When I was a kid we listened to the “Grand Ole Opry” on a transistor radio every week. We usually listened to the show out in my dad’s lawnmower shed each Saturday night. It was our thing.

My father’s shed was a sacred place. Especially for a kid. It was the place where he kept his beer so my mother wouldn’t find it.

My mother was Baptist. Which is why Daddy often drank his beer warm, since there was no refrigerator out in the shed.

“Don’t you hate warm beer?” my father’s friends used to ask him.

“Yes,” my father would say. “But I might as well get used to it, because the beer in hell won’t be very cold.”

The little Philco radio sat atop his shelf, nestled beside the old oil cans, the Chilton automotive repair manuals, the WD-40 canisters, and the boxes of air new filters.

On Saturday evenings the Opry would play, and Daddy would often be sharpening a lawnmower blade, or lubricating his chainsaw, or separating bolts and screws, or whatever. Warm beer in his hand.

The tweed speaker would vibrate with the sounds of Keith Bilbrey, hosting the show with his velveteen baritone. The musicians would play. Fiddles would whine. Banjos would ring. And I would marvel at the sounds of steel guitars.

I have always loved music. I played piano in our church. I began playing in church at age 9.

I played “Amazing Grace” at my grandfather’s funeral. I sang “Precious Lord Take My Hand” for my aunt’s wedding. I once sang for a supermarket poultry sale at the IGA. I sang:

“C-H-I-C-K-N-N,
“That’s how you spell,
“Premium chicken, friends…”

My father also let me sing at the VFW sometimes for his pals. My mother did not like it when my father took me to the VFW.

When I was 5, my father would take me to the VFW, sit me on a stool and get me to say a popular cuss word beginning with the letter S.

“S-word,” I would say to my father’s pals.

They would all howl with delight.

“How old are you?” one of his friends would ask.

“S-word,” I would reply.

Laughter from all.

“What’s your favorite color?” they would ask me.

“S-word,” I remarked.

That same year, in Sunday school class, my teacher, Miss Deborah, asked me to recite the scripture for the week. I thought I’d try for an easy laugh. “S-word,” I said. They buried Miss Deborah that same afternoon.

But getting back to the Opry. I loved listening to the music on that show. Namely, because as a kid-piano-player, I wanted to be a professional musician when I grew up. I wanted to play the Opry someday.

“Do you think I’ll ever play the Opry,” I asked my father.

“Son,” my father would encourage me, “if you keep playing music in church, and you practice real hard, one day you too will be drinking beer out in your lawnmower shed.”

Well, here I am several decades later, and I’m going to be a guest on the Grand Ole Opry on March 24, 2023. Although I am still in denial about this.

I bring all this up because my wife and I are throwing an after-party for anyone who is coming to Nashville to see the Opry. This is our thank-you to you. Because we love you.

This means you.

Actually, you don’t even have to come to the Opry to be invited to our party that night. Just come to Nashville. In fact, you’re welcome to attend our party even if you think I’m a complete turd. I’ll hug your neck, just the same.

So if you want to join the shindig, please RSVP on my website and my wife will email you the address of the party venue. To find my site, all you have to do is Google my name.

It bears mentioning, wherever this party is held, wherever you and I embrace one another, there will be food, there will be music.

And there will be plenty of warm beer.