The Ghosts of Your Social Mistakes

Lillian Eichler Watson was a copywriter in the early decades of the twentieth century who asked, “Are you haunted by the ghosts of YOUR social mistakes?” Well known in her time for her rewrite of The Book of Etiquette, she also wrote The Book of Conversation, Volumes 1 and 2.She provided guidance for polite conversation: “Politics and religion are dangerous subjects, for they may cause ill feeling even in the most cultivated company.” 

As I remember the Christmas dinners of my childhood, Lillian’s counsel was seldom heeded, much to my Aunt Florence’s chagrin. Our extended family crowded into the Harris dining room, and somewhere between the ham and the chiffon cake, conversation began to get heated, helped along by what I later understood to be liberal splashes of alcohol. Politics, religion, the Buffalo Bills, economic woes, the Vietnam War, the hippies and draft-dodgers who were sending the country to hell in a handbasket – no topic seemed off-limits. My siblings and I were the youngest of the cousins, and as I got older, I prided myself on being able to follow the dialogue and even contributing my opinion from time to time. I doubt we came to consensus, but the conversation provided some great dramatic moments before Aunt Florence chased us all into the living room to sing of peace on earth, goodwill to men.

Fast forward to the end of 2019, and many people were dreading the conversations around the dining room table during holiday gatherings. Saturday Night Live offered glimpses of what it might look like if the “I” topic was raised, with Chris Redd’s character warning: “Dad, c’mon, you’re going to rile everyone up.” When Kenan Thompson began to talk about Bad Boys III, Redd responded that he’d rather talk about politics instead!

For those needing help in preparing for those potential discussions, a website was launched on Christmas Eve to provide talking points for winning arguments with “that liberal snowflake relative.” Not sure what’s out there from the other side, but there’s probably something. 

To add more fuel to the politics/religion fire, Mark Galli, the long-time editor-in-chief of Christianity Today, published an editorial that drew so much attention that it crashed the CT website for a time. The responses were immediate, some relieved that a prominent Christian magazine was finally speaking out about the moral character of leadership, while others pointed fingers of judgment at Galli and CT for being “a progressive rag.” Jerry Falwell Jr. (Liberty University) argued that if Jesus lived today, the elitist liberal wing of evangelicalism that CT supposedly represents would call him “a smelly Walmart shopper.” Huh?

CT’s president, Timothy Dalrymple, later wrote to explain why the editor-in-chief spoke out, and why the conversation must continue as a “flag in the whirlwind.” I don’t think Dalrymple was making a connection with Frank Herbert, the author of the science fiction favorite Dune, but CT has definitely experienced what Herbert described: “When religion and politics ride in the same cart, the whirlwind follows.”  

Dalrymple asked an important question, no matter what decade. “With profound love and respect, we ask our brothers and sisters in Christ to consider whether they have given to Caesar what belongs only to God: their unconditional loyalty.” He was also clear in his hope for the days ahead: “We at Christianity Today believe we need to relearn the art of balancing two things: having a firm opinion and inviting free discussion. We need, in other words, both a flag and a table.”

Author Julianna Baggott believes “that one of the most damning things about our culture is the adage to never talk religion and politics. Because we don’t model this discourse at the dinner table and at Thanksgiving, we don’t know how to do it well and we’re not teaching our children about the world and about how to discuss it.” 

Christmas dinner 2019 is history, but 2020 will bring new opportunities to consider faith and how it intersects with the governance of our community and country. Galli’s words provide a compass: “Remember who you are and whom you serve.” Dinner, anyone?

Ripples of the Kind Heart

It’s been fifty years since a teenage girl accepted a position as the pianist for The Salvation Army in Tonawanda, New York. By the following December, I was learning the ropes of bell-ringing at the Army kettle outside Twin Fair in the throes of a Western New York winter. And the rest, they say, is history – or, in this case, her-story.

Christmas in The Salvation Army combines a focused fund-raising emphasis, a response to community need through the distribution of thousands of gifts to children and their families, and the desire to provide meaningful worship experiences as well as ministry opportunities to volunteers who come alongside in such generous ways during the season. It is an exhausting work to facilitate, yet is a beautiful thing to witness, especially when you’re no longer in charge of the entire mission. Retirement is good!

Others have similar experiences of long hours of seasonal work.The big box stores are open now with extended hours, and customers who think nothing of leaving a trail of unwanted items in their wake. Small businesses depend on holiday sales to carry them through the lean winter months, and many proprieters whisper a prayer that the next customer will put them over their goal for the day. Sellers of Christmas trees work long, frigid hours in hopes they estimated the right number of trees for the season, knowing their product will have no value after December 24.

