Today is . . .

The lovely Madelyn Simone, our one and only granddaughter, is quite the singer these days. She likes to sing in the car, while jumping on the bed (with the three little monkeys), and at random times during the day and night. Current favorites are Ring Around the Rosie, The Ants Go Marching One by One, and Old McDonald.

Children’s songs, shared from generation to generation, are excellent tools to teach rhyming, rhythm, and remembering. Particularly challenging are songs like Old McDonald that add a phrase each time you sing them. I like “There's a fleck on the speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.” That’s quite the mouthful, and I struggle to remember all of them by the end.  Another pattern song favorite is Today is Monday. In that song, on Monday we eat string beans, Tuesday, spaghetti, Wednesday, soup, Thursday, roast beef, Friday, fish, Saturday, chicken, and Sunday, ice cream.

My family didn’t eat according to that pattern except for the fish – even though we weren’t Catholic, if fish was on the supper menu, we knew it was Friday. And the ice cream? It was generally reserved as a treat when we were children, but as my parents grew older, this became a staple for them at the end of the day, a dish of ice cream as they watched the 11 o’clock news together.  

Even though we didn’t follow the pattern of food choices that the song suggested, its sing-song verse served as a reminder of the rhythm to life that I learned early on, the rhythm of the day and of the week that provided a structure, with some modification, that has served me well over the course of my lifetime.  

It is a rhythm we’re now teaching Madelyn.  We teach her to wash her hands, to brush her teeth, and to say please and thank you. As a child, it was a bath before bed (but not every night) that in adolescence changed into a shower at the beginning of the day. My shower routine goes one step further these days - I wash my hair before I wash my body. If I don’t do that, I end up washing my hair twice because I can’t remember if I already did it.  

What else becomes part of the pattern of our day? My friend Marilyn took on a daily challenge as a young college student: no Bible, no breakfast. For many people of faith, a daily rhythm includes a period of devotional reading and prayer, whether before or after breakfast, or at the end of the day.

Even as a child, my daily routine wasn’t complete without reading the newspaper. One family legend tells of my second grade teacher’s concern/amusement regarding my newspaper reading – apparently I shared my fondness for Ann Landers with some of my classmates, uncensored? While the Buffalo Evening News didn’t come until afternoon, the morning paper has been my companion for more than thirty years, including the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Canton Repository, and now the Ashland Times-Gazette.

Even in our newspaper reading, we have our routines. Some start with the comics, while others peruse the sports pages before turning to the opinions on the editorial pages. I have one elderly friend who checks the obituary page first, wanting to be sure his name isn’t there yet.

In these post-Thanksgiving, post-Sandy days, I’m especially thankful for the simple routines of life that many of our brothers and sisters on the East coast and around the world do not have. I’m grateful for the hot water for my shower. I’m grateful for the saints who preserved the pages of Scripture so I can turn to their words before or after breakfast, and for the light that illuminates that reading. I’m grateful that the pages of the Times-Gazette arrive on my doorstep each morning, keeping me connected with my community and the world. And I’m grateful for songs, for a singing granddaughter, and for ice cream – any day of the week!  

 

A Retirement Rite of Passage

“It starts today. The early mornings, the late nights, the long days, and constant running, kettles have begun!” This post, blatantly copied from a friend’s Facebook page, described my life as a Salvation Army officer for many years. With a just a tinge of survivor’s guilt, this week begins a rite of passage for me. For the first time in more than forty years, I’m not responsible for ringing a kettle bell (first experienced at age 15), counting money late into the night, shopping for hundreds of children, or any of the other myriad of tasks consuming the life of a Salvation Army officer from Thanksgiving to Christmas. Instead, I can experience the holidays like a normal person, whatever that’s like.

