If you have read very much of what I write, you know that I can be pretty harsh towards modern country music. Pop-country. Bro-country. Admittedly, I don’t generally like that type of country music, and it honestly bothers me that corporate greed has hijacked one of the most authentic genres of musical expression and exploits it for gain, but at the end of the day most of what I say is just tongue in cheek, nothing more than the harmless teasing you get from your uncles or older cousins. Truthfully, music serves many purposes: it tells a story, it expresses our emotions, it educates, and sometimes it’s just for fun, something to sing, and dance, and laugh about. “Bubba Shot The Jukebox” is certainly not Pulitzer Prize worthy writing, but, man, I love to sing along with that song, no matter how exaggerated the stereotypes.
Usually I reference artists from my youth as being examples of real country music. George Jones, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Bobby Bare, Tom T. Hall, Vern Gosden, Loretta Lynn, Alan Jackson. Just to prove that I’m nothing if not fair and honest, I actually think one of my heroes, Alan Jackson, put out a song that sought to commercialize the culture of our nativity. Something I do no take lightly. “Where I Come From” should not even be mentioned in the same breath as “Remember When” and yet they’re neighbors on the same greatest hits album. Who says you can’t have it all?
Although “Where I Come From” ranks low on my list of Alan Jackson favorites, I do have a soft spot for it because I can relate to it. (Likewise, I have a soft spot for “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues” because it’s true and clever, but mostly because the video was filmed in Lynnville, Tennessee, where I come from, pardon the pun. See the link to the video below). Having traveled extensively all over the country, and in a dozen foreign countries, and presently residing in Florida, I too am regularly asked, “I don’t know about that accent son, just where do you come from?” Typically, the only thing that swells larger than my chest is my pride as I prepare to answer, “Tennessee!” The response I get is somewhere on the spectrum between, “Hmmmph. I thought so” and “I LOOOOVEEE Gatlinburg/Nashville/Memphis.” Insert eye roll here.
Where I come from has hills that outsiders mistake for mountains, minus the commercialized eyesore that is Redneck Vegas, aka Gatlinburg. Where I come from has culture that Nashville likes to play “dress up” and pretend it has, the way I used to dress up in a vinyl costume and plastic Luke Skywalker mask on Halloween. Where I come from is the antithesis of Memphis. Seriously, I’ve lived in Memphis, my son lives in Memphis, and I’ve yet to be convinced Memphis is actually Tennessee. The king of rock and roll was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, but made his mark on the world in Memphis, and Arkansas actually has a town named West Memphis, so ya’ll can fight it out over who gets custody. After a yard sale, whatever is left that didn’t sell we just put by the road and whoever wants it can come by and get it. I’d do the same with Memphis, anyone who wants it, ya’ll come get. Tongue in cheek folks, tongue in cheek.
I come from a place where we locate things based upon their location to other things. The following excerpt is from a real conversation.
"I nearly hit a deer tonight.”
“No kidding? Where at?”
“Right there by Donnie Locke's place, where that gate to the hay field by the creek is."
I come from a place where all the flower beds have worn indentions in them from the dogs making beds to try and keep cool in the summer. Oh and by the way, we pronounce it "flier" beds where I come from.
I come from a place where we have lengthy, heated debates about which country store had the best ham sandwich, and which of the “Foods”, Johnson or Davis &; Eslick, had the best meat selection. Johnson’s Foods obviously.
Speaking of Johnson’s. I come from a place where you don’t need I.D. to cash a check, a deposit slip to put money in the bank, or cash to get groceries or medicine. None of that meant much to me until I lived in a place where my own bank requires my drivers license and account number, and debit card to withdraw money. I’m still perplexed as to why they need all of this for me to deposit money into my account. Withdrawals make sense, but if some random stranger gives you money and says deposit it in Brandon Britton’s account, by all means you have my blessings. Being able to charge groceries at Foodtown or prescriptions (and milkshakes) at Reeve’s Drugs comes in handy on those days you left your wallet at home, or don’t get paid until next week, or think you have cash when you don’t.
I come from a place where “piddlin’” is a legitimate way to spend a day. I fully realize that many of the folks who read this will not know what piddlin’ is, so allow me to take a moment to explain and illustrate. Piddlin’ is the balance between doing something vaguely productive, while not really doing much of anything. Perhaps it would be clearer if I used it in a sentence.
“What are you up to today?”
“Oh, not much really. Just piddlin’ around the house this morning.”
(It is also acceptable to insert yard, shed, shop, garden, barn, or farm, for “house” in this sentence. You can also substitute the word piddlin’ with gallyvantin’, though technically, gallyvantin’ is something you must leave home to do, as in “You’ve been gallyvantin’ all around town all evening”, and piddlin’ is something typically done around the house). One of the great things about piddlin’ is it’s flexibility of usage in response to questions like, “Do you have any plans Saturday?” Let me illustrate.
Wife - “Do you have any plans Saturday? I was wanting to go to Target.”
Husband - “Mmmmm, I can’t Saturday. I was planning on piddlin’ with the lawn mower to see if I could get that belt to stop slipping. Why don’t you see if momma wants to go?”
Father - “Hey watcha doing son?”
Son - “Nothing really, just piddlin’ around the house.”
Father - “You want to go play golf with me? Your momma is going to Target this morning.”
Son - “Yeah man, where we playing?”
I come from a place where you buy a stick of bologna, a few slices of hoop cheese, and a sleeve of Saltine crackers to eat while you ride backroads and talk about important matters of life and contemplate serious decisions. That’s exactly what me and my daddy did the day I told him I wanted to marry my high school sweetheart. On our way to Fudge’s Jewelers in Athens, Alabama, we swung by Bodenham Grocery and procured the humble elements for our father and son communion. That meal might not have been holy, but it was sacred. Having been a teenage husband and father himself, he wanted to ensure that I understood the seriousness of marriage and the sacrifices it was going to require. When we pulled back into the driveway that night I had a full belly, a full mind, a full heart, and an empty wallet. From that day forward he treated my like a man, and since that day I’ve tried to act like one.
I come from a place where writing about home is pretty much a rite of passage. I know it’s not much, and I doubt it will be read by many, or make me any money, but I’ve tried my best to leave my mark about where I come from. Alabama set the standard with their song “Down Home.” Alan Jackson made “Where I Come From” famous, but, for my tastes, Mac Mcanally said it better than any of us in “Back Where I Come From.”
Some say it’s a backward place,
Narrow minds on a narrow wage.
But I make it a point to say,
That’s where I come from.
Back where I come from,
I’m an old Tennessean.
And I’m proud as anyone,
That’s where I come from.
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