While those in retail will close for Christmas day and then will be back at it for Boxing Day sales and the dreaded returns line, The Salvation Army worker and the Christmas tree seller will be able to “close the book” on Christmas 2019 by the 24th, packing away the kettles and bells for the next season, and abandoning the remaining trees to the chipper.

One night, many years ago, one of those abandoned trees found renewed life. The story goes something like this. Friends of ours had been serving those who depended on the Salvation Army’s help in Manhattan, a herculean task, and by Christmas Eve, they still hadn’t gotten their own family tree. Finally turning out the lights and locking the doors, Bill headed towards the Christmas tree stand set up in a corner of his regular parking lot. For weeks, the lot attendants did double duty, collecting parking fees and selling Christmas trees as they warmed their hands over the fire burning in the rusty barrel. On this dark evening, the glittering lights were dimmed, and only a handful of trees remained, most of the Charlie Brown variety. “I’ll take that one,” Bill said, pointing to the best-looking one of the rejects. Handing over his money, with a tip for the chilled seller, he headed home, relieved to have found a tree.

Returning to the City after the holidays, Bill chatted with the parking lot owner. “I’m so glad you kept the stand open late on Christmas Eve. If you hadn’t, I’d still be in trouble with my wife.” The owner looked surprised. “We closed at 3 p.m. on Christmas Eve,” he said. Apparently one of the street people who frequented that neighborhood was staying warm over the fire, and became the recipient of our friend’s largess. Even without knowing it, Bill had blessed another. 

Through my Salvation Army work over the last fifty years, I have watched with awe as people have blessed other people in these late December days, sometimes without even knowing it. A quarter – or a twenty – in the kettle, a gift in the Toys for Tots bin, a hand-knitted scarf, the packing of a food basket, a kind word, a welcome embrace, a story heard, a burden lifted: these blessings have been extended from churches and union halls, school corridors and cavernous warehouses, and in both prosperous and struggling communities, neighborhoods and homes. 

I love this image from Amit Ray: “The ripples of the kind heart are the highest blessings of the universe.” This Christmas, I’m picturing those ripples forming powerful waves of compassion across a dry and weary land, not just for a few days in December, but as we choose daily to bless another. A blessed Christmas to you.

A Christmas Hallelujah!

The Ashland County Mental Health and Recovery Board has been sharing words of wisdom for the holiday season. Their #1 hint? “It’s important to take the pressure off of yourself so you can focus on enjoying your time with friends and family. Don’t set high expectations, because you may be let down if the holidays aren’t ‘perfect.’”

I’ve always been a “let’s make a memory” person when it comes to Christmas, often with high expectations for family togetherness. With two young boys, we traveled to camp where Christmas trees were available – all we had to do was cut them down and transport them. After one of those trips, I memorably cut the top off our tree and then salvaged it with the help of duct tape. One year we invited four other preschool families to our home for a cookie decorating party, cutting out cookies on the kitchen table and decorating them in the dining room. That was a remarkable afternoon.

The year we acquired the Kroc Center property, we strolled the streets around Cook Field, caroling and distributing cookies to our new neighbors. For our first (daytime) Christmas parade in Ashland, I handed out bells to a group of a dozen kids, promoting the Christmas Kettle Campaign of The Salvation Army. What was I thinking?

By the time I had grandchildren, I was stoked. We were going to make amazing memories together at Christmas if it killed me! We’ve created ornaments, decorated cookies, toured the Christmas lights, visited Santa, shopped at the dollar store for mom and dad, and even decorated a gingerbread house or two.

With a free evening beckoning last week, I picked up the lovely Madelyn Simone (9) and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday (4) for some memory-making Christmas fun, no babies allowed. We’d make gingerbread houses and Rice Krispie treats shaped into candy canes. They could help me put up decorations, and we’d eat supper at our house before it was time for Madelyn’s dance lesson. What a wonderful evening we would have together. 

Well . . . As we opened the gingerbread house kits, the first hint of trouble came as Lizzie prepared to take a big bite out of the roof. “No, don’t eat that, Lizzie,” I quickly said. Within minutes, frosting was coming out both ends of Madelyn’s frosting bag, while Lizzie was methodically eating the candy dog bones that were to decorate her gingerbread dog house. We managed to get the sides of the houses to stand up, and Lizzie stuck the candy dog on her doghouse door, only to eat that as well when my back was turned. While their creations looked nothing like the images on the boxes, at least the gingerbread didn’t break.

I put the butter and marshmallows in the pan for our second project, and as I turned around, there was Lizzie, having shed her clothing, ready to take a bath – not on my agenda, but OK, what could it hurt? I ran the water, got her settled, and by the time I returned to the kitchen, it was smoky and the marshmallows were toast. What an Epic Fail of a night. 

