A Dark and Silent Night

“It was a dark and stormy night.” These classic words, used by Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his 19^th century novel Paul Clifford, are often called the worst opening lines of literature. He obviously hadn’t read novelist Elmore Leonard’s ten rules for good writing, as rule number one is direct: “Never open a book with weather.”

Yet how else can I say it? It was a dark and silent night as we left Jake’s Steakhouse with a full belly, happy and satisfied. Silent, that is, until I paused to listen to the echo on the wind. What’s that faint disturbance in the air? As my palms began to sweat, my ears recognized the clang of the Salvation Army kettle bell, wafting across the expanse of parking lot and street from its position outside of Buehlers Food Market. The Salvation Army’s Christmas Kettle Campaign has begun!

The notes of those bells have been a familiar companion to me for longer than I want to admit. Mention the now defunct Twin Fair Discount Department Store in the Buffalo, New York area, and my body shivers in its memory of the frigid nights ringing that bell as a teenager. Grand Central Station in mid-town Manhattan was a daily assignment in the late 70’s, an eye-opening exposé of life in the Big Apple for a New Yorker from the other end of the state. I’ve rung that blasted (oh, I mean blessed) bell in New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, and its notes have even invaded my dreams from time to time.

Drama aside, the Salvation Army bell has been an effective fund-raising tool since 1891, when Captain Joseph McFee placed an empty kettle at the Oakland Ferry Landing with a sign reading, “Keep the Pot Boiling.” His goal was to collect funds for Christmas dinner for the poor of San Francisco. More than one hundred years later, donations to the Red Kettle Campaign provide up to 20% of the local unit’s annual operating budget in some locations, supporting low-income families long after the Christmas stockings are packed away.

Over my more than forty years of Salvation Army involvement, I’ve heard the prediction of the demise of the Christmas kettle time and again. When some malls banned the ringing bell, creative workers resorted to flipping a hand sign, “ding, dong,” while others used puppets and ventriloquist dummies to capture the attention of potential donors. Keeping with the changing times, the Salvation Army has experimented with kettles that accept credit cards or display the QR code, and offers an online Red Kettle experience minus the annoying bell and glacial temperatures for the less intrepid among us.

Like other charities, the Salvation Army also uses the mail to request donations. My ninety year old mother has gotten on more than forty of those charitable mailing lists, including the Cold War Patriots, the Smile Train, and Cal Farley’s – all worthy causes to someone, but often overwhelming to a generation who feels obligated to give when asked. I’ve spent about five hours visiting websites this week, requesting her name be removed from their mailings, definitely a more difficult task than making a donation in her name.

I’ve sat at most of the chairs around the charitable giving table, strategizing fund-raising ideas, supporting United Way, counting the coins dropped into the kettle, writing a personal check to a cause I support, evaluating grant requests, and worrying long into the night when the pot is empty. I long for the day when charitable fund-raising is unnecessary because our neighbors no longer need the services of the Salvation Army and other agencies of our community, but that day hasn’t come, and so the bell rings on with its plaintive call: “remember the poor.”

Just as I’ve had to consign my typewriter and eight-track player to the dustbin, the day may come when the Salvation Army bell is heard no more at shopping locations across our country, remembered only as a nostalgic symbol of Christmas past. Other fund-raising gimmicks (oh, I mean tools) will be explored, and the work of charity will continue, but for me, if or when that call to remember is silenced, it will indeed be “a dark and silent night.”

 

 

I Am Thankful . . .

Since the arrival of social media in my world, I’ve gotten in the habit of spending at least thirty minutes a day keeping up with my 1725 friends, therefore robbing myself of at least thirty minutes of creative writing time each day. If only I could give up this addictive stalking through Facebook, I could have my dreamed-of novel done in a year by utilizing those stolen minutes. Yet social media does have its benefits, as I am able to connect with people across the world, learn of prayer needs for those I’m not in touch with every day, and confirm my belief that the lovely Madelyn Simone is indeed the most beautiful and amazing grandchild on the planet.

