From Backroads to Broadway

It’s hard to remember why I decided to persuade Ron that I wanted to vacation in Nashville and re-visit Gatlinburg (I had previously been to Gatlinburg and the Great Smoky Mountains with my cousin Holly — more on her later). There were any number of reasons — the wonderful memories of my previous trip, a chance to see beautiful fall foliage in East Tennessee, a chance to visit the Grand Ole Opry and the Country Music Hall of Fame — take your pick!

The persuasion was successful, and Holly and her then-beau Jim met us in Nashville on the front end of our trip for a long weekend (it’s just under 200 miles from the ‘Ham to Music City). Our flight landed in Nashville on a Thursday; we retrieved our luggage, picked up our rental car (a very nondescript silver Dodge sedan that I immediately hated), then headed to our hotel.

Ron and I knew that we had Thursday evening free because Holly and Jim weren’t arriving from Birmingham until Friday, so we made plans to have dinner in suburban Brentwood with Kathy Whiteis, a wonderful former colleague from ACS/Xerox. Kathy lived in Tulsa, but had left Xerox and joined a company based in Brentwood (a suburb of Nashville) — and she just happened to be in the home office the same week we were in town. We met her in a cozy restaurant in Brentwood, had cocktails and a delicious meal, and caught up and reminisced for a couple of hours.

The big outing with Holly and Jim that weekend was a Saturday night performance at the Grand Ole Opry. We purchased the tickets so far in advance that we didn’t know who would perform. We were pleasantly surprised when we found out the performers would be a mix of veteran artists (Jeannie Seely and Bill Anderson) and newer performers, with the headline act being Lady Antebellum (now known as Lady A).

Seely and Anderson were both in their mid-70s; while they may have lost some vocal power, the crafty veterans knew how to capture and hold an audience. And while I was only slightly familiar with Lady A, the smooth harmonies of Hillary Scott, Charles Kelley, and Dave Heywood were really enjoyable.

We sat behind a “girls’ night out” bridal party consisting of the bride-to-be, her mother, future mother-in-law, and several bridesmaids and friends — all dressed in their finest party clothes, accented by boas, sashes, and possibly tiaras. They thoroughly enjoyed their evening but weren’t over the top or obnoxious. I asked the bride when the wedding was, and she said Dec. 13 — that would give her and her future husband an easier way of remembering the date: 12/13/14. You have to applaud that kind of planning! And if you’re wondering, Dec. 13 fell on Saturday that year.

That Monday, Holly and Jim returned to Birmingham while Ron and I and the annoying rental car headed for Gatlinburg, known as the Gateway to the Smokies. It’s an unusual combination of staggering natural beauty and, frankly, pure capitalism and tacky tourism, but we had a great few days: driving through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, visiting several spots along the way, and enjoying the cooler temps and changing fall foliage.

I have a couple of special memories from that week. The first one occurred in a Gatlinburg gift shop. Ron and I were looking for some trinkets to bring back to Dallas, each of us chatting with a salesperson when a thought suddenly crossed my mind and I went completely silent. Ron must have seen a weird look on my face, so he walked over to see if I was OK.

I reminded him of a story I had shared before: when I went on vacation in the past, I purchased small gifts for Mom and Dad that were native to the area I was visiting — usually a mug for Dad and earrings for Mom. As I chatted with the salesperson in Gatlinburg, it hit me that I would never make those purchases again (Dad had been gone 8+ years, Mom had passed way about 18 months before this trip). Ron didn’t miss a beat. He immediately said that I should buy something that I liked and wear it in Mom’s memory; the carbon fiber-filled tungsten ring adorns my right-hand ring finger to this day.

The second memory is more nerve-wracking. Our hotel in Gatlinburg — the Best Western Twin Islands — was a charming property with Little Pigeon River running through it; some of the buildings, including ours, were on the river, and the walkway to our ground-level room overlooked the water. It rained off and on in Gatlinburg that week — it rained a LOT. The Little Pigeon River turned into a rushing, noisy torrent of water that rose to just a few feet below the walkway. Ron and I watched the river apprehensively, thinking that we might have to make a break for it, but the rain eventually stopped and the water subsided.

A highlight that week was our visit to Dollywood, which is in Sevierville, about 20 minutes from Gatlinburg. The weather that day was a little rainy but mostly just partly cloudy, and we headed to the park to go all in on Dolly— fortunately on a weekday, when we had a better chance of avoiding crowds and long lines.

