I’ve had a mini of McGraw by Tim McGraw for over a year and have put off sampling it. Its squat bottle with the plastic, faux-pebbled leather collar and vague cowboy motif didn’t allure me. And, frankly, before I looked Tim McGraw up for this post, I couldn’t have told you a single song he’d recorded.

When this review posts, I’ll be in Billings, Montana, visiting my father, a horseshoer. Maybe we’ll be at the Muzzleloader for breakfast, where my dad wears his summer work cowboy hat (dirty white straw, smashed on the top from the ceiling of the truck’s cab, distinctly different from his pristine summer dress hat.) My teenaged niece, a rabid George Strait fan, might be with us. I can manage a two-step, used to be an o.k. shot with a rifle, and even go on rare Merle Haggard jags. But for decades my life has been more about the city. I don’t have a clue about country western culture today.

One spritz of McGraw tells me if McGraw is the smell representation of country now, then life is pretty easy…

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