I listened to a country station in the car this week.  Shh… don’t tell my dad.

My mother loved Simon and Garfunkel and ordered the latest K-tel record album with all the pop hits.  I listened to Jim Nabors croon “The Impossible Dream” on our hand-me-down hi-fi, and after a brief silence while the record player dropped the next vinyl disk, Roger Miller sang, “King of the Road.”  That was about as country as it got.

But then there was my father…

Dad grew up in the southern part of the state with banjos and overalls and liked the country music station with songs about dead dogs and tractor trailers.  He tortured us all with that music, holding us captive in the old blue Chevy and chain-smoking during the hour-long trip to visit my grandparents while I tried to sneak the back window down and gasp for air.

I didn’t particularly embrace my redneck roots.

With the recent surge of genre crossover music that plays on both the country stations and the pop stations, I surprisingly find myself downloading more and more Nashville tunes.  The lyrics ring of honesty and I much prefer the sound of real instruments to the synthetic pounding of today’s growing club music cult.  And even if I’m not the flag-waving, bible-thumping girl I used to be, I understand those people better than most.

Besides, I think a little country twang fits much better with the surrounding farmland ambience.

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