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Just me

June 13, 2009

I often smile at the scenes in which I find myself in southeastern Montana.  Dancing at country bars.  Loping along sage-speckled ridges.  Driving my pickup down a muddy driveway, spewing gumbo into the air and under the wheel wells, listening to Trace Adkins’ words “I just want to feel something, somethings that’s real.” 

And that’s what I love so much about my life out here:  it seems real.  There’s no enforced orderliness, no aesthetic standards to live up to other than those established by nature.  My yard is a garden of tall weeds and grasses, some native, some not.  The driveway is half-graveled, half bare dirt, sometimes as muddy as soup and sometimes as dry as bone.  The gorgeous outlooks aren’t peppered with signs forbidding dogs or horses, or informing visitors that the park closes at dusk. 

I don’t why I get so much out of breaking with the social norms I grew up with, but I do.  I love listening to country music.  I love driving my pickup even though it’s not sustainable.  I love chatting with divorced moms at country bars.  I love paying more attention to local gossip than national news.  I love not knowing or caring what new movie is playing in the theater or who just won Survivor or American Idol, if those show are even still aired.  I love playing with my dog on a sunny day in shorts, a bikini top, and cowboy boots. 

How is it that I grew into a woman who fits so much better 2,000 miles from the only two states I’d ever lived until a year ago?  I don’t really have any answers, but I’m constantly pondering it.  I have some ideas, but I’ll save those for a later entry…

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