I have been asked if this is a picture (top of the page)  of a private farm lake where I used to go fishing.

It is not.  I have not been to that location in probably two decades…at least.  I miss that place.  It was peaceful, calm, and many friends (some of whom I miss because they are no longer around) and I shared treasured times there.

What this is a picture of is…Walden Pond.

My dear wife, Carrie, and I visited Walden Pond in October of 2011.  In fact, this picture was taken on a Friday.  I went to a University of New Hampshire football game on Saturday.   Then on Sunday morning next there were 18 inches of snow on the ground.  We were visiting dear friends.

I took this picture of Walden Pond with my antiquated cell phone.  The cell phone I still use, by the way.

Perhaps the chronology of that weekend in picture form would help.

Friday, October 28, 2011   Walden Pond, Mass

Saturday, October 29, 2011  Rhode Island @ UNH

Sunday, October 30, 2011 The Great Nor’easter that brought a half a yard of snow.

Amherst, NH

Speak the Rights.

Danny Johnson

What follows is a piece I wrote a few years ago.  I share it for the first time.   I was reminded of it and inspired by a question I was posed today:

“How’s your Dad?”

It matters not what season.  It matters not what town.  Sooner or later, if I am recognized, chances are better than not I will be asked…”How’s your Dad doing?”

That is the legacy that my father, Larry Johnson, has passed down.  I am his personal press secretary.

Here’s the deal.  My  Dad is a retired educator.  He taught a few years in Mississippi, twelve more in Brownstown, and put in twenty years as a teacher at North Harrison High School.  Through it all, as much as he had a tendency to complain  as the end drew near, I believe he had a good time of it and, believe me… he was a positive influence on scores of folks over the years.  Had he not been exactly that, I would not be peppered so often with the same question…”How’s your Dad?”

In addition to being a school teacher, he was also a football coach.  He spent nine years as the head coach at Brownstown, 1970-1978,  and seven years as the head coach at North Harrison, 1979-1985.  To date he is the only man to head up football squads for two different Mid-Southern Conference Schools. (Edit…Jason Hawkins just took over Silver Creek coming from Charlestown…he is the second one to coach two conference schools.)  It is mostly this genre of extra-curricular activity that brings the constant re-visitation about the whereabouts and condition of my father.  It comes in the form of…”How’s your Dad?”

This is a good thing.  I’ll tell you why.

The constant inquiry I receive from those asking about my Dad is tangible proof that he is appreciated, well-thought of, and I suppose most importantly…he is remembered.

After all, if the folks asking about him did not care about him, they’d never bring his existence up to me.  Truly, I never get tired of hearing that question.

Most of the inquiry I get comes from Jackson County.  I spend about two hundred days a year working in Jackson County.  My workplace is less than ten miles from the street I grew up on as a child.  I can’t spend fifteen minutes in Brownstown before someone is asking me how my Dad is.

Many years ago I stopped being astounded by the stories and “legends” that surround my Dad when it came to football coaching and the remarkable and sometimes not so remarkable relationships he had with his players.

One year he was so mad at his players because many of them stayed out late at the Jackson County Fair.  Those guilty were quite sluggish in practice that morning.  He told them that if they liked the county fair so much, he give them their own county fair and proceeded to make five different conditioning stations on the field.  One in each corner and the fifth at mid-field.  To this day many coaches have a drill they call “County Fair” and they don’t have a clue where it came from.

I also hear stories about how my Dad drove kids home after practice and made sure they were safe before he took care of his own needs.  How he was a good example and a father figure to many of the players who could not depend upon their own fathers.

Now that football season is upon us,  I know that I will run into so many different folks that will inquire about how my Dad is.

He is doing fine.  I played golf with him a few days ago.  He still reads his Bible in the morning and drinks too much coffee.  He plays golf regularly.  He works out at the local YMCA.  He sings in the choir at church.  He still watches football and as he watches, he still “gets into it a little bit.”

With that said, know that I too appreciate the man.  He took me to more ball games than I can count.  We used to pitch the baseball until the sun gave out on the day.  He still beats me at H-O-R-S-E.  And I am truly blessed.

