Believing in music!!

After seven months, I am back.

OK, maybe it’s not quite that dramatic, but this is my first blog post in a little over seven months. It really wasn’t planned that way, but just happened. 

I had total knee replacement surgery on Nov. 29, exactly seven months ago today. I went in thinking I would be in the hospital a night or two, would come home and be somewhat back to normal by the end of January, at worst.

Let’s just say I must have been overly optimistic.

I won’t go into all the details of my recovery, but most of the time, there is no pain in my knee and absolutely no pain radiating into my hip and back, as had been the case. That’s good. Real good.

In addition, I am about 30 pounds lighter. I am tickled with that, too.

However, I don’t have the range of motion I want, but pedaling my bike up and down the roads near my home has begun to help.

A few days after knee surgery, I asked for my guitar.

Yet, the thing that surprised me most was the mental fatigue I experienced, both at the physical therapist’s office and at home in between those sessions. I can’t describe how it felt but just know it was there. Because of that, I really don’t know how I would have made it through without music. More than anything else, my love of music kept me going.

And, being able to hear the joy of music was a welcome sound amid the noise and confusion of the world around us as seen on the 24-7 cycle of broadcast news.

I might have been trying to play anything from “Are You Washed in the Blood” to “Folsom Prison Blues” to “Take it Easy” on my guitar.

I might have been playing a CD or listening to Pandora. And, on those days when I was lying flat on my back, hooked up to a continuous passive motion machine, being able to pull up YouTube videos on my iPad was priceless. I think I memorized the entire video library of The Whites and Don Williams during that time.

And if you know me, you know I am a huge fan of The Oak Ridge Boys, back to the days when their hits were “Jesus is the Man for the Hour” or “While I’m Here.” Yep, I found videos that took me back to the days of plaid coats and pork chop sideburns that were in their heyday when I was in high school.

Triumphant imitated the Temptations during their concert.

Through the pain of recovery, music was there. Over the last few months I have been blessed by two of my favorite gospel groups, The Booth Brothers and Triumphant. I got to enjoy pianist Jeff Stice just a few weeks after my surgery. All performed at Sand Spring Baptist Church, just down the road from me.

Country singers J.D. Shelburne and Hannah Blaylock rocked my hometown of Lawrenceburg, Kentucky in May. Even though it rained right up until show time, we had a blast.

And in June, I was blessed to hear The Martin Family Circus – they are AMAZING – and just last Saturday attended at least my 33^rd Oak Ridge Boys concert. Those guys just keep going singing uplifting songs about loving people, loving the country and loving the Lord. After all, that is what it’s all about.

And that brings me full circle.  

The Oak Ridge Boys were incredible, as usual, for my 33rd show.

iMy mother probably developed my love of music. In addition to going to all of those “singings” – some of which lasted well past midnight – she played piano at Corinth Christian Church for 57 years and still sits in her wheelchair to play when she can at her nursing home.

Yesterday, her back was turned to me when I visited her. She did not see or hear me walking up behind her, but I could hear her. She was loudly singing the gospel classic, “The Old Rugged Cross Made the Difference.”

It was what is important to her.

Over the last seven months, I’ve learned just how important music can be and truly relate to what Mac Davis meant back in the 70s.

I could just sit around making music all day long

As long as I'm making my music ain't gonna do nobody no harm

And who knows maybe I'll come up with a song

To make people want to stop all this fussing and fighting

Long enough to sing along

Yep, I believe in the universal language. I believe in the power of music and hope you enjoy that power too.

The 'Generation' answered the call when asked

My father, PFC Allen Herndon.

(NOTE: This column appeared in a special Veterans' Day section in the Nov. 9 edition of The Anderson News.)

I don’t think I ever fully understood why those who won World War II are often called “The Greatest Generation.”

Until recently, that is. 

 

Oh, I thought I understood. Intellectually, I knew why that label had been applied to those who served in some way during the all-out war that has shaped the world in which I live. They were regular citizens.

Farmers. Bankers. Factory workers. Teachers. Store clerks. Doctors.

