Commentary
“Dear Sean, how can we save this country?” came the email.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
The writer of this letter lives in West Virginia. His name is Roger. I have no idea why Roger thinks a hayseed like me is qualified to answer this loaded question. I’m not a smart guy. I’m so dense, blondes tell jokes about me.
Still, if I were forced to answer this question, I’d say, for starters, Roger, the way to save this country, first and foremost, is to put the Wurlitzer organ back in baseball.
I don’t know if you’re aware, but Major League Baseball has undergone many changes since you and I were kids. Many, many changes. Bad ones. Even the game’s rules have changed.
Baseball is our sacred pastime. Baseball was played during the Civil War. Baseball is America. Some scholars believe stickball was played during the Pilgrim days. And the Wurlitzer organist was the Pilgrim’s most valuable team player.
Today, the organ has been nixed. I went to a game recently, and all I heard was Keith Urban.
This is an affront.
On April 26, 1941, organist Ray Nelson debuted at Wrigley Field, playing an organ. It was the first organ music to be heard in baseball. Nelson played before a crowd of 18,678 Chicago Cubs fans. He played such standards as, “When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for T-U-L-S-A.”
At one time in America, all ballparks had organists. Today, only 7 parks feature organs. Most stadiums now use canned music, including pop-country.
Let me go on record to say, I’d rather eat a jockstrap than listen to Luke Bryan singing “Knockin’ Boots” between batters.
Another way to save this country is to bring back piano lessons. At one time in this nation, 79 percent of Americans took piano lessons during childhood. Do you know what the percentage is now? Eight percent. That’s not enough Americans to form a chess club.
I took piano lessons as a child. My teacher was named Miss Betty. She smelled like Estée Lauder bath powder and Icy Hot. She told me to keep my fingers curved. And if I played “Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Thee” without mistakes, she would give me free ice cream. I gained six pounds beneath her tutelage.
This country needs dinner on the grounds. Do you remember dinner on the grounds? No? Well, I’m not surprised. Most people have forgotten it.
Dinner on the grounds was a church thing. A long time ago, churches were tiny. Mere country chapels, located in hayfields, with no A/C. Churches weren’t charismatic theme-parks with Starbucks and ushers driving golf carts. They were itty-bitty sanctuaries with fellowship halls that smelled like mildew.
A few times each year, churches had outdoor dinners, on the lawn. Often around Decoration Day. The whole church would gather, eat copious amounts of refined sugar and cholesterol, and later, all God’s children required injections of insulin.
This country needs Lawrence Welk. We need Roy Clark and Buck Owens. We need Thomas and Richard Smothers. Bing Crosby. Nat Cole. Blossom Dearie. Satchmo.
Our music has gone to perdition in a proverbial handbasket. At one time, American pop music featured actual harmony, and rhythm sections that were hot enough to boil eggs.
America had hit tunes like “What’d I Say?” “String of Pearls,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Lovesick Blues.” Real music.
Today we have songs like—these are actual current hit titles—“Me & Ur Ghost,” “Whiskey on You,” and my nephews’ favorite song, “ABCDEFU,”
I’m no expert. But if you ask me, we need more Will Rogers, less Will Smith slaps. More Ray Charleses, less Justin Biebers. More Paul Harveys, less Kardashians. More Clark Kents, less Beavis and Buttheads. More Johnny Mercers, less Johnny Depps.
We need kids who make rope swings and dive into muddy creeks. We need young men who still open car doors for young women.
We need Norman Rockwell. We need Fred McFeely Rogers. We need less Netflix, more leapfrog. Less political commercials, more backyard barbecues.
The truth is, I don’t know how to save a country. In fact, I don’t know anything. But I know that love is a pretty good place to start.
I know that family dinners aren’t a bad idea. I know that playing checkers with your grandparents instead of browsing TikTok isn’t going to hurt anything.
