The Temple of My Familiar

A captivating video clip popped up on my Facebook feed this week. The caption indicated that a popular Christian author prophesized the demise of the pipe organ, suggesting it be broken down for firewood. Ouch! I’ve not been able to locate the actual quote so the author will remain unnamed, but his words deserve to be challenged. That’s where the video comes in, as Baltimore’s Dr. Patrick Alston disputes his prediction without uttering a word. Instead, the master organist Alston sits at the keyboard and allows the music to swell through his hands and feet.

The church has not escaped the winds of change blowing across our world throughout the last few decades. Blame it on the Beatles or the devil if you want, but the pipe organ has often fallen victim to those who clamor for a more contemporary sound to speak to our itching ears. But still, there is nothing in this world like the sound of a magnificent pipe organ as its notes echo from the rafters of a cathedral or sanctuary.

The day after my mother’s death, I attended the church where I grew up. On that sorrowful morning, I longed for the comfort of the traditional liturgy of my childhood, the familiarity of the stained glass windows, and the resonance of the organ. However, once a month, the keyboard, guitar and drums take the place of the organ, and guess what Sunday it was. No pipe organ for me that day.

I was so disappointed that morning, curious about the intensity of my reaction. In that tender time of early grief, I believe I was seeking what novelist Alice Walker called “the temple of my familiar.” I don’t remember her story line, but the sentiment of the title fits. While there is always room for the new, sometimes we simply want to return to the temple of our familiar, the sacred words, the remembered tunes, the ancient paths, and even the familiar scents and tastes.

As a young woman, I dreamed of being the organist in that Presbyterian Church on Broad Street in Tonawanda. At fourteen, I stepped toward that dream by starting organ lessons to supplement my piano skills. I often rode my bike to the silent church, where I would ascend the steps to the choir loft and allow the music to envelop me in its fumbling glory. I’d discovered an arrangement of The Lost Chord, and Adelaide Procter’s words challenged me: “My fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. I know not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then; but I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen.”

However, in what can only be described as the comical will of God, I never did get to discover that lost chord on the organ. Instead, my young organ instructor was moving on from his church job, and asked if I’d be interested in taking his place. Where? The local Salvation Army, where I traded the pipe organ for an upright piano, the strains of Bach and Handel for gospel hymns and Sunday school choruses. And the rest is history. All for $4.65 a week.

In these days following the death of my mother and the birth of our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, 

I’ve thought a lot about the past, the temple of my familiar, but also of the role that hopes and dreams play along the path to our future. In the unique search for our own lost chord, just one casual conversation or one seemingly insignificant decision can change the direction of a hoped-for path or a long-held dream. And yet when we least expect it, the abandoned dream whispers to us one more time, beckoning us to return.

Perhaps some quiet morning, if a church door is left ajar, I’ll wander into a silent choir loft to see if my fingers and feet can still touch the longings of a fifteen year old girl. The notes may be a bit rusty, but I’m hoping my own lost chord is still waiting to welcome me home before the predicted campfire burns away the glory.

Unadulterated Triscuits

Do you mind if I let off some steam? I wanted to buy a box of Triscuits. Not cracked pepper and olive oil, not dill, sea salt, and olive oil, not fire roasted tomato and olive oil, not garden herb or rye with caraway seeds. I didn’t want Triscuits made with brown rice, baked with red bean, or seasoned with sweet potato and roasted sweet onion. I just wanted a box of plain, ordinary Triscuits, and I couldn’t locate them in the midst of all the gourmet options.

I’ve had similar experiences in the cereal aisle, faced with sixteen flavors of Cheerios, including Cinnamon-Almond, Banana Nut, and Ancient Grain (how old do we want our cereal to be?). Special K offers fourteen different flavors, while Rick Krispies now come in multi-grain shapes. How can that be? I thought the snap, crackle and pop cereal was a single grain of toasted rice. How does that multiply?

I could alternate my deodorant scents for a month while contributing my hard-earned bucks to the 18 billion dollar industry. I, however, prefer my familiar powder fresh Lady Speed Stick, while my husband experiments with a variety of flavors. I’m bringing home some Black Chill or Dark Temptations, Danger Zone or After Hours for him to test out soon. I may even order custom scented deodorant, such as Banana Coconut Cream Vegan Vegetable Deodorant. I’ll wait until November to send for a Pumpkin Crunch Cake sample, with the aroma of pumpkin pie filling, cake, pecans and spices. Are you eating dessert or covering up body odor?

