|
|
-
Topping the country Billboard charts this week is Reba McEntire with “Consider Me Gone,” it’s the music queen’s 34th #1 hit since hitting radio airwaves 26 years ago.
Lady Antebellum’s “Need You Now” snatches the second seat; it’s the first single off their sophomore album. The trio is set to perform at the 52nd annual Grammy awards, alongside Taylor Swift.
And Mr. Luke Bryan holds steady at #3 with “Do I.” The song became his first chart topper in his career only two weeks ago. He’ll follow up his success as Jason Aldean’s opening act in 2010.
But, before I get you lost in country’s noisemakers, I’d like to preface that as a part of my blog-writing agreement, it is my wish to share another side of me you won’t typically find in between reports of Governor Chet Culver’s across-the-board cut in state agencies or the latest corn and soybean summary by the USDA.
So, when I’m not sifting through online news outlets...or when my hands aren’t black from reading the Globe Gazette or the Des Moines Register, nor following Fareed Zakaria’s Newsweek column...my ears are filling up with some of country music’s greats, my eyes are watching CMT Insider, (a program I once worked for as a News Intern), and I’m tracing the latest lyrical notes produced by the Nashville music machine.
Maybe you can’t identify with my sincere obsession with the industry, or perhaps even understand where it began, but since many of you have asked about it, I will oblige. And maybe, just maybe, by the end of my cup of raspberry mocha, you’ll have a better understanding as to why my last five vacations were spent walking the streets of Music City capturing the songs of up and coming artists...you’ll know why I’m eager to descend upon the nearest retailer on Tuesday’s to purchase the newly released albums of Toby Keith, Miranda Lambert and Sugarland...and you’ll know why I think country music will remain a living legend throughout American history.
Growing up in a sleepy Wisconsin town there was at least one event that sure woke folks up. It’s known as “Country Fest,” an annual 4-day camping experience featuring some of the most famous names in the industry. Listening to the likes of Tim McGraw, Doug Stone and Lorrie Morgan throughout that June weekend not to mention year-round, is about as common as mom making meat and potatoes for supper on Sunday after church.
The country fete began 23 years ago -- the same year I celebrated my first birthday. Since 1986, my family and I have attended every year up until 2009 when the so-called “real world” set upon me in Mason City, Iowa. But, over the years, we’ve camped out all night, lawn chairs in hand racing to get a front row seat when the gates opened at dawn. I can recall my parents forcing me to sit alongside them as we watched John Conlee sing “Rose Colored Glasses” from the stage. The moment I remember most vividly is the Billy Ray Cyrus concert; the rain bled my homemade, magic marker sign for the mullet man – whoever thought I could have an ‘achy breaky heart’ at age six.
Later on, the festival grew and we became VIP cardholders. My godparents still to this day own stock in the festival and with that “All Access” backstage passes are the norm. So, growing up I’d spend much of the concerts on the edge of the stage with the band and crew, waiting in lines to meet and greet the stars, as well as capturing a sneak peak of the singer’s tour buses.
Music is a ‘Family Tradition.’
To be continued…
|
-
Today, we celebrate life, the loss of people we love and admire. We celebrate lives lived no matter how long or how short. We celebrate because the people in our lives have touched us and it remains our duty to pay tribute to their name before it simply becomes forgotten.
Today, I’m celebrating the life of my Aunt Tammy. She was a daughter, a sister, a wife and a mother. What I remember about her the most are the stories she read to me while sitting on my grandparent’s sofa in front of the living room window that overlooked a quiet street. Grandma Phyllis would be washing dishes in the kitchen while Grandma Bob sat silently still, eyes aimed at the local TV news. The sound of his oxygen tank matched the pace and tone of Aunt Tammy’s literary commentary.
After ending her position as a nurse’s aid at Luther Hospital in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, she read to me a couples times a week for a year. At age nine, you know very little about the effects of depression, the services of a psychiatrist or bouts of suicidal ideation. All I knew while perched alongside her was that it wasn’t safe for Aunt Tammy to be alone. And for me, it became a special privilege to visit her as she spoke the words of Dr. Seuss and Disney.
