A Melted Rabbit

As I was fixing a small Easter basket for the lovely Madelyn Simone, the world’s most beautiful granddaughter, my thoughts drifted back half a century to the Easter baskets of my childhood. While there wasn’t nearly the hype of Christmas, we did have our family traditions. We always dyed the Easter eggs at the kitchen table, using a special set of cups for the eggs so the food coloring wouldn’t stain the good china. Before church on Easter morning, we’d scramble to find our baskets hidden so stealthily by the Easter Bunny himself, and then made sure to play a round or two of upper-upper before heading out the door.  

 When I googled “upper upper Easter eggs” there were no responses, which made me wonder – was that only a game someone in my family made up, or was there some kind of cultural significance to it? I did put the question out to my 1525 Facebook friends and family, and discovered it to be a Greek tradition, one that apparently made its way into my childhood home through my grandfather’s Philadelphia family. It’s an activity that involves a light tapping of the end of one hard-boiled egg by another, with the champion’s egg emerging unscathed.  I do recall a few tears shed when my gloriously dyed egg got smashed by my over-enthusiastic younger brother, while my sister confesses to leaving her egg in the dye a few extra minutes in the hope her eggshell would be strengthened for the battle.

In the early 60’s, one Easter Sunday dawned as a perfect spring day, and my parents decided to take my brother and I to the Buffalo Zoo after church. Enthralled with the chocolate rabbit in my Easter basket, I demanded to take it with me. Yes, I could take it, but no, I couldn’t promenade around the zoo swinging my basket – it had to stay in the car. By the time we’d exhausted our parents and returned to the parking lot, Peter Cottontail was a puddle of chocolate in its cellophane wrapper – and, because he had followed my lead, my brother’s chocolate was melted as well.

It’s remarkable how those moments of disappointment become etched in our memory for decades. It was a tough lesson for that little girl to swallow, particularly since I was the one who insisted that the basket of candy accompany us that warm spring afternoon. A generation later, we seldom took our sons to the zoo, and I wonder if that melted bunny set up that deprived childhood.

From the perspective of adulthood, I only wish that the distresses and devastations of life were as harmless as a melted chocolate rabbit or a cracked Easter egg. Life is difficult, and while Jesus taught that the Father “causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous” (Matthew 5:45), some difficult circumstances come as a direct result of our actions, intentional or not. And while the Christian faith teaches forgiveness, that forgiveness does not eliminate the role of consequence in our lives.

Yet Christianity’s lessons, as well as the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, do extend the opportunity to make amends to those we’ve harmed. Apologies alone can be cheap if they don’t result in a change of our behavior, but making amends provides for restoration – directly or indirectly. The Hazeldon website describes it this way: “Sometimes people talk about "living" amends. This simply means that we live differently. Amends are about a genuine change in our behavior instead of the patchwork of an apology. We take on a whole new way of life. We stop accumulating fresh insults to our selves and others.”

Perhaps it’s not too late for me to make amends. We’re heading to my mother’s home for Easter, and I’m feeling prodded to stop at Sweeties or the Candy and Nut Shoppe to buy a chocolate rabbit for my brother. I’ll also courageously offer up my colored egg for destruction to all comers in the Upper Upper duel. But I’m drawing the line at taking the lovely Madelyn Simone to the zoo – at least by myself! A blessed Easter to you and yours.

Teased

As a result of a childhood scarred by sibling rivalry, I do not like to be tickled, and I do not like to be teased. Don’t call me by my middle name in a sing-song voice, don’t threaten to bury my favorite doll in the sandbox, don’t call me Olive Oyl, don’t hold me down and tickle me. I don’t like it – and by the way, Dr. Seuss, I don’t like green eggs and ham either.

We’re familiar with the scenario – we have our personalized details, but the plot is the same.  And, much like bullying, the more the victim whines, cries or complains to mom, the more the teaser teases.  Not the happiest of childhood memories for any of us, I’m sure. (Note to self: don’t be too quick to forget the role of the bossy older sister in the rivalry). P.S. we get along fine today.