We pulled up to the booth to pay for parking and were greeted by a pleasant-looking woman. Ron, who is known for asking off-the-cuff questions, impulsively asked which attraction in the park was the one that we must not miss. She promptly replied “Dolly’s museum” and told us how to find it (just inside the front gate, to the right, and in a slightly remote corner of the park).

Once inside the park, we made a beeline for the museum, which did NOT disappoint! Her former (highly customized) tour bus was parked outside, so we waited patiently in line to climb aboard when the attendant gave us the thumbs-up. A few minutes later, we were in Dolly’s mobile world: seats and bunk beds for the tour members, a cozy bedroom for her, and a few wigs, of course. The attendant told us the bus had been retired a few years earlier after hauling Dolly and team around the country for about 250,000 miles.

After satisfying our curiosity about the bus, we stepped inside the museum and were directed to the top floor, where Dolly (in hologram form) welcomed us to her world. That part of the museum is a re-creation of the mountain cabin she grew up in; on one wall was a list of the 12 or so kids in her family, with their birthdays next to their name — Dolly can’t lie about her age (not that she ever has)! It was also complete with family photos, including several of her with Carl Dean, her reclusive husband.

The museum was a treasure trove of her life: gold and platinum albums, awards, and shoes and outfits from her concert performances and movie roles. We wandered around the museum, taking in each artifact, as if we were waiting for her to appear and sing to us.

After spending a few days in the Gatlinburg area, we returned to Nashville for the last few days of our trip. The end of the vacation was as busy as the first: we visited local attractions such as the Parthenon, a full-scale replica of the original in Greece; the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum; the exterior of the Ryman Auditorium, the original home of the Grand Old Opry; and the small but well-curated Johnny Cash Museum, where we learned how The Man in Black started his music career at Sun Records in Memphis alongside Elvis, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, and Carl Perkins. We also had some great food at local eateries such as Hattie’s Hot Chicken and Nosh, and had a lovely visit with friends and former Dallas-area residents Heather and Sean. All in all, a great week in East Tennessee!

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How Did We End Up Here?

As kids, my brother Eddie and I rode practically everywhere in the back of Mom and Dad’s GMC pickup truck — blue with a white racing stripe, which made it look just fast enough to not be fast at all. Usually the trips were back and forth to Ringling or Comanche, Oklahoma, to see family. OK, let’s be honest — it was ALWAYS to see family. More specifically, Aunt Norma Jean.

Being Mom’s older sister, she had an uncanny ability to pluck the exact string in Mom’s heart that would result in a sudden, unplanned road trip. It was like a family emergency hotline, except instead of “fire, flood, or famine,” it was “Norma Jean asked, so get a move on.”

Refusing to submit to Dad’s tendency to drive two miles per hour below the posted speed limit (a habit I suspect was fueled by equal parts stubbornness and a fear of arriving too soon), Mom would shepherd Eddie and me into the back of the truck. Hunkered down among a collection of odds and ends that would have made Jed Clampett proud, we rode in what you might generously call “reasonable comfort.”

Dad had “southern-engineered” a small speaker on the back of the truck’s cabin. With pluck, determination, and enough baling wire to secure the back 40 acres, we were treated to classic country music concerts drifting through the open air. I think that’s where my love of traveling soundtracks began.

With Mom at the helm, we always made good time. As a good Christian lady, she never tailgated, cut anyone off, or relied on her middle finger to make a point. Instead, she simply pressed harder on the footfeed* and trusted her charisma, uniqueness, and nerve to compensate for her timidity. Shockingly, it worked! Shirley Ann Carnes Jackson Carnes could make the 35-mile drive back home from Duncan, Oklahoma, so fast that the KFC chicken was still extra crispy when we arrived home (at least the parts Eddie and I hadn’t already “taste-tested” in the backseat.)

*It wasn’t until college that I realized not everyone called the accelerator pedal a “footfeed.” To this day, I sort of miss that beautifully descriptive word. It sounds like something you’d find in a tractor manual… which, in our family, you often did.

Two days after her 63rd birthday, Mom received her first ticket; after earning a second only a week later, Shirley Ann was required by law to take a defensive driving class. I laughed so hard I ran a red light and was promptly gifted my own ticket. Thanks, Mom — family traditions come in all forms.

