Nashville Nostalgia: An Ode to Opryland

Before the roar of the Titans stadium and the throngs of tourists spilling out of Bridgestone Arena onto Broadway, one attraction stood out as Nashville’s playground for both young and old, native and visitor: Opryland Themepark.

A sprawling mishmash of rides, attractions, shows, and food, Opryland entertained Nashville’s youth each summer until life returned to its previously scheduled programming of school and Friday night lights. But as sure as the sun sets and rises, every kid and teen in Middle Tennessee ditched their backpacks for fanny packs by Memorial Day, ready to soak up a summer’s worth of memories courtesy of Opryland’s $50 annual season pass.

I must admit, that’s a hell of a deal for some cheap, all-day babysitting for an entire summer. Coming of age in the 90’s in Nashville was nothing like it was now; crime wasn’t at the level and frequency we’ve come to expect in this newly minted “It City.” The crime that did make the headlines seemed to be targeted and specific attacks. (Anyone remember Perry March and the Green Hills rapist?)

As such, no one batted an eye dropping middle-schoolers at the ticket gates at 9 a.m. off Opryland Drive, armed with nothing but a season pass, a few bucks for a burger and frozen lemonade, and a couple of quarters for the pay phone to call for a ride home. Can you even imagine? We geolocate our children now wherever they go, tracking locations and vetting every person in attendance. But I suppose those large hedges surrounding the theme park were as good a fortress as any for keeping Nashville’s little darlings confined within its perimeter.

Once inside, the first order of business was meeting up with the group to devise the day’s game plan. Inevitably, it involved the opposite sex since Opryland afforded ample opportunity for physical contact that life otherwise wouldn’t. The plan was carefully hatched – who would sit with whom on Chaos, how to time the water rides with the heat of the day and the ability to dry out easily. It didn’t matter if it was hot enough to fry an egg waiting in line for the Rockin’ Rollercoaster, the hour or two wait in the dark, air-conditioned line for Chaos after being drenched at the Grizzy River Rampage was miserably cold.

Each summer, we swapped our Bucks and Timberlands for Keds and Jordans, or during one particularly painful season, those Adidas slides that felt like walking on gravel. A friend’s parent or older sibling would drive the carpool, and off we went, the feeling of autonomy and freedom – even for a day – palpable in the air with the sounds of our pubescent voices belting Chattahoochee, Hold My Hand, or Smells Like Teen Spirit, depending on which AstroVan was dropping off that day.

The first sojourn of the season required most of us to stop first at ticketing to purchase a season pass and have a picture taken. It didn’t matter if we knew within hours, we would be salty with sweat and dripping wet; we spent hours curling, teasing, and hair spraying – oh, the hair spraying – to capture just the right picture that would, in essence, be the next best thing we had to a driver’s license all summer.

Strategy dictated the day, but the roar from the bobsleds at the Screamin’ Delta Demon typically lured us left first to manifest our own version of Cool Runnings. We’d then amble on, making our way to the crème de le crème, the Wabash Cannonball, a roller coaster that boasted not one, but two, upside-down loops. On days when the morning humidity clung worse to you than your little sister, we’d sidestep either to the swings of the Tennessee Waltz, but mostly to the wooden bridge above the Old Mill Scream. The large, wooden boat only made two moves, one far up and the other far down, but its plume on its descent sprayed anyone within a twenty-foot radius. Screams of elation and shock, along with the spray of water, could be heard almost anywhere in the park, which both beckoned overheated patrons to a brief respite and served as a kind of honing device for finding friends who had gotten separated.

You didn’t really get that sense of assurance at the Grizzly River Rampage, the park’s only other water attraction. Situated in large tubes of six, we spun randomly around various eddies and waterfalls, creating a virtual roulette of who would see some action and who would walk away dry as they arrived. Ultimately, the anticipation built for Chaos, Opryland’s only indoor rollercoaster. House in a foreboding black building, its long, dark, air-conditioned line, coupled with a two-seater cart, made this more than an attraction. It was an opportunity.

For someone whose parents wouldn’t even allow her to be the same room with the opposite sex with the door closed, this experience gave me and every other sheltered evangelical kid a chance to explore – in the dark, at that – the things we had only written in our journals about: holding hands, having arms wrapped around us tightly, even the whisper of breath on the nape of our necks, awakening us to new sensations as our awkward and gangly limbs twisted and jerked to the bends in the track. It was our own Seven Minutes in Heaven, and it was glorious.

All summers end, and Opryland’s eventually did as well, taking with it the signature aromas of caramel apple and funnel cakes. Its protective playground nurtured generations of kids and adults alike, birthing a safe cocoon to at once, feel innocent and navigate the weird feelings our bodies felt but our minds couldn’t quite yet comprehend. Now, in its place, sits Opry Mills Mall, which I’m sure is enjoying its own coming of age story with more recent generations in its own way.

If you know what to look for, you can still find remnants of old Opryland signage in the remote corners of the east parking lot. I point them out to my own children now, who are exactly the ages that were stamped on my annual season passes. I tell them, “Look, that’s where I spent every summer!”. My soul dies a little when they retort, “Here? In a parking lot?”

Yes, son. It was a very fine parking lot to grow up in. A very find one, indeed.