theatre with seating for a couple hundred. It continued that way until it closed in 1929, and sat in dark decay and quiet decline for almost fifty years. A shell of its former self.
By 1990, when my dad bought the building off the courthouse steps for pennies on the dollar, the walls had been graffitied, most of the stained glass had been broken or shot out, the roof poured water, and squatters had dragged in mattresses that soon filled with rats. To keep warm in winter, some of the more determined guests burned a few of the pews and most all of the discarded hymnals and Bibles.
Due to what my father called “a mistake of engineering,” however, the acoustics were divine. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with it, or if he did he never said, but he couldn’t stand the thought of it getting any worse. I remember him standing on the front steps and shaking his head. “How do you deconsecrate a church?” Dad never understood that.
Whatever his plans for the theatre might have been, they never became a reality.
When I first returned to BV, I scratched my head, took a long look at the Ptarmigan, and decided I’d finish what my father had started. If nothing else, it would give my hands something to do while my mind uncoiled. The Ptarmigan was named after a high-altitude, grouse-like bird nicknamed the “snow chicken,” which works hard to blend into its environment. It prefers barren, snowy, craggy peaks, and its song sounds like a loud croaking.
Perfect for me.
But attempting to return the Ptarmigan to its former glory presented one immediate problem. Money. When I left Nashville, I had carried little with me. Jimmy in one hand and memories in the other—many of which were painful. Add to that our stabbing good-bye and I just assumed that between the conniving producer and bitter Daley, any monies earned on the songs I’d written had been cut off. Then I called my Nashville bank.
Evidently ours was not the first acrimonious split in Music City. When my banker reported my balance, I nearly dropped the phone. “Excuse me?”
In the five years since I’d been gone, my royalties had stacked up and been earning interest. I wasn’t going to buy a jet or a mansion in the Hamptons, but I had options.
Within a few years I’d returned the beautiful jewel of the Collegiates to a quaint theatre with seating for a couple hundred. Further, I had retrofitted the balcony into an apartment where I stayed in winter when the snow and ice kept me out of the cabin. On a whim, I also installed some rather sophisticated recording equipment.
Before long the Ptarmigan became well known as an unplugged acoustic venue for local acts, school Christmas musicals, “Nutcrackers,” and touring choirs.
Having made something of the Ptarmigan, I then turned my attention to the Lariat, aka “the Rope.” The Rope plays live music nightly and has made a name for itself on the acoustic singer-songwriter circuit west of the Rockies. They don’t pay much, but crowds are decent and, thanks to the summer influx of those thirsty college kids, the word spread. Wanting to keep my involvement quiet, I created an LLC called Timbrel and Pipe and bought the Rope. Other than my attorney, no one around here knows I own it, and I like it that way.
The Rope fills an old brick building with two large, cavernous rooms. The ceilings are more than fifteen feet high—which explains how Volunteer No. 99 used to fit a ladder truck in here in the fifties and sixties. In one room they serve beer and half-truths, and in the other they play music and tell the other half. The acoustics aren’t bad, and the more beer Frank serves, the better they get.
Frank Green is the current general manager. I interviewed and hired him over the phone, and to his knowledge he’s never met his boss face-to-face. He’s a local, and aside from being a liar, a cheat, and a thief who underpays his performers, he’s good at his job. He’s bald with bushy eyebrows, is growing
By 1990, when my dad bought the building off the courthouse steps for pennies on the dollar, the walls had been graffitied, most of the stained glass had been broken or shot out, the roof poured water, and squatters had dragged in mattresses that soon filled with rats. To keep warm in winter, some of the more determined guests burned a few of the pews and most all of the discarded hymnals and Bibles.
Due to what my father called “a mistake of engineering,” however, the acoustics were divine. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with it, or if he did he never said, but he couldn’t stand the thought of it getting any worse. I remember him standing on the front steps and shaking his head. “How do you deconsecrate a church?” Dad never understood that.
Whatever his plans for the theatre might have been, they never became a reality.
When I first returned to BV, I scratched my head, took a long look at the Ptarmigan, and decided I’d finish what my father had started. If nothing else, it would give my hands something to do while my mind uncoiled. The Ptarmigan was named after a high-altitude, grouse-like bird nicknamed the “snow chicken,” which works hard to blend into its environment. It prefers barren, snowy, craggy peaks, and its song sounds like a loud croaking.
Perfect for me.
But attempting to return the Ptarmigan to its former glory presented one immediate problem. Money. When I left Nashville, I had carried little with me. Jimmy in one hand and memories in the other—many of which were painful. Add to that our stabbing good-bye and I just assumed that between the conniving producer and bitter Daley, any monies earned on the songs I’d written had been cut off. Then I called my Nashville bank.
Evidently ours was not the first acrimonious split in Music City. When my banker reported my balance, I nearly dropped the phone. “Excuse me?”
In the five years since I’d been gone, my royalties had stacked up and been earning interest. I wasn’t going to buy a jet or a mansion in the Hamptons, but I had options.
Within a few years I’d returned the beautiful jewel of the Collegiates to a quaint theatre with seating for a couple hundred. Further, I had retrofitted the balcony into an apartment where I stayed in winter when the snow and ice kept me out of the cabin. On a whim, I also installed some rather sophisticated recording equipment.
Before long the Ptarmigan became well known as an unplugged acoustic venue for local acts, school Christmas musicals, “Nutcrackers,” and touring choirs.
Having made something of the Ptarmigan, I then turned my attention to the Lariat, aka “the Rope.” The Rope plays live music nightly and has made a name for itself on the acoustic singer-songwriter circuit west of the Rockies. They don’t pay much, but crowds are decent and, thanks to the summer influx of those thirsty college kids, the word spread. Wanting to keep my involvement quiet, I created an LLC called Timbrel and Pipe and bought the Rope. Other than my attorney, no one around here knows I own it, and I like it that way.
The Rope fills an old brick building with two large, cavernous rooms. The ceilings are more than fifteen feet high—which explains how Volunteer No. 99 used to fit a ladder truck in here in the fifties and sixties. In one room they serve beer and half-truths, and in the other they play music and tell the other half. The acoustics aren’t bad, and the more beer Frank serves, the better they get.
Frank Green is the current general manager. I interviewed and hired him over the phone, and to his knowledge he’s never met his boss face-to-face. He’s a local, and aside from being a liar, a cheat, and a thief who underpays his performers, he’s good at his job. He’s bald with bushy eyebrows, is growing
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