Dad would always keep an ear tuned to the CB radio in case anyone had spotted “bears” nearby (translation: highway patrol). Meanwhile, Eddie and I yawped along to whichever eight-track had been popped in, our little soundtrack to life playing out under the Oklahoma sky. To this day, some of those songs creep back as earworms that only SpongeBob SquarePants can cure (please don’t ask why; the explanation is both complicated and ridiculous.) The songs I remember most are:

• Tammy Wynette – “Stand by Your Man”
• Marty Robbins – “A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation)”
• Johnny Horton – “The Battle of New Orleans”
• Hank Williams – “Hey Good Looking”

Those memories, stitched together with laughter and fried chicken crumbs, are the fabric that still makes me smile whenever I smell gasoline, dust, and country music on the wind.

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Nashville…

When we first started talking about taking a trip to Nashville, I didn’t have the faintest idea how to plan for it. After all, we were joining Kirk’s cousin Holly and a new “person of interest” she’d been spending time with, and I wasn’t sure what that meant for logistics. Was this a casual “weekend getaway” or were we about to audition as supporting characters in the pilot episode of The Bachelor: Tennessee Edition?

Thankfully, Kirk came armed with good ideas and a knack for itineraries. Over the years I’ve tried to be more helpful during trip planning, though my “helpful suggestions” sometimes look suspiciously like enthusiastic chaos. Kirk has learned to appreciate this — mostly because it makes his logical plans look even more sensible by comparison.

Naturally, the first thing we agreed on was the Grand Ole Opry.

Growing up on a steady diet of the Opry and Hee Haw, I looked forward to our pilgrimage to the home of country music. I tried not to overthink it (key word: tried).

Our hotel turned out to be incredibly convenient — walking distance to the Opry, the Country Music Hall of Fame, and even a mall. We wandered through that mall at least twice, bravely fending off the temptation to buy matching western gear. A glittering pair of rhinestone-spangled spurs called to me like the One Ring to Frodo, but thankfully Kirk has always pushed the “non-twinning agenda.” In the end, we agreed to forego the chaps as well, which is probably for the best (our friends can only handle so much sparkle at once.).

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The Grand Ole Opry….

On Saturday evenings, our family would gather in our tiny living room for the weekly ritual of popcorn, pets, and primetime television. After dodging bits of freshly roasted popcorn that seemed to explode from the pan like mini-fireworks, we’d find our spots: Mom and Dad on the sofa, Shelia in the recliner, Eddie and me on the floor. Add two slobbery dogs, a semi-feral cat, and, depending on the year, a parakeet, a blue bunny rabbit, or even a baby chick wandering by, and you’ve got a Jackson Family Viewing Party. Eyes glued to the brand-new color TV, we would sit enraptured by Hee Haw and the Grand Ole Opry. Those evenings were loud, messy, and absolutely perfect!

So when Kirk and I planned our Nashville trip, I was delighted that he was equally excited to see a show at the Opry. Even better, we found a backstage tour being offered and immediately signed up. The new venue wasn’t the one we grew up watching, but it was still thrilling to wander the same hallways the performers used. At one point, I paused a little too long at a mural titled Good Natured Riot. By the time I tore myself away, the group had vanished. I wandered down two wrong hallways, feeling very much like a lost child at the grocery store. Fortunately, a kindly woman in overalls gently herded me back to my group. When I rejoined them, Kirk gave me the kind of patient smile that says, “Of course you wandered off. At least this time you weren’t holding scissors.”

We stepped onstage for a photo op, pausing center stage to see the theater from the performers’ perspective. It was more awe-inspiring than I’d expected. Later that evening, we returned for a live show. While the music was wonderful, my strongest memory is of the bridal party a row ahead of us; I half-expected the bride to be sent crowd-surfing across our section before the night was over.

No rhinestone chaps, no stage-diving brides — but plenty of fun. Worth every penny!

At some point (the next morning) after an indulgent breakfast with Holly (and her gentleman friend) at a local biscuit house—think “Cracker Barrel, but with better fashion sense and even more jars of pickles and preserves”—we went our separate ways. I can’t remember the restaurant’s name, but I do remember its charm. Kirk could probably still tell you exactly what he ate, while I mostly recall the kitschy T-shirts and how close we came to needing an extra suitcase for all the condiments.

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Gatlinburg, TN…

We pulled into Gatlinburg just as the creeks swelled to near-flood levels. Locals, unfazed, shrugged and explained that light flooding was simply God’s way of “cleaning house.” I briefly wondered if Kirk’s fate was to be swept away in the name of divine spring cleaning, but decided he deserved better than that.

From our hotel room, the roar of floodwaters was constant. Kirk immediately leaned over the railing to snap pictures for his sister Ann while I nervously imagined how this accident report might sound. That night, Kirk slept soundly while I lay awake, listening to the water and Grandma Mae’s Old Testament-style warnings about floods: “Follow the animals, two by two, onto any big boat you can find.” Comforting, in its way.

