It gets dark early this time of year. 6pm feels like 10 at night to my weary mind and soul. But there’s hope. I’m driving south down GA Hwy 54 to meet up with Marion for a night at the Hollonville Opry.

Turin, Georgia is home to the Opry these days. The Opry has been gathering here since 2019 on the first and third Saturday nights every week of the year, “except a few holidays” they say.

But the Opry originally belonged to Hollonville, a little patch-in-the-road community not far west of Williamson, Georgia along highway 362. As the story goes, back in 1991, a few fellas from the community would get together for some back porch picking on Saturday nights. It didn’t take long before a few turned into a few more. Duos and trios would take turns at songs and licks.

Next thing you know, folks who didn’t play or sing a lick started showing up just so they could listen and cut a rug out in the yard by the porch lights.

“We need us a place a little bigger than this here porch,” one fella observed.

An agreement was made with the owner of the old Hollonville Feed & Seed. The store had been closed for years. The warehouse type construction was perfect for playing and dancing. And thus, the Hollonville Opry was born.

Free music every Saturday night. Gospel. Bluegrass. Country.

There are two sides to free music. On the one hand it keeps things simple. It makes the Opry feel like family. The Opry takes donations, and the members also bring potluck desserts, which are free. The musicians don’t get paid, which means they come because they love playing and they love the Opry. Free allows anyone and everyone to come and sit for a spell. Some dance. Some just tap a toe.

But “free” wasn’t making any money for the owner of the old feed & seed building. I don’t know the facts here, but I’ve done enough research to make an educated guess. The old feed and seed building is now a 4,000 square foot event center available to rent for your next wedding or corporate meeting.

You fill in the blanks. The Hollonville Opry had to find a new home.

It took a while. Some of the old timers were heartbroken. They were afraid that they were seeing the end of an era.

“I can’t believe this,” one lady said. “After I lost my husband, I stayed at home looking at old pictures and cried myself to sleep every night. My friends finally convinced me to go with them to the Opry one Saturday night, and that’s where I met Carl (not his real name). We’ve been dancing ever since. We’ve just got to get the Opry back.”

Well, news travels among small towns. A friend of the Opry had a friend across the line up in Coweta County, who had a friend, who knew a friend who had been to the Opry a few times, who was member at the Turin Methodist Church, who talked to the preacher about an idea he had.

“We’ve got a fellowship hall that we use occasionally, but we don’t use it all the time. How ‘bout we invite the Hollonville Opry to meet here. It would be a good thing for the community.”

So, the preacher took the idea to the powers that be who gave the thumbs up, and just like that the Hollonville Opry had a home again.

I turn left off the highway across the railroad tracks and take a hard right onto Railroad Street. In the dark, it looks like Turin is not much different from Hampton. Main highway through town. A line of storefronts on one side of the road. Train tracks on the opposite side. The Methodist Church beyond the tracks opposite the town.

As I turn left onto the street beside the church, my headlights sweep across the front lawn. I get a glimpse of the face of the building. White, wood frame box of a building. Darkly stained, oversized front doors. A couple of stained-glass windows flanking the entry.

You can tell where the original building is separated from the additions that have been made over the years. The small box-shape is still visible. Somewhere inside those earliest walls is a building made of hand-hewn timbers that were put together somewhere around 1838. More than a few John Wesley hymns have been sung from the wooden pews inside.

I pull into the parking lot out back. Marion parks just ahead of me. We walk inside the back doors to the fellowship hall. There’s a lot of white hair. Beards. Jeans and overalls. Pointy boots. Metal folding chairs. Laughter and pre-music chatter.

A stage sets in the corner. Mics, monitors, music stands, and lights.

We are here to listen to The Glory Quartet. We know these guys from church. They get around and do a bang-up job with the old gospel favorites. I can see, even in the low light, that people are singing along with the words they’ve known since they were barely old enough to catch lightning bugs in a jar.

Line Creek Bluegrass is next. I’m here to tell you, these guys are tight. The vocals are crazy good. The set list is a great mix of old and new bluegrass. That fiddle player could be on stage at the real Opry, if you know what I mean.

You know what surprised me? The dancing. These are folks with a bulge in the middle, a curve in the spine, knees that don’t bend so well, and who know no shame. If the right tune comes up, the metal chairs clear and something that looks a lot like dancing goes on in the church fellowship hall.

I’ll call him Herbert. I don’t know his name, but he deserves a good one. He’s 93 years old. He’s sitting off to the right of the stage. Thin features. Black pants. Gray shirt. String tie. Big brass belt buckle and boots to match. His hair is snow white. Looks like he combed it back with Crisco.

The word is that Herbert is a regular. He’s been coming here for years and doesn’t miss a single Saturday. He’s always come alone, but tonight there’s a lady-friend sitting close.

“He used to dance with all the ladies,” Marion says. “Guess not anymore.”

During a break between sets, our MC for the night asked if there were any anniversaries to celebrate. There were a few over 50 years. Some over 45 years.

Herbert raised his hand. “How about four weeks?” he said. The place erupted with applause.

We watched all the couples interact. Tender touches. Supporting each other as they got up and down out of their chairs. Quiet whispers over the shoulder. Old married folks just being happy.

The final group played a little Creedence. Beatles. Brooks and Dunn.

Herbert and his new bride hit the dance floor.

I whispered to Marion, “They’re like us.”

“You mean, married four weeks?” she asked.

“Not that,” I said. “Looks like they were meant for each other.”

Way to go Herbert.