I’m backstage at the Grand Ole Opry, in my dressing room. Tuning my guitar. They tell me Dolly Parton used this dressing room once. What sacred visions this mirror must have seen. My cups runneth over.

Someone knocks on my door. “Twenty minutes until soundcheck,” they say.

I’m warming up my voice. Hoping the crowd will be hot tonight and laugh at the jokes.

The first time I visited the Grand Ole Opry, I was a little boy. We were living in Spring Hill, Tennessee, at the time. My old man was with the ironworking crew that built the GM plant. Local Number Ten.

We were rural people who did not use a P to spell “potatoes.” My clothes came from thrift stores and yard sales. I wore shoes that were hand-me-downs. We drove second-, third-, and fourth-hand Fords. It took me 30 years to finally realize we were poor.

When we wandered into the Opry Theater, we were following a throng of theater goers. I was riding high on Daddy’s shoulders. I always rode on his shoulders. From up there I overlooked an ocean of heads in the lobby. Audience members filed into the auditorium like a herd of musk oxen.

I remember that electric feeling of anticipation. Straddling my old man’s shoulders. I felt like I was flying.

We took our seats in the nosebleeds. The room smelled of popcorn and hotdogs. My father was working on a cup of beer and my mother was busy praying for his eternal soul.

Jerry Clower was onstage. There was a fiddler who tore it up. I think the announcer was Keith Bilbrey.

I remember exactly which pew we sat in. I remember standing through most of the performances, shaking my little butt to the steel-guitar solos. I remember I was wearing red courduroy overalls. My mother called me Dennis the Menace.

I remember marveling at the twin fiddles, laughing at all the jokes, and drinking so much Coca-Cola that I almost had a urinary event that would have compromised the experiences of those on our pew.

And now I’m here.

Tonight I’m playing this same stage. This is not my first time at the Opry. But it might as well be. Because each time feels like the first.

The Opry is an American institution. Sort of like the Fenway Park, the Grand Canyon, or Dollywood. So each time feels new and wondrous to me.

Each time you use the backstage artists’ entrance, each time you pass the metal detectors, each time the security guard fondles your lower extremities and says, “Don’t get excited, I’m married.”

Each time you sign in at the main desk and the employee already knows your name. Each time the backstage manager, who is named “Lemonade,” hugs you and tells you she is so proud of you.

Each time one of the ushers wants to get their picture made with you, and you feel the persistent need to remind them that you drive a 24-year-old truck.

It’s surprising. It’s humbling. It doesn’t feel real. It’s bittersweet. It makes you want to cry. And actually, you do cry. When nobody is looking.

Namely because the people in life who you wish could experience this with you are no longer in this life.

Also, because deep inside, you’re still that kid who wears secondhand clothing. You’re still that doe-eyed child who believes his parents have no problems. You’re still the little boy who rides high on his late father’s shoulders.

And sometimes, especially on nights like tonight, you still feel like you’re flying.