If Hell is personalized for each one of us, my neighbor across the street owns the soundtrack to mine.
Otherwise rarely seen, and almost never heard (except for the tiny black dog they let out every few hours), the neighbors who bought my great aunt and uncle’s house made themselves known the past few weeks.
From their garage, which was wide open, country music came blasting through and across all four lanes of the roadway. (Sorry to offend any country fans. It’s just not my thing.) I don’t even listen to music I like when I’m working. Except for the din of occasional traffic, I’m used to quiet when I’m outside working. It gives me a good chance to think, too. But I can’t do that when country music is assaulting my nervous system.
And not the country of today, some of which is moderate to mainstream. I’m talking 40, 50, nearly 60 years ago stuff. Lots of people I couldn’t name, each song getting increasingly more twangy and yodelly (think Slim Whitman), it appeared to be a collection of some kind. (I suspect it may be an album or CD out of this set, though I heard no Patsy Cline, whom I happen to like.)
The final straw was the Wal-Mart song: “Please help me I’m faaaaaallllin’ in love with yewwwwwww …”
To which the mother and I looked at one another and just started laughing. Carole doesn’t like country either. Perhaps it’s genetic.
“This must be what Hell is like,” quipped the mother.
Yeah, only hotter. And with no icecream.