I’m still finding my way in Nashville. Still figuring out how or if I belong. After my blog post last month about walking around town, many of you noted my world “down South” may be as foreign as the world across the ocean I discovered in Amsterdam. Living in the South for the first time, during a pandemic, a never-ending election, and an attempted coup, has taken some getting used to. I often feel like an outside looking in, peeking at the houses and wondering about all the people hiding inside. So come along as we continue the walk we started in the last post and get to know Nashville a little more, together. Lord knows, we could all use the distraction.

In case you didn’t understand the reference in the title, it’s from this Coen Brothers movie. I don’t remember much about it, other than that I peeked out at the violence through almost-squeezed-shut eyes. In addition to all the mayhem, the frighten… — In case you didn’t catch the reference in the title, it’s from this Coen Brothers movie. I don’t remember much about it, other than that I peeked out at all the violence through almost-squeezed-shut eyes. In addition to the violence, the frightening image of psycho Javier Bardem’s page-boy haircut will haunt your dreams. It definitely wins the Oscar for scariest haircut in a movie.

This is the spectacular lobby of the Union Station Hotel. It used to be a train station. I’d love for trains to run again to and from Nashville, once we can travel again. I used to joke, when we lived in Amsterdam, that I had so many great ideas for… — This is the Union Station Hotel. It used to be a train station. I’d love for trains to run again to and from Nashville, once we can travel again. I used to joke, when we lived in Amsterdam, that I had so many great ideas for the city. I collected them so I’d be ready for the invitation to sit down with the mayor and advise her. For some reason, that invitation never came. After only a year, I’m already prepared to offer up my services to the mayor of Nashville. In such a short time, I’m brimming with ideas for how to fix this place up. Too bad no one is listening, other than a few of you.

It’s a little bit of a demographic and architectural grab bag here in our part of Nashville. There are the stately old homes (often right next door to an old jalopy of a place) and a smattering of what I like to call either high-end hippie (older occupants) or high-end hipster (younger folks) homes. The hippie/hipster homes are the ones with Christmas lights throughout the year, and often an hammock or swing in the front yard. Even the mailboxes line up on the hip or prim side of the fence.

I’m no stranger to feeling like an outsider at this time of year. This Jewish gal always feels a little like an extra in a Hollywood blockbuster crowd scene at Christmas time. When I was a kid, that meant seeing all the sparkly Christmas trees at my friends’ houses, and answering questions about why we didn’t have a tree, or stockings, or lights. It wasn’t until I was older and wiser that I started to appreciate what we did have: lots of time to be with family, no worries about gift-bingeing, and our own sacred traditions. Those of you in the tribe know those beloved traditions include Chinese food and a great movie. We were especially well-positioned this year to survive Covid-Christmas, since we are used to feeling just a little left out at this time of year. We managed just fine this year, once again. I hope all of you did, too.

I love this sign I spotted at a used bookstore near our house. Thank you, James Baldwin. I couldn’t agree more. — I love this sign at a used bookstore near our house. Thank you, James Baldwin. I couldn’t agree more.

Despite my ample experience at being a Christmas-outsider, the acres of blow-up Christmas decorations on Nashville lawns didn’t help with my sense of not-belonging. Do we really need giant plastic figures splayed across the lawn to celebrate Christmas? I’m giving y’all a pass this year, because of the virus. I know this year was no time to hold back, since your front lawn became your only way to communicate with your neighbors. But when we are done tackling Covid, can we maybe start to think about how running huge electrical toys 24/7 is a colossal waste of energy?

My Christmas-time walks raised so many similar deep questions. Back in my October post, I noticed a lot of dog skeletons commemorating Halloween, and wondered when dogs became a Halloween thing. This curious trend seems to have continued into Christmas. When did dogs get in on the Christmas celebrations? And what about a llama says “Christmas”? If you have any answers, please send them my way. I saw my first Charlie Brown nativity scene this year. All is right with the world when Linus and his blankie are around. Notice those Christmas icons were 2-D figures that didn’t require electricity.

Now that Christmas is over and gone, I can tackle the essential question: what would help me begin to fit in here? If you guessed become a country music star, or at least start to listen to some country music, you were right. I’ve been taking weekly guitar lessons for a few months. Being a beginner at something when you are over 60 is not easy. It’s not easy to be just north of terrible at something. Turns out quite a few folks have written recently about trying to learn something new at an old age. In my case, my dad was an inspiration. He learned to play the cello at age 40, after growing up playing jazz piano. When I was a kid, learning anything at age 40 seemed so impossible. So old! Ha! My dad got so much joy out of playing the cello, both on his own, and with chamber music groups and orchestras. In addition to the cello, he also bought himself and learned to play the vibraphone - which I used with my friends as the operating table when we played doctor - an instrument called the melodica (looks like a mini keyboard but you hold it up and blow notes on it), and the accordion, which he picked up on one of their trip, this time to Estonia. The key to success, which I think my Dad would agree with, is to lower the bar in terms of how good I’ll ever sound. So I won’t be Dolly Parton (in more ways than one, you may be thinking)? I’ll just be O.K. and that’s just fine.

I think my dad would be so happy to see the cello making an appearance in this country music song. And the violin! That’s my next goal: to learn to play the fiddle. That will give me yet another chance to fit in down here.

“Though your feet may take you far from me, I know/Wherever is your heart I call home.” This is the song I’m currently tackling on the guitar. I love every thing about it… until I hear how far from Brandi Carlile I sound when I play. But I’m sounding O.K., Dad.

Thankfully, it’s not all about the decorations here in Nashville. I also occasionally stumbled upon signs of real holiday spirit, too. At this church, the service was blasted from the loudspeakers, as congregants celebrated from inside their cars. They honked along, I guess, when the spirit moved them.