One more whine. Back in the day, we only worried that Mr. Whipple might catch us squeezing the Charmin. Now I have to decide between ultra soft, ultra strong, quilted, angel fresh, and basic in the toilet paper aisle. At least I haven’t seen any advertising printed on the sheets in my local restroom, a new marketing opportunity billed as “effective, affordable advertising that’s changing the way people do their business.” TMI!

And my point? First, I want my unadulterated Triscuits, topped with a slice of marble cheese, accompanied by a Pepsi with no added flavors. And when I can’t find the Triscuits on the shelf of the grocery store, I do get salty (sorry). But beyond my Triscuit addiction, the infinite varieties of Triscuits and toothpaste, cereal and deodorant serve as symbols of our increasingly complex society that gets bound up in massive marketing ploys, spending millions of dollars to convince us to purchase ketchup-flavored potato chips. Don’t they know it’s much more fun to dip a plain chip in the condiment of the week?

How many choices are too many? Who gets paid to dream these up? How much bigger can our supermarkets get? Why aren’t we satisfied with two flavors? One of the best parenting lessons is on introducing choice. Here’s a blue freezer pop and a red one. Which one do you want? “Purple.”  

One of the ironies of the flavor-of-the-month products is that not all of them work out as well as expected. I’ve been involved in food pantry operations for more than thirty years, and while I am grateful for hundreds of corporate donations to regional food banks, I don’t think my low income friends like sandwich cookies with candy-corn filling any more than I do. Pass the traditional Oreos and milk, thank you very much.

While the lovely Madelyn Simone and I were at the amazing Bicentennial Parade on July 4, she was thrilled to gather the candy generously distributed along the parade route. But as we quickly discovered, the mystery-flavored Dum Dum suckers weren’t appealing to our taste buds. We’d suggest that Dum-Dums, an Ohio invention originally made by the Akron Candy Company, stick with cherry, orange and grape. Pizza and buttered-popcorn flavored lollipops are nasty, at least according to my favorite five-year-old.

To clear up any misconceptions, I am glad people wear deodorant, but prefer coconut cream and pumpkin in pie, not underarms. I appreciate food bank donations, soft and strong TP, free candy, crunchy Triscuits and single-stuffed Oreos with chilled milk. You enjoy more sophisticated flavors? Good for you. Just don’t ask me to try bacon gumballs.

Images from Ashland's Bicentennial

As we walked toward our car late Sunday night, with the blast of the cannon still ringing in our ears, I felt a twinge of sadness that Ashland’s celebratory bicentennial weekend had come to a close. I experienced a similar sensation as the last guests left from our son’s wedding, as we locked up the Kroc Center after its opening weekend gala in 2009, and as the curtain fell for the last time on my high school musicals. All the preparation and planning, all the anticipation and excitement, and now, in an instance, it’s over. We’ve all been there, achy feet and all, wanting to hold onto the thrill, the sense of community and connection for just one more evening, one more hour. I’m guessing there were a lot of snooze buttons punched a time or two on Monday morning.

The events of our bicentennial celebration aren’t over yet, as today features the Dream Cruise downtown, and this next week will bring an expanded Ashland Chautauqua experience, with enhancements provided by the Davis/Tipton family. We’ll get to experience two hundred years of progress through the appearances of Louis Bromfield, President Woodrow Wilson, Carrie Chapman Catt, and Dr. Mary Walker on the Band Shell stage, with Thursday night’s living history presentation giving us a glimpse of World War II through the collected memories of Ashlanders. There’s also the Yesteryear Tractor Show, a Model Railroad Display, the Speeder Car Railroad Display, and the Whitcomb and Hess Civil War Encampment, all coming soon. In fact, there are Bicentennial activities and events scheduled clear through October.

But the big shebang Fourth of July weekend, with Balloon Fest, the parade, the fireworks, and the symphony concert, is now itself part of Ashland’s history. Amidst a soggy start to the summer, for once the weather cooperated, and we had a spectacular time. So before we turn the page on last weekend, I’d like to share a few highlights that caught my attention.

What a turnout for the parade! The thousands of people who lined the streets of Ashland were treated to a great procession that truly represented the heart of our city. I was privileged to share the parade experience with the lovely Madelyn Simone, whose excitement was evident as soon as the wail of the sirens could be heard.  She loved the Pioneer National Latex marchers with their array of red, white and blue balloons and the Mansfield Shrine Club and their miniature cars. I appreciated the presence of the bagpipes as their drone filled the air, always my mother’s favorite.

When someone in the parade would shout out a greeting to me, Madelyn wanted to know if they were my best friend, and she was fascinated when one of the marchers pointed to her and said, “There’s the lovely Madelyn Simone.” “He knows my name, Nana.” Madelyn’s excitement peaked when she saw her uncles and grandfather playing with the Kroc Center’s New Adventure Band. She was especially thrilled when her Pop-Pop turned and waved to her, definitely making her day – along with all the candy being distributed.

