The Song Remembers When.......Youtube trip to the past

At the risk of sounding geekier than you probably already think I am, I have a little confession: I love youtube. I mean, really, really love it. With a few strokes of the keyboard, I can find every ridicules thing said by any given celebrity or politician in front of a camera or microphone. And, on top of all that, I can pretty well hunt down any song my ears may be craving. In the very rare occasion that I uproot my rather large rear and attempt to purge my home of filth, I like to use the genius of youtube to listen to my favorite tunes of days gone by.
And it was in this ritual that I found James Dupre. I was in an old, twangy country mood that afternoon and, after listening to several George Strait songs, I searched for a Garth Brooks classic. Normally, I am a bit hesitant to listen to covers on youtube, as it truly is like a box of chocolates. However, I'm quite pleased that I decided to listen to James.
As soon as music flowed over his lips, I must admit I developed a bit of a crush. He just has one of those voices that leaves young girls and old women weeping into the midnight. What She's Doing Now has always been a love song that's pulled on my heart strings, raw and poetic. It may have made Garth millions, but it was clearly written for James.

After I played this first ballad, I was drawn in. I had to listen to more. Looking at the lengthy list of songs James has covered on youtube, it appears that he and I have very similar tastes in music. With each tune, I was brought back to a different point in my life. He sang The Joker by The Steve Miller Band and I was back, a decade ago, drinking beer on the grassy stage of the Zoo Ampitheater, ending the summer with the annual Steve Miller Band concert. This was how we rung in each new school year throughout high school. The song ended and I played on.

Although I was cleaning my kitchen in Cheyenne, Oklahoma, as I took in Let Her Cry, in my mind I was driving through South Carolina in 1995 with my old friend Melissa and my cousin Trisha by my side. That was the summer I discovered Hootie and the Blowfish.
By the time I stumbled onto James's rendition of My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys, I was cracking open a beer myself. His steel, rustic voice bellowed through my home and I thought of fishing in prairie farm ponds 20 years ago with my grandfather and a handful of my cousins. Grandpa will be gone five years this December and my heart aches each time I realize he never saw either of my sons. James really hits this one out of the park, so I played it multiple times. Somewhere around time three or four, I remembered the day I first knew I really loved my husband. Just a few months into our relationship, we went to rope wild, roaming cattle on the north end of the county. When Rowdy, cowboy extraordinaire, completed his extra cowboyish task, he stretched his long legs out on his flat bed while he sucked down a beer. I watched his profile in the sunset and absorbed the quite romantic moments of witnessing first hand one of the lasts of a dying breed. From that moment on, Rowdy took on a new definition to me and this particular song has always seemed to describe it far better than I could.

And then I came across Mr. Bojangles. There I was, sitting in the floor with my legs crossed in the living room of David and Patty Cummings as a circled group of musicians picked through the midnights of my wildly misspent youth. It's funny how things that seemed to define or anchor your life for a season somehow become a memory that pops into your head just a few short years later through the helpful hand of a melody. The people who were important to me during that time of my life are still among the most important to me now, all this time later, although each of our lives have taken a much different form than the carefree, beer-soaked dance it was back then. Some songs and some friends and some memories just mold your destiny, I suppose.

As misty-eyed and nostalgic as James Dupre's powerful voice had already made me, I avoided one song he had posted for a few hours before I broke down and played it. I knew once I started it, there would be no turning back. Tears would fall and my heart would break. It was the late Spring of 1999 and I was driving my awesome Plymouth Laser as James Ashworth rode shotgun. We sang the song louder than the radio, so loud the breath-taking Oklahoma outdoors had to pause just to hear us. James's birthday is next Tuesday, he would've been 28. As hard as it is to believe that we are now just 2 years from 30, it's even harder to believe that James will be gone 4 years this April. Because Name was popular when I graduated and because the Goo Goo Dolls were one of the first bands I saw in concert, their music has been a long-time favorite of mine. But, this afternoon as James Dupre belted out the lyrics, "We grew up way too fast and there's nothing to believe," I shook my head as I sang along. Somehow that means so much more to me now than it did back then. Every time I think of James's untimely death, I lose my breath as though I've just taken a swift punch to the gut. It makes less sense to me today than it did when it happened and I know even if I live to be 100, I will never be able to wrap my mind around brutal injustice of his premature passing. But, here in this lifetime, I know I am a better friend and, moreover, a better mother for having known him and, for that, I am eternally grateful for the blessing of having known James Dalton Ashworth.

