It's Time to Come Home

It was an ordinary day, as are most of the days of our lives. And then my phone chimed with a dreaded yet somehow expected message from my sister. It was time to go home. At the age of ninety-two, my mother had suffered bleeding on her brain and the prognosis was not good. Even though the damage was extensive, she did not give up her precarious hold on life easily, but four days later, she slipped gently from one life to the next.

I’ve typed a couple of thousand words for this column, but I’ve erased the majority of them. What is there to say when your mother dies? Although words have defined my life for many years, I am at a loss for words of my own at the moment. So let me borrow from the memories, the kindness, and the connections of the last ten days. Yes, it is a personal loss, the death of my mother. It’s my heartache, it’s our family’s grief. Yet we all walk this lonesome valley sooner or later, and we also walk alongside those who suffer similar losses. And so I return to the keyboard, to the words, and write of these days, this time of transition and loss.

During my mother’s hospital stay, she was ministered to by the tender hands of the nursing staff, and we were as well. On my good days, I’m a take-charge person, and on bad days, I can be downright bossy. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t fix this situation. I could do nothing but wait. The nurses understood, and moved quietly in and out of the room, doing what they could to provide support to us. An especially kind gesture was the provision of a warmed blanket in the air-conditioned room. As I wrapped its folds around my shoulders, my body remembered a similar moment following the birth of our first son on a frigid February afternoon. Life and death, wrapped together in a warm blanket.

How comforted I was by the outpouring of care through the medium of Facebook. Hundreds of friends from around the world extended their comfort, often simply through the word, “Praying.” It seemed rather odd, posting on Facebook about my mother’s medical condition and subsequent death, but I experienced an amazing expression of grace through the days of waiting that was of great consolation to me.

I also found much support and solace in the ancient words of liturgy, hymnody, and scripture. Some of the words appeared on social media, while other words and melodies were whispered or sung to our mother. While we don’t have a Catholic heritage, our words became last rites, an anointing of spirit and release. Marty Haugen’s words spoke deeply: “Shepherd me O God . . . from death unto life.”

There was also a sweetness in story shared, in the telling once again of the escapades of youth and the heritage of generations. Realizing we could no longer check the veracity of our accounts with our mother or her siblings, we have a new responsibility to protect the stories of the past and to create new narratives for the days ahead.

Yet in the midst of a plethora of words, at times there were no words. Sometimes, the silent presence of another in the hospital room brought consolation. In the watches of the night, the silence was broken only by our breaths as they agreed in measured rhythm. And, as I stood at the close of my mother’s memorial service, with the strains of Amazing Grace filling the sanctuary, it was the presence of the lovely Madelyn Simone at my side, reminding me once again of the passing of life from generation to generation.

As a small town columnist, I often write to cheerlead for our community, to share information, and, at times, to be an opinionated lady just because I can. But for today, I’m writing to remember my mother, and to honor those who came alongside with their words and with their presence. There is a blessedness in the ache, and I am grateful.

Gentler, Kinder

From 1990 to 1995, Larry and I were responsible for the operations of the Salvation Army center located at 6000 Hough Avenue in Cleveland. It was a bustling place, with a large day care center, gym, roller rink and pool, and often showcased the Army’s services to potential supporters or visiting dignitaries. One afternoon, we got a call from our administrative headquarters that Mrs. Marilyn Quayle, the wife of the Vice President of the United States, would soon be visiting.

What a whirlwind experience. We went on a cleaning spree, wanting to put our best face forward for Mrs. Quayle. Secret Service agents and local police paid an advance visit to scope out the site, and even placed a sharp-shooter in the second floor of a house across the street from the center during her appearance. As she toured the facility, chatting with our pre-schoolers and greeting staff, we were proud to share in a special moment in the history of the Hough Center and neighborhood.

Just this past week, Majors Paul and Alma Cain, leaders at the Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center in Camden, New Jersey, received a similar call (or e-mail). Not the VP’s wife, not the VP, not the First Lady – no, they went right to the top, for POTUS himself was coming. President Barack Obama wanted to highlight the work of community policing in Camden, where the crime rate has been reduced and relationships between police officers and area residents have improved considerably. Holding Camden up as a symbol of promise for the nation, Mr. Obama suggested that “this city is on to something.”

