“Country roads…take me home…to the place…I beLOOOOONG!” I wailed along with the song on the radio, appropriately playing as I sailed down a gorgeous winding road, lined with trees and the occasional cute house. The bright blue sky unfolded above me as the sweeping farmlands flanked the endless road. Life was good.
That evening, I bobbed my head and belted along with Carrie Underwood at the local rodeo bar, laughing as my friends attempted to ride the mechanical bull and cheering as we took shots of tequila and chased them with our Jack and Cokes. We were all adorned with rhinestone-studded plaid shirts and short denim shorts, cowgirl boots barely weighing down our dancing legs.
Oh, the life of a country girl.
Despite being a Yankee, I was an honorary country girl, a fan of the outdoors, a sun worshipper, a small-town dreamer who loved animals and music. The only way I differed from my friends is that I had no idea how to hunt. But I fished, I loved Cracker Barrel, and I felt like country music spoke to me. At least, the old-school stuff and the occasional angel-voiced pop country star.
Having lived in the South most of my life, I learned from my fellow Southern girls. I learned to offer food and drink to guests, I learned that Southern hospitality, I learned to appreciate the simple pleasures. I adopted a twang…
