Yesterday, while getting lunch at Subway, there was a cute girl, about 20, in line in front of me. She wore a North Face jacket and blue jeans, and cowboy boots - with spurs attached. She reminded me of me.
I used to be her in the early 1980's, and though I never actually owned spurs, I wanted them. I wanted to go on a pack trip in the wilds of Wyoming. I took care of five horses - three of my own, and two which belonged to my sisters-in-law. I went to rodeos, spent all of my spare money on tack and horse feed, and listened to Country Music almost exclusively.
My favorite singing artist at the time was, of course, George Strait. There were songs of his (especially if they had a rather plaintive violin solo) that made my heart almost burst with a longing to Go West, to lasso some cowboy out there and saddle him with a bunch of kids.
Instead, I married a farmer, and together we sprouted three boys. When I found out I was pregnant the third time, I said a prayer: if this can't be a girl, at least let him be able to sing.
He was a boy. It wasn't until he was five or six years old that I recognized his singing ability, when he would do this impression of an opera singer. The vibrato and tone at such a young age was amazing. But I couldn't get him to really sing until much later. And now that he is 17, the only time I get to hear it is either when he is in the shower, or when he's riding with me in the truck. His artist of choice is George Strait, and when he sings along, I am silently enthralled. It takes me back to who I used to be. I drive slower just to soak up as much of it as I can. And honestly, it is almost like hearing George Strait in stereo. Perfect range, perfect pitch, perfect vibrato. The trouble is, I doubt he will ever do anything with it. He is talented in so many other ways that singing falls by the wayside. But it might be okay. If this was a gift intended just for me, I'll take it.