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Published on 02/16/1998 All articles from this issue

Confessions of a closet country fan

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By Joan Passarelli

Blue Jeans & Jelly Beans

It started on our honeymoon. Rolling fast down the highway, with several hours ahead of us, my husband switched on the radio and found a country-western station. He tuned it to the clearest signal he could, then cranked up the volume and leaned back in satisfaction. "I love country music for long drives," he explained. "Reminds me of road trips with my folks when I was a kid."

I reeled inside, carefully keeping my new-bride smile fixed in place.

My spouse of two weeks listened to country?!

My mental picture of a country-western fan included overalls and a stalk of hay dangling from the mouth. I sat there amid the twanging guitars and nasal voices and pondered the truth of the old saying that you never really know someone until after you're married.

Years later, alone with our kids on a long driving trip, I was again looking for a good radio station. After rejecting a fire-and-brimstone preacher, a gardening talk show, and Mexican love songs, I resigned myself to country-western. If my husband thought it went well with long drives, I'd give it a shot. Ten miles later I surprised myself by joining in on the chorus.

One thing about this music, I mused, was that you could actually sing it. I could hear the story the ballad was telling, I could repeat the refrain after hearing it once, and the harmonies were easy to pick up.

Once home from my trip, though, I only listened to my old stations in the car. Hey, the buttons were already set. I never would have listened to country again but for my friend Carrie.

Carrie and I were on our way to the mountains for a weekend together. She confessed that the books she'd brought along were genre romance, straight off the drugstore rack. Western romance, to be precise.

"There's a category called western romance? Specifically? What, like the characters never stray off the range?"

"Yup," Carrie answered.

"Um ... what's the point?"

She grinned a wicked grin. "Guaranteed cowboys in every story, that's the point."

I still didn't get it.

"Cowboys! You know, tall, strong men who don't talk much, but who live by chivalry as far as women are concerned. Men who can drive 100 head of cattle across badlands, but treat a lady like a lady. Long legs in blue jeans, girl, deep tans, and hard muscles!"

Light dawned.

She turned on the radio and found a country station. Pretty soon we were both crooning like Opry stars.

I gave up fighting it. When I got home, I found the local country station and set a button for it on the car radio. My husband approved.

I still listen to classical music and NPR most of the time. But when they get mired in commercials or obscure politics, I feel the same wicked grin I saw on Carrie's face stealing across my own. I punch that button and go to the country. I throw my head back and sing along. And somewhere a silent, but incredibly handsome, cowboy rides into the sunset.