There's a reason art is often referred to as the humanities. It's suppose to make you feel, it's suppose to take you back. I'm so glad I found James Dupre on youtube. Most assuredly, I will be back to his profile. He's posted so many songs that I haven't even come close to hearing them all. From Jackson Browne to George Strait, he gives a new meaning to some of my favorite classics. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I have. Maybe it will be the time machine for you as it was for me, transcending all the moments that have passed between you and some long, lost place.

HAPPY VETERAN'S DAY

Sometimes when I think of my grandfather, it is hard to remember that he was just a hair older than I am now when he went to war for the first time. The notion of leaving Ridge and Rolan behind as I head off for foreign lands and deadly battles seems beyond unreal to me, yet when he was at this time in his life, he was doing just that. As I have gotten older, I've come to understand him more, although I must admit that I'm still far from knowing the inter workings of his souls. I suppose it is the same for all old warriors.
But, nonetheless, having been raised so closely to and with him, the faces of veterans took on a new meaning with me. Born just five years after Vietnam ended, his wounds were still fresh by the time I came around. I've always appreciated the honest way in which he spoke of his experiences there, in the deep jungles of Asia, although I don't think any less of veterans from that same era who don't speak with such ease.
As you read this blog, I'm sure my feelings about our current war are pretty easy to see. But, either way, I'm still my grandfather's granddaughter. Military members have no say when and where they are sent, they go with a willing confidence in the commander who sent them.
If I said this war hadn't changed some of my feelings about service, I would be lying. For example, when I watch This Week with George Stephanopolous every Sunday, my breath is taken away by the names of our fallen service who've been lost during the week. And almost always the age next to their names just happens to be smaller than mine. I can't help to be taken back to when I was 18, the year I graduated from high school and embarked on my own, or 21, the year I came home from the city and moved into my first non-apartment home-on-my-own, or 24, the year I had my first child. I see that age next to their names and I realize all the things I've experiences since I was THAT age, the age of their death, and I understand why my grandfather took his job so seriously. You see, as a Lt. Col., he was one of the oldest man in his platoon. He was responsible for the lives living and fighting along side him. The closer I get to the age he was when he was doing this, the more awesome his obligations seem to me. I think most Americans have a developed opinion of the war in Vietnam, but either way, I can say my grandfather and his comrades served like warrior poet. They answered the call of their nation. They aren't afforded the liberty to question that call, they just went.
So, to the veterans reading this, I thank you for all you have done and all you continue to do. With each year I grow older and, moreover, each year that my children grow older, I am more awestruck by military service.

The Recess is Over, The Bitch is Back

Well, kids, Momma's home. I bet you all thought I've completely fallen off the face of the planet. I've been around, I've just been all strung out on electionitis. Now that it is over, I've had all this extra energy with no outlet to direct it. I suppose I should clean the house, but I don't want my husband to start expecting shit. I'm sure you know what I mean.
Now that I'm back and you are back, I bet you've noticed the face lift on the blog layout. I still need to move some stuff around, but you know I have the skill level of a third grader. No offense to third graders, it just takes me a while.
Oh, and I have cracked the code on the "What the hell is happening to the clothes hangers?" mystery. Apparently my three-year-old thinks the top parts are his "hooks," a vital weapon in his war against invisible monsters. I caught him doing this shit twice this week. Child, be damned!
Fret no more, Readers. I'm back. And if I have to drag my ass to the keyboard each day, you better be dragging your ass to my NEW fancy blog.

