A love-hate relationship with country music

And missing the mentor who loved it and the family life it reminds me to cherish

By George Valadie

It’s my new favorite song. I’ve always felt like a bit of a music oddball when compared with my friends, but it was especially true when I was growing up.

While my peers in the ’60s and ’70s were all in on rock ‘n’ roll, my cassette collection featured Johnny Mathis and The Lettermen, the 5th Dimension and Barbra Streisand. My favorite radio stations had nicknames like “Breeze 95” or “Serenity Sounds.”

Not wanting to be publicly recognized as a nerd, I played those only in my bedroom.

But one thing we did agree on: we all hated country music. Simply put, it was just way too twangy. Irritatingly so. Nails on the blackboard so. We didn’t know a single soul whose radio push buttons were preset to the stations of Merle and Conway, Patsy and Loretta.

Until …

It was 1977—I was 24 years old, a newlywed, and had just completed my second year of teaching high school. My principal had been kind enough to offer me a summer job doing odds-and-ends tasks around the school as we got the building back in shape for the school year ahead.

Paint the bathrooms, spruce up the lockers, keep the grass looking good. Budgets being what they were, and him being the sort of boss he was, not once did he ever ask me to tackle anything he wouldn’t do himself. And often did.

As a result, I was blessed to spend countless hours of that summer and many that followed with my mentor, his wisdom … and his dang country music.

Picture an old black leather-ish-covered transistor radio with a silver antenna hinged at one side. One dial for volume, a second for tuning, and a plastic window for watching the little white slide go back and forth, telling you when you were close. We lived in an AM world, so whenever we labored in the bowels of the building, the reception wasn’t all that great either.

And he did love his country music. Couldn’t work without it. But it was horrific. No other way to describe it.

I was grateful for the job, understood he was the boss, and fully appreciated I had but one choice: endure it. And smile.

I’m not sure when it happened or if there was an actual moment of realization, but it all began to grow on me. Not the music, not the instruments, and not that darn twang.

What got me were the lyrics. And no one was more surprised than I was. And I came to love them.

Unlike those of Led Zeppelin or the Stones, the words of the country genre were easy for my ears to decipher, and the artist wasn’t screaming them at me either. Not to mention many of the emotions and themes actually spoke to me.

And I’m not sure why. I didn’t fish, didn’t drink beer, never owned a truck. But grab me they did.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t ditch my cassettes or change my car’s radio stations. It was a slow, really slow evolution.

But they got me. He got me. And I’m glad he did.

So back to my new favorite song, “It Won’t Be Long.” I heard it on “Two Lane FM” while driving down a four-lane.

It’s performed by George Birge, and until I looked him up just now to write this, I couldn’t have told you that. Wouldn’t recognize him if he worked down the hall. Don’t know a single other thing he’s ever done.

But I’ve heard his song and I just love it. I offer a trimmed-down excerpt:

“It won’t be long
’Til you take a starter house to the studs and paint it white
It won’t be long
’Til there’s a crib where the pool table was and you’re up all night
It won’t be long ’til you’re sitting at a ballgame
And your last name’s at the plate, wearing seven again
And right there in your folding chair
That’s where it all sinks in
[Chorus] It might be crazy, it might be sweet
Might not be perfect and it might be
The last thing that you ever saw coming
But it gets a little better when it’s spinning ’round something, so
Buy the drink, steal the kiss, make the trip, take the risk
Love hard as you can and just hold on
’Cause life might be a lot of things
But it won’t be long.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not dying or anything, but I am 72 years old. And I realize more and more often how much fun we did indeed have when he and I painted those classrooms. He was getting them ready for the kids of the future and getting me ready for the vocation of my future.

I also realize how much fun we had when we watched our own kids—and now our grandkids—as they did and do the things they love. Ball and band and dance and whatever they think up after that.

Though time with my mentor is no longer possible, I suppose I love the nostalgic journey of this song because Nancy and I were lucky enough to recently spend some not-so-frequent time with all our daughters and their families.

The oldest grandson is now taller than I am; the youngest granddaughter is gonna be way smarter than I am. And there was all the rest of the chaos and drama and laughter in between.

With the holidays in the not-too-distant future, I pray we’ll all get the chance to gather with whomever we miss or just don’t see often enough.

“Cause life might be a lot of things, but it won’t be long.”

Dear God—Your two greatest gifts are the time we have and the people with whom we can spend it. May we take neither for granted. Amen.

 

George Valadie is a parishioner at St. Stephen Church in Chattanooga and author of the book “We Lost Our Fifth Fork … and other moments when we need some perspective.”