Heirlooms or Discards

My cluttered garage and I have been looking forward to this week for a long time, knowing that it’s finally our neighborhood’s turn to audition for Curbside American Pickers. Yes, you guessed it –this has been our week to be in the magic quadrant for Ashland’s annual spring clean-up.

I read the rules printed in the Times-Gazette and knew we weren’t supposed to put items out until Sunday night, but since our assigned Sunday was Easter, many of our neighbors began to haul their discards to the tree lawn on Saturday. Not wanting to interrupt our Easter dinner or Easter nap for that chore, we followed suit, dragging what seemed like a ton of stuff to the curb. Two couches, a rusty lawnmower, the shorted-out dehumidifier, a futon mattress and other odds and ends destroyed our curb appeal for a bit, and I was a bit worried we might exceed the three cubic yard maximum. I didn’t have time to obsess about that, because by Sunday afternoon, all that was left was a broken plant stand and a tired couch.

It’s been entertaining to watch the Ashland ‘pickers’ descend on our treasures. Some are on the look-out for metal, shoving bits and pieces into their pick-up trucks and vans. Others are checking out the items to see if there is anything they can use in their own homes, an adventure I’ve been known to partake in from time to time. One man lifted our lawnmower into his trailer, telling us that he’d have it running in no time. Obviously, one family’s trash is another family’s treasure.

It seems fitting that our quadrant’s spring clean-up week coincided with Earth Day 2014. Over the years, I’ve made a sincere attempt to be “green” conscious, recycling plastic, cans and newspapers, and conserving energy as much as I can. So I’ve been glad to see that much of what’s discarded is recycled in some way, either for parts, for use in someone’s home, or sold for scrap rather than dumped in a landfill.

As I walked around our neighborhood this week, I wondered about the stories our discarded possessions could tell if only they had a voice. What letters were written at the scarred desk? How many babies were cradled through the night in the rocking chair with the missing back? How many feverish children spent the day on the aged couch, accompanied by a cool washcloth, a glass of 7-Up, and a stream of endless cartoons?

Eyeballing the belongings that have now been kicked to the curb, I’ve also been wondering about what gives material items value. Why do we sometimes keep household goods long past their functionality? When is it time to let go? What do we continue to hold onto?

I discovered part of the answer to my questions when I visited with my mother recently. We got a chance to talk a bit about her possessions: the re-caned rocking chair that was Little Grandma’s, the 78 records we played while roller skating in the basement, and the beautiful pitcher that has been patched so carefully and brings so much enjoyment to my mom. Some are antiques, and some simply have sentimental value as they are connected to the one who gave a gift or created a memory.

Then there’s the olive green Dutch Girl clock/statue that’s about two feet tall. My dad used to tell us that if the house ever caught on fire, he’d rescue her so he could accidentally drop her in the driveway, because he didn’t want any of his children to have to inherit that ugly family heirloom. But I’m guessing that when the time comes for her to find a new home, one of us (children, grandchildren or even the one great-grandchild, the lovely Madelyn Simone) will save her from the curb. After all, as Elizabeth Aston wrote in Mr. Darcy’s Daughters, “Anyone may have diamonds: an heirloom is an ornament of quite a different kind.” That’s why my ugly Dutch Girl friend won’t spend her final days sitting on a threadbare couch on a Walnut Street tree lawn.

 

Space in our Souls

It’s been a long winter, and this week’s snow was a less-than-welcome sign that spring hasn’t yet pushed Old Man Winter out of the way. Thanks to our granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, I’ve seen the Frozen movie quite a few times, and as I scraped the ice off the windshield on Wednesday morning, I wondered if Elsa’s spell on Arendelle had extended its icy fingers to Ashland.

I’m disappointed I’ll be out of town on May 23 when the Downtown Walk-In Movie presents the sing-a-long version of Frozen, with the snowflake bouncing above the words. But maybe we’ll be able to watch Elsa, Anna and Olaf at the Kroc Center’s Movie Under the Stars on July 12^th. I guarantee it – there won’t be any snow on that date.

While Elsa claimed that the cold never bothered her anyway, I for one am more than ready for spring to come to stay, not to flirt with us for a few days and then play hide and seek. With John Denver, I’m ready to open up my ears, “and hear the breezes say, everything that’s cold and gray has gone.”

