W is for War Music---From Bugle Boys to Buffalo Springfield

 

Even before I knew about the A to Z Bloggers Challenge, I’d planned to write about the music born from wars and protests. The idea came from a Facebook Short Reel I stumbled on—filmed in Minnesota during the ‘ICE invasion.’ It sent chills down my back, not just because of what was happening there, but because the soundtrack was Buffalo Springfield singing those Vietnam‑era lyrics. Suddenly I was right back in those days, when so many of us made the painful shift from supporting the war to realizing it was a pointless conflict that cost countless innocent lives— not unlike the dog‑and‑pony show unfolding in the Middle East now.

“There's something happening here
What it is ain't exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
A-telling me I got to beware

I think it's time we stop
Children, what's that sound?
Everybody look what's going down.”

I did what I always do: a deeper dive. Stephen Stills wrote that song in 1967, and it’s widely considered one of the most iconic protest songs of all time. While it became an anthem of the anti‑Vietnam movement, it was actually inspired by the Sunset Strip Riots of 1966. You can even download it as a ringtone. For a hot minute, I considered doing just that, but I decided that if it went off here on my continuum‑care campus, it would either send my MAGA neighbors into a pantie‑twist or make the heads‑in‑the‑sand crowd wet theirs.

I cut my teeth on war music, but it was a different breed than the Vietnam soundtracks. Mom had a large collection of WWII records that she played over and over. The Andrews Sisters singing Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy is tattooed inside my head. I can’t hear a gung‑ho WWII song without remembering the day Dad and I cleaned out the basement—decades after we’d had a working record player—and we took her vinyl collection to the dump. We had a great time sailing those 33s across the trash and garbage field like Frisbees. She hadn’t played them in years, but when she found out what we did, she didn’t speak to either of us for a week. She was the queen of giving the cold shoulder.

Her favorites were The White Cliffs of Dover, I’ll Be Seeing You, and I’ll Be Home for Christmas. If memory serves me right, I once read that the U.S. government actually commissioned some of those nostalgic songs and films designed to boost the morale for soldiers and their families. Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition was one I could sing before I could tie my shoes—which isn’t saying much, come to think about it, considering my dyslexic and being left-handed battle with learning that skill from my right‑handed mother. Oops.

Vietnam‑era music was a different animal entirely—more protest, more rage, more longing to go home. Besides the Buffalo Springfield classic, there was Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Fortunate Son, a blistering critique of the draft that favored the wealthy, and Country Joe & the Fish’s I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die Rag, with its dark humor about the war’s purpose. Other anthems included We Gotta Get Out of This Place and Leaving on a Jet Plane.

And now it’s happening again. Songwriters are once more putting into words what so many people are thinking. Bruce Springsteen’s Streets of Minneapolis and Jesse Welles’ No Kings are destine to be the new anti‑authoritarian anthems for the times we’re living through.

My theme for this A to Z Challenge is “the humans, habits, hidden joys, and heartaches that shaped my world.” Long‑time readers know I’ve followed politics my entire adult life, but I try to limit my politically driven posts to one in every thirteen. So I surprised myself that I hadn’t revealed my flaming‑liberal side earlier in this challenge. But this post isn’t one of my typical political rants—just a piece of the mosaic. A part of me I needed to include to round out the picture.

Before I leave the letter W behind, I should say this: these songs didn’t just mark the times, they helped me navigate them. War music doesn’t just soundtrack the world around us; it teaches us how to listen, how to cope and how to remember we’re not alone. ©

The Walk for Peace in the Winter of ICE

They come from a quiet corner of Fort Worth, where the Huong Dao Vipassana Bhavana Center has been a home for Theravada monks for more than a decade. Their saffron robes mark them as members of the oldest Buddhist tradition, one rooted in silence, compassion, and the simple discipline of walking with intention. For them, their Walk for Peace journey is not a protest but a pilgrimage, a moving meditation carried out step by step across America. They ask for nothing, accept only what is freely offered, and give back a presence that has drawn thousands to the roadside just to witness it. In this post, Jean explores why their Walk for Peace has captured so much attention, and what their journey reveals about this moment in time when ICE agents are tearing families apart….AI

Have you been following the Walk for Peace? If not, it’s a group of 19 Buddhist monks and their rescue dog, Aloka, who are currently walking from Fort Worth, Texas, to Washington, D.C. Their stated purpose? To “share peace, compassion, unity, and healing together.” By the time their 2,300 mile journey ends on or around February 12th, they will have passed through ten states and walked 120 days through all kinds of weather including rain, snow, sleet, and ice — sometimes barefoot, always in their traditional saffron robes.

