Thanksgiving Night

 

Thanksgiving night is one of my favorite times.  Too tired to do anything other than sit by the fire.  The dogs are worn out too – they had too much company and too many scraps from the Thanksgiving table.  They are sprawled all over the living room, Sophie in her spot near the fire, Carli in her favorite spot behind the couch and the others sleeping wherever they happened to drop.

We had twenty people for dinner, a dozen around the big dining room table that has held unthinkable numbers of family and friends over at least a century of use. Four generations were at the table. It was good to see the house filled with family again; it’s a house intended for large gatherings.  A second table in the living room held some of the younger bunch – young couples just starting their lives together, with two of those couples about to become three by this time next year.   The dogs, when they made it inside, were well-behaved for the most part, although Scout kept scouting the table and countertops for accessible food. There was lots of talk, lots of laughter, an indecent amount of food and memories sprinkled with plans for the future. It was good to have the house full of people.  I tend to get so used to rattling around in this big house alone, I forget what it was like growing up in a full house. One of my cousins took the cradle that my great-great grandfather made not long after the Civil War.  It's been sitting in my back room since it was last used by him when he was a baby. His baby will be the sixth generation to lie in the cradle.

There was no real drama with the food this year, unless you count my meat thermometer breaking at the critical moment for testing the turkey and a nagging worry that it might not be done when I took it out of the oven.  The normal worry about the rolls, compounded by a recent failure with the last batch I made.  A little uncertainty about the dressing – did I add enough sage, or too much sage, or the right amount of celery and onion?  My mama never had a written down recipe for her dressing and I wish I had asked for more details about how much of everything she used.  I doubt she knew herself.   It’s one of those things you have to guess at.  Or as a meme I’ve read says, “Just keep adding stuff until the ghost of an ancestor says, that’s enough.”  My ancestors are not very reliable at helping in the kitchen so I’m mostly on my own.  But the turkey was done, a ten-pound breast is enough for twenty people when you also have ham, the dressing was pretty good, although I have to remember to buy a really large bowl to mix it in before next time.  My hint for the day is that the cover of a large cake carrier makes a pretty good mixing bowl in a pinch!

I bought paper plates with pretty Thanksgiving decorations on them, fully intending to use them this year.  But at the last minute, I gathered up the china and crystal and set it out.  It took all my mama’s and my great grandmother’s plates, all the heavy Fostoria glasses that were mine and my mama’s, and what seemed like every piece of silver in the house.  There is something gratifying about eating off the same plates my family has eaten from since before I was even born, and washing up is really not that big a chore when you have memories for company.  As I hand wash my great grandmother's fragile plates, I wondered how on earth it survived through the decades of use by a bunch of farm boys!  She was an intimidating woman, if my vague memory is correct - I guess they knew to be careful under her watchful eye. As I washed my grandmother’s ornate silver, I wondered why on earth I don’t use it all the time – what am I saving it for?  When she was alive, we used it every day, for all three meals.  Maybe I will leave it out of its wooden chest this time and enjoy it.

Along about dark, putting all reason aside, I made a plate of leftovers and ate by the fire.  I don’t know why people complain about leftover food at Thanksgiving – I think it tastes better when you’ve had a little time to relax after the hustle of the big meal.  The dogs had already enjoyed their plates of leftovers and were quiet and peaceful, even the one puppy still waiting to go home with his new family.  Leftover food, echoes of familiar laughter, leftover gratitude for a blessed life.  That’s the one leftover we could all use more of – giving thanks every day for the lives we enjoy.  For life itself, for the sunrise and sunset, for birdsong and the night sky, for music and paintings and good books to read.  For family and friends and the sharing of good times and the comfort in bad times.  Saying thank you every morning is a good way to start the day, and saying thank you every night is a perfect way to end the day.  You really don’t need the turkey to make it Thanksgiving!

 

Where Time Stands Still

 

There are places where time stands still, where the past and present mingle, and where all the people who ever stood there seem to have left their essence behind.  I’ve been to a few of those places - an old resort in a peaceful deserted valley, an old church with memories soaked into the walls, a deserted house with scraps of wallpaper hanging loose and a cold hearth that spoke of long forgotten fires that warmed family and friends.  I visited a place like that last week – a place haunted by the past, firmly entrenched in the present, and ready for a future as long as people love the music it embraces.

There is something about the Ryman. It probably has something to do with the century of notes soaked into the old wood floors and worn pews.  It started as a place to save souls and became a place to lift and heal souls with the power of music.  The t shirts say, “Take me to church,” and that’s just what I feel like when I sit in that auditorium.  Not many things will entice me to venture downtown to Nashville now, but this old brick building will always make the trip worthwhile.

There are newer venues with more bells and whistles, plush seating, and state-of-the-art trimmings.  But there is nothing like the worn floors and the feeling of awe.  There is nothing like the acoustics, or the views of the stage from the curved pews.  There is nothing like those stained-glass windows.  What it must be like to stand on that stage and look out at the blend of now and then, live audiences filled with anticipation and joy and ghostly audiences of the past, peering over their shoulders.

Every time I visit the Ryman, I think of the people who played there.  Young songsters with guitars full of dreams, starting their journey to fame.  Worn and weary troubadours, who had lived the hardship and heartbreak they sang about. My great-aunt, Minnie Pearl, who stood on that stage with a price tag hanging from a silly hat and lightened hearts with 50 years of laughter.

I’m not sure I believe in ghosts, but I do know that some places have an energy, or a presence about them.  The Ryman has that energy.  The entrance is new – moved to the opposite side of the building from the early days of the Grand Ole Opry.  The lobby is like other lobbies, other than the statues of Roy Acuff and Minnie Pearl just inside.  But when you walk through the tall white doors into the auditorium, you feel something. All the songs that have ever been sung on that stage hover in the air.  All the people who have performed there watch every show.  I have heard people say that there is a presence in the dressing rooms backstage and a sense of awe when they stand on that stage.

So there I sat, on a Wednesday night, waiting for the magic to begin.  The outside world drops away and three thousand people in a sold-out room find hearts connected, for a little while.  The common bond of music turns strangers into friends. And when the lights go down and the crowd begins to cheer, we are collectively transported to another world for a couple of hours.  All our senses were engaged, from the tunes in our ears to the vibrations under our feet. 

I’ve been in the Ryman when the seats are empty and not a performer is on stage.  I still felt a sense of something in the room – old souls eager for the stage to come to life again.  I can imagine all those people – Hank, Roger Miller, Jerry Reed, Bill Monroe - waiting to hear and hoping that some night, someone will play one of their songs, proving that their music is still alive. Roger Miller must have been grinning when the young son of Willie Nelson bought us to our feet with his “King of the Road” and then reached even further back into country history with “Tumbling Tumbleweed.”   The crowd is reluctant to leave – three encores are not enough, and it is not until the gold curtains sweep shut that we are willing to end the magic night. 

I attend a lot of concerts.  Inevitably, when I visit the Grand Ole Opry, in its “new” home across town, I meet people who are there for their first time.  When they ask me about my favorite venue, I never hesitate.  “The Ryman – there’s something about the Ryman,” I answer.  They nod their heads.  “It’s on my bucket list,” they say.  “Just go there,” I tell them.  When they do, they will understand why.