After a while, the visits became less frequent. I was told Aunt Tammy was sick. Later, I learned she began to lose control of her self, her emotions and her thoughts. She became obsessed with the intricate details of living and surviving. Everyday seemed like an overwhelming challenge for no particular reason. My grandparents became emotionally exhausted with the rituals of what doctors called a temporary depressive illness.
After a dinner with her parents, sisters and brothers, Aunt Tammy felt confident she was okay to spend the rest of the night with her daughter and husband at home. My grandparents felt confident with her decision as she exhibited personality traits throughout the evening of the daughter they had favored once before.
The next thing my memory can piece together is having the confidence to approach my fifth grade teacher to tell her I would no longer be participating in a Track and Field event scheduled at the end of that week--struggling through tears I whispered to Mrs. Pearson there was a death in my family and quickly returned to my seat.
The image of suicide was left on her neck, covered by a scarf at the wake. That sight remains vivid in my memory.
Tammy was 34 years old when her life ended on May 8, 1998. She was survived by her 3 year old daughter Erin and husband Brent.
Stories of suicide are often filled with sorrow and pain, but I want to remind others its better to tell your story rather than leave it tucked away in a drawer filled with both anger yet love.
By telling you my story, I hope it raises some awareness to a subject many feel is too dark and uncomfortable for conversation, but its real and its serious.
I wish Aunt Tammy was here today to see her daughter with the same blonde hair and blue eyes as she. I wish she could have witnessed Erin boarding the bus on the first day of Kindergarten. I wish she could feed Erin’s amusing curiosity. I wish she could help her as she prepares for her driver’s education test. I wish she was still here.
Today, we celebrate life.
|
-
My story on the War on Terror began when the bell rang and my fellow students shuffled to their seats. I had arrived to class early that day and was jotting down upcoming events in my daily planner. As I turned the page to mark homecoming week, I noticed our English teacher silently entered the room, positioned the TV cart before the class and turned it to CNN. It wasn’t until that moment, I realized, an event far greater than a winning football game and a date to the dance would change my life forever. An act of terrorism had attacked the heart of the American homeland. The anchor, stiff and cold, said, “What once stood as a symbol of peace in our country will forever be a mark of death and destruction in the US.” As I watched the TV, clouds of smoke and flames of fire billowed from the Twin Towers, and I was left with the reality of uncertainty.
Later at home, reality began to sink in even deeper when my brother called and said his staff sergeant discussed the possibility of war, deployment and his role as a member of the US Air Force. As I whispered good bye, I stared out the window and watched our American flag hang still in the yard; I couldn’t help but fold my hands, close my eyes and bow my head in prayer.
Eight years later, my story on the War on Terror has changed. I’m an anchor, reading lines about a military stretched thin, reports of insurgents, suicide bombings, Abu Ghraib, Fallujah, and an ever-rising death toll -- stories as common as the local forecast or Friday night football games.
Today, as a journalist, my story is about the Iraq war and its affect on the global economy. My story is about the Iraqi veteran who decorates his yard with “For Sale” signs because he can’t make the mortgage payments. My story is about President Barack Obama and his decision to send more troops to Afghanistan into early next year. My story is about the latest lyrical reminder on country radio about war. My story is about the political strategist weighing the realist and liberalist philosophy behind the United States’ call to invade Iraq in the first place.
In 2001, my story began in a classroom as I marked the week of the Chippewa Falls, WI high school homecoming in my daily planner. And in 2009, I wait for the story about a United States homecoming for all American soldiers.
If you have a story idea, or a topic you’d like to discuss, feel free to email me at jlee@kimt.com, your suggestions and opinions are always welcomed and appreciated.
|
-
Four years have past, but I can still remember moments of excitement, expressions of sadness and cries for help while serving as a volunteer for Hands on Gulf Coast – a civic action center working to rebuild homes and lives in the Gulf coast communities that suffered from the category three hurricane – we helped to make a change, to make a difference, to make just one day better than the one before. We gutted houses by removing mold, linoleum and insulation; we tore down ceilings and scraped off lead paint; we picked up trash and served food at the Salvation Army; we made picnic tables for neighborhood parks; we supervised and played with grade-school children. But we barely made a dent.
