Original image by There Stands the Glass.
As a Prius-driving, New York Times subscribing jazz blogger, I often forget I’m a hillbilly at heart. Returning to dirt roads in the middle of Kansas activates my intergenerational agricultural sensibility. I feel at home in the absolute middle of nowhere. My life partner and I recently added almost 2,000 miles to an odometer. A soundtrack of spirited gospel, old-timey folk, scratchy honky tonk and contemporary country felt compulsory as we drifted on the outskirts of towns including Colby, Fort Dodge, Garden City and Pratt. In addition to relishing hour after hour of Willie Nelson and George Strait, we sang along with Luke Bryan, the Dixie Chicks, Freddy Fender, Dolly Parton and Doc Watson. Revisiting timeless hymns was no less restorative. Yet my insatiable craving for Ray Price dissipated as suburbs replaced pastures as we neared our increasingly inharmonious residence.