Blame it All on My Roots

                            My dear parents, you may not know, were both born on farms. Farms. The outside kind, with animals and fields and things. If you know me, you know that the ability to be a "farmer" is not genetic. In fact the opposite genes seem to have won the primordial battle. In the rush to become my DNA was scattered and re-assembled in a way contrary to my ancestors. Contrary to outside in general if you get right down to it. For that reason and many others (including the rebellion inspired by rock and roll) our family has always been a city dwelling circus. My Momma is, however resilient, though the girl was out of the country, the country was not to far removed from the girl. In the car, on Saturday mornings, Country music was pulsing from the speakers. It seems to me now that it was some form of hypnosis. Why? I'll tell you. Last night, learning to dance a bit of country-swing, it all came flooding back. Mid twirl, halfway to a dip at near warp speed, my lips parted and out came a phrase I have not repeated in at least twelve years, " I"m a full grown queen bee lookin" for honey, ah ooo ooo, oh play somethin' country!"

Thank goodness I was spinning too fast for my partner to notice what had happened. (Or just to fast for me to catch him noticing.) My face was red enough from the little girl giggles inspired from said partner. The last thing I needed was something new to be embarrassed about.

I found solace in another tune from my past. "Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in boots, and ruined your black tie affair." Make no mistake ya'll, high speed chase though it was, I'm not such a bad dancer.