tales of a unjolly rancher.
I started my life in a tiny town in Saskatchewan, spent nearly five years after that in the wild frontier of the Yukon, and then moved to Edmonton, which is smack dab in the middle of Alberta and surrounded on most sides by farmland and acreages. My grandparents had a little hobby farm in Devon, about half an hour away from our home in Millwoods, and I got my fill of ornery horses and rundown barns when we'd head out there for an overnight stay or a summer barbeque. And besides that, a lasso-full of my relatives lived even further out in Camrose and Killam, small towns notable for their freshly-painted grain elevators and good Norwegian sons. Sons who married big-haired girls named Lerlene and Doreen who liked flashy clothes and earrings, but could also milk a cow or drive a truck at the drop of a pitchfork. When I was ten, we made another move further west to Chilliwack, in British Columbia. And while Chilliwack may be only an hour and some change outside of Vancouver -- as modern, metropolitan, culturally-diverse and edgy a city as any I know -- it was and is a farm town, thick with the stink of manure that you learned to identify according to the degree of tang in the air. "That's totally pig. I don't know what the heck they feed those things, but that's nasty." "I guess it's more like what don't they feed them, eh?" "Yep, yep. They're spreading down in Rosedale. I gotta tell ya, I prefer cow any day of the week. That's almost a sweet smell, eh?" Yeah. Sweet. And after living out there for seven exciting years, I was back to Calgary, Alberta and the land of the Canadian cowboy. So why am I giving you the full biographical treatment? Well, it's basically to establish a little cred before I make a few dire confessions.
I used to hate country music, anything to do with farming, cowboys with their twangy accents, and anything remotely hayseed. I fancied myself a city slicker above all else: a devotee of the cement, the crowds, and the corner deli. Small towns? Small minded.
Out on the farm? Out of touch.
The irony was that I kept putting myself in the path of the tumbleweeds. The tiny bible school I went to was full of Alabama (the band, not the state) fans who wore Wranglers and dreamt of owning their own stead out in the country. I stood out as a West Coast creature with my shorts, flip flops, wash-and-wear hair, and love of surfers.
When Candace, one of my dorm mates, got engaged to a rancher, I confessed to another friend that her fate would be my version of fresh hell. But I really couldn't stand any of it. And it wasn't my parents' fault; my dad had spent his high school years working on a horse ranch, and when I was in high school, my mom babysat a sheep farm on occasion so the beleaguered owners could get a little time away.
They went off to Texas just after they got married so that my dad could go to seminary, and had a Forth Worth baby who -- though he'd lived in Canada most of his life up 'til then -- eventually grew up to join the US Army. He even went to Oklahoma for Basic. Bluegrass music? Widely accepted in our home. Cowboy hat and boots? My brother owned all of them, along with his sharp suits, biker jacket, and Seahawks jersey... it was just another part of who he was.
And while my dad is more Brooks Brothers than Hee Haw, he loves George Strait and Lyle Lovett and Bob Wills and Emmylou Harris and Earl Scruggs. And my mom? She's more urbane than methane, but she loves country ballads and old cowboys and making biscuits and big hair and baby lambs, too. They may not be "New Country" folks -- those enamoured with Shania and Faith and Big and Rich or whoever the hell is wearing the tight jeans on CMT right now -- but they know their way around a milking bucket or steel guitar. Now, now, before anyone gets their back up, let me say that I know I'm painting in broad strokes. Pickup-driving good ol' boys who fly the Confederate flag aren't the same thing as Wyoming ranchers who know the back end of a steer from the front who aren't the same thing as a Tennessee beauty queen who wins pageants with her rendition of a LeAnn Rimes warbler. And NONE of those folks are the same as nice farmers outside of Cincinnati, or New York metrosexuals who just happen to love country music, or cowboy-boot -loving punk rockers in Chicago, or trucker-hat-wearing teenagers in LA. But Country is everywhere, in everything. It's not just a tired bunch of stereotypes (even if that's all I just gave you.) I didn't see it that way at that point, though. Not a bit. That is, until I moved away from all of it into the glamorous city I'd always wanted to live in, and, well... it followed me. You could say the process began with a boy. And in my life, the odds are good that you'd be right to guess that anyhow. Embarrassing? Yes. True? Sigh. I fell for a country music lover who played LoneStar and SheDaisy in his car and loved Faith Hill and Tim McGraw. And as much as I tried to scoff, I loved driving around next to him, singing harmony and learning all the lyrics I could absorb. When I'd tell my dad that I was starting to like this stuff -- cringing -- he'd lecture me about how Country musicians were some of the most skilled instrumentalists playing today. My dad sure wouldn't cross the road for Deana Carter, but he played the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou and his favourite Asleep At The Wheel and Willie Nelson albums until the CDs disintegrated. We also talked about rural storytelling traditions and oral history, twin cultural forces that I recalled from my university days. I'd always pictured the English countryside when I thought about such things, but I slowly realized that it could apply to Kentucky, too. I am a man of constant sorrow
I've seen trouble all my day.