Social media can also be a lifesaver when I need ideas for my writing. Take, for example, the “I am thankful” postings that many are doing each day in November. It’s fascinating to see how ideas spread, for with one mention on social media, half of the world’s population is twerking, revealing nine (or six or three) random pieces of information about themselves, or taking the time to articulate their thankfulness for life.

By listing the reasons for thankfulness, many have followed the counsel of hymn writer Johnson Oatman, Jr., to “count your blessings, name them one by one.” Here are some favorites from my friends:

“I am thankful for clearance racks and discount sales.” Yep, where would I be without my 30% off coupon and clearance sales?

“So thankful for my cornbag, which I heated and placed on my head and cheeks and took a nice long nap with when I got home!” What’s a cornbag? And why put it on your head?

“I’m thankful for Orville and Wilbur Wright. I hate flying. I white knuckle every take off and landing – but without flying, my beloved would still be on the other side of the world.” I’m a white-knuckler too, so I appreciated this one for sure.

“I’m thankful for our king-sized bed.” Me too, for even though our kids don’t make an early morning appearance any longer, it still has its benefits.

“I’m thankful for books, for reading.” After a successful afternoon at the library book sale last week, so am I. If I ration myself to one novel per week, I’m definitely good until the next sale. Thank you, Friends of the Library! 

“I am thankful that my husband is away. I know that might sound strange, but he is a happy man this weekend.” While this particular woman was thankful that her husband was doing something he enjoyed, I had an alternative reaction, as I’m thankful for the hours when the house is quiet and I have some alone time. Perhaps Thoreau went too far when he said, “I have never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude,” but I appreciate the wisdom of Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “Women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves; that firm strand that will be the indispensible center of a whole web of human relationships.”

As for me, I’m thankful for friends who share their thoughts of gratitude by way of Facebook so I don’t have to remember to do it every day. By the time Thanksgiving Day finally arrives, those disciplined enough to write each day about their personal thanks will have twenty-eight morsels of gratitude to savor along with the turkey and pumpkin pie, and they’ve given me hundreds of thankful ideas to reflect on as well. For whether we’ve shared our thanks with the world via Facebook or not, the celebration of Thanksgiving invites us to give thanks for sunshine and rain, family and friends, freedom and faith, and much more.      

Since I’ve blatantly commandeered the words of others for my column today, I’ll end with a quote from Henry Ward Beecher, a nineteenth-century clergyman and social reformer: “Remember God's bounty in the year. String the pearls of His favor. Hide the dark parts, except so far as they are breaking out in light! Give this one day to thanks, to joy, to gratitude!” A blessed Thanksgiving to you and yours.

A Day in Dallas

I remember it so clearly: November 22, 1963, a day the world changed forever. For those of us alive in 1963, that afternoon was a defining moment for sure. I asked a few people about their memory of that fateful Friday, and every one of them immediately knew where they were when they first heard the news.

In front of a locker after his ninth grade gym class at Bennett High School, Mike listened to his principal’s voice over the loudspeaker – President Kennedy has been assassinated. Karen was in eighth grade when her principal whispered the news to the nun teaching her class, and the children immediately knelt in prayer on the wooden floor, praying for the dead president’s soul and the bereaved family. Larry remembers crying as he walked home, unsure of why the tears fell so freely. And as a college student at Valparaiso, Judy first heard the news in her dorm room, and can still see students streaming into the chapel as the university president, clothed in his black cassock, fell to his knees in prayer. The chapel bell tolled on and on, Judy recalled, and across the country tears flowed from eyes old and young, black and white, Republican and Democrat. Our president was dead.

I was in third grade with Miss Kramer, the most beautiful teacher in the world, when she was called into the hallway. With tears of her own, she told us that the President, our beloved president, was dead. Days of communal mourning followed, when the only television broadcasts were from Dallas, Washington, and the network newsrooms. Over and over again, we watched replays of the motorcade, the swearing in of LBJ, and the subsequent killing of Lee Harvey Oswald as he was escorted out of the Dallas Police Headquarters.

