I have two very serious weaknesses.
Cheap beer and country music.
Specifically 80’s and 90’s country music – the good stuff.
If the two are combined for a long period of time in more than normal doses, then you can bet your last dollar I will end up going back and forth between crying and laughing by the end of the night in equal increments of time.
It gets me every damn time. Kind of like the country music award shows do.
The Sunday before Memorial Day, Nicky, my other husband, came over to swim with us. He’s always in charge of music at the pool so he brought his speaker and set Pandora on his phone to the Keith Whitley station. He proclaimed it was the best Pandora station ever (Nick agrees with me on the country of the 80’s and 90’s as being the best. We can talk for hours on the subject and have even come up with a hierarchy of artists starting out with the God of country music at the top, followed by the Jesus of country and then his disciples. That’s for another post though and once more I’ve digressed and turned one sentence in a parentheses into a paragraph and English teachers everywhere are wanting to throw tomatoes at me.).
So the Keith Whitley station on Pandora. After listening to it for a half hour, I too believed in the power of the Keith Whitley station on Pandora. It is the best country station on Pandora. We heard Conway, George (both Strait and Jones!), John Anderson, Randy Travis, Reba, Mark Chestnut, Garth, Tanya Tucker and countless others.
I am quite certain the Keith Whitley station on Pandora is what God plays in Heaven over the loud speaker.
Two hours in, we were out of beer and singing with every song.
Three hours in, we were ordering pizza and of course had went for a beer run.
Five hours in, Nicky was gone and I had powered up the Keith Whitley station on my own phone, singing along on the deck.
Six hours in, Grunt Labor is overdosed on country music that he isn’t particularly fond of anyway and goes to bed. I take the one person party downstairs and dig out a plastic tub full of every picture I have pre-2008.
Seven hours in, I had every photo from my childhood, awkward middle school years, high school and even some of my grandparent’s old photos spread out on the den floor. Keith is still playing strong.
The iPad goes off beside me which is hooked to Grunt’s phone. There’s a new text message from Bill which reads, “Ms. Jenna is down here looking at old pictures and crying. I don’t know if I should go and sit with her or what to do?!”
Bless the child. His room is just across from the den and he had no clue that this seemingly normal Sunday would turn into such a dramatic (although very well soundtracked) display of a walk down memory lane.
I got up and walked across the hall to his bedroom, knocked on his door and told him I was okay, he didn’t need to worry or come sit with me. I said, “Son, sometimes you just need a night to remember. Also, that’s a reference to a Joe Diffie song but you aren’t educated in country music enough yet to know that.”
One day though, you’ll get there sweetie. Even if you hate every minute of hearing it, I’ll see to it.
I’m off to lay on the hammock (which is still in the garage by the way – did you see that?) and listen to the Keith Whitley station on Pandora.
Here’s to a weekend to remember.