear lidded candy jars in the china cabinets where their great grandmother’s heirloom dishes used to be displayed. Husbands everywhere are begging: Please, someone, make it make sense! It’s like a CrackDragon tile walked up to the New York Times puzzle page and said, “Hold my beer.”
It’s true. The latest trend in real estate in Texas is the Mahjong room, and if a home doesn’t have one, the wife tells the husband she wants to “look further” for one that does. Because, well, ….the whole group of friends must have a place to play on proper precisely-measured square tables that doesn’t involve a flashmob-style takeover of a Chicken Salad Chick on a random Tuesday at 10 a.m. There are entire YouTube video series sessions that feature how to store mats by rolling or hanging, how to read the official NMJL card, and how to choose tiles based on size to fit your racks and pushers (which are, by the way, sometimes deliberately selected not to be all “matchy-matchy” with the tiles and mat and tablecloth and lamp and dice dish).
And let’s talk about trinkets. Most often they’re tiny ducks or other little pinkytip-sized animals that are collected as trophies upon a Mahjong win that is declared valid with no opposition from the players at the table who have checked the exposed tiles against the card. These ducks are sometimes kept in a little pouch, so when your sensei who taught you to play Mahjong and lives two and a half hours away is preparing to come for an afternoon of games and will “bring her bag of ducks,” you don’t have to read that twice. You understand there is no typo there.
Even more, you understand that what seemed illogical the summer before you learned to play the game now makes perfect sense. It’s gospel, yet it can seem like learning a whole new language in two humorous Mahjong 101 and 102 lessons. It can be deep and carry life lessons, like that scene in Crazy Rich Asians. Even Julia Roberts plays, and insists that the craze is about making order out of chaos because it’s not a gambling game, and it’s not a drinking game. Folks who were complete strangers in the grocery store and bookstore and at church a few months ago suddenly become best friends. These same folks will drive hours to play away an afternoon, and they’ll bring Mahj gear and give it to you as a gift, along with their bag of ducks. They will talk strategy and explain reasons for pivots, and everyone will eat snacks and laugh all afternoon and send each other YouTube videos on game strategies, tips, and obscure rules and, of course, all the things they are putting in their Amazon cart. You’ll understand that while winning is fun, it’s just as much fun to lose because there is no losing where there is so much fun that you don’t even realize your brain is exercising and that you might not be the extreme introvert you once thought you were.
You’ll thank the good Lord you didn’t wait another day to retire, because you look forward to each day you can play with new friends, old friends, and your sister in law across the farm. And you’ll feel sorry for all those pickleball players who think they’re all that and a bag of chips. Because you know the real truth about what a kitchen is for.
Bethany, Christian, and me – photo created by Christian
Our sensei brought these flowers and basil she grew in her own garden when she isn’t mowing grass in straight lines or playing tennis or teaching Mahjong
Sometimes the most write-down-to-the-bone writing challenge comes from friends in a writing group: Let’s all write a poem about what really annoys the hellout of us, one among us says, throwing a gauntlet right at everyone’s feet. And don’t hold back. Tell everyone how you really feel. Write down to the bone, as Natalie Goldberg would urge.
I got my sass going and pulled out my pen and my notebook and let my mind go to a time I really wanted to jerk a knot in someone’s neck. It didn’t take long to feel my blood boiling in memory alone. That’s what writing does when it takes you back to the moment you need to just let something go or deal with it.
I’ll tell you what annoys me: when someone flippantly tells another person to smile. Especially when someone doesn’t know the personal burdens people are carrying, whether the directive comes from someone at work, a stranger in public, or anyone else who crosses a personal boundary and doesn’t know the challenges others are facing. It’s the most insensitive way to treat others, and seems to be a trademark habit of those who feel especially narcissistic and entitled.