The next day, we drove into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Now, full disclosure: I don’t recall mentioning to Kirk that I wasn’t overly interested in this particular park. He, on the other hand, had a clear hankering to explore. And so off we went.

I’ll admit it was beautiful — mountains rising to the sky, the sky itself as blue as the ocean. We stopped to look at primitive churches and historic homesteads, and I trailed along with what I thought was admirable patience. What I didn’t know at the time was that some of my own ancestors had once lived, worshipped, and swam in those very same hills and rivers. Many years later, thanks to Ancestry.com, I’ve come to appreciate that connection far more deeply. Funny how travel sometimes gives you gifts you don’t fully unwrap until much later.

Eventually, Kirk had his fill of mountain charm and we headed back to town. I pretended not to notice how relieved I was, but let’s just say the abandoned Blockbuster stores of town never looked so welcoming.

P.S. Thank you, honey, for not abandoning me to the herd of wildebeests that only existed in my imagination.

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Dollywood Glamour…

I had no idea what to expect at Dollywood. None. Zero. Zip.

Yes, I grew up loving Dolly — who didn’t? — but somehow I had never pictured what her theme park might actually be like. Would it be rhinestone roller coasters? Fried hairspray booths? A gospel choir in every restroom? Turns out, it was something even better: a big-hearted mix of fun, music, and Dolly magic.

The Dollywood Museum was our first stop, and it immediately set the tone. Handwritten notes from Dolly’s friends and collaborators lined the entrance, little windows into her world full of warmth, encouragement, and humor. You could almost feel the sincerity radiating off the paper (I don’t know if paper can sparkle, but if it can, Dolly’s paper does.)

Inside, a playful Dolly hologram welcomed us into the attic-style space, filled with a smattering of memorabilia. It was quirky, charming, and just the right amount of sentimental.

Walking through the exhibits felt less like being lectured at and more like being invited to sit down at Dolly’s kitchen table while she told stories. From the Coat of Many Colors to the dazzling gowns she wore at awards shows, in concerts, and in movies and TV, everything reflected her hard work, faith, and deep Smoky Mountain roots. It didn’t feel like a shrine; it felt like a celebration of Dolly’s humanity as much as her stardom.

If we ever go back, I’d happily walk through it all again— though next time I might bring tissues. Dolly’s good at sneaking up on your heart.

After soaking in the museum, Kirk decided it was time for a ride. Remembering my Disney World Incident of Doom (a saga involving motion sickness and poor life choices), I politely declined. Kirk, being braver or possibly just more stubborn, went on ahead to tackle the twisty monster coaster solo.

He came off the ride grinning like a kid who just got handed the keys to the candy store. Meanwhile, I had found something far more important: a perfect photo op with a random box near the pathway. Kirk gamely posed for me, ignoring the distant cries of “Stay off the grass!” and “Don’t cross the rope barrier!” from park staff (In our defense, Dolly would’ve wanted us to have that picture…probably.)

That photo later inspired one of our favorite Christmas caricatures, courtesy of a very talented State Fair of Texas artist — proof that sometimes the best souvenirs aren’t the ones you buy, but the ones you laugh your way into.

After checking off most of our Dollywood wishlist, we returned to Gatlinburg for what I think was our final day in town. Wandering without much of a plan, we discovered a gondola ride that skimmed across the rooftops of downtown. It wasn’t exactly breathtaking — more like “budget scenic” — but it gave us a new perspective of the town. And isn’t that what travel is about? Seeing the same place from a slightly different angle, preferably while suspended in mid-air, wondering if the cables were last inspected during the Eisenhower administration?

Later, we followed the crowds into a craftsman’s fair. I feel compelled to point out that most of the vendors were women, so technically it should’ve been called a craftswomen’s fair. Still, names aside, it was delightful. Kirk, of course, sniffed out some treasures to add to his collection. As for me, my favorite souvenirs will always be the pictures, the laughter, and the ridiculous stories we stumble into along the way.

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Revisiting Nashville…

Eventually, we made our way back to Nashville. By this point, I still hadn’t fully evolved into the well-rounded travel planner I am today (Kirk might argue that “evolved” is generous — I prefer “creatively spontaneous”), but somehow we still found oodles and oodles of things to do.

One of the most surprising? The Parthenon.

Yes, Nashville has a full-scale replica of the Parthenon, originally built for the 1897 Tennessee Centennial Exposition. Walking up to it, I couldn’t help but think it was beautiful but also a little out of place — like a diamond-studded rotary phone sitting in a phone booth. Still, the closer we got, the more impressive it became. We wandered through the museum and read about the Exposition, and before long we were both completely charmed.

