Mom was literally a hillbilly from Kentucky.
Dad was a city slicker that hated the South.
We lived in the North.
My Grandma took me to see this with my cousins at the Theatre.
Suddenly, truck stops, grits, fiddles, barn dances, those red and white table cloths, long beards, redneck pride, horseshoes, NASCAR, the Dukes, southern drawl coming out of a pretty girl you know you might marry some day, briskets, old white painted farms with the paint peeling off and chickens all over the place, family reunions outside in the hills with everyone sitting on picnic tables, hay rides, catching lightning bugs in jars with the rest of the kids, real live moonshine (yeah I had uncles that ran it), driving cars around in the mud, fishing when it's hotter than hades outside, wearing overalls, buttermilk biscuits, going for a Sunday drive with the windows rolled down and your hand doing loops out the window, fishing for crawdads with ham on a string down their hole, going to the ol' church that's been in the same place for nearly 2 centuries, ...and Kenny Rogers made sense. I got it. Decades away and thousands of miles away iRL I'd kill to have it all back again.