I’ve had it happen to me on multiple occasions on the heels of my father’s death when the lines of grief had set in and seemed to hold a strong presence on my brow, but never more stinging and offensive than the time right after I’d gotten the phone call from the veterinarian that there was nothing more they could do for my beloved Schnauzer Fitz, and that I needed to begin thinking of a time when I could bring him in for his final appointment. Someone who professed to be “an expert on reading body language” walked by on the way to refill a coffee cup and said, “Smile. You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
As a matter of fact, I did have the weight of the world on my shoulders. And in that moment, for a “professional body language reader” to be so careless with that astute observation yet offer that remark, I wasn’t sure whether to cry, scream, or slam my computer shut and run out of the room. So I decided the best approach was to feel pity for the self-proclaimed professional heartless creature seeking caffeine. To be so filled with the gift of body language literacy and so devoid of sensitivity, the caffeine was clearly not the wake-up call needed.
Here’s a thought I wanted to share with the oblivious coffee drinker: use your body language reading gift with the utmost stewardship and assume someone might actually be distressed if they’re throwing off that vibe. It does no one any good to have a gift and not use it for good. Think of it like gun ownership, because it’s similar and can be worse: you wouldn’t show up to a sharpshooter’s competition waving a gun like a drunk Otis on Andy Griffith. Use your weapon to protect, build bridges, and help heal, not to kill. I can’t imagine that my late father, in his pastor days, would have ever looked at anyone with a distressed look on their face and inhumanely told them to smile. And I don’t expect people in positions of leadership to lack the lick of sense it takes to figure out the obvious and remain oblivious. It reeks of a football coach with so much lingering head trauma that when an injured player is writing in pain, they tell the player to get up and shake it off.
This got to be such an obvious thing with this particular coffee drinker that all those who’d been flippantly told to smile began sending messages of support to each other. Imagine the day I walked by a desk in an RV dealership and saw the sign: Director of Smiles. I tried to grab it and hold it up for the picture, but it was adhered to the desk. Someone before me must have tried to steal it. Now, it has become the regular image we share when someone has been told to smile.
Director of Smiles Tanka
Director of Smiles,
the sign reads, reminding me
my natural face
is who I am, not some fake
show of my humanity
I think Leigh Elena Henderson (I adore her and her expressive eyes that can carry on a full conversation all by themselves) gets it – – check out her viral Tik Tok on HR Manifesto.
One of my favorite parts of RV travel is going into small towns along the way to see what life is like there. I don’t mean it to sound like I perceive other places as somehow foreign in an Earthling versus Alien kind of way, but I like to see what everyday is like for those who live in places other than where I live. I like to see their favorite places to eat, their shops, their town squares, their Walmarts, and their libraries. I like to experience a day in the place of others whose shoes I can share for even just a day.
During a recent trip to North Georgia, we spent a little time in Blairsville. Our first stop was the county library, where we checked out the book collections and programs and also asked about where the locals like to eat. The Union County Library has a Dolly Parton display and a plant swap going on right now, and when I go to other libraries around our state, I feel sad for our small library without the resources that others have.
We got several restaurant recommendations, including Belly Pizza and Hole in the Wall. At Belly Pizza, we had a supreme pizza and ordered a large so we’d have leftovers for the next day (we are “lazy” campers who prefer microwave leftovers to cookouts). We also ordered a Catalina Wine Mixer salad, which had baby spinach, red grapes, Kalamata olives, red onion, roasted tomato, sunflower seeds, feta cheese, Catalina vineyard dressing, pepperoncini peppers, and…..ta daaaaa…. pepper drops, also known as Biquinho peppers. In all my life, I have never had these, and they were fabulously flavorful. They’re the red bulb-looking peppers in the photo below. They’re a full taste explosion, popping like a firm grape and tasting like a cross between a sweet tomato and a soft bell pepper.
We also ducked into a gelato and chocolate shop for a sweet treat. The lemon gelato was delicious with a. sugar cookie crumble topping, and the chocolates looked good, too, but we stopped at one small sweet treat and resisted the urge to splurge worse.
I also made some new friends in Blairsville, too. Debbie Lynn, a fellow blogger from Texas, shared with me recently that Mahjong groups are generally welcoming of outsiders, and so I reached out to the leader of a group that plays on Wednesdays and joined them. I’m so glad I did! It was nice to see all the lovely tablescapes and meet new friends along the way! This group charges $3 to play for the afternoon, and from their monthly earnings, they pay part of the proceeds to their clubhouse for utilities and dues, and part to a charity. When Dolly Parton died, they played the 9-2-5 Mahjong cards and sent the contributions to the Imagination Library. I’m learning a lot about how a brain-stimulating game can connect people and help organizations.
