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8   The Ryman Auditorium, 1965 I pouted and whined the whole three hundred miles, would have kicked and screamed, except a sound spanking follow. While Ed Sullivan touted the Beatles, Elvis swiveled across the silver screen, Daddy savored the High Lonesome on thick 78s and slow turning albums. Bill Monroe, Jimmy Martin, droning banjos, chirpy mandolins, crying fiddles drowned out my Rolling Stones. Our family flew down Bloody 11-W, rain-slicked and glittery, toward Nashville to sit on curved church benches high in the Confederate Gallery where funeral home fans pumped frantic rhythms to G-runs, arthritic elbows bumped smooth-skinned young, Beatle bangs mixed with brush cuts, lost in acoustic paradise. I fumed, muttered, and strained to sit still. Flatt and Scruggs ripped a swift set, caught my ear, then called her out to play what my heart and bones remembered. Elvis and Paul forgotten, I gave into melody and line, riveted to that pew while Maybelle whipped that guitar into submission. ...

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