The color of those robes symbolizes humility, clarity, and the warmth of compassion, and it makes quite a sight against the wintry landscapes they pass through — something that feels spiritual, outside of time and space. The simplicity of the robe’s style reaches back to a monastic lineage from a time when orange dyes were inexpensive — turmeric, even rust. Wearing the robes is part of their ordainment, a pledge to let go of worldly attachments.

I started following the monks’ Facebook page almost from the beginning, back when they didn’t have many followers. But their Moving Meditation — or Walking Prayer, as it’s often called — has caught on fire. Their online following has grown to over 316,000. And thousands have greeted them along highways or walked beside them, handing them flowers and fruit or accepting a string‑blessing bracelet from one of the monks. Police departments have given them escorts and badges for the lead walker to display on a scarf. Churches have hosted them for meals but they mostly sleep in tents. Volunteer doctors have checked on them. One monk was hit by a car, lost his leg, and had to return to the temple in Texas — but Aloka, after his own surgery, has returned to the walk.

What hooked me is that this is such a rare cultural moment in America, and such a stark contrast to what is happening in Minnesota at the same time. The brutality of the ICE operations there — in a state that doesn’t even have as many undocumented immigrants as places like Florida or Texas — feels senseless, driven by pure vindictiveness born out of a soul-less administration.

The monks are not walking to protest. Their official Facebook page says, “This is a neutral space for peace and unity. Please do not post about politics, social protests, or religious arguments. Let us focus only on what brings us together.” But in the back of my mind, I can’t stop worrying about the reception they’ll get in Washington. Will the president acknowledge their presence? If he does, will someone suggest a drinking game based on how many times he mentions that he deserves a Nobel Peace Prize? Will the Proud Boys show up with tiki torches and chatting for the monks be deported? Will ICE be there to demand their papers?

Jasper talked me down from my worst fears — somewhat — by reminding me that ICE doesn’t operate in a vacuum, that “they know the optics wouldn’t be good,” and that there haven’t been incidents as the monks have crossed the country, if you don't count the times a few passing motorists have yelled obscenities at them. I said “somewhat” because poor optics haven’t stopped ICE so far, and the occupants of the White House are so laser‑focused on themselves that they might not even be aware the monks are coming to their neighborhood.

I’m torn. Part of me wishes I could stand at the side of the road with a flower in my hand, waiting to see the orange robes appear in the distance. And at the same time, I wish I could be in the cold streets of Minnesota holding a sign that reads, “First they came for the immigrants, and I spoke up because I know how the rest of the goddamn poem goes.”

But in an era when so much feels loud and brittle, the monks’ quiet procession reminds us that gentleness is still a powerful force — and that sometimes the most radical thing we can do is to keep putting one foot in front of the other with an open and hopeful heart. ©

Until Next Wednesday. 

 

Edited to add:

 

Planned Events (as of Feb 2, 2026):

Feb 10: Visit to Washington National Cathedral

Feb 11: Afternoon & evening meditation retreat

Feb 12: Return to Fort Worth by bus

Additional small gatherings are expected throughout Feb 10–11. Final times and locations will be confirmed soon.

When Patriotism Feels Broken

This past Fourth of July weekend was a whirlwind of activity around my continuum care campus but in between the fun stuff I’ve been quietly grieving the loss of the country I once thought I knew and understood. So I skipped the band concert of patriotic music and a pizza party organized by a 45/47 MAGA supporter. We’re (and by we’re I mean the current administration) has been breaking presidential norms all over the place, not to mention the laws of our democracy. America, I’m tired! I’m tired of the flag waving 45/47 supporters and the greedy, spineless politicians who just voted to put the next generation into so much debt they’ll never see the light of day. And God help us if Japan, who owns a good share of our 36 trillion dollars of debt, calls in their loans. And that 36 trillion doesn’t include the 3.9 trillion the so-called Big Beautiful Bill will add over the next decade.  