The Epic Rises and Falls of History

As I listened to John McCain give his concession speech, I thought of the likes Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, of great American statesmen who inched so close to the presidency, falling just short. Both men helped define America, though most citizens know not who they were. They served long and hard. And, as it is, both sought the highest office, both full of qualifications and brilliance, and both didn't live to achieve that aspiration. Sadly, most Americans know little of either, two of the greatest statesmen of our time.
And as I watched John McCain surrender his great fight last night, my mind also drifted to General MacArthur, when he declared that old soldiers don't die, they just simply fade away.
Truthfully, I will always think it is one of the great Shakespearean tragedies of our time that John wasn't the president on 9/11. I imagine he would have hunted Osama bin Laden personally, like some rabid dog on the trail of a crippled rabbit. But, the Republicans didn't nominate John in 2000 and, subsequently, we got George Bush. I suppose we could hash over a million different factors that lead to tonight's outcome, but either way, I think we will all agree the Bush presidency decided it more than the war or history or the economy.
With the mentioning of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson, you might have suspected that I love history, particularly American history. I've loved this country my whole life, so much so that I continue to love learning passages of its history I don't know yet. I know that is novel to some. While I don't want to take this victory away from Barack and from the family that lifted the most unlikely young man to a place of greatness, I also want to note this victory is not his alone.
If you have followed this blog much at all, you've probably learned many things about me. Like my father, I have a profound memory and, like him, I can often relate current events to my own personal life. Of all the emotions, nostalgia is one of my favorites.
I spent most of this day thinking not just of Barack Obama, but rather, thinking of Bobby Kennedy. I remembered that not long before his own death in 1968, Bobby declared that we would have our first black president within 40 years. Bobby was a trailblazer, burning paths for the equal rights of others even when it burned bridges for him. As I told my father that, a man who is legendary at least in my mind, Dad recalled his own memories of his life as it fell around the death of Bobby. I could tell it pleased him that this served Bobby's memory well. And as Dad ran through his own life's intimate connections to Vietnam and Civil Rights and most things related to the 1960s, the victories and losses of today's election were poignantly clear. On one hand, a prisoner of war from that era, a man who bleed almost endlessly for this nation, was rejected for the second time from the high office. On the other, the battles of my father's greatest idol, Mohamed Ali, were finally put to rest. My father is a living, breathing paradox for the time period that produced both John McCain and Barack Obama and, honestly, without him I would a smaller understanding of both men.
As I listened to John's concession speech last, I saw the statesmen I've always thought him to be. Frankly, my heart broke. During this campaign, John seemed not to resemble that at times, but I saw him clearly last night. While I have pulled so heavily for Obama, I've also known John is one of the great statesmen of our time, like Clay, like Stevenson. Like so few remember the two of them, 100 years from now, most Americans won't remember the Shakespearean highs and lows of John McCain. Under different circumstances, maybe I would've voted for him. I look forward to continuing to know John, especially now that a presidency is most definitely out of reach. I look for these next few years to be his greatest, where he will help guide both America and his own legacy. He has been a very special brand of leader and I'm so thankful to call him ours, as in "our time."
But, with the certain end of John's presidential aspirations, our nation embarks upon another journey, a journey as exciting as I can imagine. Barack Obama's life is that of epic proportion and I won't pretend that I am not in awe of the amazing resilience in overcoming his life's obstacles. When I look at him, I see Bobby and Martin. I also see my two baby sons. While I think Roberta McCain has the class of a great lady, I don't see myself in her. However, I do see myself in Ann Dunham. If my sons chose to stay out here in Western Oklahoma, I will shutter at the mercy of God. However, if they dream of horizons that cascade upon the Seine and trickle down Tigris and lead them to destinations I have never even read of, then I will consider my life a success. I want them to ride the great waves into the bliss. I want them to make love in a waterfalls just outside of Delhi and leave poker tables at dawn, ahead of course. Whether they fly big planes over Egypt or drive big tractors of the beautiful American plains, I want their lives to be their ultimate dream. I want them to taste life, even when it is bitter.
Congratulations, President Obama. Our challenges are the biggest of our generation and I am excited to see how you rise to meet them.