Time for Plan B. How about a Christmas light tour and the mall food court for Chinese? Even though it wasn’t what I planned, nor was it what I expected, I will always remember the look of wonder on Elizabeth’s face, as each display brought an exuberant “O my goodness,” “Wow,” or my favorite, “Hallelujah!” Sweet and sour chicken and lo mein never tasted so good. 

It’s good to plan. As Yogi Berra said, “If you don’t know where you are going, you’ll end up someplace else.” Yet especially at Christmas, the “someplace else” may just create its own “Hallelujah” memory.

I haven’t made cut-out Christmas cookies yet this year. I wonder what kind of memories we could make with all the grandkids? I’ll send Larry to a movie, Madelyn has experience with frosting, Lizzie can be in charge of candy decorations, and with a bit of help, maybe the babies can sit in their high chairs and sprinkle colored sugar. I can’t wait – Merry Christmas and Hallelujah!

Tarnishing a Reputation

As a regular contributor to an international publication for our denomination, I was chatting with the editor when he told me, “You do know that some readers see you as ‘that radical woman.’” No, I didn’t know I’d earned that label, but after sitting with it for a while, I rather liked its ring. I was working hard to find my voice as a woman amid a preponderance of male authors, so the female part fit. As for “radical,” the word’s etymology is “from the root,” and given the transformative nature of the early work of my denomination, I took that as a compliment, even if it wasn’t meant as such.

Apparently I had gained a reputation for stirring the pot. I’ve done that from time to time on the pages of the T-G too, nudging my readers to look at social issues from a slightly different perspective than they may have before. One example was writing about the face of homelessness as a woman and her child whose entire belongings were contained in two black garbage bags. It’s been suggested I stick with feel-good grandbaby columns, but I just can’t every week – I’ve got to live up to “that radical woman” calling.

A reputation is understood to be the beliefs and opinions that are generally held about someone. Mr. Rogers had a reputation for kindness. Mother Teresa is remembered for her compassion. In one split second, Miles Garrett went from stellar defensive end to a helmet-swinger. Monica Lewinsky? In refusing to sign an autograph, she said, “I’m kind of known for something that’s not so great to be known for.” No matter what else she does in life, her name will be forever linked with what happened in the Oval Office when she was twenty-two. As Joseph Hall concludes, “A reputation once broken may possibly be repaired, but the world will always keep their eyes on the spot where the crack was.”

I remember sitting in the kitchen of my childhood with newspapers spread across the table, the chest of the ‘good’ silverware open before me. A soft cloth in hand, I’d dip into the odorous pink cream, using elbow grease to remove the tarnish from the blackened knives and forks. We use the same word about reputations, suggesting that someone’s reputation has been tarnished. 

During the House Intelligence Committee’s hearings, Rep. Devin Nunes used another image, warning that the day’s session would “smear” the reputation of Ambassador Soundland. Hearing his words, my first thought was of  grape jelly, but it fits for reputations as well.

Tarnish can be removed, and sticky jelly can be washed off, but reputations can also be ruined forever. Like toothpaste, once it’s squeezed out of the tube, it can never be fully restored, whether that sullied reputation is based upon facts or upon rumors and innuendos.

In recent weeks, the American public has learned of a woman waking to the nightmare of a tarnished, if not ruined reputation. She spoke of her painful experience during the same congressional hearings in which Nunes spoke of a smeared reputation. Former Ukrainian Ambassador Marie Yuvanovich has been a long-term employee of the State Department who, by her own report, has moved thirteen times and served in seven different countries, five of them hardship posts. While serving in Ukraine, she was removed abruptly, told by Deputy Secretary of State Sullivan there had been a concerted campaign against her. Even though the State Department fully understood the allegations against Yuvanovich “were false and the sources highly suspect,” it is likely she will be remembered by history for the circumstances of her removal, not for having served “capably and admirably” for thirty-three years as Sullivan noted. For her sake, I hope this isn’t the end of her story.

Abraham Lincoln said: “Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.” Perhaps in the midst of all that is shaking around us in these days, we can look more carefully at the tree, its roots and its fruit, rather than the imperfect and faint representation that a shadow can convey.

Thought on Advent

As I entered the supermarket, a sign posted on the front door caught my attention: “We apologize that the advertised beer and wine advent calendars are not available.” Our family has used an assortment of advent calendars over the years, but I’ve never seen one featuring beer. I checked it out on-line, and there they were: a Brewer’s U.S. of A. Advent Calendar, a German edition, an Austrian edition, and even a “Bad Santa” version, especially popular with the young as well as the young at heart. At $59.95, it is a bit pricier than the cardboard advent calendars of my childhood, with the pictures of candy canes and Christmas trees waiting patiently behind each door. 