I’ll start with Thanksgiving Day, shared with my mom and siblings. We’ll watch the parades, baste the turkey, and cheer or hiss as the Cowboys and Lions take the field. I’ll invite my nephews to sing “We Gather Together” as my brother brings the turkey to the groaning Thanksgiving table, reminiscent of Captain Kangaroo and Mr. Greenjeans. We’ll settle into a turkey-induced coma post-dishes, but may wake up for Kenny Chesney’s appearance during halftime of the Cowboys game, as the Salvation Army officially launches its national kettle campaign.   

I considered joining the Occupy Black Friday movement, with its twelve ways to occupy the holidays and reclaim the spirit of the season, but a nudge from my sister convinced me that it’s up to us to shop ‘til we drop in celebration of Black Friday. She’s in charge of the itinerary, but I laid down the basic ground rules – no husbands, no kids. Some years I’ve avoided the Black Friday swarm like the plague, braving the parking lot jams only to drop off kettle bell-ringers, but Janet and I are going to make a shopping memory this year if it kills us! As long as we get a sweet roll from that marvelous bakery on Main Street in North Tonawanda, I’ll be good to go.

My last-week-in-November observance will return to Ashland on Saturday, where we predict a playoff win by the Amazing Ashland Eagle football team. But sandwiched around the game, I’m making time to celebrate Small Business Saturday on November 24. Hallmark may be the master holiday creator, but American Express beat them to the punch by introducing Shop Small, an effort to celebrate (and shop at) local businesses.  

My Shop Small Saturday plans will start in downtown Ashland, and include browsing through the unique gift items at Enjoy!, tasting the fabulous desserts at Perks, picking up fresh-baked breads at The Giving Earth, and drooling over gift ideas for the lovely Madelyn Simone at Kid’s Kountry. I’ll take a longing look at the art in the gallery space in RedRed, and wander through Home Hardware, gazing at gift items in Mill Creek or a new tool for my sons’ toolboxes

I’m not much of an on-line shopper, so I’ll pass on Cyber-Monday. But a little bird told me there’s a ribbon cutting downtown at Gallery 250 at 11:15 a.m. on November 26^th – can’t wait to see the stash of merchandise hidden behind the papered windows.

To round out my retail-related holiday celebration, I’ll shop on Claremont Avenue, and make some visits to businesses tucked away on the roads with no names scattered throughout the countryside, such as the Parsley Pot and the Olivesburg General Store. I’ll hold off until December 1 to spend time at the South Street Warehouse, when Ashland Main Street is sponsoring a Christmas Shopping Event, and then I’ll stick around for the Christmas parade – can’t wait. And I don’t want to forget the United Way Holiday Happenings at the Fairground December 6-8. I’ve got my eye on one of those baskets. I can feel it - this is going to be my year.

In a world filled with the Petraeus Pentagon, a looming fiscal cliff, and the aftermath of Sandy, I’m glad that my rite of passage provides time for some light-hearted retail therapy, even if it’s mostly window-shopping. I cherish the family celebrations and sacred moments, but I’m searching for hidden treasure in Ashland County this Christmas too. Share your suggestions at gracednotesministries@gmail.com.

Silver Bells

In Silver Bells, Bing Crosby and Carol Richards crooned of the silver bells that mark the arrival of Christmas in the city. It’s a great song, reminiscent of the days when downtown streets across America were filled with holiday shoppers, long before they began their mass exodus to the malls, the big box stores, and on-line specials.
While I enjoy hearing Silver Bells, one of my first piano selections, the Christmas bells I hear most often tend to be more functional in nature, as they’re found clanging rhythmically in search of funds to fill the Salvation Army kettle. The sound of the bell at the kettle can get annoying, as hour after hour it demands to be heard, and some merchants have forbidden the sound of those bells. Yet they faithfully ring on across the country, as much a part of American Christmas tradition as red-nosed Rudolph and the Christmas-stealing Grinch.

