Fourth of July Musings

It’s time for the Fourth of July, America’s Independence Day. I cherish the memories of holidays decked out in red, white and blue, with fireworks bursting in the sky above the Niagara River, Ashland’s Community Stadium, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Cleveland’s Public Square, or even a weed-infested parking lot in Georgia. Our holiday is generally accompanied by family traditions of homemade ice cream, homemade root beer, and Sahlen’s Smokehouse natural casing hot dogs on the grill. To the uninitiated, Sahlen’s are the only hot dogs for July 4. A note to my Western New York friends – you can imagine my unbridled joy when I found Sahlen’s foot long hot dogs in the Canton Acme!! 

In my childhood, the award-winning American Legion Post 264 band played along the river bank prior to the fireworks. In our first Salvation Army assignment in New Jersey, the Dover Gutter Band lived up (or down) to its name, and the fireworks terrorized our six-month-old. In Cleveland, we ventured downtown to Public Square, taking the Rapid into the city for the Cleveland Symphony, with fireworks reverberating off the skyscrapers. New home – no problem. Let’s go to the fireworks!

Upon our arrival in Ashland in June 2006, I was thrilled to discover a symphony orchestra and its pre-4^thconcert, a new holiday tradition for our family. While most symphony orchestras pride themselves on a varied repertoire to delight the musical palates of their concert-goers, that strategy flies out the window for the 4^thof July celebration. From band shells, gazebos, lawns, and public squares, in Ashland or Cleveland, Tonawanda or Philadelphia, the familiar strains of patriotic favorites ring across the nation.

As we gather, we applaud as local veterans stand to the song denoting their branch of service. I still picture my dad standing proudly when “This is the army, Mr. Jones” began to play. I’ve jumped every time the first cannon blast shatters the night sky, and popped my paper bag with enthusiasm as the orchestra plays the 1812 Overture. I’ve also struggled to light my sparkler as “God Bless America” fills the air, burning my fingertips a time or two in the process. In Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” I’ve listened with great appreciation as the trombones pump their way down the scale, holding my breath as the piccolos trill above the music. While I haven’t gotten a sneak peak of the program for Sunday night, it’s also likely to include the broad stripes and bright stars of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the Ashland Area Chorus with the orchestra in “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It’s just not the 4^thof July without these crowd favorites. 

As America’s celebration of its 2018 Independence Day approaches, I wonder: what common thread runs through a nation? Obviously not Sahlen’s hot dogs, seldom available outside the Western New York area. Might it be language, history, symbols, monuments, shared values? The second decade of the twenty-first century has highlighted the struggle to find common ground where we used to think we stood together. But perhaps our music . . .

Don Raye’s words come to mind, learned with Mrs. Ditmer in first grade. “What difference if I hail from the North or South or from the East or West? My heart is filled with love for all of these . . .This is my country, land of my birth . . . this is my country, land of my choice . . . for this is my country, to have and to hold.” 

More familiar are the words of Irving Berlin, written in 1918 but not introduced publicly until 1938. His prayer was sung poignantly by Kate Smith amidst the gathering storm clouds. “Stand beside her [America] and guide her through the night with the light from above.”

Ray Charles sang another prayer, first performed in the shadow of Dr. King’s assassination, and later at the Yankee Stadium 2001 World Series following the World Trade Towers attack, as Katherine Bates’ words seeped into our soul: “America, America, God mend thine every flaw. America, America, God shed his grace on thee.” 

Hot dogs and sparklers, music and prayer seem like good choices for July 4, 2018. Happy Fourth!

An Echo of Terror

April 12 and February 8, momentous days in our family lore, are remembered  as the “gotcha” days for my well-loved nephews, Lucas and Noah. They joined our extended family prior to their first birthdays, having been in foster care placement before embarking on their long journey to the U.S. I was privileged to travel to JFK International Airport on both dates to bear witness to these long-awaited arrivals. Cherished memories of those days include assisting my sister as she gingerly changed her first diaper in the confines of an airport bathroom, and of tiny bare feet captured in a photo of Noah, his parents, and the young Korean student who transported an extra package on her way to university.