There are also wine advent calendars (choose naughty, nice, or one of each at $139.95), imported cheese advent calendars, a European chocolate advent calendar, and even an OmegaSnax advent calendar featuring salmon and sweet potato snacks for our canine friends. While I didn’t search for it, I’m sure there’s a Frozen II advent calendar, so that Anna and Elsa can help us get ready for Christmas too.

The word “advent” has its roots in the Latin word adventus, meaning “coming,” and historically has been used to describe the four-week period beginning on the Sunday nearest the feast of St. Andrew the Apostle (November 30), in preparation for the coming of Jesus. As such, the first Sunday in Advent is the first Sunday of the liturgical church year. Traditionally, Christians have marked the days prior to December 25 with fasting and increased times of devotion and prayer –no mention of dog treat advent calendars in the history books. 

As a child, our family had a simple advent wreath in our home. and each Sunday evening during December, we lit a candle, sang a carol, and remembered a town in Bethlehem, a babe in a manger, and a star in the sky. This advent rhythm modeled in my formative years has led to my own annual journey through the days of advent, with selected readings and my own creative expressions of poetry, prose and music. 

It’s tempting to whine as I did last week about how Christmas seems to stretch from Halloween to January, as holiday merchandise crowds the aisles of every store and our neighborhoods glow with glittering lights and an extensive assortment of inflatables. Why we need to see Santa in an outhouse is beyond me, but it is what it is. Christmas music has been flooding the airwaves for weeks, and the ever-present Santa, Rudolph, Frosty, Grinch, and the wished-for hippopotamus are blatant reminders of the secularization of Christmas. I checked out a top forty Christmas play list, and no mention was made of a divine purpose for the singing until hit #31, as Aretha belted out “Joy to the World.” 

It’s also predictable that no matter how much we plan ahead, most of us experience our share of frazzled days and late nights, determined that this year will definitely be the very best Christmas ever – until it isn’t. 

Stretched-thin days, the loss of sacred mystery, and a tendency to get overwhelmed – this is why I need Advent to temper the daze of the holiday season. I need to sing the ancient hymn, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I need to light a candle in the darkness. I need to pray the prayers uttered through the centuries, to speak words of hope and faith. I need to tell the stories of old, of angels, shepherds, and magi, of a senseless slaughter amidst the promise of peace on earth, and of elderly women faithfully waiting (Elizabeth, Anna). 

Advent, in its purest form, doesn’t need the beer and wine, chocolate and cheese hidden behind doors1-25. Instead, Advent offers space for silence and light for darkness, a daily nudge to remember, to slow down, to wait. 

We may differ in our understanding of the spiritual and its influence on our being, but as we enter Advent, might we each find sacred space to light a candle, sing a carol of faith, and allow the treasured story of old to unfold within us. “And it came to pass . . .”

Coffee, Anyone?

One of the classic lines in our family lore was uttered years ago by the three-year-old Madelyn Simone, in imitation of her father’s early morning plea: “I need my caw-fee.” The slogan is a few years old, but for millions of Americans like my son, “the best part of wakin’ up . . . is Folgers in your cup.” 

As ever-present as coffee is in our everyday lives, we might expect that Adam and Eve shared a morning coffee or two; however, coffee wasn’t used as a beverage until the fifteenth century.  Some called it the bitter invention of Satan, but Pope Clement VII taste-tested it and gave his stamp of approval.

My own history with coffee is less favorable than Clement’s. My dad and mom filled the percolator every morning with coffee they’d ground at the A&P or Loblaws, and its rich aroma filled our kitchen. A sample from my dad’s steaming mug left me swearing off java for life. The idea that coffee “tastes as good as it smells” did not fool my taste buds.

Yet since coffee is such a cultural icon, I decided to give it another shot when I was in grad school. Since I agreed with Jonathan Swift that “coffee makes us severe, and grave, and philosophical,” I thought a cup of coffee in my hands might improve my image. I could picture myself with mug of java, pausing to take a sip for inspiration at a crucial moment in a counseling session. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t learn to drink it, even with extra sugar or flavored creamers.

I still do not join the 64% of American adults who drink coffee every day, but I do know lots of people whose morning cry is “fill it to the rim with Brim,” or who put a warning sign on their office door: “Come back when I’m caffeinated.” 

Coffee drinkers seem to fall into two camps. The first are those who aren’t too fussy about the coffee-drinking experience. Their hats proclaim: “But first, coffee.” If it’s hot and strong, they’re happy. David Lynch understands them: “Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.”

Then, there are the coffee lovers. They have the designated mugs, the French press, the selected beans promising a citrus blend with a wisp of pipe smoke. They can be seen sporting tee-shirts saying, “Better beans, better coffee.” These connoisseurs claim that given enough coffee, anything is possible – and I believe them.