I bid farewell to old Kentucky
The place where I was born and raised.
(The place where he was born and raised) Then I caught my mom actually watching Country music videos -- and she wasn't embarrassed! Instead, she'd go off on how life-affirming and low-angst some of the music was. How uplifting and wise and funny and inspired and... romantic.
And I thought, "Ha! Country music? Pick-ups and dying dogs? I think not!" But she'd make me listen. And I had to admit she was right. 'Cause it's a good night
To be out there soakin' up the moonlight
Stake out a little piece of shoreline
I've got the perfect place in mind
It's in the middle of nowhere, only way to get there
Gotta get a little mud on the tires... The real turning point came threefold: I attended a Dixie Chicks concert, and found myself warbling "Cowboy, Take Me Away" with fifteen thousand other women. It was something to behold. Suddenly, I just wanted a man with rough hands and soil-brown eyes. And a million other cheesy -- but perfectly okay, thank you! -- things. I met my first great two-step partner at a small town country-hall-type wedding. He made me feel like Ginger Rogers, not Minnie Pearl. And every other woman in the room looked like she felt the same, too. I was used to hanging out with guys who either wanted to make people laugh on the dance floor, or just hold the walls up until I was done dancing with my girlfriends. And all these guys -- old and young, tall and short, thin and fat, you name it -- could cut a rug in style. I lay on the floor of a barn and let baby chicks run all over me. Now, that doesn't sound like an epiphany moment, but come on! THE FLOOR OF A BARN.
Suddenly, I wanted to own a pair of Ostrich kickers. Suddenly I was dreaming of big skies. Suddenly, the Tennessee twang of a boy on the phone sent my heart into spasms of delight. Suddenly, I was listening to Texas Swing on my own time. Suddenly, I got the cowboy thing that gets other women all hot and bothered. I wanna sleep on the hard ground
In the comfort of your arms
On a pillow of bluebonnets
'neath a blanket made of stars Oh, it sounds good to me... Cowboy, take me away
Fly this girl as high as you can
Into the wild blue
Set me free, oh, I pray
Closer to heaven above, and
Closer to you... closer to you. Suddenly I wasn't offended when an old man spoke to me in a small town diner and told me that they didn't "make women like he needed 'em anymore." (Why do old men keep telling me this?)
And when I asked what that meant, he said something like the following (he was kinda mumbly, bless his heart): "Ah, well, you look like you don't mind the sun on your face. Like you could yell down a coyote. Like you could give birth to farm hands with those hips..." Sorry?!? "... and then get all gorgeous to head into town and make a man real proud." Well, then.
Alright. He said something about manure, but I liked the rest better. So, nowadays, I can admit the following: Dolly Parton is a hell of a singer and songwriter, and paved the way for a lot of women in her industry. You can get caught up in the boobs and the sequins, but under all that, there is an amazing heart that beats perfect time. I could totally live down South with a nice gentleman. I still have no love for redneck men, but I could probably handle being called 'Sugar' or 'Ma'am' a little more often. I look damn good in a cowboy hat. Yes, okay, if you're going to see it that way, I guess I do have childbearing hips. Sunsets on the prairie? Nothing more beautiful. I want to see Austin!
I guess I finally see that there's nothing about loving city lights that should stop me from loving fireflies. That there's nothing better looking on anyone than a pair of worn-in jeans. That country dances are the best way to get tired out besides... other enthusiastic activities. And -- best of all -- that there's nothing about old-fashioned country romance that should prevent it from happening to a city girl. Maybe. I'd like to rush into somebody's arms
And lose myself inside
But just any arms won't do
They must belong to you
I'd like to know the soothing comfort
Of a love that never dies
But just any old love won't do
That love must come from you 
Well, yeehaw.
11:39:02 PM 
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