The mental health worker in me realizes that tickling and teasing can be actions a person in power foists on someone with less power. It may start out with good-hearted intentions, but all too often teasing ends up being a kid brother to bullying. I was curious to see what the experts had to say about this, so I did some research on the subject, and I discovered Dr. Dacher Keltner, who has developed a definition of teasing: “an intentional provocation accompanied by playful off-record markers that together comment on something relevant to the target.”

OK. Putting it into everyday language, teasing is either words or actions designed to provoke another person, and what separates it from bullying is the marker – the smile, the laugh, the irony, the sing-song voice, the exaggeration. Peter Gray, another expert on the subject, suggests that teasing has valuable purposes - it can express acceptance, promote humility, and can be used as a means of correction and social control or a test of social relationship. I don’t know, Dr. Gray – I not sure my brother’s teasing expressed acceptance or promoted humility in me –I thought it expressed an “I don’t like you” attitude and promoted humiliation in me.

I’m feeling somewhat teased these days, not by my brother anymore, but by the promise of spring. Yes, I know we’re a few days short of the official first day of spring, but it definitely tickled us with its warm fingertips as we basked in a 70 degree day this past Sunday – It was so warm the temperature broke a record – I read about it on the front page of the T-G so it must be so.

Ah, spring, you are such a tease. You tempt us with the pale blue crocus arising in the midst of the winter-ravaged yards. You whisper your promise in the fragile paperwhites that cluster near the fence. Bathing suits on the racks at Wal-Mart, a cardinal in our maple tree, and lots of traffic at the A&W – surely the days of winter are numbered. Now would someone please inform the snow-maker that it’s time to pack it in for the season?

The promise of spring makes me wonder if the lovely Madelyn Simone is old enough yet to read bits and pieces of Burnett’s “The Secret Garden.”  Do you remember the line when Colin asks Mary, “Is the spring coming?’ and she replies, “It is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth?” What a perfect description.

Yes, springtime, you’re provoking me, but unlike the teasing of my brother so many years ago, I can accept your taunting, because I know that by March 20, the Vernal Equinox, Old Man Winter will be officially banished from these parts as you send him on his way. I’m so ready. I’m ready to pack away the boots and parkas. I’m ready to fly a kite. I’m ready for March Madness to start, cheering on our Buckeyes and Lady Eagles. And I’m more than ready to proclaim, as Rainer Maria Rilke did so many years ago, “It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart.” Ready or not, spring is on its way!   

No More Chocolate

At the beginning of March, usually about half-way through Lent, I get together with colleagues to plan a regional social services conference. While our planning goal is important, I especially look forward to this annual lunch because I know my friend Beth will have a “giving up for Lent” story for me. Her children attend a Catholic school, and as a part of their religious education, they are asked to give something up for Lent, the period of forty days (not counting Sundays) prior to Easter.

This year, her daughter is giving up ketchup and ranch again, a tough combination for a young teen who loves to dip everything in those condiments. Beth’s seven-year-old son, after a rough patch last year with M & M’s (his second favorite candy only to Skittles), chose to give up annoying his sister this year – very good for his sister! And Beth – her annual “giving up” is swearing – not that her normal conversation is peppered with expletives, but there are times . . .

Unlike my Catholic friends, Lenten abstinence has not been a required part of my faith tradition, either in my Presbyterian roots or in my Salvation Army practice. I’ve tried giving up something for Lent a few times, and felt pretty guilty as I bit into a Hershey bar with almonds and suddenly remembered – oops, I gave up chocolate for Lent. After my 40 day fast from chocolate that year, the ears of the chocolate rabbit tasted better on Easter morning, but I’m not sure that’s the point.     

When I first heard Beth talking about this, her daughter was only in first grade, and I wondered whether it was right for a religion (or a religious school or parent) to expect small children to do this. Could a child even begin to understand what it means, this small symbol of self-denial, this remembrance of Christ’s ultimate sacrifice? Should a young child be expected to make that kind of sacrifice, even if he/she chooses what to give up? What does that teach them about faith, about life?

These are good questions. Looking beyond the practice’s spiritual implications, it also raises important questions about the path to maturity. As I observe the lovely Madelyn Simone, age 3, I clearly see the face of human desire unrestrained. If she could articulate her desire, it would be in these words: “If I want it, I need to have it.” As parents (yes, and even as a smitten grandmother), we understand that she cannot have everything she wants. She can’t have candy for lunch. She can’t spend an entire winter day in a sundress (well, maybe a few minutes during our dress-up time). And there’s even a limit on the Nana’s donuts. It is up to us, the adults who love her, to put these limits on Madelyn no matter how persuasive she is.