The boys were born on land south of the 38^thParallel on the Korean Peninsula, thousands of miles from their new home in North Tonawanda, NY. For reasons best understood by many birth mothers around the world, provisions were made for the children to be adopted through an international agency, and so they came, tiny immigrants, joyously welcomed and embraced.

Recent events in Korea, quickly displaced from the world stage by immigrants at a different border, include the glorious 2018 Winter Olympics, with its Korean team symbolically marching in unity, and the bluster exchanged between North Korean leader Kim Jong Un (labeled Little Rocket Man) and Donald Trump (a dotard, by Kim’s description). Remember the January tweet war? “I too have a Nuclear Button, but it is a much bigger and more powerful one than his, and my Button works!” 

By April 27, Trump was tweeting, “KOREAN WAR TO END.” And by June, the two men were meeting in a summit, after which Trump assured the world, “Everybody can now feel much safer . . . because there is no longer a Nuclear Threat from North Korea.”

Given my personal connection to Korea through my nephews, I’ve been deficient in understanding its history, including the open-ended war that I thought was over, and the North’s nuclear threat. My quick and dirty, internet-aided history lesson yielded these basic facts. For about five hundred years, Korea was a united country, led primarily by rulers of Korean heritage. In 1910, it was annexed by Japan and remained under its rule until the end of World War II. Considered one of the spoils of war, the country was carved in two. The land in the north was occupied by the Soviets, while the land south of the 38^thparallel was occupied by U.S. forces. 

When agreement could not be reached on the reunification of Korea, the Soviet-influenced government of North Korea invaded the south in 1950; thus, the Korean War. This conflict ended in 1953 with an armistice. Its cost: an estimated five million military and civilian deaths. 36,923 American bodies returned home in flag-draped coffins or were haphazardly buried in Korean soil. Now, more than sixty-five years later, South Korea is a thriving democracy, and the north is governed by dynastic dictator Kim Jong Un, with a familial reputation for immense cruelty.  

According to a 400 page United Nations Commission of Inquiry report from 2014, “the gravity, nature and scale of these [North Korean human rights] violations reveal a state that does not have any parallel in the contemporary world.” Its prison camps (gulag) hold an estimated 120,000 political prisoners, and indoctrination and religious persecution is all-encompassing. As one North Korean woman explained, “if the government finds out I am reading the Bible, I’m dead.” 

In 1950, eighteen members of a brass band from The Salvation Army’s Seoul Boy’s Home were marched at gunpoint towards North Korea. These orphans, some as young as ten or eleven, were never heard from again. In the light of the terror, death and destruction in North Korea from 1950 to the present, their kidnapping is but a small drop in an ocean of misery. Yet as I listen carefully to the strains of Korean history, the lingering echo of the boys’ band marching to oblivion sounds a cautionary note to my ears. Dr. King warned, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.” Talks and tweets are a start; now to transparency and accountability.

Remember Me

Thanks to Netflix, Uncle Drew, Larry and I enjoyed a matinee performance of “Coco” this past Sunday in the comfort of our family room, joined by the lovely Madelyn Simone and the almost-birthday girl, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. While I’d heard of the movie, I had no clue as to its storyline, and was charmed by this Pixar/Disney animated film. Based upon the idea that twelve-year-old Miguel could visit the Land of the Dead, one of its themes was the value of remembering.

The concept of remembering was explored throughout the story line, and cemented through the frequent use of its Oscar-winning song, “Remember Me,” written by Richard Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez, the composers of the soundtrack for “Frozen” – no wonder Elizabeth likes it so much. While the filmmakers used both an up tempo, mariachi style and a heart-rending lullaby, the words remained the same, including this line: “Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar, know that I’m with you.”

Remember me. These words have stayed with me in the days since we watched Coco, both in the news of the day and in the musings of my own heart.

The first “remember me” is connected to the nagging fear that LeBron James may have played his last game in the wine and gold of the Cleveland Cavaliers. Since his last contract was only for one year, LeBron can choose to sign with another team this summer, and the sports reporters wasted no time asking him about his plans at the end of the Cavs’ loss to the Golden State Warriors. According to James, he wants to make the best choice for his family, perhaps even leading to the day when he and his son will play on the same NBA court.