In earnest  I can tell you I was actually saving words like these for another day.  Then I called an audible.  Why wait?

I ask you the same thing.  Why wait?

Your homework is to find a someone that is close to you and let them know you care.  Let them know that you know they have made a difference.

This past Spring I called a North Harrison baseball game against Brownstown Central on the radio..  John Lawson, Brownstown Central’s  coach, and a few years my senior, and I exchanged emails before the game.  I was looking for information on his team.  His last words via email were…”Tell your Dad I said hello.”

And so it goes.

At a Football Reunion in Brownstown a few years ago, the coach that hated to talk to the media was giving a reporter a full report.

While I made mention of a couple of movies recently, I can honestly say that most of my movie watching days are behind me.  I am not sure why?   I have never liked horror movies.  I thought Freddie Kruger was a sissy.  I don’t like movies where folks are shooting at one another and killing each other.  That is no fun.  I like fun.  But I don’t like fun that is nasty and raunchy and stupid.  Seems like there is a great deal of that out there too.

What are my favorite movies?

“Bull Durham”.  Not the most wholesome of programs, but a funny one.  This is a great story about one of my favorite pastimes…minor league baseball.  Want some fun?  Go watch the Asheville Tourists.  That is the team Crash Davis sign on with at the end of the movie.  My dear wife, Carrie, and I saw a no-hitter thrown there.  It was in June of 2000.

“The Prince of Tides”.  I am a romantic at heart.  This Pat Conroy adaptation gets it right.  Carrie and I were at a dinner party for Pat once and he is one of the most interesting people you could ever run into.   Nick Nolte and Barbara Streisand make a great on-screen romance.  The movie is also partially shot in Charleston, SC and I love the place.  The music?  The soundtrack is on my IPOD.

“The Wizard of Oz”.  I still like to watch it all these years on.  I love the Scarecrow.  I think the Tin Man is a weenie.  The Lion is painful to watch at times.  Overall, this is as classic as you will find.

“The Ten Commandments”.  I’d sit and watch this just to listen to the guy narrating the story.  He really sounds like he was there.  The colors and the sets and the dude that is Charlton Heston. The hours….many of them for you that know it…fly right by.

“The Homecoming”.  The original movie that started the saga of Virginia’s Walton family in the Blue Ridge Mountains.  Carrie and I watch this movie every Christmas season.  What I would have given to of had a chance to take a seat on one of those benches around the Walton table at supper time.  Those were some great characters.

“Space Cowboys”.  We lost James Garner a week or so back.  Jim Rockford does not disappoint as “Tank” in this one.  Space Shuttles have always fascinated me.  Guess that is over.  But…this movie is not.  It shows up on television now and again and gives me a reason beside football season to pay for my DIRECTV.  The banter between Clint Eastwood’s character and Tommy Lee Jones’ character is infectious.

“TEACHERS”.  Another Nick Nolte gem.   He plays a bit of a rounder with a heart of gold.  He is all about helping the kids in a school that is going through some political upheaval.  Gee…that never really happens.  The music?  If you can find the soundtrack, let me know if it costs less than 50 bucks.  It is very elusive for some reason.  I had the cassette when it came out.

“MIRACLE”.  The hockey movie.  I really do like it.  I wasn’t just saying that on another post.  This is my favorite sports story of all time.  In large part, I love it because I remember it.  To this day if I hear Al Michaels asking us if we believe in miracles, I get goosebumps.

“Stand by Me”.  It clocks in at about 90 minutes and I wish all movies could do that.  Coming of age tales have potential to stay with you.  I have not forgotten this one.  Though it was set in a time before I remember and a place I have never been, there is plenty there I am familiar with. Verno said it best, “This is a really good time.”

“Children of a Lesser God”.  Wow.  This filmed got hosed at the Oscars.  It was the best picture.  Platoon was not…too much shooting and killing and hamburger meat flying around.  I have never seen a picture before or since that appealed to me as visually as this film does.  As dark (literally) as some of the scenes are, they are intrinsically brightened by the optimism they hold.  Marlee Matlin won best actress… I think.  William Hurt should have won one too.  One of the greatest love stories ever made.