As children mature, those who successfully navigate the development process begin to understand the need for self-discipline, and as they mature, they are motivated less by the threat of punishment and begin to understand the concept of delayed gratification. Whether in the use of our time, our choice of food, our propensity to annoy our sibling, or our colorful vocabulary, we discover that we can make choices that increase our productivity at work, benefit our health, improve our family relationships, and control our tongues from offensive language. Mature children and adults take responsibility for their choices – they don’t look to the mayor to limit the size of their soft drink. 

Writing for the Huffington Post, Neela Kale comments: “So maybe your mom was on to something when she had you give up Oreos or your favorite TV show as a child. An experience of want, however temporary, can help us to appreciate the true abundance in our lives. And a small positive change can have a big impact that lasts beyond the 40 days of Lent.” She’s right, so while I’m too late to make it the full forty days, it’s never too late for a bit of self-discipline. If I eat the Cadbury chocolate mini eggs today, I could start tomorrow . . .  

 

In My Lifetime

Have you heard of Kathrine Switzer? No? Neither had I, until I saw a 1967 photo that was making the rounds on Facebook recently. In 1967, Ms. Switzer entered the Boston Marathon as K.V. Switzer, at a time when women were not allowed to participate in that race (or in many other athletic opportunities). As she ran that day, one of the race organizers, Jock Semple, jumped off the media truck and began yelling at her, attempting to physically force her out of the race. Ms Switzer had vowed that she would complete the marathon, saying, "I'm going to finish this race on my hands and knees if I have to, because nobody believes that I can do this." Those running with her provided her a shield of protection throughout the race and she finished the course in 4 hours and 20 minutes.

I thought of Kathrine’s story as I watched the Ashland University women’s basketball team in action last week. While I wasn’t able to get to their last regular season home game, I did catch the re-broadcast on the university television channel (channel 20 on cable). What an amazing team of gifted young women. It’s obvious that they love what they’re doing and that they work very hard at it, for their smiles, skills and determination tell that story. What an opportunity they have to be ambassadors for our community and our university through their sport – but it hasn’t always been that way.

Whether we’re talking about women’s rights and opportunities, about civil rights, or even about Social Security and Medicare, it doesn’t hurt to be reminded from time to time that the world as we know it hasn’t always been like this. As much as it seems that Social Security has been around forever, it was first signed into law in 1935, less than 80 years ago, and its income support in old age is what allows my mother to continue to live independently at age 90 – and it does the same for many in our town as well.

Thirty years later, both Medicare and Medicaid were instituted in 1965 – that’s within my lifetime. We can entertain a great deal of discussion about the costs, benefits, and practices of Medicare and Medicaid, but I don’t want to go back to the time when the poor and the elderly were unable to access medical care.

The landmark civil rights act was approved in 1964, just a year before Medicare and Medicaid. As I watch my young friends of varied race and ethnic backgrounds walk down the street together and sit in the classroom together, I have no interest in turning the clock back to the years of separate and (possibly) equal that was a part of America’s cultural landscape well into the 60’s – within my lifetime.

And it wasn’t until 1972, about the time that I was applying to college, that women were officially allowed to run in the Boston Marathon. Now I will make it perfectly clear that I have no intention of running in the Boston Marathon (or any other marathon), but I am grateful that if I wanted to punish my body that way, I could!

What’s the connection to today? I’ve had a chance to watch a portion of the PBS series, “Makers: Women Who Make America,” and its stories take me back to a time in the not-so-distant past when gender, skin color, age, poverty and other “categories” defined people in destructive ways.

That series is a powerful reminder for me that when we tell the story of AU basketball star Kari Daugherty and her incredible teammates, we also have to tell the story of Kathrine Switzer. When we tell the story of Senator Marco Rubio and his bright future, we also must tell the story of Army Private Félix Longoria. And when we tell the stories of social security recipients in our families and in our community, we must also tell the story of Ohio-born Jacob Coxey and his march on Washington. The stories of the past are ours to hear and to tell; their courage is ours to remember and to repeat.