Another New Year's Eve

 

Once upon a time, New Year’s Eve was a night for parties.  We never dreamed of going to bed before ringing in the new year, usually with friends.  Food and games, conversation and laughter, fireworks and plans for the new year, all shared with love.  Hundreds of games of Trivial Pursuit and Shanghai Rummy took place, stories and old jokes made us laugh or groan,  and we toasted the new year with champagne and beer.

Now I find myself just as happy to stay home with my feet up in front of the fire, resting from Christmas and the surrounding mayhem and thinking.  Last year at this time, I was not in a good mood.  I had been dealing for a couple of months with one disaster after another, which left me with a depleted bank account and a dim view of the next month or two to come.  I had just encountered truck repairs, a hot water heater to replace, and a dishwasher that fell victim to a dog trying to catch a mouse and, in the process, pulling all the wiring out of the bottom.  I had a mysterious water leak to the tune of several hundred dollars and the resulting bill to fix the leak which was finally located at a remote spot behind the barn.  Then I had an invasion of rats in the crawl space under my bathrooms, which led to replacement of all the plumbing in that area.  Who knew that a rat could, or would, gnaw through PVC pipe?  I had grown afraid to even utter the words, “What else can go wrong?”  Little did I know but that a mouse was busy working on the drain hose on the new dishwasher and I would soon be faced with another leak in the kitchen and another repair bill.  My seventieth birthday was looming. Oh, and did I mention the root canal scheduled right after the new year? Maybe 2023 wasn’t going to be something to look forward to either.

I didn’t know it last New Year’s Eve, but my luck was about to change. Just a few days into the new year, a door I had opened at least two decades ago led me down a path I had not seen before now and I got a chance to write some magazine articles about people and their horses, totally out of the blue.  At first it sounded like a one-time deal, but it turned out to be a regular thing, leading to a busy year of doing just what I always wanted to do.  Several dozen interviews and stories later, I’m starting on another year of being a paid feature writer.  I have been able to reconnect with some old friends and acquaintances and get to know some people I hadn’t known before, when I was directly involved in the horse world.  I’ve had to stretch my writing muscles, get comfortable doing interviews on the phone and figure out how to ask the questions I needed to ask. And deadlines – I haven’t worked with deadlines in a very long time!  Sometimes I felt out of my comfort zone and often out of my depth, but I think I have figured out a rhythm that works for me.

Just about the same time my first batch of articles appeared, my book arrived.  I had been working on it for a couple of months, gathering some of my earlier blog posts and putting them in book form.  Opening that first box of books with my name right there on the cover was a thrill.  It just goes to show you that you can’t give up on your dreams, even if they don’t come true when you think they will.  My name on a book cover was just one of the firsts I experienced this year.  I also made jelly for the first time in my life and the best thing about that experience was that I got a pretty good story out of it!

I was able to enjoy some of the best music events of my entire life in 2023, some alone and some with my concert buddies.  While I love music and keep it going most of the time at home and in the truck, there is nothing like live music to speak to your soul.  I’ve met some interesting people –sitting next to a stranger for three hours who doesn’t feel at all like a stranger because you share something as intimate as a love for the same music.  There was the man from Michigan, who drove all the way to Tennessee because he loved John Prine.  There was the 84-year-old couple from Louisiana who drove 9 hours to Nashville because they had never been to the Opry.  There was the young lady who had just moved to Nashville and was soaking in all the shows and learning about new venues to try.  I met my favorite band during a three-day immersion in their new music, shared a little conversation with them, and found out that, yes, they are just as nice as they seem. 

I was invited to attend a gala honoring my great aunt and celebrating the release of a film about her life and career in country music.  Other than stressing a little over finding the right clothes to wear, it was a special night, and I was reminded again of what a great woman she was as person after person talked about what they loved about her and how she had influenced their lives.  Watching the film itself brought back a flood of memories and made me remember that sometimes things don’t happen they way you expect, but that sometimes they can be even better than you planned.  And it gave me new determination to honor my talents by using them more freely.

There were new friends, losses and disappointments, great moments and darker moments, days full of sunshine and bird song, and a few days of dark clouds and darker nights.  But always there was laughter shared with friends, my dogs to lift my spirits and always my writing to keep me sane.  There were surprises, like the two litters of puppies that came into my life, allowing me to meet some new friends. On the other end of the scale, I lost the horse of my heart, saying goodbye to Bullet, who gave me 30 years of happiness and took me places I never dreamed I would go.  I will cherish those memories forever and I know he is running in pastures of lush grass and rolling on deep sandy riverbanks.  Surely someone is feeding him carrots and ice cubes and giving him hugs.

2023 taught me several things, or perhaps just reminded me of what I already knew.  It’s never too late to learn new things, or to relearn lessons you thought you had forgotten.  Sometimes you have to take a leap, having faith that you can do things you thought were in the past. Old friends will always be there to prop you up and new friends are the frosting on the cake.  Dogs will never let you down, keeping your feet and your heart warm on long dark nights.  And you never know what surprises or adventures are waiting just around the bend.  Happy New Year to all my friends and readers – I can’t wait to see what comes next!

 

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.