I was seduced by the sound of ringing bells at the age of fifteen, and I've spent forty-plus years in a love/hate relationship with their insistent tones. I've rung this bell in the snow of Western New York, in the shadow of Grand Central Station, and with my toddler at my side in New Jersey. It's followed me to Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Canton, and even turned up in our newest home in Ashland, Ohio, side-by-side with the Amish buggies and cow-tipping teens. I love this bell because it's insistent, forever calling attention to those on the margins. I hate it because it only wants to be held when the weather is cold, windy and wet.

I’ve looked at the kettle bell as a necessary evil, one that generates funding for Salvation Army mission, but I also hear another level of insistence in those bells: don’t forget. Don’t forget the poor, the outcast, the oppressed.  They are among you, rings the bell, your brothers and sisters.  They must not be lost in the shuffle of holiday spending. 

It is Luke who records the first public words of Jesus, heard in Nazareth’s synagogue, as he quotes Isaiah’s prophecy:

The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18).

From the poverty of his birth to the abandonment of his death, Jesus heard the voice of the poor. In communities like mine, they don’t sleep on the steps of city hall, but they live here, struggling from day to day. “Don’t forget,” rings the bell.  “In as much as you have done it unto the least of these . . .”

From Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer

 

The Day After: Now What

Now that the elections of 2012 are over, I find myself wondering, what happens on the day after for those whose hopes of leadership were dashed? Did Mitt and Ann stay in bed until noon on Wednesday, ordering room service and watching cartoons? I wonder how long it took for them to have The Conversation, to sit at the breakfast table, look into each other’s eyes, and ask, ”now what?” The question is huge for the Romneys. After months and years of relentless campaigning, is there a sense of relief for them that it’s finally over? Can they somehow be themselves instead of whoever the spinmeisters tell them to be?

Most of us have never run for political office, but we’ve been in a similar place.  The long and painful death, followed by the rituals of the wake and funeral. Then one morning the doorbell rings and it’s the delivery person to pick up the hospital bed from the corner of the living room. It’s over. We look at each other and say, “what now?”

The daily commute for the job we’ve loved (or hated) for 20, 30, 40 years. Now a plant closing, a pink slip or mandatory retirement has robbed us of our identity, of our livelihood. Now what? What can we do? What should we do?

Sometimes the “now what” question comes not from a sense of loss but with a sense of expectation. Thirty-seven years ago, Larry and I were newly married and had just arrived home from our honeymoon, when Larry’s dad gave him some counsel about marriage from his own wealth of experience. “Now, be sure to have JoAnn get up each morning and fix you breakfast.” I actually did wake up early on that first morning home, and may even have scrambled some eggs for Larry. But as my memory recalls the scenario, I turned from the stove and said to him, “If you think I’m going to do this every day for the rest of my life, think again.” Unlike our favorite United Way director, there’s no oatmeal for Larry on a chilly morning.

Now what? While in some situations it’s a question tinged with sorrow, there may be an unspoken sense of relief and anticipation, even with loss. I’m not sure that we’ll hear the Romneys say it out loud, but there does come a time when we trade one dream for another and get on with life. What an opportunity they have to make a difference, even if not in the White House.

Look at Jimmy Carter, now age 88, with his support for Habitat for Humanity and his work for peace in the Middle East.  Remember Dan Quayle? I had to turn to Google to get the scoop on James Danforth Quayle, 44^th vice president of the United States, but since losing the re-election campaign in 1992, he’s written The American Family: Discovering the Values That Make Us Strong, redeeming his Murphy Brown comment that took some flack during the campaign.  And Al Gore? The young man whose desire at age 18 was to one day write novels has won the Nobel Peace Prize for his advocacy in the area of climate change.

Loss – even on such a public stage – does not mean the end.  Nor does it mean the end on our own private stages. Bell Hooks, writing in All About Love, reminds us: “Contrary to what we may have been taught to think, unnecessary and unchosen suffering wounds us but need not scar us for life. It does mark us. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands.”