Maybe spring has been so late in its arrival because it’s been waiting for Easter. Last year Easter was on March 31, a bit sooner on the calendar, and in 2016, it will be as early as March 27. I’m afraid we may be wearing winter coats with our Easter bonnets that year.

I had to research why the date changes and how it is selected, and I discovered that the Council of Nicea (which met in 325 A.D.), set the date of Easter as the Sunday following the paschal full moon, which is the full moon that falls on or after the vernal (spring) equinox. Wouldn’t it have been easier if they had  chosen the third Sunday in April instead? Of course, had they done that, Easter could have conflicted with the great USA Tax Day on the 15^th of April. (That is another column, hopefully after a successful intervention by Procrastinators Anonymous prior to April 15, 2015.)

As much as we greet Easter as the ultimate sign of spring, those who follow a prophet from Galilee hold the days of Holy Week as the most significant in the calendar of faith. As such they also recognize the conflicting emotions experienced by believers during Holy Week and Resurrection Sunday, with its desperate sorrow and overwhelming joy. As the faithful gather in various expressions of worship during these days, those emotions are awakened by the songs of the passion of Christ, by the celebration of the sacrament of communion, and by the remembrance of the events of Jerusalem and Golgotha. As First United Methodist’s pastor Michael Namy reminded those gathered in worship on Maundy Thursday, Christians are powerfully shaped by the events of Holy Week as we “allow space in our souls in the present to be stirred by the Spirit of God.”

The liturgy and music of Holy Week help to draw us into that space. Many years ago, Larry and I attended a Tenebrae Service on Good Friday night. Known as a service of shadows, that particular evening ended as the light was extinguished and nails were pounded into a cross. We walked out in silence, into a world waiting in an in-between time. Jerusalem Jackson Greer describes it like this: “On Holy Saturday I do my best to live in that place, that wax-crayon place of trust and waiting. Of accepting what I cannot know. Of mourning what needs to be mourned. Of accepting what needs to be accepted. Of hoping for what seems impossible.”

We allow space in our souls for the holy through silence, through ritual, through liturgy, and through community. Perhaps in these hours of Holy Saturday and Easter Sunday, before we dig into the marshmallow peeps and chocolate bunnies, we can allow the space in our souls to be stirred once again by the promise of faith and the gift of new life.

 

The lovely Madelyn Simone enjoys coming to spend the night at Pop-Pop’s house about once a month. Upon her arrival, she makes her habitual rounds: watching the “baby” movie (the newborn video of our son Dan), stacking the Matryoshka dolls, and shining her Pop-Pop’s flashlight on the ceiling with much vigor.

She also likes to dig through the box of bracelets on my dresser, trying on the various baubles held within. One bracelet was a gift from a dear friend, who gathered together small pictures of the women in my life, including my mother, my sister, my daughter-in-law, and special friends. I wore that bracelet regularly, holding those precious women close to my heart through the death of my dad, the uprooting of our family from Canton, and even my dissertation defense. At some point it got consigned to the jewelry box, but those women remain dear to me in ways I will never forget. On each visit, Madelyn and I look at their faces together, naming them and telling a story or two about who they are. I do so with the prayer that she will have such precious and powerful women in her life some day.

Madelyn’s favorite, however, is the charm bracelet I wore as a young teen-ager. She invariably asks me, “What’s this, Nana? Why do you have a broken football on your bracelet?” Yes, Madelyn, the football broke, and since it was soldered on to my bracelet, I can’t get it off.

Just as pedal-pushers have been reborn into capris, so too has the charm bracelet survived a number of reincarnations. They were popular during the reign of Queen Victoria, and when her dear Prince Albert died, she even had “mourning charms” created, including lockets of his hair and miniature pictures of her beloved. 

In the 1940’s, charm bracelets went through a gumball phase, as children wore tiny plastic charms collected from gumball machines and candy boxes. These charms were worn on bracelets and dog tag chains, and included cartoon figures such as Betty Boop, Little Orphan Annie, and Mickey Mouse. And in recent years, many women cherish their Pandora bracelets, with the popular hearts, flowers, and cupcakes encircling their wrists.

In the late 60s, I received my own sterling silver bracelet, and would often find a tiny charm nestled in a gift box at Christmas or a birthday. As jewelry designer Tracey Zabar describes, that charm bracelet became a “history on the wrist.” Its jingling charms tell the story of those teen years, of a trip to Massachusetts to celebrate my cousin’s wedding, a weekend spent at Alleghany State Park, and my alma mater, Tonawanda High School.

