Nashville Nights, and a Wedding

August 13: Friday
The Doubletree Hotel in downtown Nashville was a different world than the one I inhabit. Walking through the rotating door thrust me into the world of those who spend their life rushing from airport to hotel to meeting to airport to holiday and more hotels, all of them fine and expensive. An army of porters and bellhops awaited guests at the entrance, all arrayed in white shirts and dark trousers and all expecting their tips. The lobby was full of busy folk, most of them glued to their phones, either texting or voicing. Large sums of money were being exchanged at the front desk, but I saw not so much as a dime of genuine cash. It was all polite, plastic, and invisible; a mere swipe through the card reader and 'twas done. I did not belong in that place. It felt dangerous, fraught with the peril of the Big City for simpletons like me, and far too expensive.

I found my sister and followed her to her suite, an opulent ninth-floor multi-room affair larger than our apartment at home. As parents of the bride, such a place was necessary: "command central" for the wedding. They got the suite for the price of a regular room, which in turn was deeply discounted, as the wedding was responsible for about a hundred guests at the hotel.

The rehearsal dinner in one of the hotel ballrooms was lavish, with steak, salmon, asparagus (I wondered where on earth that was in season: Chile? New Zealand? South Africa? It was not very good after its long journey) and much more. I stayed away from the meats and loaded up on mashed potatoes and shredded cheddar, with three or four rolls.

I was taken aback by being seated at table with the bride, groom, and their parents. Was there not someone else more important who should have been there? Worthy or not, I was glad to be with them. I am glad that my niece has found someone with whom she wants to spend her life.

After the dinner, I escaped the hotel into the hot summer night. I could not let the evening pass without a visit to the Ryman Auditorium, just a few blocks away. It was Friday night, time for the Grand Ol' Opry, there in its historic and proper venue because of the spring floods at Opryland.

I reverently walked all the way around the building, thinking of Bill Monroe, of Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, of Hank Williams and Roy Acuff and Minnie Pearl and Tennessee Ernie Ford and Loretta Lynn and Johnny Cash and Ernest Tubbs and all the rest.

There has been a lot of fine music on that stage over the years. Touching the walls as I walked around, I could almost feel the echoes. I was brought back to the present by the music pouring out of the clubs across the alley from the Ryman and on down hill a half-block on Broadway. They were thronged with people: tourists young and old, couples, individuals, and groups seeking the night life of the city, strange characters like derelicts washed ashore, bouncers at the door of every club, all in cowboy hats, and loud music everywhere, none of it good. I was surprised by how bad it was; Nashville calls itself "Music City U.S.A.," and I expected better.

Across the corner, the marquee at the civic auditorium where the big concerts are held, those too big for the Ryman, advertised, in bright lights, a Carrie Underwood concert.

Ah, the dream! To be on American Idol like she was, and become famous; to see your name in lights, the crowd in their thousands there to hear your music. . . . I have known a few young people who have harbored such dreams. One of my sister's old friends, herself a talented country musician and songwriter on the West Coast, had put it in perspective earlier that evening: "You become a slave to one of the production companies, if they will have you. And they suck the life out of you." And, all too easily, you could end up like one of those derelicts on Broadway or Printers' Alley on a Friday night, outside of the clubs looking in, the dreams turned to ashes.

August 14: Saturday

My little cabin at the RV park north of town proved to be splendid, a far cry from the Doubletree; a quiet and rustic little room with pine-plank walls and ceiling, a quilt on the bed, a porch out front, and a porch swing with a view of the tree-covered hills. I spent the morning there on the porch swing, translating Psalm 124. Being outdoors in the oppressive heat seemed to make me feel closer to the old Psalmists, who knew nothing of air conditioning but a great deal about hot days:

"The LORD is your shade at your right hand
so that the sun shall not strike you by day. . . ." (Psalm 121)

Psalm 124 is one of many which begin with trouble, but end with consolation and blessing. In my limited experience, the contrast in such a psalm is more striking in Hebrew than in English. The darkness is darker; the light and blessing are brighter. When one gets to verse six: "Blessed be the LORD! He has not given us over to be a prey for their teeth," it is like life coming forth from the tomb. "The snare is broken, and we are free." And finally, the summation, a verse which has become a part of Compline:

"Our help is in the Name of the LORD,
the maker of heaven and earth."

It was good, very good, to read this as I looked at the high blue sky and the tree-covered hills, basking in the hot summer sun. One can have confidence in a God who makes such things.


By then, it was time to clean up for the wedding.

It has been years since I have attended a wedding in any other capacity than that of Organist. This time, I was a mere guest, though I had the duty of escorting my sister, the Mother of the Bride, down the aisle. That got me a front-row seat. It was an outdoor wedding, conducted with haste because of an approaching thunderstorm. Throughout the ceremony, lightning flashed in the distance; from the spacing between lightning and thunder, it was less than a mile away by the time we were done. It never did rain; the storm passed us by. The music was canned: a rendition of Pachelbel's Canon by string ensemble, much doctored up from the perfectly good original version, and Wagner's Wedding March, likewise for string ensemble. Both were faded out in mid-measure when the action they were covering was complete. I try to at least make it to a cadence when I am at the organ, and this made me appreciate the value of live music at a wedding.

But it was a fine wedding, the marriage of a young woman whom I love. It was a delight to sit afterwards with my cousins in the large tent for the reception watching her and her bridesmaids dance the night away. It is a transition for her, an end as well as a beginning. With all my heart, I wish her the best.