What else? An awesome pair of patriotic stars and stripes knee socks spotted at the Symphony concert. The massive Budweiser Clydesdale team accompanied by their Dalmatian mascots. The honoring of our area’s veterans with an armed forces musical tribute, played by both the Kroc Center Big Band and the Ashland Symphony. Firehouse ice cream, historical ice cream, and homemade ice cream. The piccolo descant in “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Dr. Lucille Ford’s inimitable presence as the Grand Marshall of the parade. The iconic image of Iwo Jima. The singing of the National Anthem. The glow of balloons, fireflies, and sparklers.

Erma Bombeck wrote about our country’s celebration of independence as a day “with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees and the potato salad gets iffy. You may think you have overeaten,” she told us, “but it is patriotism.” As Independence Day and Ashland’s Bicentennial observance intertwined this past week, we were bathed in patriotism, memory, and shared history, celebrating a country described by President Lyndon Johnson as “free and restless, growing and full of hope.” Thank you, Ashland 200, for a weekend to remember!

Time for a Parade

The Budweiser Clydesdale horses have arrived at the fairgrounds and so the rumor on the street must be true: it’s Bicentennial Time in Ashland, Ohio! It’s been a real community effort so far in the planning, the publicizing , and the plugging away at the details, and now we’re ready to party. If you can believe it, there’s even been a sighting of the sun, so hopefully she won’t be a stranger to the festivities of the weekend.

Two hundred years. What do we know of our communal story? Who were the first settlers who decided to stake their claim for the future on this particular soil? David Carter built the first cabin here in 1811 or 1812, while the next inhabitant, William Montgomery platted forty lots and registered the new town in Columbus in 1815. But early development was slow, as six years later, only fifteen families had settled in what Montgomery was calling Uniontown.  Without a post office of its own, newcomer Francis Graham doubted the tiny settlement would grow, so he petitioned for that designation. With two other Uniontowns already in existence, the name Ashland was claimed, and the rest was – and is – history.

I’m a smitten immigrant to Ashland, not a native, and as such, my family roots weren’t planted in Ohio soil. My ancestors didn’t rub shoulders with John Chapman (Johnny Appleseed), nor did they stand shoulder to shoulder to sing of God’s grace in Hopewell, the village’s first church (and they also didn’t leave the church in a dispute over how hymns should be sung). They didn’t shop at The Home Co., opened in 1910, supposedly as a way to discourage the wives of local business leaders from traveling out of town to do their shopping. I have no family monument in Ashland Cemetery, and my great-grandmother wasn’t one of the ninety-two Ashland women who marched for temperance in 1874.

Yet native-born or not, I am now an Ashlander. All who live in Ashland are an integral part of our community and of our shared history. As an Ashlander, my fledgling roots are digging deeper in the soil of “the Kroc,” in our neighborhood on Walnut Street, and on the pages of the Times-Gazette. And as my roots entwine with those of my neighbors, they grow healthy and strong.

We bring the strength of our combined roots to our churches, our classrooms, our teams, our civic groups, and our music ensembles. Together we find joy in brightly colored balloons and walk-in movies. We take pride in our beards and our gardens. We walk with each other through valleys of the shadow of death. We are overwhelmed at the gift of new life. We anticipate with delight the taste of the first tomato from the vine, the first notes of the 1812 Overture at the Bandshell, and the burst of the fireworks on Independence Day.

There is power in our interwoven roots and in our shared heritage as we commemorate Ashland’s two-hundred year anniversary. Last Friday, hundreds of Ashland residents gathered at Corner Park for United Way’s Fun, Fabulous Friday, one of the kick-off events for the Bicentennial. The inimitable Ev DeVaul directed us to lift a decorated cupcakes in the air and sing Happy Birthday to Ashland. The pretended veneer of the big city girl in me that sneaks out from time to time dared to mouth the word “corny” as I held up my own cupcake, but her feeble call to sophistication was drowned out as Neil Ebert struck up the band and tears clouded my vision.

In an oft- troubled world, there is a simple goodness in cupcakes, parades, patriotic music and fireworks. There is a simple goodness in neighbors, family, and faith. There is a simple goodness in remembering what is past and in dreaming of what can be in the future of our community. And we’re only just getting started. That’s why the iconic words from Chicago keep buzzing through my head: ‘I’ve been waiting such a long time . . . a real celebration waiting for us all . . . You’d think it was the fourth of July.” Happy birthday, Ashland. It’s time for a parade!