by Kelli Ford

Greetings my worldly, urban friends. I've spent the better part of my early years trying to assimilate myself into your culture. You see, I'm from Nocona, Texas -- population 2,995. There, rusty old pumping units (for oil), pastures fenced with barbed wire, cows, boots, and a Dairy Queen prevail. I swore that I would not become one of the people stuck in the "Hell-Hole" I lovingly referred to as Nocona.

Three days after high school graduation, I left town for the University of Virginia bright and early in the morning. There, I found myself surrounded by aspiring goal-seekers from all over the world. I met lots of soon-to-be-engineers who smoked endless cigarettes, drank bottomless cups of coffee, and looked like book-laden zombies; some fresh faces just waiting for acceptance into the most prestigious law schools; and athletes biding their time until NFL draft day.

Then, there was me. I had already achieved my goal -- I was not in Nocona. Furthermore, I did not do nails, work in The Boot Factory, or wear one of those damn "London, Paris, Rome, Nocona" tee-shirts! I gave myself a big fat pat on the back. What next?

I hung out for a while with a group of people -- mostly New Yorkers I met in drama class. We would sit around, smoke weed, drink various types of alcohol swiftly, and listen to music. These East Coast folks would carry on, cutting each other off and laughing at well-timed and sharper-tongued jokes. Sometimes it seemed I was the only one listening. Besides, it seemed my urban friends had so much to say -- they had already done so much, and nobody wanted to hear about Billy Bob tipping cows at three in the morning, did they?

You see, in Nocona we had no museums, and no bands ever happened through town for shows. These people had seen A Tribe Called Quest when they were 14 and knew all about Miles and Joni Mitchell, people I had never heard of. Music was not the only thing that made me feel like an infant in a room full of wizards, but it is probably the most accessible description. There was so much I had never happened upon -- hadn't read, hadn't heard, hadn't thought. What did I have to contribute to the conversations of people who had done so much?

So I tried to lose the Nocona I grew up in to become a hip urban kid. But recently I remembered something I forgot years ago. The (sometimes) fresh Austin air and the green on the horizon has brought back a feeling I grew up with. In the summertime, I would wake up before my Mom and Stepdad and make two sandwiches (one for breakfast and one for lunch) and put them in my backpack with my tacklebox. Then, I would grab a five-gallon bucket from the barn and put water and minnows in it, get two fishin' poles (one for minnows and one for my collection of top-notch lures) and my good friend Snowball (a dog complete with a fresh haircut for the summer compliments of yours truly). We would walk all alone to a creek about a mile and a half away that ran into the Red River. Then it was fishin', eatin', barefeet and swimmin' all day long. If the fishin' was good, the walk home was rough with a stringer full of bass weighing me down, but I happily managed.

The trees, the blue skies that don't end on the Texas backdrop, the sun you couldn't stop with a nuclear bomb, the mud in the toes, Snowball...these things you can't experience at a museum. Someone may paint a picture or write a song, but you're feeling them second hand if that is all you have.

A few years ago, you worldly, urban folks scared the crap out of me. I wanted to be you, but I wasn't and will never be. You haven't done more than me -- just other things. I know now that the city and the country each have their own things to teach children and adults alike. And, as for listening there is still a lot to be said for listening -- but the next time I run into you at a show, I just may tell you the story about Billy Bob and that cow.