Some were well off. Some were not. Most were somewhere in between. Yet, they put aside their different backgrounds and came together.

As the great historian, Stephen Ambrose, once said, “None of them wanted to be part of another war. They wanted to be throwing baseballs, not hand grenades, shooting .22s at rabbits, not M-1s at other young men.

"But when the test came, when freedom had to be fought for or abandoned, they fought.”

Someone had to stop a psychopathic madman and his minions in Europe. Someone had to stop the imperialists set on controlling the Pacific.

They didn’t ask for the job but those in The Greatest Generation were more than up to it. They left their fields, their stores and their desks only with the thought of stopping tyranny halfway around the world and getting back home.

Only recently, when going through some old photos, did it really hit home with how great The Greatest Generation really was.

My father, PFC Allen Herndon, was a member of that generation, serving in the United States Army in World War II.

Actually, my dad never saw combat. In his usual understated wit, he would just say, “I was on the boat when the war ended.”

My father died of cancer more than 30 years ago. He rarely talked about his time in the Philippines, where he was training for the planned invasion of Japan in late 1945, or of his time in Japan as part of the occupying forces after the war ended. What happened in his turn of events before and after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I don’t know.

What I do know is a story that is similar to so many others of the day. And it’s what makes that generation great.

Dad was working on the family farm on Alton Station Road. His father milked a few cows, got the tobacco in the ground with a horse-drawn setter and shopped at Chowning’s Grocery.

They went to church on Sunday.

But one day, my father’s life changed. He was a senior at Kavanaugh High School when the notice came, “Greetings ...”

That he was still in high school didn’t mean he could get a deferment. He was of age and deemed to be able-bodied. That was all that mattered.

Soldiers return from Japan in Oct. 1946. My father is in the group.

He reported to the Lawrenceburg train depot for the ride to Louisville in January 1945. In my mind, I picture a young man scared of what could lie ahead but afraid to show that fear to anyone.

Several months later, my father was in the Philippines prepping for his role in Operation Downfall, the dreaded invasion of the Japanese mainland. 

 

With an entrenched army and a fanatical civilian population taught from birth that Emperor Hirohito was a deity and living the Bushido code, estimated casualties for Operation Downfall ranged anywhere from 500,000 to well into the millions.

But like so many others, my father answered the call. After atomic bombs rained destruction on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, his orders changed from invasion to occupation.

I have often wondered if I would even be here today if the atomic bombs had not been dropped. The randomness of war dictates that inches, equipment and simple luck – good or bad – are the differences between life and death. 

 

Dad served his time in Japan nobly. He didn’t bring home compelling stories of dodging bullets or surviving artillery shells exploding nearby. Just some souvenirs and photos.

They were photos of Hiroshima, as he went through not long after the bomb. They were photos my sister and I distinctly remember seeing during one of those days when Dad did talk about the war. His message was simple: Never let this happen again.

Most of those pictures of Hiroshima’s ruins have disappeared. All we have are photos of my father with other young men who answered their calls. We have no idea of their names or hometowns. We just know that they served.

Some of those young men came home and worked in factories. Others returned to the jobs they had before Uncle Sam called. Others came back and went to college.

My father with a young child in Japan.

When my father returned, he finished his studies at Kavanaugh, graduating from high school at age 22. And he made a career in the military, giving 33 years of service to the Kentucky National Guard. While he never had to go overseas again, his job kept him in touch with those fighting in Korea and Vietnam. Some of his friends did not come home.

He never sought glory in what he did, but he was proud of his service to the cause of freedom.

He was like so many others. They saw freedom as something worth fighting for. 

 

They fought that battle, then went about their lives.

They really are The Greatest Generation. They should never be forgotten.

"Deplorable" comment fueled perceptions and resentment

Caution: You might find the next few hundred words deplorable.

 

Not that I am trying to get one last needle at Hillary Clinton after the election. We got in enough of those to go around from the end of the Democratic National Convention up through Tuesday, when Donald Trump did what few believed possible.