These charms have withstood the test of time, as I’m still a smitten football fan, and while I traded the woodwind timbre of the flute for the brass horn of the Salvation Army, music still brings me great joy. The miniature grand piano charm is tarnished, but my love for its keys has not dulled, as I take pleasure in the baby grand nestled in the curve of our living room window.

An additional charm bears the image of praying hands, and from the miniscule print on the reverse, I can still make out the rhythm of Reinhold Neibuhr’s insightful words: “God, give me grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.” Little did I know then how often those words would be prayed over the course of my life.

From the perspective of forty-plus years, my charm bracelet is a visual reminder that much of our character is formed in our childhood years. Who I was then, although molded and shaped by the connecting years, carried the same zest for life, the same love of music, and the same foundations of faith that continue to form me today. Pierce Harris tells us, “Memory is a child walking along the seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things.” Or what memories will be awakened as a granddaughter reaches into a jewelry box.

Every Pinwheel Matters

One of the more challenging aspects of my life after -retirement from the Salvation Army is making the decision about what I’ll wear each day. For the previous thirty-six years, I put on the Salvation Army uniform almost every day, and was overjoyed when navy blue slacks for women were finally approved for office wear. In my first few years, I even wore the Army’s bonnet on Sundays and at other formal events. Even today, my head aches thinking about it.

Now I have to remember what I wore the last time I worked with a client so I don’t repeat my outfit (as though they’d really notice). Do I have the right accessories for my ensemble? And sometimes I’ll ask myself, “Is this a purple day or a yellow day?”

On this past Wednesday, I didn’t have to choose what color to wear, because I was committed to wear blue for a cause. Here’s the message: Ohio wears blue to spread the word that child abuse is preventable.

Beyond the blue clothing, child abuse prevention is also symbolized by pinwheel gardens, planted in April throughout the country. In New York City, volunteers holding nearly 5000 pinwheels transformed Times Square into the Big Pinwheel Garden on Tuesday. Here’s what actor Josh Charles, newly resurrected from his character’s recent death on the Good Wife, had to say as he stood up for the children of our country. “I care about the welfare of the next generation,” he said. “Children are the artists, the politicians, the engineers, the doctors, the scientists of tomorrow, and I want to see all of them have the chance to lead full, productive, and safe lives.”

Don’t we all? Yet more than half a million abuse or neglect complaints are investigated each year in the United States. I don’t think there are many people who plan to abuse their baby or neglect their three-year-old. But it happens every day,

So what can we do besides wearing a blue t-shirt and spinning a pinwheel? To start, we must recognize that the well-being of children is an adult responsibility. We must pay attention and we must speak up to protect our kids. A child cannot ensure his or her own safety.  

Here’s what the experts tell us helps to prevent child abuse. A supportive family environment, the ability to nurture parenting skills and the stability of family relationships are indicators of healthy families. Adequate employment, affordable, stable housing, and access to health care and social services are factors in child abuse prevention as well. Two other factors impact all of us: the presence of caring adults outside the family who can serve as role models or mentors, and entire communities that support parents and take responsibility for preventing abuse.

Children need to know there is an adult in their life who believes in them and loves them unconditionally, and when, for whatever reason, a child’s parent cannot provide that support, it is still possible for a community to step up and stand in that gap.

Why do we bother wearing blue when it feels like a purple day? Why plant a garden of pinwheels? Because we know the truth of Jean Vanier words: “One of the marvelous things about community is that it enables us to welcome and help people in a way we couldn't as individuals. When we pool our strength and share the work and responsibility, we can welcome many people, even those in deep distress, and perhaps help them find self-confidence and inner healing.”

The lovely Madelyn Simone has a shiny new pinwheel this spring, and we take turns gently puffing on its petals, charmed as it spins and sparkles in the welcome sunshine. One pinwheel spinning in the hand of a small child is a whimsical touch of childhood. It is a painful truth that in an April garden of spinning pinwheels, the whimsy of childhood is overridden by the hard truth of abuse and neglect. But that garden also serves as a reminder that our community is stepping up to protect and nurture all of our children, so that every child is free from abuse and violence.