The Sebastopol Opry House

Through a strange twist of events, I became acquainted with a place in a country town by the name of the Sebastopol Opry House. I was already aware of the existence of the town...matter of fact, I'd even been there. I didn't know they had their very own Opry House, though.

In essence, I'd consider it on the level of bingo halls or VFWs...but we're talking seriously backwoods. I had no idea what I'd signed on for when I agreed to go...much less agreed to play. It's one of those long stories of "my uncle introduced me and my guitarist to this guy and we played together one weekend and ended up here."

I have many uneasy memories of the place, simply because I was completely out of my element. I'm the type of person that can be laid back in most all situations, even this one...but at times it took a fairly large amount of concentration to do so. Then again, there are some great memories of genuinely nice down-home folks.

Ladies brought baked goods to sell...as well as soft drinks. Good coffee--and lots of it--was always available. Seems like they might've sold hot dogs and on special occasions, had potluck dinners. All the food items were donated and the money went for the rent. There was also a two-dollar admission "fee"--which would more appropriately be termed as a "love offering." Though those who played were not obligated to pay the admission fee, I always did it anyway.

One lady in particular--a sweet Southern lady in her seventies comes to mind because like me, she didn't play an instrument, at least not on stage. She just got up with her people and sang harmony and was up there in full enjoyment of what she was doing. Her voice was honest and uncomplicated--the kind of voice which comes from somewhere far beyond vocal lessons and a rigorous practice schedule. That's not to say it wasn't beautiful, either; her voice sounded like time and life and having seen all manner of things. In all honesty, I believe her voice to be one of the purest sounds I've ever heard.

Then there was Miss Vi, an eighty-something-year-old widow who acted as the hostess. She always brought something from her very own kitchen, then stationed herself in the "kitchen" area of the Opry House where she collected the money, made the coffee, and engaged any and all in conversation. I can't tell you how many times she asked, in her above-the-Mason-Dixon-Line accent, "Do you watch that Dancing With the Stars?" She may have been a transplant to the South, and she may have sounded like a Northerner, but the lady took up the essence of Southern hospitality as one puts on a well-fitting jacket and feels that it's a part of their own skin.

I don't know if that place is still there...there was talk of shutting down as I neared the end of my visits. And even if it's still around, I don't believe I'd ever go back. Not out of any negative mindset, but simply because the road I'm on now doesn't go that direction. It's just a nice little warm memory--a reminder that the people who were here before us, though they may have done things differently, are still around. It does the soul a bit of good to be around them from time to time. I always enjoy looking through that window to the way things used to be.