The Mountain Opry

             Beginning around 8:00 on Friday evenings, a golden piece of folk-music Heaven arises.  The Mountain Opry is a good ole time with grandmas who shout "amen" to an old John Denver tune being played, smiley farmer people who've worn suspenders all of their lives with pleasure, the smell of popcorn coming from the old concession stand, and music that has the ability to fill your heart with American pride.  As one watches the people, listens to the tunes coming from a well-played mandolin, whispers sweet nothings into their dates ears, and claps to the rhythm of the strings, the spirit surrounding the old auditorium speaks to the soul. 

            Picture this: As one enters into the auditorium your senses are filled with folk smells that entice the mind and body as one finds their way to an old-rickety chair.  Once seated your eyes are unable to focus on only one aspect of the glory that is the Opry.  The event is hosted by a tall man in his seventies who probably founded the Opry with his buddies.  As he meanders up the stage steps, you can hear the strings fluttering in the next room as the first band tunes their grand-daddy’s instruments.  Over the loud speakers comes the host’s southern draw announcing the name and minor credentials of the first band to take the stage.  

            The stage is one of the best parts of the Opry.  As the first song plays, the lights coming from the front highlight the shining faces of the singers.  With smiles, nods, and tapping feet they look out to the crowd as if they were having a conversation with us.  “Little Ernest” who ain’t so little smiles revealing several missing teeth.  He shouts on about his Savior while playing his “geetar.”  He is a crowd favorite.  Additionally, every folk band seems to have a motherly-looking lady that stands a few inches shorter than men like “Little Ernest.”  She is the smiley one who plays the fiddle.  All good fiddle players seem to be women at the Opry.  And let’s not forget the smell.  The old building contains the numerous smells of old wood that has layers upon layers of history.  Burnt popcorn pervades one’s nostrils once walking through the old oak doors.  A purplish-colored mold sticks to the ceiling in one accord; however, its more endearing than sickening.  The hand-sewn curtains expel the goodness of home, and the love of a hometown wonder. 

            As you get comfortable and enjoy the music, three hours pass like a swift strum of the guitar.  New-comers may wonder at the continual interest they inhabit for this treasure of a place.

The most favored band members are the elderly who’ve played since their mama’s taught them how to walk.  They play with the passion of a revolutionary as they give all they’ve got in the fifteen minutes allotted to each band.  As time ticks on that fateful Friday night, you are transported into a world of folk that even hard-techno lovers could find enjoyable.  That being said the music is obviously the best part.  Song content ranges from the good Lord’s goodness to the girl who broke your heart down by the river with the yellow lilies shining in the moonlight.     

            As the last song ends and you realize its long after your bedtime, everyone files out of the old Opry wishing it were Friday again.