Regardless of political affiliation, Americans were glued to the television, disbelief mingling with profound grief, fear and anger. Jackie Kennedy’s pink pillbox hat, a toddler saluting his father’s coffin, the rider-less horse – the scenes flash through my mind as though they were yesterday, not fifty years ago. I still have my scrapbook, filled with newsprint detailing the Kennedy story, preserving the history of that time and place. There’s even a letter from Jackie Kennedy nestled on its pages, thanking the little girl for her donation to the JFK Library, for I’d sold hand-made potholders up and down my street to contribute to the preservation of Kennedy’s memory.

While the horrors of 9-11 and the image of the Challenger explosion are imprinted forever on my mind, the death of JFK and the resulting shock waves that coursed across the nation were like nothing I’ve experienced since. The adage is true: if you weren’t alive then, you will never really know what it was like. It was a different world in those days, and, in ways I can’t fully understand or explain, the world changed forever on that sun-kissed day in Dallas, for me and for our country. At age eight, I was a stranger to tragedy, and still shudder that this initial introduction was so profound, so devastating to the hope of a little girl. Yet I was not alone, as a nation mourned deeply as well. Even the bugler cracked on the sixth note of Taps. Said one historian, “It’s like the bugle was weeping.”

Looking back through the eyes of a child, I was drawn to our country’s royal family, with its dark-haired children scampering in the halls of the White House. I didn’t know much about the Bay of Pigs or the rumors of the passion-driven president, about backroom political deals or any of the dirt the muck-rakers would dig up in the intervening years. I only knew that the president, our president, was dead.

As we mark the fiftieth anniversary of the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35^th president of the United States, we remember. And as we remember, we honor the grief of a family steeped in tragedy, we mourn the loss of innocence of a generation’s children, and we wonder what might have been, had an assassin’s bullet not destroyed the happily ever after promise of Camelot. Indeed, Johnny, we hardly knew ye.

Stretching Out the Holidays

A friend posted the following on Facebook:” I love all my FB friends, but those of you who already have your Christmas decorations up are making me feel even further behind than I did before. I don't even have all my fall decorations out yet.”That’s my story. I used to have really cute Halloween decorations, including ceramic pumpkins with my son’s names as teeth (created during my ceramic period), but I never managed to get them out until a day or two before Halloween. Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted – I certainly didn’t inherit the holiday decorating gene from my mother, who, even at age ninety, puts a red, white and blue bow in the flowers for the Fourth of July.

Wait a minute on the Christmas decorations. Isn’t there a rule that we can’t put Christmas trees up before Thanksgiving? That’s right up there with the “no white shoes before Memorial Day” decree. I know retailers have to prepare ahead of the season, but I’m just not ready to hear “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” every time I turn on the radio.

Our current cultural climate stretches holidays out for weeks on end, which worked out great for the lovely Madelyn Simone. Instead of wearing her Little Red Riding Hood costume once, she got to escape the Big Bad Wolf at the grocery store, in her Mee-Maw’s neighborhood, in her neighborhood, and skipping down Main Street here in Ashland at the Costume Capers. If she lived a bit closer to us, we would have done the Monster Mash, (the Halloween movie night sponsored by Main Street Ashland), Tuffy’s party at Ashland University, the Pumpkin Parade at the Ashland Kroc Center, and trick-or-treat in our neighborhood. A candy-loving kid could be set for life!

Does stretching out the celebration threaten to dilute the specialness of the holiday itself? Not that Halloween is quite the commemorative event as is Memorial Day or Veteran’s Day, but my memories of a childhood Halloween have a sense of one-day uniqueness to them: counting down the days in anticipation, assembling the costume, trekking down the block to knock on the doors of neighbors (only those with their porch lights on), inhaling the scent of scorched pumpkin, and dividing up of the goods on the living room floor, sneaking the Good and Plenty out of my little brother’s pile when he wasn’t looking.

As this idea whirls and swirls through my mind, it leads me to ponder – how did we get from a night of trick-or-treating to a season of Halloween happenings? And, moving ahead to December, how did we get from a baby in the manger to a holiday season that seemingly jumps right over Thanksgiving’s turkeys to the barking dogs singing Jingle Bells? I don’t think there’s a cosmic social planner with a five-year strategic plan to increase our holiday participation by 10%. Life just happens, right?