Yes, Mr. Romney, as you noted in your concession speech, you left everything on the field. You gave your all to the campaign. And, regardless of political affiliation, we salute you for your dedication to America. So what now? Here’s my advice to Ann and Mitt from my four-month foray into a change of life-direction. Get some rest. Spend time with those 18 grandchildren. And then, as Frederick Buechner reminds us, follow your heart to the place where your deep gladness meets the world’s deep need.

The Dawn Comes

While there’ve been many hurricanes in my lifetime, Providentially, I’ve only had to be on a first-name basis with a few of them. Just last year, I had an up close and personal encounter with Lee, the sneaky little brother who crept into my husband’s hometown on the coattails of his big sister Irene. Irene was predicted to hit New York City, but she failed to live up to her potential of destruction last fall. However, it was the effects of Lee that overflowed the usually placid Susquehanna River in New York and Pennsylvania. Called in to survey the damage as a part of the Salvation Army’s response team, I witnessed mile after mile of flooded homes and businesses, only blocks from my university and a stone’s throw from Mama Lena’s, the site of our first date.

We all remember Katrina, who took on New Orleans and her neighbors with a vengeance and forced them to their knees. Can it really be seven years since her unwelcome visit? For months, Larry was responsible to staff Salvation Army response teams in Louisiana and Mississippi, so even though miles away, Katrina’s path of devastation intersected with our path.

Fortunately for residents of Ohio, our state is generally not hit hard by hurricanes or earthquakes - we’re more prone to blizzards and flooding. We’ve also had killer tornados and a derecho or two. Yes, I had to look it up, and found that a derecho is a widespread, long-lived windstorm with a fast-moving band of severe thunderstorms.  The best known was the Ohio Fireworks Derecho, hitting hard on July 4, 1969 and  capsizing over 100 boats on Lake Erie as they waited for the fireworks to begin.

Yet now we Ohioans have gotten to know Hurricane Sandy, nicknamed Frankenstorm, who slowly made our acquaintance over the past few days. As the ancient maple in our backyard creaked and groaned, I tossed and turned through the night of October 29, 2012, my husband’s 62^nd birthday. I kept thinking, if only the dawn would come. If only we could get through the night. If only the sun would rise so we could determine the extent of the damage Hurricane Sandy brought to our homes and our families, and to the lives of those in the face of the storm.  Charles Wesley’s hymn echoed: “And are we yet alive, and see each other’s face?”

That’s the kind of night it was, with the swaying trees and the tenacious winds that disrupted sleep and threatened power failure even here in Ohio, hundreds of miles from the epicenter of the storm. A couple of days early for All Hallow’s Eve, the night was spooky enough for me, but it was nothing like the tempest our friends to the east were facing.

 Life lessons are many in the scenario of disaster, but two particularly clamor for my attention. The first is the absolute helplessness that’s found in the center of the storm. One newscast interviewed a small enclave of New Yorkers on the afternoon of the 29^th, who with much bravado and misplaced courage, chose to disregard evacuation orders and remained in their homes. By midnight, as the waters rose outside their windows, they were desperate for rescue, unable to battle Sandy any longer. It was time to retreat.

Yet along with the helplessness experienced at the moment of disaster, the dawn still comes. Clouded or brightly shining, the sun rises again. What is terrorizing in the dark of night can be faced in the light of daybreak.  Even the wreckage from the storm.

I appreciate what Shauna Niequist tells us in Bittersweet: Thoughts on Change, Grace, and Learning the Hard Way: “We sometimes choose the most locked up, dark versions of the story, but what a good friend does is turn on the lights, open the window, and remind us that there are a whole lot of ways to tell the same story.” When the story of disaster is told, here’s praying that the utter helplessness faced by her prey will be coupled with tales of unexpected light, the hand of a friend, and the dawn of a new day.