I’m also tired of ICE and their cruel and illegal acts being committed against our immigrant population. I’m tired of people thinking it’s perfectly okay to snatch people off the streets, out of labor & deliver rooms, etc., without due process of the law, and put them in detention centers. I’m tired of overhearing fellow residents at the next dinner table talking with glee over Alligator Alcatraz and how fat and happy those alligators will grow while at the same time being served their dinner by the son of immigrants. Did they assume the poor kid doesn’t have ears to hear their disgusting remarks? By the way, the photo up above was posted at the official website for Homeland Security. Let that sink in.

I did go to our fourth of July picnic because it’s not often we get barbecued chicken and corn of the cob and if any of us wanted to eat that day, it was sign up for the picnic or forage for your own meal out in the community. I wasn’t born yesterday so I opted to stay off the busy roads on the third—yes, holiday parties around my CCC are usually the day before the actual holiday so that most of the staff can spent it with their families. Our picnics, band concerts and other outdoor events host all residents from all three buildings and our  townhouses in a fenced-in area between the Assisted Living and Memory Care buildings known as The Park. It’s a pretty place that keeps the inmates from walking away while still giving them access to be outside under a canape of trees with a lake view on one side and a wooded view opposite. A few people from my Independent Living building don’t like to go there because they see their futures and it scares them. I get that but as I tell them, seeing how kind and attentive the aids are with the residents from the Assisted Living and Memory Care buildings is comforting and helps diminish the fear of ending up down there. And after living here in IL for over three years, we all know people who've had to move into AL and MC. 

On the Fourth itself the temperature was supposed to get up into 90s so an outdoors pizza party that was planned by residents from our townhouses followed by watching the firework ended up getting changed. (They have their own outdoors area to gather around a fire pit.) The pizza part got canceled and we were to meet later when the sun was setting and it wouldn’t be so hot. But when one of the 45/47 supporters (who laughed over alligators getting fat) heard that he sent out a text message that he was going to take charge of ordering pizza and we could sign up with him. There were some hurt feelings between the townhouse organizers (who originally had invited everyone in Independent Living) because they didn’t get the text invitation to join in at the IL building where the second pizza party was being planned. A day later that oversight was corrected but by then the damage had been done and a boycott began. I was one of those who skipped pizza but I did hang out with the townhouse people at the fire pit. Originally they had forty people signed up but without the pizza that got whittled down to twenty-five for fireworks. But only six people got together for pizza. The whole planned and canceled then planned again was too confusing for some.

Last winter the MAGA guy who decided to organize the second pizza party caused another turf war over the Bridge Club. At one time they had three tables that played twice a week but he caused so much trouble over rotating players—he didn’t want to play with slower players—that several couples dropped out. Then he poached off the fast players and started a second bridge group. So now we have two clubs run by two different people. Sometimes it can be a regular little soap opera around here which I’m sure is true with all places where people get to know each well. Sometimes personalities clash.

The highlight of the long weekend was Saturday when I got to play four extra Mahjong games. Two of us from Independent Living and two ladies from the townhouses played at one of their homes. Let me tell you playing Mahjong where you didn’t have to be careful not to talk too load or edit which topics you bring up was different than playing in our regularly scheduled games in our pubic bistro. We had fun! I wish I had a table suitable to set up the game to I could invite people to play extra games in my apartment in addition to the weekly games where we usually have three tables. I wish I hadn’t given my card table and chairs away when I moved. I also wish I hadn’t given a folding camp chair away. To watch fireworks I had to bring the walker I used when I broke my ribs to sit on. There have been other outdoor occasions down at the fire pit when we've require we bring our own chairs. With all the planning I did before the move, I didn’t see those needs coming. ©

Until next Wednesday.