Fun at a minor league baseball game.

Nick Nolte’s characters usually spoke the rights.

There is a print of a painting in our kitchen.

The same likeness is hanging in large form in my office at school.

There is another matted copy of the same image sitting a few feet from where I type these very words.

Let me go get it and put it in front of me for inspiration.  Hang on a minute.

The price tag is still on it.  How I ever got out of The Art Institute in Chicago by only paying 15 bucks for this thing is dumbfounding to me.  I’d of paid $75. So is the price of art, I suppose.

I really don’t know that much about the great artists, or the periods of art, or the major influences of the biggies.  Yes, I have been to many art museums. They fascinate me.  Art fascinates me.  On a visit to Minneapolis to see a true artist, Brett Favre, my dear wife, Carrie, and I went to the Walker Art Center.   This is a place that concentrates on modern art.  I found it fascinating. There was some stuff there made by Yoko Ono and I just did not get it.  I didn’t expect to.  Beatle fans have to stick together.

They do have a great outdoor exhibit at The Walker as well.  I think they call it a “Sculpture Garden”.  There is a big SPOON with a cherry sitting on it that gathers a great deal of attention.  I thought that was pretty neat.  The Walker Museum was not a waste of time.  If I had the time, and I was in Minneapolis, I would go back.  I really would.

Like I said,  I don’t know that much about the great artists, or the periods of art, or the major influences of the biggies.

I do, however, know my great artist.  I do know I depended on him on more days than not during my 11th grade English class, 5th period after lunch, and to me he was a biggie and he was…and still is… a major influence on me.

I don’t know much about the painter,  Edward Hopper.  In earnest, I am reluctant to find out too much in fear that I might find a reason to think ill of him.  That would be difficult to me and my system of beliefs.  Sometimes there are circumstances where we know too much for our own good.  I don’t want that to happen.

This is what I do know:  In 1942, the same year my parents were born, Edward Hopper completed a painting he called “Nighthawks”.

“Nighthawks” is a street view scene into a cafe that houses three customers and the gent behind the counter.  He is obviously tending to an order of one of his customers.  One customer has his back to us.  The other two are sitting looking not at each other, though they are looking forward to a degree.  It looks as those these two have a great deal on their minds.

This painting saved me.

In 1984 I was in an English class with a teacher I could not see eye to eye with if I was lying on the ground or standing on a step-ladder.  As a student,  I never walked into a class with the intention of giving any teacher a hard time.  My Dad was a teacher.  I understood this stuff.  What I was not prepared for was a teacher, a female person… that was totally satisfied with listening to the sound of her own voice without giving sincere care to the voices of the students around her.  Maybe she was scared.  Maybe she was dealing with a confidence problem.  Maybe…well, who knows?

In the back of our class Literature Book, there was period art to augment the significance of the day.  That is where I found Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”.

When I became unaccountable to the mess of the English class I was subjected to, instead of making a horses-butt of myself, which I was more than capable of, I turned to the back of our book and stared intently to the small rendition of Hopper’s masterpiece that had found its way into a text book in Southern Indiana when I needed it the most.

The original has a home…The Art Institute of Chicago.  The first time I visited there it was on loan.  This past February, our last visit to Chicago, it was on loan to another museum.  I think it was in France.  But…I have seen “Nighthawks” a couple times.  It is much larger than I ever imagined it would be.  The few inches by a few inches I dreamed about as I was looking at my 11th grade textbook was suddenly a masterpiece before me that measured in feet by feet.

I wept the first time I saw it.  If it was in front of me today, I would probably look for a crying towel.  And to think, in 1942, Edward Hopper was just sitting down to paint.

His painting speaks the rights.

The closest I have ever gotten to a hole-in-one.

This was at #7….New Salisbury National Golf Course, two years ago.

I did make the putt, by the way.

Speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

I have seen plenty of movies about sports teams that did not drive me to be a fan of that team.