When LeBron left Cleveland for Miami in 2010, many Clevelanders hated him for what they saw as a betrayal of their city, their team. But now? If he does decide to leave, we’ll remember LeBron for much more than The Decision.” When LeBron James finally hangs up his basketball shoes, we’ll remember him for the 2016 NBA championship, for carrying his team on his back in 2018, bloodshot eye and broken hand included, and his promise of a free college education for low income kids in Akron.

We are also remembering the familiar names of those who lost their lives to suicide this past week. Kate Spade was first, and that unwelcome news was quickly followed by the report of the death of Anthony Bourdain. We hadn’t met them, but we’ve carried Kate’s purses and invited Tony into our living room to share a long-distance meal. We mourn the unexpected losses, and curse the pain that drives a human to suicide.

Marcos Antonio Munoz was unknown to me. His suicide took place after his wife and child were torn away from him as they crossed the border, seeking asylum in the United States. Did he have a mental breakdown? Did he lose all hope? We may never know what caused this Honduran immigrant to take his own life in a Texas jail cell, but today, I answer his unspoken plea, “remember me,” by speaking his name.

A final call to remember is personal for me this Father’s Day. As we honor the fathers among us, we also remember those who are no longer with us. My father died more than ten years ago, and yet each time I hear “O When the Saints Go Marching In” or see a package of scrapple in the grocery store, I remember my dad, and, as Miguel sang, I know that he is with me.

In “Coco,” Héctor explained the rules of the Land of the Dead to Miguel, “Our memories, they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life – in the stories they tell about us. . .” The story of LeBron is told over and over. The stories of Kate and Tony are being repeated in the wake of their deaths. But the stories of the imaginary Héctor, the distraught Marcos, and our own fathers, both living and dead, are ours to tell, to pass down, to remember. Happy Father’s Day!

Screen Time

We all have scraps of melodies that stir up emotions in us. The opening phrase from Chopin’s Funeral March (pray for the dead and the dead will pray for you) gives us the shivers. A descending C scale with its dotted eighth and companion sixteenth note reminds us of the joy of Christmas. Sing a bar of “You are my sunshine” and we smile with memories of love given and received.

A tune frequently emanating from my cellphone begins with an arpeggio (me-so-do-me resolving to fa-la), sending me scurrying for the volume control because it’s so annoying (I wonder if someone really gets paid to write and perform that music?). It’s the unrelenting melody accompanying a game called Word Collect. Its daily challenges reel me in like a wriggling fish on a hook, as addictive as the Law and Order marathon siren call. I’ve managed to avoid “Candy Crush,” “Angry Birds,” and “Minecraft,” but since the lovely Madelyn Simone downloaded this supposedly mind-stretching word game to my phone, I’ve visited quite a bit, both with and without her help, even getting irritated if she buys a hint with my precious, hard-won coins. What is happening to me??

What is happening is just one offshoot of “screen time,” the number of hours during the day (and often night) spent in front of screens – computer, phone and television, not window screens. As a free-lance writer and editor, I spend many hours a day in front of the computer screen, even trading my laptop screen for the ease of a large monitor for my aging eyes. But an audit of my screen time would also reveal a few rounds of Word Collect, numerous checks of Facebook, and regular visits to e-mail newsletters and the morning paper - the Times, the Washington Post, the Boston Globe, and the TG. Even though we get the Repository delivered, I check out their site too, because it’s right at my fingertips.

Madelyn and her soon-to-be three-year-old sister, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, love their screen time too. Within moments of their arrival at our house, their hands are in my purse, searching for my phone. After a joyous greeting for Nana, Lizzie asks for “puter,” wanting Troll Holiday or some bizarre video of Elsa and Anna making playdough shapes. And yes, I give in, especially if it’s time to prepare dinner – the computer screen is a lifesaver. 

But my goal for the summer is to limit our screen time when we’re together, about three days a week. I want the girls to be out and about, running through the spray of the splash pad, searching for turtles, frogs, and polliwogs at a nearby pond, and riding bikes through the neighborhood. I want them to choose books from the library shelves, conquer the climbing walls at area playgrounds, and swing to their heart’s content. 