Afterward, we strolled through Centennial Park, where Kirk found himself drawn to Vanderbilt University. Neither of us had ties there, but we happily wandered the manicured pathways, admiring the buildings and pretending we were prospective students. We eventually found the student union, where we dutifully acquired a trinket or two to add to our ever-growing pile of “travel treasures” at home. I’m convinced that if we keep this up, we’ll need to open a small museum called The Couch-Jackson Archive of Random Things We Couldn’t Resist Buying.

By the time we left Vanderbilt’s gift shop, we were hungry and ready for a Nashville specialty: hot chicken. We’d heard Hattie B’s was the place to go, so off we went.

The restaurant itself wasn’t far — but somehow, we managed to get turned around at least once (How does one get lost on the same street? Answer: distraction and enthusiasm, two of my superpowers).

When we finally arrived, the line was already stretching out the door, down the steps, and halfway down the block. We sheepishly confirmed we were in the right place, then joined the crowd. Thankfully, the line moved quickly, thanks to a cheerful staff who made everything from scratch and still found time to chat with us.

When I asked about spice levels, one of them warned me, “You’re not ready for Shut the Cluck Up.” I believed them and opted for the medium, their most popular choice.

Friends, let me tell you — my first bite was an out-of-body experience. The crispy breading crackled under my teeth, the chicken was so juicy it nearly fell off the bone, and the sauce hit every tastebud in my mouth with a fiery kiss. It was both painful and addictive, like falling in love with someone who also occasionally sets your curtains on fire!

I devoured my platter with reckless abandon, secretly hoping Kirk might leave me a stray morsel from his. Spoiler: he did not. We left Hattie B’s with damp brows, tingling tongues, and the certainty that if they ever opened a Dallas location, we’d be first in line.

No trip to Nashville would be complete without the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. Skipping it would’ve felt about as wrong as showing up to a church potluck with an unopened can of pork and beans. We booked our tickets and were delighted to find a brand-new exhibition on Kenny Rogers waiting for us.

Kirk, being thorough, admired every artifact and bit of memorabilia. I tried to keep pace, but was repeatedly distracted by rhinestone-encrusted gowns and jackets — sequins are my kryptonite. Eventually, we reached the Kenny Rogers exhibit, and suddenly I was paying attention again.

His voice had always felt so warm and inviting, like a good-natured uncle who might slip you a dirty joke if your parents weren’t listening. From “Lucille” (which we often mis-sang on the school bus as “400 children and the crops in the field,” much to Mr. Kimble’s disgust) to “The Gambler” and “Islands in the Stream,” Kenny’s songs had been part of the soundtrack of my life.

Standing there in that exhibit, I was reminded how music weaves itself into the fabric of family. My parents, Eddie, me — all of us had sung along to Kenny at one point or another, usually off-key but with great enthusiasm. That’s the thing about music: it makes you feel like family, even with people you’ve never met.

Later that day, we wandered down Broadway — Honky Tonk Highway, as it’s affectionately called. Even in the early afternoon, it buzzed with hungry singers, guitar cases slung over their shoulders, each one hoping today would be their day. We ducked in and out of bars, letting the music spill over us, and for a couple of hours we just soaked it all in.

That’s when Kirk spotted a sign for the Johnny Cash Museum, tucked quietly down 3rd Avenue. Somehow I’d completely missed it. Leave it to him to notice a shrine to The Man in Black while I was distracted by shiny neon boots in a window display.

The museum was smaller than I expected but filled with intimate glimpses into Cash’s life — letters, photographs, and handwritten notes that made him feel suddenly close. I went in as a casual fan and left with a new appreciation for the man behind the legend.

By the end of the trip, my suitcase was heavier with trinkets, my heart was fuller with music and memories, and my brain was brimming with silly stories — some of which I’ve probably forgotten already. Which, frankly, is the perfect excuse to go back and make some new ones.

Looking back, I realize these trips weren’t just vacations — they were continuations of something my family always valued. When I was a kid, we packed into the car, sang along to the radio, argued over directions, and laughed until our sides ached. Traveling with Kirk now feels like picking up that same thread, weaving in new places, new stories, and new laughter. The faces around me have changed, but the feeling hasn’t: family is the people you make memories with, whether it’s belting Kenny Rogers off-key, getting lost on the way to hot chicken, or just holding hands in a city that hums with music. And in that sense, every road we take together leads me home.