While much of the major news networks focus on New Orleans today, a city hit the hardest by the hurricane, I’m going to take you back to a different community, called Biloxi, Mississippi.
On the morning of August 29, 2005, Hurricane Katrina ripped through our southern states with 120 mph winds, leaving behind as much as 25 feet of water in many areas. Nearly 80 percent of Biloxi was destroyed entirely or rendered uninhabitable--trees uprooted, windows smashed, houses washed away. More than 200 Biloxi residents died in the storm. But Biloxi, as a community, did not. While many left during the storm never to return, others stayed, and for them Biloxi is as close-knit and as rich with family roots as ever. It’s the place they call home.
The people, the stories, the tragedy that is Biloxi, Mississippi, continues to remind me how lucky many of us really are. I once thought my 1-bedroom apartment was small…small is a family of five living in an RV for a year and a half. I once thought a flat tire was upsetting…upsetting is a flood car, a car surged under 12 feet of water. I once thought 30 minutes at a restaurant to get a table was waiting…waiting is 400 days before Biloxi schools were reopened. And I once thought an argument with my parents was painful…painful is losing a family member forever during a storm. The words of Katrina victims are proof of how fortunate I am, and how every day is a blessing. Their stories have helped me become a better friend, a better daughter, and a better person.
And while the storm may have lasted only eight hours, for the residents of Biloxi, Mississippi, the damage will last a lifetime. Every street still without signs, every office still without windows, and every family still without a home is on a mission to rebuild, to recover. But this mission should not be theirs alone. Make it your duty to hold out a hand, to remember, to do something for the folks who still need our help in the Biloxi community…a community not ready to be forgotten.
If you have a story idea, or a topic you’d like to discuss, feel free to email me at jlee@kimt.com, your suggestions and opinions are always welcomed and appreciated.
|
-
All jobs include a list of core duties and expectations, as the newly hired KIMT News 3 Morning Anchor and Producer my main objective is to write, gather and report on stories that impact the communities of North Iowa and Southern Minnesota. After three months of serving as a regular on the payroll, Mr. Greg Berry, my news director suggested blogging to be a part of my permanent role. I jumped at the opportunity despite not really knowing of what a blog is or how it even works. After a bit of research, it is basically a web log, a form of expression highlighting chronological ideas and thoughts. Hopefully, today is the start a historical record of moments to come as I look forward to sharing and debating topics with like-minded people.
Upon driving to Clear Lake, Iowa to a local coffee shop, laptop in hand, I was hoping my first blogging experience would be similar to a scene from columnist Carrie Bradshaw’s Sex and the City. As I stood waiting to order, my eyes were set on a prime location to write and peer out the front window.
Unfortunately, my fantasy turned into a reality as I tried to juggle my purse, blackberry, computer and tray topped with a breakfast bagel and large iced espresso, as I turned toward the selected coop my drink started to slide leading to an uncomfortably long nosedive onto the carpeted floor. It not only splattered from the coffee tables to the chairs and walls but also created a domino effect of sheer gasps and chuckles throughout the cafe. The cashier shouted for hot towels as a line of people stood staring and a waitress already busy with a list of food requests ran to clean up my incredibly large mess. Filled with guilt, I quickly realized it would serve me best to snag the closest seat, hide my mortified self in a corner and attempt to drink my now second espresso with two hands.
Following the infamous coffee spill, my plan was to bury in email, quickly escape and not to mention be forgotten. But, in an attempt to comfort me, a group of seven bellied up to the stools by my side. The utter embarrassment I felt effortlessly faded as the group of Des Moines parents and teens joked about the look on my face as the java made its grand fall. The rest of the morning was spent learning about the family’s dog business and carrying on the Cabin Coffee logic, “Just Be Happy and Have Fun!”
Throughout my stay thus far, I’ve definitely learned the greatest thing about Iowans is that there’s nothing a laugh and a smile cannot fix--even the ending to a bittersweet blog of clumsy behavior.
With that said, I will continue to use this platform of communication as another way to connect and build a relationship with the community members I serve through KIMT News 3.
If you have a story idea, or a topic you’d like to discuss, feel free to email me at jlee@kimt.com with your suggestions and opinions are always welcomed and appreciated.
|
|
|