What a great day for Camden, a city that has suffered more than its share of crime and poverty in recent years. And what a great day for the Salvation Army, with a visit from the President of the United States. A day to stand with pride for what has been accomplished in a tough place, a day for handshakes and selfies, and a huge sigh of relief when the motorcade pulled out of the parking lot.

Yet even before the president’s driver had time to adjust the rearview mirror, the naysayers were at work, suggesting that Obama doesn’t know what he’s talking about when it comes to the police or the problems of race or poverty. The New York Times reported that some law enforcement officials felt, “Mr. Obama had a chip on his shoulder when it comes to the police.” Social media posts ranged from critical comments on policy to vicious personal attacks.

The Salvation Army also garnered criticism in the social media world for providing a platform for Mr. Obama’s position on social issues. Some went as far as to point out that evil was working through the President, warning the Army to distance itself from him.

Whatever has happened to the respect for the office of President, or Governor, or Mayor? To a civility of spirit, to accepting one another’s good intentions, to acknowledging our differences yet celebrating our shared hopes for our country and our children? Even if we don’t agree with all our leader does or stands for, why the vitriolic nature of the comments?

It doesn’t have to be this way. Mahatma Gandhi taught that “We must be ever courteous and patient with those who do not see eye-to-eye with us. We must resolutely refuse to consider our opponents as enemies.” Presidential candidate Ben Carson believes, “One of those choices is to respect others and engage in intelligent conversation about differences of opinion without becoming enemies, eventually allowing us to move forward to compromise.” Former candidate Barry Goldwater understood: “To disagree, one doesn’t have to be disagreeable.” And Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton says, “You can disagree with people and debate over their positions with issues without engaging in the politics of personal destruction.”  

In 1988, George H.W. Bush expressed his desire for a gentler and kinder nation. We’d all appreciate that, but now, before the next campaign cycle gets into gear, perhaps it’s time to extend a gentler and kinder spirit towards those who are willing to serve our country and our communities in civic leadership.  

The Lonely House

When I looked out our front window last week, I saw a large handwritten sign nailed to the tree in front of the vacant house across the street. Its words scrawled this message: House for Sale. Cash. $30K (or thereabouts). Call 555-1234. I’ve seen plenty of those signs in undesirable neighborhoods in Philadelphia and Cleveland, but not usually in my neighborhood, on my street. The sign was gone within days, victim to a quick sale, a windy day, or perhaps an energetic city code enforcer, but sign or no sign, the lonely house continues to sit vacant.

The house at the other end of our alley has been empty ever since we’ve owned our house. Quite a few of their lonely siblings are scattered throughout our neighborhood and Ashland County, forlorn houses with a story to tell if only we could hear their voices. Family illness or death, a drop in the real estate market, a foreclosure that couldn’t be dodged, or investments gone sour, all contribute to the seemingly high number of vacant homes that dot Ashland streets and the streets of our nation.

A quick internet search estimated there are anywhere from six to eighteen empty housing units for every homeless family in America. Yet ask those who work daily in search of housing for low-income families, and they’ll concur that the rental market in our area is tight. Affordable, adequate housing is hard to find for those with limited resources, and while the idealist that still has a claim to my heart wonders how we as a community might be able to bridge that gap, I’m not even sure what the first step would look like.

There’s much to be said about families without homes, but I’ll save that discussion for another day. But after taking a walk around my neighborhood this week, I’m feeling sad for the homes without families. Now before you suggest a psych evaluation, I understand that houses are inanimate objects that don’t have emotions, that don’t live or love. But still, the purpose for a house is to be lived in by humans, and its walls are happiest when they enclose a human unit of relationship – a family (whatever that looks like in this day and age).

Speaking of family, the lovely Madelyn Simone came for an overnight visit this week, and we read Audrey and Don Wood’s charming book, “The Napping House, . . . where everyone is sleeping.” Somehow, “the Vacant House, where everyone is gone” doesn’t have the same ring to it.  Houses are meant to be homes, a homestead for generations of the same family, places where babies are greeted by welcoming arms and elders gently come to the end of their earthly days, where relationships are forged and sometimes break down.