My plan is to get out of the house as much as we can, to sing along with favorite CDs in the car, and to play with playdough ourselves, rather than watch Elsa and Anna have all the fun. We’re making a list of inexpensive or free activities, scoping out all the local playgrounds, and perfecting the art of garage-sailing with a dollar or two in our pockets. 

When we don’t follow the “do as I say, not as I do” school of thought, our desire to shape a small child’s behavior can be as costly to us as it is to them. Risking a quick check of e-mail or responding surreptitiously to a text message, I feel guilty breaking my own rule, and seldom can get away with checking my phone without being discovered.

So here’s my bottom line: I’m a realist, not a purist. We’ll unplug as much as we can, but I’m also ready for rainy days and screen-driven girls of all ages. Fortunately, ToysRUs is going out of business, and they marked down their kid’s tablets by 60%. The $50 I spent to get the girls their own devices may be the best money I spend this summer, saving my “puter,” my phone, and my sanity. Now, to find the headphones . . .

Itching Skin, Itching Soul

I absentmindedly scratched the back of my hand about a week ago, wondering if a mosquito had feasted on my blood the night before. Within a couple of hours, I stopped blaming the innocent mosquito, realizing that my weed-pulling binge had put me in contact with poison ivy. What started out as an isolated bump or two has taken over my body. Hands, arms, legs, ears (pushing my hair behind them), waist (hitching up my pants) – the dreaded rash has been an ever-present companion for over a week now, and I’m more than ready to say farewell to its blotches and bumps, and the burning desire to scratch my arm off. 

Dr. Mark Andrews tells us that an itching sensation of the skin arises due to the stimulation of pruriceptors, our itch-sensing nerve endings, by mechanical, thermal or chemical mediators. He also admits that “despite approximately a century of pruritus (itching) research, there is no single effective antipruritic treatment . . .” Having sampled a variety of drug store remedies this past week, I fully agree with his assessment. 

It may seem a stretch to make a comparison between the itching skin caused by poison ivy and the toxins being released by current events involving children, but recent reports in the news are activating the C-fibers in my heart and soul, those specialized nerve cells that trigger the urge to itch, so I might remember as well as raise awareness of the plight of these little ones.

In May, our government changed its policy about families who cross the border, resulting in children being torn apart from parents. The Justice Department decided to prosecute all those apprehended for illegally crossing the border as criminal cases instead of civil cases, as had been the previous practice. Wanting to use this example as a deterrent to others, parents are jailed and their children placed into “foster care or whatever,” according to Chief of Staff John Kelly. A Border Patrol official testified that 658 children were taken from their parents in just two weeks in early May.

Ms. G., a Mexican woman quoted in a recent A.C.L.U. suit, went to an official border crossing point and requested asylum with her 4-year-old son and her blind 6-year-old daughter. As Nicholas Kristof reports, “None of them had broken American law, yet the children were taken from their mother.” “I have not seen my children for one and a half months,” the mother wrote in her declaration. “I worry about them constantly and don’t know when I will see them.” 

In the timeframe of news reporting, this story is at least a week old, but it continues to itch in my soul. As I watch my grandchildren run freely through the backyard sprinkler, I can’t stop thinking about the hundreds of children separated from their parents at the border. Immigration is complicated, but this is not the America I know. If we as a nation truly believe that every child matters, we must figure this out.

My soul also itches for families in Puerto Rico still without electricity, even as the new hurricane season approaches. My soul itches for the children whose parents are swept up in the opioid epidemic in communities across our nation, including here in Northeast Ohio. My soul itches for Somalian refugee children in the Kakuma and Dadaab camps in Kenya, and for Syrian refugee children in the Urfa and Gaziantep camps in Turkey. 

The poison ivy plant is tenacious. Unless its roots are dug up, it continues to grow. And once its oils make contact with skin, most of us will suffer, as there is no single effective antipruritic treatment, not even rubbing your skin with a banana peel. 

I will be thrilled when the pruriceptors in my skin stop reacting to the urushiol of the poison ivy plant, hopefully sooner rather than later. But I also want the pruriceptors of my soul to be fully sensitive to the toxic forces that continue to harm children in our neighborhoods and around the world, until the day when the traumatic roots of fear, poverty, abuse, neglect, disaster, addiction, and war are gone forever. 

Now please pass the calamine lotion.