My Favorite Neighborhood
consecutive run
no jokers allowed in pairs
still, a winning line!
Whether we are at home in our own small town or off exploring in other places around our great state or nation, it’s a warm feeling to belong and feel welcome. For this week, I’m back with my own neighborhood Mahjong group, reading with my dogs nuzzled beside me, and dreading the dentist visit today at 11:00…….I love clean teeth, but I hate the scraping.
We’re traveling more in my retirement, but the way my husband sees it, the only way we’ll stay home as much as he likes is if he keeps working, so he’s not taking the Social Security option just yet. He knows I’d pare down what’s in the house and sell most everything and take to the open road in the Wayfarer if it were up to me. I’d take us two plates, two mugs, two spoons, two forks, and two knives. I’d pack three pairs of jeans and six t-shirts, plus two pairs of sweatpants and a thin sweatshirt for pajamas. My camo Birkenstocks, one pair of sneakers, and my trusty Ugg slippers would be in my shoe cabinet. That’s pretty much how my two prescription medications and my favorite toothbrush and I would live for six months out of the year – until all the trees have grown tall enough to give us back our woodsy cocoon we once called home before they were harvested to go off and realize their ultimate destiny as telephone poles, the poor things.
In my best estimation, we’d travel by day, stopping for groceries on our way to wherever we’d camp for two or three nights. We’d take morning hikes and go exploring with the dogs, I’d press flowers between the pages of books and sketch them for watercolor paintings and bookmarks, and then we’d build campfires to sip coffee by, read books for hours, watch movies, and listen to music. I’d have to play Mahjong with bots on the computer unless I came across a group of three players needing a fourth; otherwise, we’d play Phase 10 so I could stay perpetually confused about what to discard.
We’d stop at every festival along the way so we could check out all the jams, preserves, and pickled things they’d be selling, and we’d buy some for our morning toast, along with a dozen free-range fresh eggs. And we’d throw in some homemade soap, too, probably made with the goat milk of someone’s backyard herd. It would smell like crisp mountain air with a hint of breezy wildflowers. Then we’d opt for a caramel apple instead of a funnel cake and sit in a bentwood rocker and watch the cloggers and banjos for a while before Wayfaring along on our merry way, humming some bluegrass tunes .
For today, though, we’ll watch Secondhand Lions and Arthur the King with dogs in our laps snuggled under fleecy throws, and I’ll be reading The Year of What If by Phaedra Patrick since that’s what popped up for me on Libby. Yes, for today, we’ll only have a little pat of Kerrygold tub butter on our cinnamon raisin bagels – – none of these festival preserves that must wait for another time……
Sometimes when I’m going somewhere, I pray for a parking space before I ever pull into the parking lot. Lord, show me the way to a space to park. I often quip that I must be doing something right when the Lord blesses me with a good one. And the other way around when He doesn’t.
Same is true of Thursday afternoon when I went on a mission to see if I could get tickets to the Dolly Parton tribute at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Tennessee before they all sold out. I said a prayer and got two tickets. The kennel had space to board our four-legged sons, and there were hotel rooms available right across the street from the Opry, on Music City Drive and McGavock Pike.
I‘ve done something right.
And I’ll keep right on trying.
Thank you, Lord! Amen.
This day takes me back through the years of coming to the Grand Ole Opry. My husband’s former company was based in Nashville. He came up several times a year to meet with the team and get the company truck serviced, and each time he came I’d ask to ride along so we could go to the Opry. In those days, I was working on another degree and spent quiet days in the hotel with stronger wifi and more free coffee than my rural area offered while he went to work, and then he’d swing by and pick me up for dinner before the show. Or, if I finished working or needed a break, I was close enough to tarry over to Opry Mills Mall. It’s where I bought my first pair of Birkenstocks and where my older daughter worked at The Rainforest Cafe for years. (She had just moved to Antioch when the Christmas morning bomb exploded in the building right next to where they had lived in downtown Nashville. Ironically, the bomber had lived in Antioch. I was blessed that she was safe).