Ding Dong Merrily on High

DING DONG MERRILY ON HIGH

 

As young Salvation Army officers-in-training, our first quarter of classes ended around Thanksgiving, just in time for a long-awaited break from the classroom. Within hours, the relief over the “no more pencils, no more books” cheer would be replaced by the ringing of bells, as the more than 60 cadets in our session hit the streets of Manhattan to get indoctrinated into the fine art of Christmas kettling. Yes, I know that spell check doesn’t recognize that as a verb, but in our lexicon it surely is. 

Most of us had ‘stood on kettles’ at some time in the past, as I had done as a teen-ager at the old Twin Fair in Tonawanda, New York. But this was New York City, where we’d spend the next five weeks begging the throngs of people to stop and, as the old ditty reminds us, “put a nickel in the drum, save another drunken bum.” Larry and I drew the early shift, which meant we would awaken long before the sun appeared, to begin our shift at Grand Central Station at 6 a.m. – yes, for those who know me, that was 6 in the morning.

Those were the days when female cadets were expected to stand kettles in full uniform, including a skirt and the requisite bonnet. It took me about two days to figure out that with boots and a cape, I could manage long underwear under my skirt and no one would know the difference. 

We were fortunate that we both played a brass instrument, so were assigned to a quartet, expected to fill the air with carols for eight hours a day, rain or snow, sleet or hail.  Some of our friends didn’t fare as well, working solo on a drafty corner in the Wall Street district, so we were grateful for the music assignment, as it made the day pass more quickly.

After a few days we fell into a routine. We’d arrive early enough to get the ninety-nine cent breakfast at the greasy spoon across the street, pancakes or eggs to fill us up for the day’s adventures. We’d play through the carol book once to catch the rush hour crowd, and then take turns heading into Grand Central to thaw out for a few minutes. Lunch would consist of the sandwiches we’d brought, as we hoarded the meal allowance to purchase Christmas gifts for family. Then back to the street corner, hoping our lips would hold out until our replacements arrived. 

Oh, the stories. As we chatted in the van on the way back to Suffern, the stories would tumble out. Did you see that? Do you know what so-and-so did? We saw it all during those days, as thousands of people passed by us every hour. Our favorite story was the documentary film-maker who thrust the boom mike in our faces and asked, ‘do you eat grits?’ To this day I’ve not eaten them, but chuckle when I see them on the menu.    

I’m not sure if the Salvation Army has a written statement that indicates the reasoning for this particular practice. Certainly it provides some income to the Salvation Army while also increasing the presence of uniformed Salvationists on the streets of New York. There is also the sense of discipline it gives to the young people, but even more so, it provides each cadet with a deep appreciation for the efforts of the thousands of kettle workers that they’ll meet over their years of Salvation Army service.

Those days on the streets of New York didn’t fully prepare us for the year in Hough when we had two kettle workers arrested (one got in a fight on the kettle, another moved someone’s car from in front of the store – without a license), and another murdered by her boyfriend. That was the hardest kettle season, but each year brings its own stories that may one day grace the pages of my believe-it-or-not memoir. While some areas use a temp service to staff the kettles, we’ve not gone that route, preferring to hire (and fire) from our community. Some eliminated themselves easily, by dropping the tweezers into the kettle while trying to extricate a dollar or two from the locked pot, or by cussing out the store manager. In the most infamous act of cussing, the accused worker said, “It wasn’t me. I don’t cuss.” “So how did the manager know your name?” “Oh, that’s easy – my name’s on my %$#* nametag.” Oops!

So has it been worth it? While I haven’t kept an accurate accounting, I’d guess that over our thirty-two Christmas kettle seasons, we’ve been responsible for the kettle workers who’ve collected more than 2 million dollars. We’ve met some amazing people who’ve ministered to thousands through their faithful presence and allowed us to share for a moment in time in their story. Certainly there are less time-consuming ways to raise funds, but Christmas without a Salvation Army kettle just wouldn’t be Christmas. So the Salvation Army rings on, grateful for the bell that calls us to remember the needs of others and provides those with little means the opportunity to contribute to the well-being of all within the community.            

from Christmas Memories: Reflections of a Smitten Believer