I was raised up in the country. Proud to be a country boy. Our music twanged with country and back then the real McCoy.
Johnny Cash would wake you up at early morning light. Then Bill Monroe would soothe your soul to sleep most every night.
I must have been around eighteen, while visiting a friend. His mother turned on classical. Said, “Here’s one I recommend.”
She played Bedrich Smetana’s famous piece called, “The Moldau.” That day I learned how classical would pierce my soul somehow.
I didn’t tell my country friends. ‘Twas too much of a dare. I knew for sure they’d kid me. We called classical, “Long Hair.”
I must admit I worried. Was I guilty in a way? ‘Cuz the music that weren’t country felt like sinnin’, you could say.
When thirty years had passed me, kept the secret in my brain. I found myself in school, a change of living to obtain.
So, I signed up for a music class in hopes to just get through. The gray-haired aging teacher said, “This class is meant for you.”
I wondered how she really knew or was she just polite? ‘Cuz once again my soul was stirred from classical delight.
We listened to Beethoven, as the class time would allow. And then our keen instructor played Smetana’s, “The Moldau.”
I listened so intently to the Moldau’s every note. Then wrapped the music ‘round me like a winter overcoat.
My music teacher taught me, and she said, “You’ll understand a variety of music keeps one’s head out of the sand.”
I still love country music, but with classical ya know, I should have pinned my ears back to its cadence years ago.
– Bryce Angell