The movie “Miracle” about the 1980 U.S. Olympic Hockey team beating the Soviets on their way to a Gold Medal is probably my favorite movie themed around athletic endeavors.   Speaking of which, I spoke the rights about that team and that movie in a guest column once.  I will pull it out of mothballs and place it here soon.

Though I have the warmest of affections for that movie and what it meant to me, I still don’t give a hootie-hoot about the game of hockey.  As athletes, I appreciate what hockey players have the ability to accomplish…just don’t ask me to watch.

Still, more times than not, when I mention my dear wife, Carrie’s, and my sincere affinity for watching the Marshall Thundering Herd play football, most folks eventually ask if I was ultra-inspired by the movie about the 1970 Marshall University Football Team’s plane crash and the resiliency of a town that was portrayed in  “We Are Marshall”.

I was inspired by “We Are Marshall”.  I’d say anyone whom ever laced up a pair of cleats and understands the team dynamic that goes into playing the game of football was inspired…or depressed.

No…that wasn’t it for me.  How we got around to following Marshall football is really a simple story.  I think it is a neat and even kind of sad story…the 1970 plane crash notwithstanding.

My Dad was a football coach when I was growing up.  I was his shadow from the time I walked onto a practice field.  The game has never left me.

I had hoped to one day coach my old high school team to better days.  Things have been rather woeful at the old alma mater for a very long time.  I had a plan to lift them out of the bowels of lethargy, though many administrations there have made it clear over the years I am not a welcome sight.

While I love the game, it does not drive me.  I have never been one to chase down a coaching job for the sake of being a football coach.  I already know I can be one.  I know what it takes. I last coached in 1994 as I was finishing up my college education.

The school where I am employed does not play football.  We are too small.  And that is okay.  Like I said, the school up the road with the field I ran up and down is the only high school football coaching job I ever wanted.

With all that said, I have never gotten the game out of my system.  I still love it.  I have never lost  the desire to give a team my all, even though I was denied that.

My dear Carrie and I vacation in North Carolina every chance we get.  To get there we travel Interstate 64 East from Indiana to Kentucky to West Virginia and then make a route changing turn In Charleston, WV.  I could not tell you how many times we passed right by the exit for Hunting, WV, the town where Marshall University is located.  We were racing for the coast…not the hills of Appalachia.

Then one year, on the return trip from a summer visit, we were doing everything we could to stretch just a few more hours into our vacation.  When we passed the Huntington exit, we pulled off to look around.  It was mid to late July.  I told Carrie it was our duty to find the stadium where the Thundering Herd play football.  After all, I had seen it many times on television.

How fortunate and blessed we were to find that Joan C. Edwards Stadium, “The Joan”, was holding “pick your seat day”…a season ticket opportunity where folks come in and pick the season tickets they want.  Some folks like to sit low.  Some folks like to sit higher in a stadium to get the vantage point they desire.  Carrie and I strolled in and looked around.

There was no holding me back.  I was not there to buy season tickets, but you better believe I did Carpe Diem right and made my way to standing on the field so Carrie could take my picture on it.  Wish I could find it.

I was impressed with the place.

What happened next was the stuff of legend.

Carrie and I found a place to get a bite to eat.  The folks in the establishment were all talking about Marshall Football.  We went to some downtown shoppes.  They were talking football.  Everywhere we went people were talking football…and they were serious about sizing up the season.  I could tell they were an informed bunch.  They were also very sincere about the whole thing.  We weren’t subjected to any hot-aired bravado that would have turned us off in a heartbeat.  What we heard and what we felt was a town’s heartbeat that was close to their team.  Heck, the fire plugs in town are painted green and white…the school colors.

I looked at Carrie and told her we needed to get back in the fall to see a game.  We did just that.  We saw Marshall play Southern Mississippi on an odd college football Sunday night game.  That was 2007.

We have been back ever since.  In 2010 we had season tickets and made it to four of the six games…the biggie that year was the last time they hosted big-brother… the West Virginia Mountaineers.  You couldn’t fit anyone else in that stadium with a shoehorn.  The Herd lost 24-21 in overtime.  They had a 21-6 lead int the 4th quarter.  The townsfolk still talk about that one too.