Years ago, Chock Full o’ Nuts was touted as “that heavenly coffee,” but today’s coffee world has moved on to auto-drip and pour-over, freshly roasted beans, and products from around the world. Group B, coffee lovers with the requisite handful of veritable coffee snobs, are in their own kind of heaven these days, as Goldberry Roasting Company has opened its doors on Claremont Avenue in Ashland. My husband has been purchasing their coffee beans for years, and in the early days of business, owner and long-time Ashlander Doug Cooper would slide a bag of freshly roasted beans inside our side door on Walnut Street. Now, Doug’s long-held dream has a brick and mortar site, where coffee aficionados of all ages can talk shop, solve the world’s problems over a cup of coffee, and take home a bag or two of their favorite blend.

I’ve debated giving coffee one last try before I turn my back on it forever.  After all, how can I walk into Goldberry Roasting Company and ask for hot chocolate? But on the other hand, if it hasn’t tasted good by now, why bother?

Rohan Marley, son of musician Bob Marley and co-founder of an organic coffee plantation in Jamaica, recognizes the value of coffee. “Coffee connects us in so many ways – to each other, to our senses, and to the earth that supports the coffee trees.” Seems like the local coffee shop has replaced the back fence and the front porch of yesterday, giving us a place to connect and come together, regardless of what is or isn’t in our cup. Coffee, anyone?

Silver Sneaker Time

The contenders for the Democratic nomination for president have been debating the possibility of “Medicare for All.” Might that be a viable option to provide healthcare to Americans and to reduce the current high cost of health care? There’s generally agreement that health care is expensive in the U.S. With the exception of Switzerland, the United States’ per capita expenditure on health care is double that of other developed countries. Our northern neighbor, Canada, spends $4826 per capita, while America on average spent $10,224 per person in 2017. According to the Peterson-Kaiser Health System Tracker, in 2016, the U.S. spent 8.5% of its GDP (gross domestic product) on health from public funds, similar to other countries. Private spending, however, is much higher, at almost 9% percent of GDP, compared to 2.7% in other countries.

Why do we pay so much, even with insurance? What is the best answer? Would Medicare for all work? I really don’t know, and will have to trust those whose economic education continued past high school to help me better understand what is at stake. But what I do know is that while Medicare for all is not the law of the land, “Medicare for Me” is definitely on the horizon for this woman of a certain age, as evidenced by the varied mailings cluttering my mailbox, social media, and inbox in the past few months. How do they know I am getting old(er)?

Yes, my sixty-fifth birthday is less than four months away, and I will soon join the ranks of Medicare recipients. No longer will I be able to cling to the last gasps of midlife, as I will be anchored solidly among the elderly. As such, I am being invited to consider a variety of supplemental plans for medical coverage to care for me in my dotage.

As the AARP has helped me understand, basic Medicare coverage definitely has some gaps. It doesn’t cover routine eye exams, glasses or contacts. Nor does it cover hearing aids, often a $6000-$8000 expense, out of reach for low income seniors. Dental work? Nope. An appendectomy in Paris or a broken leg in Nepal? No again. Nursing home care? Rehab after hip surgery, yes, but not long-term nursing home care. As for face-lifts, nose jobs or tummy tucks, we’re out of luck if we expect Medicare to pay for such frivolity!

Then, of course, there are the various parts of Medicare. Medicare Part A provides inpatient hospital coverage, Part B, at $135.50 or so per month, is for outpatient/medical coverage, Part D offers prescription drug coverage, and Part C is an alternate way to receive Medicare benefits. Medicare Advantage Plans (Part C) provide all Part A and Part B services, but can do so with different rules, costs, and restrictions. That’s what my e-mail and snail mail correspondents are wanting me to choose, because those plans are run by private companies – thus the opportunity to profit!

According to the Kaiser Family Foundation, gross margins for Medicare Advantage plans averaged $1,608 per covered person per year between 2016 and 2018, a figure that’s about double the average gross margins for individual plans and for group markets, making these Medicare Advantage plans a lucrative investment for insurers. It pays for them to maximize the enrollments, especially among the youngest cohort of Medicare recipients (like me!). 

Did you know there’s even a Medicare Café, where I can combine light refreshments with Medicaid information from one of the local providers? I could get breakfast there, do lunch with free samples at Sam’s Club, and then take advantage of the invites we get for investment presentations at local restaurants – no need to buy groceries.

I’ve often said that locating the needed resources to survive poverty can be a full-time job. I’m beginning to think the same is true as I move into the world of official senior citizenship. Why does it have to be so difficult to understand? Just have one of those cute guys in the brown shorts deliver my silver sneakers to the door and I’ll be happy. Oops – does that sound politically incorrect or sexist? You’ll have to excuse me – after all, I am getting older.

