Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Gumbo Country

"Red Dirt" seems to be the new favorite phrase in all things country.
I've been to places like Oklahoma and I can sure appreciate it's beauty.
Our Wyoming home was never graced with that high iron soil and bright red land.
Thus, I can't totally relate to the stuff that now seems to be the hot demand.
See, our place is all just plain gumbo. (Not like the flying baby elephant with big ears.)
It's that sticky stuff that's like clay and has gathered organic matter over the years.
Gumbo country isn't like those songs about jacked up pickups and road trips.
It's not summarized by whiskey, hang overs, prison or white trash hicks.
The kind of country I understand isn't just the soil that's under our feet.
It's a lot more about the morals we live and family that makes us complete.
Big breakfasts are somethin' popular in that gumbo country I'm from.
We'd all gather around the table and read the Bible when we were done.
In gumbo country, it'd be nice to say we just ate beef from the cows we invested so much in.
We grew those cows to reproduce and to sell, so at our place the main food group was venison.
Town was a long way from home so goin' there usually involved sale barns or Church.
We'd spotlight rabbits on Friday nights 'cuz on Saturday morning we had to get up early to work.
In gumbo country we made best friends by the projects we tackled together.
Nothin' like a ride out in the back country with your best bud to make things better.
In Gumbo country our Mama was our school teacher and the principal was Daddy.
We never understood high profile things like eatin' out or needin' caddies.
If you couldn't drive a stick by twelve you were considered a few steps behind.
Unlike kids who do all things crazy now, we'd get in trouble for talkin' back or lyin'.
Grandpa was our hero and just a thousand acres was too small to do anything on.
Cowboy logic was something you had to learn, it wasn't just a good ol' song. 

Farmers don't try to homestead in that area because few crops would be able to grow.
A few young boys with their twenty two's were our only rodent control. 

Where the gumbo forms beneath you, afternoons are filled with talk radio and fixin' fence. 
Hats actually serve a purpose, and every morning when you wake up, you know you're truly blessed. 

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