My writing to-do list includes a historical novel centered around our home, and when I brave the creaky steps that lead up to our attic, it is with the hope that I’ll discover a diary or a stash of love letters hidden in the eaves of our home. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to read of the secrets of life and love from years gone by – of fortunes lost, of telegrams received, of hearts broken? While I know the title has already been claimed by the PBS show, I’d love to “Ask This Old House” to tell me its story, for houses preserve the continuity and character of a community.  

In his poem, “Homesick in Heaven,” Oliver Wendell Holmes spoke of home: “For there we loved, and where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Feet of all types and sizes have paced the floors and scampered through the yards of the dwellings that now stand vacant in our community, and while the feet have departed, the memories remain. I’m hoping that sooner rather than later, new feet will walk up the steps of the lonely houses in my neighborhood, prepared to once again christen the dwelling as ‘home” rather than house, birthing a new chapter: “There is a house, a happy house, where everyone is laughing.” 

A Storied Life

Millions of people have now watched the YouTube clip as eighty-nine year old Bryan Sperry, a World War II veteran, scored a touchdown during an alumni flag football game at the University of Kansas. Video of his run went viral, and thanks to a number of news outlets, now we know the rest of his story. 

As radio host Paul Harvey discovered, people are fascinated by stories like Mr. Sperry’s, both in our neighborhoods and around the world. Times-Gazette readers were given a glimpse of such a life story this week when news of Earl Hawkins’ death at age one hundred was reported on the front page of the paper. I’d heard quite a bit about this noted business owner and philanthropist, but by the time we immigrated to Ashland, he was no longer as involved in the Ashland community as he had once been. Yet he continued to support a variety of philanthropic work in Ashland County, including practical assistance to the Salvation Army that we were grateful to receive.

As I waited to express my condolences to the family at his calling hours, I was curious to know more about his life, and so I listened to the murmur of conversation around me. There were common threads present in how his former employees described their boss. “He gave me a chance.” “He believed in me.” “He knew what it meant to work hard.”

How did he do it? Why was Earl Hawkins (as well as his wife Betty) so successful in business? What was the rest of their story? As these questions were stirring in my mind, I was glad to receive a copy of Otis Earl Hawkins’ life story, “Memories of Ninety-Five Years.” Yes, five years ago, Mr. Hawkins wrote his own story, an autobiographical volume that details how a boy from West Virginia with only a ninth grade education turned a summer produce stand into a profitable, multi-county grocery business.

It’s a great ‘rest of the story,’ a ‘rags to riches’ account that shows what hard work and shrewd decision-making can achieve. I liked his description of his decision to introduce the new-fangled bar code scanner to his business, as well as his installation of the specialized cart and counter that relieved the customer of the task of unloading the grocery cart, a system still in use in the Geyer’s-Hawkins store on Claremont Avenue.  By the time I reached the end of his story, I was amazed at the work ethic Earl Hawkins modeled and the business acumen he and Betty displayed, all told with a down-home sense of humility.

As I read through the pages of his life story, I kept hearing another voice – that of my father. You see, Earl Hawkins and Frank Streeter were men of the same generation. They served their country during World War II, and they came home from the war to build a life for themselves. They made sacrifices for their families without complaint. They worked many, many hours, often in difficult situations, to do what was right for those they loved. What Tom Brokaw had to say about their generation was apparent in both of their lives: “The WWII generation shares so many common values: duty, honor, country, personal responsibility, and the marriage vow.”

I also heard the echo of my dad’s voice as Earl Hawkins wrote about his World War II military service. They both served in the Philippines – might their paths have crossed on the other side of the world? Reading Mr. Hawkins’ description of his experiences, I wish I knew more of my father’s, but like many of his generation, he seldom talked about those days and I seldom asked.  

After his unforgettable touchdown run, Sperry said this: “I just wanted to get in for a couple of plays and maybe catch a ball.” Now in their late eighties and nineties, the men and women of Brokaw’s ‘Greatest Generation’ are making one last run, catching one last pass. Like Sperry’s alumni teammates, we do what we can to clear the way to the end zone as we remember their stories with thanks, honoring their contributions to our lives and to our world.