It's 1995. Annie is two and learning to talk, and I amuse myself by having fun at her expense. One time in the car I turn the radio on to the country music station. This doesn't happen in our cars, in our house, where it's sixties rock (my husband Bill), garage punk and delta blues (me) and, occasionally, jazz (us). Bill hates country music, especially the contemporary version which has a lot to do with "old-time" (read: conservative) values. I love old, old country from the 1940's and before, but rarely listen to it.

So I'm listening to God, guns, and pick-up trucks and love, love, heartbreak, love, and in my somewhat pompous, ultra-liberal Northern Californian way, I'm digging the esthetic. It's an anthropological experience.

We pull up in front of the house, and I turn off the radio. "Annie," I instruct her, "say, 'Ah luv cun-try music.'"

"Ah luv cun-try music!" she pipes in her high squeak.

"Okay, let's say it again."

"Ah luv cun-try music!"

"Good job! Let's go tell Daddy!"

We get in the house. "Annie, tell Daddy what kind of music you like."

"Ah luv cun-try music!"

And then I practically roll on the floor laughing. Bill looks at me like I'm insane.