Warm Fuzzies

I listened to a radio talk show today on CBC Radio.  The host and guests were talking about how music from our childhood or past can have the same effect on you as comfort food  -- they even called theses songs "Comfort Food Songs".  In other words, there are songs or pieces of music that conger up a warm, fuzzy feeling that is nostalgic, sentimental, and brings a smile to your face.

Naturally, while listening to the show, I couldn't help but think about songs from my childhood that fit into this category.  I realized that for me, it was the circumstances surrounding the songs as much as the songs themselves that make them "comfort food songs".

I realize a lot of you probably won't know these songs, but my mother and siblings will.  And I'll bet they will be smiling, too!  My Comfort Food songs include:

1. Tell Me Why -- only sung in the car on Sunday afternoons as we drove to Grandma's house.  It's how I learned to sing harmony.


2.  From the Halls of Montazuma (aka:  The Marine's Hymn) -- it allowed for playful joking with Dad and we'll all remember when he put us out of the car at the edge of Aplington and told us to walk the rest of the way!!  (Granted that was a whole 10 blocks, but we took our "punishment" and trudged the whole way!)

3.  Mares Eat Oats -- this one is a silly song from the 40's (I think) but I was well into college before I realized the songs not a jumble of made-up words, but rather actual lyrics strung together quickly!  Was my face red!  This video gives you an idea of what I thought the words were!!


What are your "Comfort Food Songs?

October 12-13, 2010

I couldn’t stop watching. For 24 hours rescuers worked to bring the 33 miners and 6 rescue workers out of the pit. For 24 hours families kept vigile. For 24 hours media personnel vied for prime photo positions and opportunities. For 24 hours, news broadcasts captialized on the opportunity to hold viewers.  For (most of) 24 hours I couldn't stop watching.


I couldn't stop watching, even though the same process was repeated for each of the 39 individuals brought to the surface. The same siren sounded as the rescue capsule approched. The same cheer off “Chi-Chi-Chi, Le-Le-Le” resounded as a person emerged from the capsule. Each family member was startegically placed for the cameras to capture their reaction as they anticipated and then experienced being re-unitied with their husband, boyfriend, son. Broadcasters repeatedly mentioned the $400 Oakley sunglasses each miner would get to keep. Broadcasters crassly listed “perks” (if there really could be a perk from this ordeal) each of the trapped miners would be receiving as part of their compensation package.


Yet, I couldn’t stop watching. I would think to myself, “After this rescue I’ll turn off the TV.”  Then, I would hear a bit of the next miner’s story and that was just enough to keep me watching.  I think I kept watching because in some strange way I didn’t want to slight anyone. The first one rescued … the oldest one … the youngest one … the last one.  None of these were more notable nor important than any other. I couldn’t stop watching because every miner had a story.  Every miner was important.  Every miner deserved a witness.

I couldn’t stop watching.