Shop 'til You Drop

The announcement from Sears seemed inevitable. Their Belden Village store, a long-time anchor of the Canton area mall, will close at the end of the year. The Richland Mall store has already closed, as have more across the country. The once-proud retailer has been surviving on fumes for the past few years, and the Belden Village store had already abandoned its second floor to a soon-to-open Dave and Buster’s Restaurant. The writing was on the wall.

I remember our family trips to the huge Sears store in Buffalo, located at Main and Jefferson, now Canisius College. It had an attached parking ramp, and I was a bit scared of its cavernous space as my dad’s Buick maneuvered up its narrow ramp. We didn’t go very often, but when we did, we’d get fresh roasted peanuts or cashews from the snack bar. Soon, Sears was opening a number of stores at the newfangled malls, and my family changed its shopping allegiance to the Sears in the suburbs, too sophisticated for a snack bar..

Sears, Roebuck and Company was founded in 1893, and initially began as a mail order catalog company. Both adults and children would pour over the pages when the catalog arrived, enjoying many an evening dreaming of what might appear under their Christmas tree. Now, with nearly all of its retail sites closed,  Sears is returning to its roots, with customers still able to order from its on-line catalog. What goes around, comes around, I suppose. 

I am sad to see such an iconic institution close its doors. Even though I didn’t visit very often (nor did many other customers), I hate to see Sears and so many retail stores close, because I enjoy the physical experience of shopping. As a new wife, I loved to seek out the blue-light specials at K-Mart, joining with a group of eager shoppers to chase a portable flashing light around the store. I want to feel the fabric of the nightgown, and walk a few feet in the new shoes to see if they’ll give me blisters. I don’t want to pack up the wrong-sized item for return, so it would probably live in the trunk of my car for months on its way to the donation box.

There’s also the thrill of searching through the clearance rack and landing the perfect find. It may not be exactly my color, but if it’s 80% off, who cares? Sure, there are sales on-line, but then I don’t have the satisfaction of the cashier saying, “You really got some good bargains today.”

Even though I spend quite a bit of time staring at the computer screen or on my phone each day, I still feel like I’m a step behind in using technology effectively. I can’t get used to shopping entirely on-line, even if the Amazon people deliver to my house and put my groceries away. Somehow, that seems like an abdication of my role as a woman of a certain age. 

I hate putting a damper on my shopping fun, but there is one little issue to bring up before I finish. I’m not a hoarder by the psychological definition, but I do like to buy “stuff” for my grandkids, seasonal decorations for the house, canned soup I seldom eat, and books. I never want to run out of toilet paper, so I keep those shelves stocked too. I also appreciate having meaningful items surrounding me that speak of memory and inspiration, or reminders of time shared with precious people. Until I have to go to “the home,” I’m keeping my “stuff,” but attempting to curb my accumulating tendencies, at least until I find a new discount store.

There are days when I bemoan the changing times, and as I watch the demise of Sears as I knew it, I’m feeling the loss of an old friend, even if we weren’t that close in recent days. Face it, JoAnn. Bob Dylan was correct all those years ago when he crooned, “your old road is rapidly agin.” I may not like it, but “the times, they are a-changin’.” I’ve got news for you, Bob. Fifty-five years later, they’re still a-changin’!

With Appreciation

While singing along with the music of “Frozen” with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, Lizzie often says, “You be Anna, I’ll be Elsa,” the Disney sister-princesses. Not every young woman’s #1 desire is to be a princess, but there is an attractiveness to the idea of royal living, with its promise of fame and fortune, shimmering ball gowns and sparkling jewels. 

Those of us who remember the fairy tale wedding of Diana and Prince Charles and then her tragic death in 1997 recognize that the fame of royalty can exact a formidable price upon its prisoners, especially young, beautiful women. Between the demands of the monarchy and the unwavering glare of a fishbowl filled with shark-like paparazzi, life as a modern-day princess isn’t a bed of roses. 

For Meghan Markle, an American actress who is now the wife of Prince Harry of Great Britain, life as a royal princess is more complicated than she imagined, especially with the incessant pressures of the tabloids. Recently, Meghan said, “I never thought it would be easy, but I thought it would be fair. And that’s the part that’s really hard to reconcile.” Prince Harry added: “Look, part of this job . . . means putting on a brave face and turning a cheek to a lot of the stuff. But again . . . there’s a lot of stuff that hurts – especially when the majority of it is untrue.” 