A Tribute To Mothers

Well, one day left until election, one day left until we (hopefully) have a winner. From reading this blog you should have no doubt about who I'm pulling for, Barack Obama. But, at this late date, I don't desire to debate policies and platforms and promises. Rather, I want to say no matter who wins, on Wednesday, we must come together as one nation, a whole nation. I realize you are probably thinking, "Sure, Shonda, that's easy to say right now when it appears your guy should stroll to victory."
Well, don't forget the past two elections that have left me drowning in at least 3 30-packs of beer, wondering how the hell Little George pulled off another one. But, at the end of the day, I accepted his presidency, even if I still doubted his Florida 2000 win.
Again, this post isn't an invitation for debate, just a small explanation of my beliefs, but moreover, my love for this country. I love this country so much that I actually learn about it. My quest for that knowledge will never end. I love reading of Henry Clay and Adlai Stevenson and Theodore Roosevelt. I love reading over policies changes. FULL DISCLOSURE: I'm a covert dork. Okay, maybe not covert, but a dork nonetheless.
Simply and purely, I just think Obama's platform is the best for the country. But, I want to focus this post on something else that pulls me toward him.
When I see Barack Obama, I see my own sons. I realize that is probably a strange thought for many, since he is the son of a Kansas woman and a Kenyan man while my two sons are the offspring of two vanilla white Oklahomans. He lived part of his childhood in Indonesia, they will likely spend most of theirs in Cheyenne, Oklahoma. But still, when I see and read of his mother, Ann Dunham, I see myself.
I see a woman who valued education and wanted her son to have a broader knowledge of the ENTIRE world as it is, to see the big picture. I want my sons to dream of horizons beyond what society believes they, the offspring of cattle ranchers in Western Oklahoma, can achieve. When I see my sons, I dream for them, for their greatness. So, when I examine Ann Dunham and Roberta McCain, both women worthy of great respect, I simply relate more to Ann than Roberta.
In the last 8 years, our country has experienced the most divisive period of my lifetime. Regardless of tomorrow's outcome, I hope that we can move past our differences. We our one nation.
But, I'm also leaving you with a passage from Barack's audiobook, a part he reads of his mother. All mothers of sons will be warmed when hearing this. I listened with tears down my face, not because of Barack, but because Ann isn't here to see the achievements of her son. I hope you enjoy.

Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay

So, thank goodness for the tracker on the side. I get to see the random googles that leads folks to my blog. Well, let me tell you about the little gem given to Aunt Shonda today. Apparently someone googled, "Eastern Bloc Interrogation Gay" and, through the random cosmic powers that is google, it brought them to MY site. Yup, that's right. Some fetish freak out there is searching homosexual torture in Russia and he found mommalittle.com.
I'm putting this in the win bracket, so you know.

Time Change = Bullshit

Dear Time Change,
Tell me why, just why, are you out to ruin my life? Now, I know this is surprising coming from me, Old Shonda who once loved the fall time change. Ahhh....the good old days. The bars would actually "fall back" on Saturday night, thus creating an extra hour of beer drinking PLUS I would gain an hour of sleep before dragging my hungover behind out of bed to go wait table.
But, alas, those days are gone and now I'm living here in Old Geezerville. In fact, I've been entertaining a run for mayor, but I figure John McCain might throw his hat in the ring since Obama is about to retire him from national politics.
Bring it on, John. I look forward to debating what time "Lights Out" should be called and I am running on a tough platform on noise security. You know, as in "Damn kids, stop with all that noise."
Anyways, this time changing is totally screwing up my day. As you should suspect my kids are now waking up at the taint of dawn. Yes, you read that correctly. They were already getting up at the asscrack of dawn, so I have to assume taint is the next step in the "really freakin' bad" progression. On the up side, if you can call it that, they went down really early. But, that only further lets me know they are going to crawl their energetic asses out of bed as an insane hour. All I want to do is sleep 30 more minutes, damn it.
So, listen up, Time Change. I've got my eyes on you.
Shonda