At my previous job, I used to travel a lot – some solo and when I was lucky with my bestie, Scott. In my current position, the only routine travel I really do is to Pittsburgh (not exactly the most exotic location).
I miss travel. So, for the past few years, I’ve taken a solo trip. It started with a yoga and meditation retreat in Yelapa, Mexico literally right before the world shut down (my phone keeps trying to change “shut” to “shit”, which is not wrong). That trip saved my sanity, what little shred of it I had, when I was isolated, sad, tired, worried, and drinking a little too much during the lockdown.
This year, I paired the first part of my solo trip with tickets to see my favorite artist in Nashville (Jason Isbell!!) to celebrate my 50th birthday a little early. I toured the Ryman Auditorium, ate a delicious meal at the chef’s table at Etch, toured the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, and listened to some awesome live music ’til my heart was almost content.
Clearly, the best part was the concert (if you don’t know Jason Isbell and his wife, Amanda Shires, I beg you to go listen to something from them right now – Cover Me Up, Live Oak, If We Were Vampires, Flagship, Last of My Kind are some of my Jason favorites and I’m currently obsessed with Empty Cups and Stupid Love by Amanda). What’s a better birthday present than seeing your favorite artists in the legendary Ryman Auditorium? Pretty much nothing, that’s what.
But I was surprised at how much I loved the Country Music Hall of Fame. I’ve always been a country music fan, albeit for some time one that was not her authentic self. The first songs I can remember came from the 8-track tape player in my Pappy’s truck. Songs like “Satin Sheets”, “Paper Roses”, “What’s Your Mama’s Name?”, “The Teddy Bear Song” and “Kiss an Angel Good Mornin” were the soundtrack to my early childhood. They gave way later to Alabama, Dolly Parton, and George Strait followed by Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, Vince Gill, and Reba McEntire.
When I got to college, it was distinctly not cool to be a country girl, and I stopped listening to the music as much (though I still snuck a bunch of Mary Chapin Carpenter on the sly), largely because two boyfriends (one of whom I later married) HATE country music and were not quiet about taunting me about it.
So, for years, I didn’t listen much. Thankfully, my mom and my sister loved country music, so I’d quickly switch the station whenever they got into the car. They’d sweetly say things like “oh, we don’t have to listen to this”. I’d say “no, it’s ok, I don’t mind” and I’d soak it in, generally “forgetting” to change it back until Wade (the husband) got into my car.
About 10 years ago, when the aforementioned BFF, Scott, and I started traveling together a bunch, I remember getting into his truck for a trip for the first time, and he asked if I liked country music. He had no idea how happy that made me. “Oh, yes, but I haven’t listened to much lately” and from then on, country has been a standard in my car and in my music library. ‘Cause I give 0 fucks what people think about me these days.
As I was walking around the Museum, I caught myself smiling and crying and singing along to some of those classics (with only a few weird looks), thinking back to my childhood and evenings of listening to the Grand Ole Opry in my grandparents’ living room.
While my music today is a lot more alt-country than classic, with Jason and Amanda, Stevie Nicks, The Highwomen, Chris Stapleton and Brandi Carlile often on repeat while I sing at the top of my lungs during long drives across PA, in a lot of ways, I feel like I’ve come back to my core self, but those roots have grown deeper, more inclusive and expansive. I like that. It feels right.