Since we have found the Herd we go to two, three, maybe four games a year.  They played a track meet up at Purdue two years ago.  51-41 I think it was.  The Herd got beat.

This year they are not supposed to get beat.  The schedule is cream-puff soft and they have a very solid football team.  Their cream-puff schedule is not completely their fault.  The conference they play in has gone through many changes, just like the rest in college football.

Game day in Huntington is fantastic.  There’s a buzz in the air.  Folks are feeling good.  The local paper is great.  They have a curmudgeon of a sports columnist who would complain about the rope at his own hanging, but he is still a great deal of fun to read.  He knows his stuff.

The fans are ready for the 2014 season.  I too am ready.  Like they say in Huntington: Go Herd or Go Home!

Now that is speaking the rights.

As good as my memory is…and if anyone here has read much of anything I have written on these pages you know I have a vault…I still fail miserably at remembering to get to all that I need to in order to make things right.  Well, if not right, a least a little better.

When Doug Rothrock’s Dad passed away I failed to send him an email.  I failed to send him a card.  I failed to call up.  I failed.

What was my excuse?  I read about it online when I was out of town. Of course, I thought, I will get around to getting word to Doug as soon as I get back in town.

If Doug reads this, it will be the first he has heard me make mention of it.  Shame on me.  Don’t ask me how long that has been.  That is even more shameful.

Doug and I went to church together.  Doug and I played softball together.  Doug and I did business together.  I suppose if I had needed a loan, he would have heard from me sooner.  More shame on me.

I have no idea where Mrs. Patti Miller is these days.  She had no idea how a few strokes of a pen helped my ego when I needed it most.  “You are an excellent writer”.  That is what she posted not online…but in my 10th grade high school yearbook some thirty years ago.

Mrs. Miller knew I loved to write.  And guess what?  One of the few things I feel I can actually give my high school credit for…understand I am talking about the school and not the great teachers I had…the school let Mrs. Miller teach a Sports Literature class.  It was the first of its kind and probably the last of its kind.  Why they let Mrs. Miller teach it, I have no earthly idea.  Don’t care.  I do know her sports acumen was limited.  Mine was abundant.  Also abundant was my curiosity with putting words together to both sound good and stir some kind of emotional chords.

I was writing prose.  I was writing poetry.  I had no idea why and very few around could understand why or how I was so attached to my notebooks that housed verse after verse after verse of my attentions of the day.  Well, I guess things have not changed a great deal in thirty years after all.  I was mistaken.

But I was not mistaken by the words that Mrs. Miller put in my yearbook.  They were encouraging words.  I believe they were honest words.  She didn’t have to choose those words.

Though I have not looked upon her handwritten message in many years, I still remember how it is sitting on a page somewhere in my office.  That old yearbook is holding up a great deal of significance.

Words like that matter.  I am fortunate to have other first-hand knowledge.

We’ll call her “Annie”.

Annie was in a 9th grade English class I was teaching and she worked very hard.  She was a fair athlete.  On the track team that spring, she threw the shot-put.  When she found out a meet was going to be held never my old high school…I live nearby…Annie asked that I come to the meet and give her what I call an “inspirational address”.   I gave said address.  Annie broke the school record that day in the shot-put.

When Sectional time came at the end of the season, Annie asked that I I give her another “inspirational address”.  I told her I could not be at the meet.  I then told her I had an even better idea.

What I did was write Annie an inspirational address.  I gave her a pep talk on paper.  The words were in a sealed envelope with her name on it.  I gave her explicit instructions on when to open it along the bus ride…about half way to their destination.

I wish I could report some great result from the Sectional Meet.  I can’t.  I don’t remember what she did.  I do, however, remember her thanking me for my words of encouragement.  I was thankful she was thankful.  Then I went about the rest of my business of the day and probably never gave it another thought for nearly year.

Annie never asked for another inspirational address from me.  I never asked if she wanted or needed another one.

When the Sectional Meet came around at the end of Annie’s sophomore year she participated again.  When the team loaded onto the bus, Annie was carrying a shot put in one hand and a year-old envelope in another.  When the bus driver quizzed Annie about the envelope, she told him it was Mr. Johnson’s “inspirational address”.