The need to turn the other cheek in public life isn’t limited to princes and princesses. This past week, a leading evangelical preacher opposed to women in the pulpit spoke disparagingly of Bible teacher Beth Moore, proposing she should “go home.” A fellow panelist suggested she was a narcissist, and also compared her to a television jewelry salesperson. Moore’s response was much more gracious than I could have managed. “I did not surrender to a calling of man when I was eighteen years old. I surrendered to a calling of God. It never occurs to me for a second to not fulfill it.” Instead of attacking her critics, she blessed them: “I esteem you as my sibling in Christ.”

As the assault on Moore illustrates, those whose lives are dedicated to ministry to others are not exempt from criticism, which has a lasting sting. Studies conducted by Dr. John Cacioppo (University of Chicago) show what he labeled the “negativity bias of the brain.” Apparently, our brains are more sensitive and responsive to unpleasant news, insults and criticisms – they hit us harder and stay with us longer. And as marriage therapist John Gottman notes, it takes five positive responses to outweigh the impact of one negative one.

Which leads me to the reminder that October is Pastor (or Clergy) Appreciation Month, nudging people in the pews to express appreciation for the care of those who provide leadership within the realm of faith. I’m glad it’s an entire month, because it gives the procrastinators in our midst (me included!) one more Sunday to say thank you.

And here’s the good news. Pastors don’t expect an all-expense-paid trip to the Holy Land in return for the work they do. They’re encouraged by a heartfelt note, a verbal thank you, or a home-baked apple pie. An offer to babysit the little ones, a gift card for books (my favorite), or a prayer for the pastor and family – all are simple ways to say “we care.”

Exodus 17 provides a valuable image of how to support those who serve. In the midst of the battle, Moses is exhausted. “Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on, while they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down.”

Today, there’s a pastor with tired arms, a worn-out teacher, a mayor who needs a stone to sit on, and a royal princess and a young woman at the drive-through in need of a kind word. Here’s more good news. We don’t need to wait until Mayor Day, Princess Month, or Clergy Appreciation Sunday to come alongside, bring a stone, lift someone’s arms, or simply say: “you are appreciated.”

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Remember when Senator John Edwards ran for president of the United States? The National Enquirer was first to report an extramarital affair, and as the story unfolded, there was a scandalous pregnancy, the birth of a child supposedly fathered by Edwards, and even a plan to steal a diaper to confirm DNA.  

That’s the kind of story I expected when I read the words, “pregnancy scandal.” Instead, these two words were the subject line of a daily email I receive from the New York Times, highlighting recent coverage of a story Elizabeth Warren tells on the presidential campaign trail. No, Senator Warren is not pregnant, nor did she give up a three-legged baby for adoption at the age of fourteen, the kind of story found in the pile of True Confession magazines at the beauty parlor of my childhood. Click bait, perhaps, but a more factual title would be: “Workplace discrimination remembered.” Unfortunately, that description, while more accurate to the article, doesn’t entice our voyeuristic fingers to click and skim the connected article.

In case you missed this story in today’s rapidly evolving news cycle, Senator Warren has spoken about her own experience of workplace discrimination as a young mother-to-be. When pregnant with her first child in the early 1970s, she faced a policy that refused to renew the contract of female teachers “with child.” Those wishing to cast doubt on the Senator’s candidacy question her recollection of this occurrence, because school board minutes didn’t confirm her account. Here’s why: her contract renewal was approved before news of her pregnancy was revealed, then revoked before the school year started when word got out. That’s how it was in those days.

Amy Rankin, terminated from her real estate job as a new mother in the 1960s, told the Washington Post: “I can’t believe that there are people out there who do not believe Elizabeth Warren. If you are a woman and you are a woman of a certain age, you have been discriminated against, whether it’s pregnancy-related or whether it’s job-related.”

I’m not ashamed of being a “woman of a certain age,” and I too have stories to tell about gender discrimination. But more than that, I struggle to understand why we are so ready to condemn another’s experience, to try to poke holes in their story.

Shortly after the dress code at my junior high was changed to allow girls to wear pants in school, I was sent home for wearing “inappropriate” pants –  in eighth grade. Too tight? Too bright? To this day, I don’t know. This was particularly traumatic for me because I had proudly sewn those pants myself, but can I prove it actually happened? Probably not. If someone challenged me, should I be expected to offer evidence of the veracity of my tale, down to the color of my trousers? 

Yet in our twenty-first century culture, we are seemingly consumed with “digging up dirt” on people who have given years and years in service to our country. Or, if unable to find verifiable dirt, we seem willing to latch on to whatever rumored dirt is floating around the internet. Consider the awful lies spread about the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School – twenty death certificates for the five and six-year-old children were faked, the grieving parents were paid actors. Bizarre, right? But people read the posts, bought the books, and believed them.

