Thoughts of a Country Woman

Sure, I live in town now; although it is not a bustling city, it is not the country either. But my roots are country. I don’t mean the kind of country that drugstore cowboys sing about. (I used to say rinestone-studded cowboys but now scruffy seems to be the rinestone of the past.) My growing up years were spent far from anything that could be considered city. So, I’m country. And I’m glad.

My parents may have been pretty strict but they had a decided sense of what was right and what was wrong and without spelling it out for me, I knew. I didn’t even want to choose the wrong way (usually; there were exceptions with consequences). I guess I just wanted Dad and Mom to be proud of me and really dreaded having to explain myself if I got into mischief.

My kind of country meant hard work, adults who were truthful, faith in God, knowing my parents loved me, and patriotism, a love for my country and pride in my heritage. It meant sitting down to meals with my family, dreaming dreams of the future while sitting under a shade tree in the summer or shivering around a wood-burning stove in the winter.

Country living was knowing how to build a wood fire in the heating stove when there weren’t even any coals to get it started, learning how to make biscuits and cornbread from scratch, getting tanned from being outside in the summer, trying to milk a cow (I was never very successful) skimming cream from the top of a gallon jar of milk and shaking it in a quart fruit jar until it turned to butter.

The country of my childhood had whippoorwills in the woods whose call I loved to hear in the spring and fall, owls whose hoot meant rain was on the way, coyotes whose wild and lonely voices sent chills down my spine, running barefoot over sun-heated rocks and watching out for copperheads and rattlesnakes.

Country music came from a small radio; songs like Red River Valley, Tennessee Waltz, Walkin’ the Floor Over You, Home on the Range, You Are My Sunshine. Kind of different from the so-called country music of today.

And, on a day like today, with ice and snow on the roads and schools dismissed, I would grab a Nancy Drew book, find a warm spot by the crackling wood fire, and lose myself in a mystery. Ice would click against the window and coat tree limbs, making chores harder and slicker and slower. We may not have had near-by neighbors, stores may have been miles away but that was all right. We had each other and we got through. That was my kind of country.

http://pen-l.com/Mystery.html

http://www.amazon.com/Blanche-Day-Manos/e/B0090018EI/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0