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.