I don’t know who they are, or where they were going, but maybe it was a good omen at holiday time? On the other hand, this being Nashville, there’s a good chance these weren’t nuns at all, but just a bachelorette party out on the town. One never knows here.

So many churches here. Some have been repurposed, like this former church that is now the Darkhorse Theatre Company.

I sometimes ignore the signs saying “Private Property” and run up the hill on the campus of this religious school. They may have wanted to rethink their White House association over the past few months. Then again, probably not.

As you’ve probably gathered from previous posts, murals are everywhere in Nashville. The tourists worship at their altar. Now that their are fewer tourists in town, the murals seem happier. They can just exist in all their glory without people pressing up against them all day. I like discovering new ones on my travels.

We rambled along enough together. Now it’s time to get to the point. Is it possible to live in Nashville without listening to and liking country music? That is the question. I had to take a hard look at the feelings I’ve developed about it, which date back to my childhood. I grew up watching the T.V. show Hee Haw with our babysitter Julia. What a woman in her 60’s from Hungary saw in this mash-up of country music and Southern stereotypes is beyond me. My favorite character was Minnie Pearl, famous for the price-tag always hanging from her hat. Imagine my surprise when I found out Minnie Pearl’s real name was Sarah Cannon. One of the many hospitals I sometimes run past near our house was renamed the Sarah Cannon Cancer Center, in her memory. Like Dolly Parton, she put her money where her mouth is, as they say.

She probably hated dressing up like this every week. But she does look happy. So who knows?

My country journey continued after college, when Mary Chapin Carpenter - a N.J. girl who was a few years ahead of me in high school - made it big in the country music world. It seemed to strange to me at the time that a girl from Princeton, N.J. whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower would be embraced by folks who actually grew up in this neck of the woods. She brought along the people like me to her rodeo.

Well, looky here. Who would have predicted back in the Hew Haw days that black musicians like Mickey Guyton would be welcomed under the country music tent? I wonder if this foreshadows a change in the U.S. outside of the world of music? I’m getting my hopes up, but who knows after the past few weeks.

Just like in my childhood, I’m learning about country music through the miracles of television. My research tool is not the more highbrow Ken Burns series, Country Music - although I have watched most of that, too - but the more soap opera-style show Nashville. I’m learning all about the music business, even though I do realize the Hollywood version is a country mile from reality. At least I get to smile when I recognize a familiar landmark, and pretend I’m an insider. The Rissi Palmer video, below, was shot at The Bluebird Cafe, which figures in lots of scenes in Nashville. Sounds like she is feeling me I can be a country girl, too.

“You don't have to be a Georgia peach from Savannah Beach to say
From Arkansas to appreciate a Southern drawl
Don't need no kin from West Virginia to have it in ya
Show the world you're a country girl”

At this point, you may be wondering if I’m planning on forgetting all about the insanity going on in the world for the past few weeks. I just needed to work my way into it. As I’m sure you know, we woke up on Christmas morning to the news that a bomb exploded in downtown Nashville. Thank you to all of you who checked in on us. And I’m sorry that you have needed to do that so many times since we moved to this epicenter of disasters. When the police and FBI spoke up about the bombing, it was to tell us this was just a suicide (on a street downtown?) by an old white man, and the man was not previously known to law enforcement. That proved to be false. A local newspaper reported that the bomber’s girlfriend called the police last year and reported him last year for working from home in his nondescript brick house on several multiple bombs.

There was an outpouring of comments on social media about how if he had been black or named Mohammed, they would have stormed into his home right then and there. Instead, they claimed not to have evidence for a warrant, and he continued on his merry way to work on his plans. This tepid response sadly foreshadowed the initial reaction to the terrorists who invaded the Capital on January 6. Some of them claim to be regular people who just went along for the ride. It’s hard not to walk around now and worry about who’s lurking behind the doors of any house in town. Frightening, really.

Nashville is full of the same nondescript brick houses - like this one near us - the Christmas bomber lived in. Let’s face it, though, it’s not just the folks living on the edge who are the problem.

Just like in my childhood, I’m learning about country music through the miracles of television. My research tool is not the more highbrow Ken Burns series, Country Music - although I have watched most of that, too - but the more soap opera-style show Nashville. I’m learning all about the music business, even though I do realize the Hollywood version is a country mile from reality. At least I get to smile when I recognize a familiar landmark, and pretend I’m an insider.

In the Vine-Drucker family, we celebrate our own holiday called Waiting Day. The kids came up with the idea years and years ago. Your Waiting Day is the day before your birthday. It’s the day when you eagerly anticipate everything that your actual birthday will be. It’s a day of excitement because in your imagination, everything that happens the next day will be perfect. The older you get, the more you realize that in fact, the waiting part is often - or almost always - so much better than the reality. We’ve had so many Waiting Days over the past year. We’re waiting for vaccines, and elections, and inaugurations. We’re waiting for a return to “normal” and decency and kindness. It’s exciting to think about possibilities, and difficult to realize that they don’t all come true. It’s like the moment before I pick up my guitar and think about how I’ll sound. And then the little puff of disappointment that comes when I hear the actual notes that emerge. Nevertheless, I’m waiting - with fingers crossed - for a new country for this old woman.

“Well, I would like to make another trip,” he said, jumping to his feet; “but I really don’t know when I’ll have the time. There’s just so much to do right here.”

My high school/college friend came to town to visit her sister and we all caught up on a walk. In years to come, I hope I look back at these photos and celebrate the courage it took for all of us to get through this.

Let’s begin the walk and forget that scary movie.