And I believe, wholeheartedly, that we would have a fighting chance, as a culture, if we would only put down the phone, turn off the news, look each other in the eye, and declare that it’s time we put the Wurlitzer organ back in baseball.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: ‘Tis of Thee
Commentary
“Dear Sean, how can we save this country?” came the email.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
The writer of this letter lives in West Virginia. His name is Roger. I have no idea why Roger thinks a hayseed like me is qualified to answer this loaded question. I’m not a smart guy. I’m so dense, blondes tell jokes about me.
Still, if I were forced to answer this question, I’d say, for starters, Roger, the way to save this country, first and foremost, is to put the Wurlitzer organ back in baseball.
I don’t know if you’re aware, but Major League Baseball has undergone many changes since you and I were kids. Many, many changes. Bad ones. Even the game’s rules have changed.
Baseball is our sacred pastime. Baseball was played during the Civil War. Baseball is America. Some scholars believe stickball was played during the Pilgrim days. And the Wurlitzer organist was the Pilgrim’s most valuable team player.
Today, the organ has been nixed. I went to a game recently, and all I heard was Keith Urban.
This is an affront.
On April 26, 1941, organist Ray Nelson debuted at Wrigley Field, playing an organ. It was the first organ music to be heard in baseball. Nelson played before a crowd of 18,678 Chicago Cubs fans. He played such standards as, “When the Midnight Choo-Choo Leaves for T-U-L-S-A.”
At one time in America, all ballparks had organists. Today, only 7 parks feature organs. Most stadiums now use canned music, including pop-country.
Let me go on record to say, I’d rather eat a jockstrap than listen to Luke Bryan singing “Knockin’ Boots” between batters.
Another way to save this country is to bring back piano lessons. At one time in this nation, 79 percent of Americans took piano lessons during childhood. Do you know what the percentage is now? Eight percent. That’s not enough Americans to form a chess club.
I took piano lessons as a child. My teacher was named Miss Betty. She smelled like Estée Lauder bath powder and Icy Hot. She told me to keep my fingers curved. And if I played “Savior Like a Shepherd Lead Thee” without mistakes, she would give me free ice cream. I gained six pounds beneath her tutelage.
This country needs dinner on the grounds. Do you remember dinner on the grounds? No? Well, I’m not surprised. Most people have forgotten it.
Dinner on the grounds was a church thing. A long time ago, churches were tiny. Mere country chapels, located in hayfields, with no A/C. Churches weren’t charismatic theme-parks with Starbucks and ushers driving golf carts. They were itty-bitty sanctuaries with fellowship halls that smelled like mildew.
A few times each year, churches had outdoor dinners, on the lawn. Often around Decoration Day. The whole church would gather, eat copious amounts of refined sugar and cholesterol, and later, all God’s children required injections of insulin.
This country needs Lawrence Welk. We need Roy Clark and Buck Owens. We need Thomas and Richard Smothers. Bing Crosby. Nat Cole. Blossom Dearie. Satchmo.
Our music has gone to perdition in a proverbial handbasket. At one time, American pop music featured actual harmony, and rhythm sections that were hot enough to boil eggs.
America had hit tunes like “What’d I Say?” “String of Pearls,” “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and “Lovesick Blues.” Real music.
Today we have songs like—these are actual current hit titles—“Me & Ur Ghost,” “Whiskey on You,” and my nephews’ favorite song, “ABCDEFU,”
I’m no expert. But if you ask me, we need more Will Rogers, less Will Smith slaps. More Ray Charleses, less Justin Biebers. More Paul Harveys, less Kardashians. More Clark Kents, less Beavis and Buttheads. More Johnny Mercers, less Johnny Depps.
We need kids who make rope swings and dive into muddy creeks. We need young men who still open car doors for young women.
We need Norman Rockwell. We need Fred McFeely Rogers. We need less Netflix, more leapfrog. Less political commercials, more backyard barbecues.
The truth is, I don’t know how to save a country. In fact, I don’t know anything. But I know that love is a pretty good place to start.
I know that family dinners aren’t a bad idea. I know that playing checkers with your grandparents instead of browsing TikTok isn’t going to hurt anything.
And I believe, wholeheartedly, that we would have a fighting chance, as a culture, if we would only put down the phone, turn off the news, look each other in the eye, and declare that it’s time we put the Wurlitzer organ back in baseball.