Last Night at the Opry

I arrive at the Opry House a few minutes before rehearsal. My guitar and fiddle cases trip the metal detector, so the security guard makes me open them.

“You ain’t smuggling moonshine, are you?” says the guard with a watchful eye.

“No, Officer. I have no moonshine.”

“Well,” the officer replies. “You want a swig of mine?”

No. I’m only kidding. The guard doesn’t say that. But I wish she would. Namely, because I am a little nervous right now.

This is the Grand Ole Opry. And I’m me.

I do not belong here. When I was in middle-school gym class, wearing a clingy white T-shirt on my chubby body, and shoes with holes in them, some of the boys called me “Little White Trash.” Such things never leave you.

I enter the backstage lobby. Jim Schermerhorn sits behind the check-in desk. He’s the guy who IDs everyone. He has to ask all backstage guests’ for their driver’s licenses, even if this guest is, say, Garth Brooks. Jim still has to say, “Mister Brooks, I’ll need to see some ID, please.” What a gig.

Jim puts me at ease right away. You can tell he’s just a regular guy. He’s not high and mighty. He cracks jokes.

“We are so honored to have you back at the Opry,” he says to me.

When he shakes my hand, he holds on just a little longer than I do.

They put me in dressing-room Number Two tonight. Which is only fitting. My performances have often been compared to fresh offerings of Number Two.

My room is called the “Bluegrass Room.” Located right next door to Roy Acuff’s old room. Long ago, this would’ve likely been the same mirror where Sarah Cannon transformed herself into a self-effacingly beautiful Minnie Pearl.

I sit on the sofa and rest my chin in my hands. My hands are trembling a little.

I’m thinking about when I was 9 years old, wearing my dad’s oversized cowboy hat, singing into a floor lamp minus the shade, pretending it was a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I would announce into the lightbulb. “You’re listening to the Grand Ole Opry!” And the audience of Teddy bears would go ape.

A knock at the door.

It’s Lemonade. Lemonade is a five-foot-one woman with a perpetual smile and the same softened demeanor as your favorite aunt. The backstage is her territory. Lemonade is the Grand Poo Bah back here.

All night, Lemonade buzzes from room to room, making sure performers have what they need. She ensures you get where you need to go. She also prepares her world-famous lemonade for the guests. Her strawberry lemonade is so sweet it requires an emergency dental procedure.

Her real name is Diana, but nobody calls her that. One night long ago, a famous performer couldn’t remember her name, so he hastily referred to her as “Lemonade.” The nickname stuck.

“We’re so proud to have you back at the Opry,” says Lemonade. Then she hugs me.

Proud.

Lemonade lives an hour away from Nashville. She gets here first, leaves last. And she tries to make everyone feel welcome.

“A lot of new performers get nervous,” she says. “I try to give them Southern hospitality and make them feel at home.”

And she does just that. I ask how Lemonade musters such energy to manage such a demanding schedule of five shows per week, sometimes more.

“I drink nothin’ but sweet tea,” she replies.

I rehearse with the band. This is a band of human musical computers. These are not just musicians. These are savants. You’ve already heard their work on every important country music record dating back to the dawn of Hank Snow.

Their unofficial ringleader is Tommy White, pedal steel player. He’s been at the Opry for 30 years. He’s played with everyone you’ve ever heard of. He’s done everything a pedal steel player can do except sit in with Gabriel for the Second Coming.

And yet, this man sits meekly behind his instrument with an unassuming smile. He doesn’t seem like a world-famous musician. This man is so down to earth his knees are scuffed.

“I learned a long time ago that this business will keep you humble,” he says. “Sometimes when work gets slow, I work part-time at Auto Zone.”

Last week, Tommy just finished playing on Willie Nelson’s album.

He poses for a quick picture with me. This man doesn’t know it, but he’s a hero of mine. In fact, one of the highest points of my entire career was standing on the Opry stage for the first time, and getting to say his name on the mic. All my life, I’ve wanted to look behind me and with a grand gesture to the steel player, shout, “Here’s Tommy!”

I can only imagine what buying brake pads from Tommy White is like.

“We’re so glad to have you at the Opry,” he says pumping my hand.

“Thank you,” I say, releasing his hand. And my voice breaks. “I’m just so proud to be here.”

And I fear none of them will ever truly understand how sincerely Little White Trash meant those words.