When I was a smart-mouthed teenager, back in the Neolithic age, I couldn’t stand much of anything my parents did. They could have developed a cure for cancer, solved world hunger, and managed to transmute lead into gold, and I would have just rolled my eyes at them and muttered, “Yeah, whatever.”
But seriously! They didn’t do any of those things. They were just normal boring, hopelessly out-of-style parents who went to work, ate stuff I didn’t like, and listened to — of all things — country music. As a seriously groovy and cool chick in the seventies, I made sure that I let me distaste for my parent’s tunes be well known. I fought like the French underground in WWII, making clandestine raids on the car radio, switching the Grand Ol’ Opry to Casey Kasem’s countdown every chance I got.
But time catches up with us all, and karma is a bitch. Now, I look like my mom as I ride around in my SUV, trying not to grimace at the Beiber-ish stuff my teen favors. Seriously, if I hear “Call Me Maybe” one more time, I will not be responsible for my actions. And with my father’s passing a couple of years ago, I’ve found myself strangely drawn to some songs I never expected to put on my iPod.
Just last week, I found myself (sans teenager) tooling around town, singing “El Paso” along with Marty Robbins. When ol’ Marty saddles up and rides over to the cantina to see the saloon girl he loves, I can hear my daddy singing right along with him.
I never thought I would love the music I hated for so long, but I guess I’m my daddy’s little cowgirl, after all.