True Country

Okay, I’ll admit it. I knew nothing about the Grand Ole Opry before going to their 87^th birthday concert. What I expected, however, was a mecca of country music. I pictured a crowd of cowboy boot-wearing, heel tapping, young southerners connecting with their cultural roots.

Driving up to the Opry, I began to get concerned. What was this sea of bright lights? A mall that goes on for miles? I must be lost, I thought.

With the traffic clogging every possible path towards the Opry, I had plenty of time for this new reality to sink in. I had trapped myself in a world of consumption and showiness. This wasn’t me. What was I doing here?

Finally arriving at the proper parking lot, we waded through a sea of cars towards the brightly glowing music hall. I noticed that the majority of our companions in this trek were generations older than us wee young’uns. Could it be that I had misunderstood the meaning of this event that was supposed to be the heart of country? Was the heart of country old?

The lobby of the Opry house had new age, color-changing lights hanging from the ceiling. Trippy. The lighting didn’t quite fit the crowd.

We made our way to the front row balcony seats—on the very side of the stage—just as the curtain was lifting. Although I had grown apprehensive, I kept an open mind as the crowd demonstrated clear excitement through their applause.

“I’m proud to be a daughter of the South,” sang out Mallary Hope to open the concert, “We ain’t scared to get down in the dirt and hang out with the boys.” 

Hope contrasted most of the musicians that graced the stage that night. She was a young woman, while the other lead singers were all male and mostly older than her. My interest was piqued as she walked onto the stage with confidence and excitement, waving to someone in the crowd above us.

 Her lyrics began to resonate with me. Yeah! Right on! I thought in surprise. As a kid, I had gravitated towards the more interesting activities on the playground: soccer and football…with all the boys. Hearing Hope’s confidence in this who-the-hell cares attitude made me sit up and take notice of this new world of country.  It couldn’t all be bad if this strong young woman was singing about her rough-and-tumble identity.

“We got closets full of cowboy boots, little black dresses and high heeled shoes. We can change it up—change the mood—if we want to,” She sang on, her southern twang reminding me that I was not in Massachusetts anymore.

And yet her intriguing self-identification continued to draw me in, echoing my childhood. I never hesitated to kneel down in the dirt and do what needed to be done, regardless of my attire. In fact, I had an overflowing dress-up box and was often dressed in fancy, satin dresses or a white, lacy dress I used to pretend was a wedding dress. I never needed a groom, just a white dress, my imagination and some dirt on my knees.

As I said earlier, Hope was an exception to the trend of older male performers, plucking away at their guitars. The oldest was Little Jimmy Dickens, at 91 years old.

Dickens was at ease up on that stage (as he should be! He’s been a member of the opry since 1948). Even at 4’ 11”, he had the presence of a gentle giant crossed with an endearing grandfather. Clad in a black suit with white, rhinestone, sparkly designs, and white cowboy boots and a cowboy hat to top it off, Dickens took the stage by storm.

Between songs he captured the audience with stories of his day-to-day life and cracked jokes with the audience, like one about being older: I’m not well. I had a little accident the other day. I was patting a little toilet water on the back of my neck, and the lid fell down and hit me. But that may not have been what caused my stiff neck. I went to the doctor the other day, and he gave me some of those pills for men my age. Now if you don’t swallow them quick, you’ll get a stiff neck.

With a huge smile spread across his face, Dickens was clearly there for his own enjoyment. He is 91 years old. He could have been at home, sitting on the couch, listening to the show on the radio, and yet he chose to be a part of that community experience.

Something felt familiar about this… Could the Grand Ole Opry really feel like the little ole coffeehouses in my hometown, a tiny hill town in western Massachusetts? And yet it did. That same distinct, small community feel of the Wendell Full Moon Coffeehouse washed over me. I closed my eyes and for a moment—just a moment—I was back home, sitting among my friends and neighbors in the metal folding chairs set up in the old, wooden town hall. The music echoed the folk songs that were often shared, with soft guitar accompaniments.

But when I opened my eyes, there were the sequins, cowboy boots and hats, and the atmosphere shifted. Dickens had stopped singing, and everyone in the room had paused for a “short message from our sponsors,” broadcast out to the radio listeners. This advertising shattered the intimate, coffeehouse feel Dickens had built up.

In Wendell we do everything for ourselves. Our town motto is, “we’re all here because we’re not all there.” Most of us interpret that as just being comfortable in who we are, and expressing ourselves the way we want to.

Our coffeehouses begin with an open mike portion. Typical performers include older men or women in long flowing clothes with hair to match, playing an acoustic guitar to accompany a song they wrote about nature. When I was younger—and still played violin—I would take the stage to perform whichever Suzuki piece or fiddle tune I was working on.

While these open mike performances would run the range of poetry, music, dance and other performance, they all were bound by a common thread. Every person that stood on that stage was positively thrilled to be there. These performers were rarely professionals—and never paid. They were not receiving much publicity and the audience would likely be of 50 to 100 people, at best.

No, these performers were there for the pure enjoyment of sharing creative expression.

This passion is what I found compelling about Mallary Hope’s strong southern identity, and Little Jimmy Dickens’ stage presence.

Hope encourages a who-the-hell cares-I’ll-do-as-I-please strength. Well, my heritage embraces that attitude. My culture says, be a Little Jimmy Dickens and own your identity. Wendell says gather with people who love you for who you are and for being here together. Be creative together and share your voices.

“It don’t matter where you’re from, it don’t matter where you’re raised, from New York City down to LA, everybody’s got a little southern running through their veins,” sang Mallary Hope.

I am a true country girl.

I am from the northern country, but that doesn’t mean I have to shun the “southern” in my blood. It is one and the same. I’m not afraid to work hard and get dirty, but like to dress up too; just like Hope said. No matter where I am, I am country and proud.