The words I never gave Doug Rothrock.

The words Mrs. Miller gave to me.

The words I gave Annie.

They all matter.

So…speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

Our son Jarrett sent us pictures of himself and his lady-friend, the delightful Hillary, today from Nashville, TN where they have spent the day sight-seeing.  Seems they have been having a good time.

Jarrett  got out of the military earlier this year.  He was in the Army.  He was a crew-chief  on a Blackhawk Helicopter and did one year-long stint in Iraq and two deployments in Afghanistan.  He currently works as a consultant for a large company that is in the business of helping the Army with their helicopters.  He has been working at the Kandahar Airfield in Afghanistan.  He  has been on ” leave”, for lack of a better term, and will be going back to work there on July 31st.

Five days shy of exactly four years ago, my dear wife, Carrie, and I were in Nashville to see Paul McCartney sing.

Circumstances led me to write what follows.  This is the first time I have ever published these words, even though they are four years old.

Hey Jude…Let it Be

My dear lovely wife, Carrie, and I were in Nashville, Tennessee recently.  We were there on business.  The business of witnessing history and taking in the songs of the most important singer on planet earth.  We heard Paul McCartney sing.  And did he ever.  Thirty-eight songs.  Five minutes shy of three hours of continuous song…no intermission here.  And I swear during the first thirty-two songs before the first of two three-song encores, the old Beatle never once took a drink of water.

It was the third time Carrie and I had gone to see Sir Paul.  As always…he shelled the corn.

He sang songs recorded over a span of five decades.  Beatles tunes, Wings tunes, solo tunes, Fireman tunes, John Lennon tunes, a George Harrison tune, he sang them all.  I once likened going to a Bob Dylan concert to visiting a museum.  You can listen…but you can’t touch.  Paul McCartney, however, grabs you by the hand and puts you in position to sing back-up.

The first time I ever saw Paul sing was in Indianapolis.  I vividly remember the Conseco Fieldhouse campfire sing-a-long that concluded the song ‘Hey Jude”.  You know the one… where everyone is singing Na-Na Na- Na Na Na- Naaaa.  I remember thinking to myself…if only we could get all the people in the world that are throwing rocks at each in this basketball gym and start singing this together, folks would stop throwing rocks at each other and try to be friends.

I know.  That sounds a bit simplistic.  It is.  But good grief…that moment is so powerful.  Music helps to sustain us.  Even though life sometimes throws us off key in mid-verse, music is there for so many of us to help provide some harmony…even if it is in the background.  For every life does indeed have a soundtrack.

For Carrie and me on this night in Nashville, listening to “Hey Jude” brought on even more gravity this time around as we sang along.  We were also singing right along with Paul as he sang John Lennon’s “All we are saying is Give Peace a Chance”.   The gravity and the rumble in the stomach fell hard during these tunes.  Our son, Jarrett, is flying around in a Chinook helicopter around the mountains of Afghanistan.  He has his legs wrapped around a big gun he holds with both hands around it.  This ain’t no twelve-gauge shot gun.  He’s hanging on to this thing and there are folks around there that, like me, wish he was back home again in Indiana….but they aren’t very nice about it.

Was it tough listening to Paul McCartney singing about peace?  Darn right it was.  But…we need that.  We need that spirit…regardless of what may come.

In the hotel lobby the morning after the concert, my cell phone rang.  It was Jarrett. At the outset of our conversation, I was thinking about how he was on my mind the night before as we sang of peace and hope.

He proceeded to tell me of the crash landing his Chinook made around the time we were having our sing-along with Paul inside the Bridgestone Arena where the biggest battle we faced was jockeying for position at the T-Shirt table.

Jarrett lived to tell the story.  That is the victory I’ll take any day.

Right now I going to find a nice quiet place and listen to “Let It Be”.

Jarrett punching out the Chinook

Your old Uncle Dan remembers when MTV, Music Television, actually played music videos on a regular basis.  I miss that.  You turn on MTV today and who knows what you might find.