Ah, that’s the challenge, isn’t it? Contrary to popular opinion, we can choose to put some parameters around our own holiday celebrations. Looking ahead to Christmas (only 45 shopping days away), we can refuse to watch A Christmas Story more than once this year, even during its twenty-four hour Christmas Eve marathon – fa-ra-ra-ra-ra. We can choose gifts for those we love that won’t bankrupt us, or we can splurge on a dream gift just because we can. We can reach out to the other side of the railroad tracks or across an ocean, with an angel tree gift for a little one in our own community or with a shoebox stuffed with goodies for Operation Christmas Child. We can gather with others of our faith traditions, and we can sit alone in the darkness of a winter evening, light a candle and say a prayer.

There’s no Christmas tree for us yet, but I am anticipating the joys of Thanksgiving and the excitement of Christmas, especially with a three-year-old in the mix. And after all is said and done, I’m following Andy Rooney’s advice: “One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly.”

Dream-Weavers

I’ve enjoyed creating Christmas gifts for years, ranging from holiday goodies to ceramic Christmas trees. In my ceramic period, one year I cleaned, fired, and glazed tiny sheep, shepherds, and Magi to provide a nativity set for each home in our family circle. Fortunately, those days are over – way too much pressure to finish in time for the trip to the Empire State.

Saying farewell to the clay dust on my fingers, I turned to a more manageable task, composing a new Christmas carol or writing some kind of prose project each year. The last four years, I’ve created a book of daily devotional readings for the month of December, and I just completed this year’s offering, Faces of Advent for Christ-Seekers. As I studied those with a role in the nativity narrative, the dreams woven through this ancient story caught my attention, especially the dreams of Joseph. His dream of annunciation is a familiar one, as is the warning to escape to Egypt, but his third dream seemed to be a dream of possibility for the future in the family’s return to Israel.

This third type of dream, of possibilities even in the midst of daunting circumstances, is the theme for this year’s United Way campaign here in Ashland County. With a mission “to improve lives and serve as the leader for change in Ashland County by uniting the caring power of our community,” that mission is coming true, day in and day out, as its leaders and supporters dream of what the future can be for our neighbors who struggle to dream for themselves.

As a child, I stationed myself in front of the television at 4:30 p.m. to watch Queen for a Day, which one reviewer called “one of the most ghastly shows ever produced.” Ghastly or not, I was intrigued by the stories of the contestants, who spoke of the need for medical care or equipment to help a chronically ill child, or of the hope for a hearing aid, a new washing machine, or a refrigerator. After the women told their stories of woe, the audience voted on who deserved to be queen for a day. The winner was crowned, draped in a red velvet robe, and then received her dream gift along with a new wardrobe, a vacation trip, or a brand new set of pots and pans.

I tried to think up a sob story to get my mother on the show, but we didn’t have the dramatic story line to catch the attention of the producers. My dad was able to get work most of the time, we were generally healthy, and we were not struck by the catastrophic occurrences that marked the lives of the Queen for a Day contestants. Our story is not every family’s story. I know many families, even right here in Ashland County, whose world is one of nightmare, not dreams. A dearly loved child has a chronic illness that taps their resources and their capacity to hope, their fantasy marriage turned abusive and ended in a messy divorce, or an adult child, trapped in addiction, abandoned their children on the grandparent’s doorstep, breaking their hearts one more time.

I’ve been in the social service field a long time, and I know that United Way and its partner agencies can’t play Queen for a Day; they’re not always able to make dreams come true. But services funded every day by United Way dollars can put healthy food on the table, provide a hopeful start for our little ones, and intervene when a home collapses, literally or figuratively, easing the sting of the nightmares of life.

The dream-weavers and dream-catchers of United Way strive to reduce barriers so that families stressed by tough situations can dream again, taking baby steps towards health and wholeness. I don’t think John Lennon ever visited Ashland, but he bore witness to the reality of this community when he sang, “you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” When we support United Way, we become dream-weavers, standing shoulder to shoulder with our neighbors and claiming Gary Wright’s words: “I believe we can reach the morning light.”