This visit to the Opry hits much differently. A legend, among the greatest humans who ever lived, gained her wings last week. She knew poverty, and she knew the rags of hard life before she ever knew the riches – which is quite literally depicted in her Coat of Many Colors and its triumphant story. She worked her way up with elbow grease and talent, blessing, and an almighty Godwink. And she has done more for Literacy in this area of the United States than anyone with her Imagination Library, inspired by her father’s inability to read and write and knowing that it would take someone with a big heart and deep pockets for some of the children of Appalachia to have a fighting chance to be literate.
I was listening to some audiobook previews to help one of my book club sisters choose a Dolly Parton book for October, and all the way up my husband and I listened to Dolly Parton, Songteller, a book about the stories of Dolly’s life and how certain moments became the inspiration for her songs. My husband was behind the wheel of the car but “along for the ride” on the audiobook, as he often is about books when we travel – and he is always a good sport about it, too. But something captured him about this one. Once we’d arrived and checked in to the hotel, he asked me to turn the audiobook back on during our rest time before we went over to the Opry.
As we made our way through the lines and into the Opry, we took in all the many different ways people arrive for this event – not just in the cars, Ubers, and taxis, but also in manner of dress. Denim shorts, tank top, cowboy boots and hat. Shorts, tshirt with butterfly wings attached, and sandals. Leather skirt just south of what it needed to cover, tank top just north, and fringed vest with silver glitter knee boots and matching cowboy hat. Jeans, sneakers, and a plain t-shirt. Formal gowns of all colors, mostly pink for the evening. I started thinking that maybe the girls’ adventure book club trip after reading the Songteller should be to come to Nashville and shop for glitter boots and cowgirl hats and then come to the Opry.
The show was just as Dolly would have wanted it to be – people remembering her through story and sharing what she meant to them. And somehow, the always-eclectic mix of talent at the Opry from the legends to the newcomers was evident…..and, of course, they all had stories of Dolly. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when T. Graham Brown stepped onstage in a pink and silver sequined coat and sang Beulahland (25:12 in the Youtube link below). One who needed tissues throughout the show was the woman seated next to me. She was Dolly’s age and had grown up visiting Opryland all her life and continued the tradition when she had her own children. She’d lost her husband five years ago, and her son and his wife had flown her to the show in their small plane. She shared how they had feverishly worked to get tickets on Thursday also and how thrilled they were to get them and make the last-minute trip. There were as many stories in the crowd as there were on the stage, as there are throughout the world.
Favorite and least favorite moments from us? My husband’s least favorite moment was when Jelly Roll came out “after such a classy show, and then he had to roll out at the end and wreck it.” I didn’t have a least favorite; I loved every minute of that show. My husband’s favorite moment was all of it except Jelly Roll. I liked that Belle Frantz sang from her heart with such passion and got a standing ovation on her Opry debut (46:10 in the link below). She shared that her first album is coming out in November, and that it’s scary to release one – – particularly a gospel album – -but that she felt bold enough to do it and took her inspiration from Dolly. I was stuck by how much she reminded me of Patsy Cline.
You can watch the YouTube of the show here and discover your own favorite and least favorite moment.
Each time I see the circle, taken from the original Ryman Auditorium downtown, I get a little misty eyed at the significance and reasons that it was installed – to preserve the sacred space of the Country music greats who have all stood here. I’ve watched the 100th Anniversary a hundred times and can hear the song and the chorus of voices singing it – Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by….there’s a better home awaiting in the sky, Lord, in the sky. I think of the history of Dolly Parton’s presence on that stage, and the way she could immediately connect with her audience, and the way that even in her absence, her Opry family connected with her – giving her the final performance of the evening. I think of this night of tribute and the many more that her musical family are offering, like Pink’s. And so many more ways she is being honored all across the nation and the world.
Of all the great Opry moments we have missed, I’m glad that last night was not one of them. I always leave looking forward to the next visit to The Grand Ole Opry.