A celebrity being treated at a psychiatric facility?  Maybe.

A group of people yelling at each other because they are paid to look like fools in hopes someone may tune in?  Maybe.

Some folks that can’t talk without having every seventh word “bleeped” out even though we know exactly what they are saying?  Maybe.

Hey, I’m no Puritan.  I grew up in a high school football locker room, my Dad was a football coach.   I know all those words.  I’ve used a few of them myself.

What you won’t find much of on MTV is…well…music.

Before I go further, let me say it is a total and complete shame that all this television technology such as HD and Super HD and 3D TV and 6D TV…none of which I have on a television in my house…had to come along when there is so very little for some of us to enjoy on television.

Truth be told, 83% of my television watching comes during football season.  If a football game is on, I am probably watching it.  It can be NFL or NCAA Division II.  I don’t care.  I will watch a football game.  In fact, I have really enjoyed tuning into ESPNSomething to watch a few Canadian Football League games that are already in full swing.  They have to start their season earlier because they want to get their playoffs in before all the football fields in Canada freeze.  They call their championship “The Grey Cup Game”.  This championship has been around a great deal longer than the Super Bowl.

Did you know that the Super Bowl was inspired by the late Kansas City Chief’s owner, Lamar Hunt?  The game was originally called the NFL-AFL Championship Game before the leagues merged in 1970.  Lamar Hunt, as the story goes, had a son playing with a “super ball” in the Hunt’s driveway.  Dink…light bulb over the head… and now we have the Super Bowl.  Pretty cool.

Oh how I miss television.  Things have changed so much in such a short time.

I remember it like it was yesterday.

Me, Jerry, and John K. were over at Mike’s house on a classic 5th grade “sleep-over”.  There we were, sitting in front of the TV watching “The Dukes of Hazzard” on CBS.  Dallas would follow.

I reiterate the fact that I am not a Puritan.  Jerry and Mike were not Puritans either.  Remember how I said I grew up in a football locker room?  Jerry’s brother Jim and Mike’s brother Dave were team captains for my Dad in 1975; enough said.

Still…if you can imagine…as the four of us boys were sitting watching the Dukes with Mike’s parents Leroy and Sarah, we were totally mortified when Boss Hogg called Roscoe a “jackass”.  We boys all froze in our tracks, knowing you just don’t say that in mixed company.  I couldn’t look at Mike’s Mom again for a week.  Am I overreacting?  I don’t think so.  That is the way it was.  Guess what?  I miss those times…those values…and I miss Boss Hogg calling Roscoe a jackass.  If that is as bad as it was gonna get during the 8 o’clock hour, well…we had it made.

Look…I am gainfully employed as a professional educator.  Do you have any idea….have you ever stopped to think…how difficult it is to compete with television these days?  I mean… think about it.  The school is one of the last public harbingers to promote goodness.  If a teacher talks like what the student and the parent heard last night on TV said teacher is in a spot. They should be.

Double Standard City.  That is the fine line that we are dealing with.  The school is still trying to promote values similar to what kids saw on television in the 1970s.  There are dos and don’ts that we all must adhere to in education.  Those same things are nothing but free-for-alls on television and what you will hear elementary school aged kids talk about during lunch may or may not startle you, depending on what is important to you.

What do I miss?

I miss The Midnight Special.  Wolfman Jack bringing us what the people looked like that were singing to us on the radio.  They sounded the same on TV, as they were lip-syncing.

I miss Newhart.  Recently I saw a rerun of an old Newhart where the town was trying to re-think “Ye Old Apple Days”.  Look it up on youtube.  You will laugh.

I miss Monday Night Football.  I still watch it.  But I miss it being SPECIAL.  The one game all of us in America would be watching.  I miss Howard Cosell, Frank Gifford, and Don Meredith.

I miss having just 3 networks.  We all came to school or work the next day talking about what had happened on M*A*S*H the night before.  We had a little more togetherness thanks to our limited choices that have since separated families with limitless choices.