For her part, Clinton’s concession speech Wednesday morning might have been the best she’s ever delivered. She was gracious, urged her supporters to continue fighting for what they believe in and pledged to work with Trump for the betterment of America.

A tip of the hat to her for such a statement after such a devastating loss.  It was classy and needed.

There have been a thousand different theories as to what happened Tuesday, most carrying some validity. For my money, when she called half of Donald Trump’s supporters “deplorable” and “irredeemable” back in early September, it threw gasoline on an already simmering fire. It exploded Tuesday.

Even though she later said she regretted using the words, the fact that she said them in the first place is one of the biggest reasons Donald Trump will be taking the oath of office on January 20.

Undoubtedly, there were other factors, but in that one sentence, Clinton summarized what many believe to be true in Washington. It’s an attitude of “We are better than you. Your deeply held values no longer matter to me or those around me. You are obviously intellectually inferior, so do as I say."

There was already a deep resentment that Clinton got off with careless handling of emails back in July. Whether criminal intent was involved was not the question. The perception was obviously that Clinton was going to get away with a crime that would have most members of the military facing a court martial.

Whether the perception was warranted is not the point. The description of those who did not support Clinton fit nicely with the idea that Washington’s attitude was beyond caring and was now to the point of disdain for the people it was to serve.

"Deplorable" took off and became a bit of a badge of honor among those opposed to Clinton’s agenda. 

I voted for Trump. However, that decision was not solid until the day before the election and I still have reservations about someone who has never held elective office leading the country. But, as I blogged Sunday, his pick of Mike Pence as his running mate was the high point of the campaign.

Trump won, though, when he tapped into the perception that Washington had totally lost touch. 

That’s because it has.

From my little corner of the world, I have grown weary of an insurance system that has seen my deductible skyrocket and has forced me to fight for more than two years to have needed knee surgery.  I’ve grown weary of a system that treats unborn children as a simple mass of tissue until the time they emerge from the womb and I am even more tired of being told I am wrong for believing life is precious.

I’ve grown weary of an education system that tries to silence mentions of one’s faith, but openly promotes an evolutionary system that at its core denies the existence of God.

I’m beyond angry at the notion that I am wrong when I believe that a boy who wants to say he’s a girl – or vice-versa – needs mental help instead of being told that it’s OK to go to a bathroom or locker room where he feels comfortable.

I’m beyond angry at being labeled a bigot when I say I just want my teenage daughter to be able to go to the bathroom in peace and practice modesty as she has been taught. 

I’ve grown tired of going through the checkout line at Kroger or Walmart, seeing people pay for their food with EBT cards then buying beer, candy, dog food and everything else under the sun with cash. And I’ve grown tired of seeing free cell phone tents dotting the landscape.

I’m even more angry when I, and people like me, are called bigots for believing these ideas are not progress but are the very things contributing to a decline in our country. I grew weary of the assertions that those who opposed Barack Obama were racist or those who did not support Hillary Clinton were sexist.

How about the truth: Most who oppose their policies do so because they believe they were bad for the country. Period.

Accusing people of being something they are not simply because they see things differently really is, well, deplorable.

For some reason, I believe there are millions of people who feel the same way who spoke loudly on Tuesday. And if the Republicans lose sight of this in 2018 or 2020, they will be voted out the same way.

I’ve also gotten tired of a liberal media machine that likes to portray those who hold those same values as being “uneducated” and love to spout those statistics.  On my home office wall, I have papers framed telling people I have completed the work for both a Bachelor’s and Master’s degree but they don’t make me smarter. They just say I did the work and was introduced to some complex concepts.

On the other hand, I have nothing there showing the wisdom I have acquired while going through the school of life, but I also know life has taught me more than any institution. Many of the smartest people I know only have an education from that school of life.

I felt frustrated, alienated and yes, angry, when I went to the polls Tuesday morning and know I was not alone.

Now it’s time to heal. Trump, Clinton, Obama and many others have made their statements about working together to heal our country. They are right in doing so.

A start is when those in power, whether in Washington, state capitals and city governments acknowledge the problem is not with the American people but with those who expect to be served, not serve.

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