I had never gone out with a real
country girl before. Her hair
was long and brown, the way
I liked it back then. Her hips
were womanly. She drove
a pickup truck, of course,
and lived in the woods in
a Lincoln-like cabin with no
running water. What a hoot
for a city kid, though the novelty
of getting water from a well wore
thin as winter came and I became lazy.
When I asked her why she went out
with me she laughed and said
you got a cute ass and all.
Most the time though, I rarely
understood her twang and she
never forgave my New Yawk accent.
Still we managed to have fun.
I learned how to make biscuits
from scratch and how to pick
berries that were safe to eat. I'm
not sure I taught her much though.
One time I cooked a big Italian
meal for her. After looking under
the lids of each of the pots she
yelled everythangs red!!
Most the time, we drank a lot
of beer in long-necked bottles
and hung out in honkey tonks
listening to bluegrass music. She
always warned me to keep my
mouth shut because some of the local
boys would kick my butt if they heard
me talk. That made me feel real good.
We made it through two winters
before I tired of making the long
trip down deserted dirt roads.
Deliverence was fresh in
my mind and I had no desire to
"squeal like a pig". We stayed
in touch for a few years before
I moved to Utah and set out to learn
about the ways of the mountain west.