I miss Hill Street Blues.  And I miss the Hill Street Snacks I made and devoured every Thursday as I watched what was happening on ” The Hill”.    I found “The Hill” a couple years ago.  In this picture, my dear wife, Carrie, is standing in front of the mythical Hill St. Station.  Don’t tell anyone…but it is really a police building for the University of Illinois-Chicago on southwest side of town.

Let’s be careful out there.

And while you’re at it…speak the rights.

Danny Johnson

Last summer as my dear wife, Carrie, and I were on vacation in Williamsburg, Virginia.  The place was great to visit.  There is more historical business over there than we have time to talk about.  I can tell you we visited Colonial Willamsburg, Jamestown, and Yorktown.  It was awe-inspiring to witness such historical places.  We are fortunate we had the opportunity to make that trip.

For Carrie this time was not quite as enjoyable as it was for me.  On vacation, mind you, she was rising and shining at 5 am or earlier and putting her nose in a book to study for a test she had to take to put herself in a position to maintain her employment and continue to make progress, as she always does.

Watching her toil over her book work as I rolled out of bed a couple hours after she did while we were on vacation…awkward… I called an audible that I am so glad I made.  It has changed my musical horizon for the better.  The result:  I found another band to listen to and enjoy beside The Moody Blues.  Know this, I have never been much of a “group” guy when listening to music.  I started with “The Bay City Rollers” and have graduated to “The Moody Blues”.  My music shelf is full of solo artists in comparison to musical groups.

So…I called the audible.  The band “Train” was playing at an outdoor barn near Virginia Beach… not far from where we were staying.  I knew Carrie had a couple Train cds.  She enjoyed listening to them.  I thought they were okay.

Regardless, I knew she needed a break from her book studying on vacation.

Enough was enough.

In what Carrie called another one of my “pot-bellied schemes”, I don’t know what that means, I bought tickets the day before the concert to see Train at Virginia Beach.  We went over to the Virginia Beach boardwalk and enjoyed that for all of twenty minutes before a giant storm sent all of us running for cover.  The concert was in doubt.  Finally, it cleared up.

So we went to see Train.  Before they came on two opening acts performed: Gavin Degraw and Michael Franti warmed us all up before Train took the stage and they proceeded to find a permanent place in my musical heart and run a distant second place on my IPOD to The Moodies and and just ahead of Paul McCartney and Tim Krekel on my playlist.

Train is great.  They are the most unpretentious bunch of great musicians I have ever seen. They seem to be like Minnie Pearl, just proud to be there.  And in the process, thanks to a complex sound that can take you up, down, sideways, and to places you didn’t know existed, Train becomes a part of your musical soul; at least they did that for me.  And I feel I am a tough musical nut to crack.

Yesterday my lovely Carrie and I relived our Train days of yesteryear.

Carrie and I were fortunate enough to attend a Train concert at FUNFEST in Kingsport, Tennessee.  We found FUNFEST to be one of the greatest civic-minded events we have ever seen.

The whole town seemed to be involved.  Thanks for sure goes to the Eastman company for helping to bring Train to Kingsport.

Look…our tickets to see Train at this festival concert cost $20 a piece.  40 bucks didn’t cover one of our tickets at Virginia Beach last year.  Thanks again to Eastman (hint…hint).

We were on the 38 yard line of a high school football field last night sitting in our own bag chairs and loving every minute of it.  Mind you, this was not just any high school football stadium.  Hopefully the pictures will add some perspective.

Did I ever expect to love a band from San Francisco?  No.  But it has happened twice.  I have seen Huey Lewis and News three times.  They too are from San Fran.

Still… from Calling All Angels to Drops of Jupiter (brings a tear to my eye) to Drive-By to Hey Soul Sister to This Ain’t Goodbye to The Finish Line to Marry Me to Angel in Blue Jeans to We Were Made for This….these are great songs.  I am so glad Carrie bought a couple Train cds a few years ago.  What a difference it has made.  And thanks to goes to Train for being what they are: any thing but phony.

They speak the rights.

A lady from the Kingsport paper took our picture

before the concert last night.

There was a great crowd there for Train and the opening band from Knoxville, The Dirty Guvvnah’s.Train spoke the rights.