I like the twang and sometimes we can hear it on the radio or some guy gets a tape from home from his small town. Merle Haggard or Conway Twitty. It cuts through the choppers and the smells. It brings the women ’round to listen. I brought my radio from home, the one I mowed lawns for all those months, remember? That transistor makes me more friends than you can know. I go off by myself to listen and before you know it there’s a crowd telling me to find something better, not that stupid country stuff some soul or R&B some rock and roll. But some guys love it and tell me about their towns and how they listen at the general store. Like Carolina, which may sound kind of girly except he’s huge and humps harder and faster than any of us. T. doesn’t like him much but I do. We just sit and sing the songs together and laugh. He has this high voice that he just belts across the camp. I mean it’s like one of those Vienna Choir boys that Dad loves so much. He could not care less. Just sings “Stand By Your Man” until everyone is rolling or until some girl comes and takes him by the hand. They love him with his high voice not caring who hears him sing.
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