The challenge, especially for public figures but also for ourselves, is how to combat these baseless accusations and blatant lies. Once the toothpaste has been squeezed out of the tube, then what? Ignore the claims, and they could fester underground, suddenly bursting forth like a giant zit on prom night. Use precious time, energy and resources to prove your account is true? Speak clearly to the issue: “I have done nothing wrong.” Yeah, right – they all say that. Even a crisis management PR team has no easy answers.

Warren’s supposed “pregnancy scandal” reminds me once again to read past the headlines. But larger questions linger. Is our default setting “guilty” instead of “the benefit of the doubt”? Why are we so eager to believe the worst of each other? Enquiring minds want to know.

Play Ball!

Heading out to pick up wings with my son Drew the other night, I reached for the radio dial to turn on the baseball game, only to realize, “Oops, baseball is over.” With a smile, my son suggested that his beloved Yankees were still playing in October, but I respectfully declined to watch the Bronx Bombers, treasonous behavior for a Tribe fan. At least the Red Sox are crying in their beer this postseason along with the Indians. 

What is it about baseball that hooks me? In a Cleveland-based world of celebrity known for stars such as LeBron, Baker and OBJ (Beckham), Tribe players don’t generally earn a five-star paparazzi rating. Frankie Lindor’s smile lights up the diamond as does his bat and glove, but his fellow all-star Shane Bieber is best known for who he isn’t, his nickname jersey reading “not Justin,” the singer-actor whose name appeared on the pitcher’s baseball card. Due to injuries and the fickle finger of fate, so many other players rotated in and out of the lineup that it was hard to keep track of who’s who. 

One of those “fate” narratives was Carlos “Cookie” Carrasco, a pitcher diagnosed with leukemia partway through the season. His recovery and return to the team was a true highlights of the season. The biblical admonition to weep with those who weep and to rejoice with those who rejoice was front and center in Cookie’s health crisis, and it was good to see him compete in the last weeks of the season. 

We didn’t get to Progressive Field this year, so didn’t witness the excitement of life-sized condiments racing into the stadium, nor lift our voices in the iconic “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. But many nights, we tuned in to Ashland’s Matt Underwood with the televised play-by-play, or to Hammy and Rosie on the radio as they gossiped around the baseball world in between pitches.

Compared to the constant motion of basketball and the bruising tackles on the gridiron, the action on the diamond is slow, even boring, punctuated by the occasional home run ball or the manager’s nose-to-nose discussion with the umpire. And don’t get me started on the big money earned by the best of the best. Since the Nationals are still in the hunt for a World Series berth this year, perhaps their contracts with pitchers Stephen Strasburg ($38.3 million this year) and Max Scherzer (a measly $37.4 million) will pay off in victory, but earning a million bucks every time someone takes the mound? It’s a great gig if you can get it.

What is it about baseball that keeps me reaching for the radio dial or wanting to check the box score? It’s twofold for me. I’ve been an Indians fan for nearly thirty years, and although they’ve only had two World Series appearances in that time, baseball still brings me hope. With a record of 93 wins and 69 losses, the Tribe played good baseball this year. Each time they took the field, anything was possible. Perhaps there would be a no-hitter, or Carlos Santana would hit a grand slam in the tenth inning. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” wrote Alexander Pope in 1734, perhaps foreshadowing the optimism of spring training each year.

Here’s the other draw for me. In a world of shifting values and ever-changing daily headlines, Tribe baseball is a constant. 

When everything around us is spinning at warp speed, we reach for constancy. The A & W will close in November, but opening day won’t be far away. Sixty Minutes will air in its entirety on Sunday nights, even if delayed by football. The sun will rise at dawn. Tulips will bloom and trees will bud. Hope will spring anew. “Play ball” will be heard at the corner of East Ninth and Carnegie once again.

Richard Nelson Bolles understands: “Change becomes stressful and overwhelming only when you’ve lost any sense of the constancy of your life. You need firm ground to stand on.” Give me a welcoming home, an enduring faith, loyal friends, a stack of good books, and Tribe baseball, and I’m ready to face the world.

The Test of Civilization

Checking in with the lovely Madelyn Simone this week, I asked how fourth grade was going. “Good,” she replied. “Do you have a best friend this year?” Madelyn: “Yes,” and she told me the name of the girl in her class who recently moved to the United States from Vietnam. 

Her teacher told Madelyn’s parents how helpful our granddaughter is to the young girl, as she attempts to navigate a new language, a new classroom experience, and a new country. Sitting with her at lunch, playing together at recess, and communicating, even without shared words, Madelyn has welcomed her new BFF with open arms.

I’m old enough to remember Vietnam. A family friend was killed there. I wore a POW/MIA bracelet with the name of Major John Held engraved upon it. A teacher in my school emigrated to Canada rather than serve in the war. Even from a fourth-grade perspective, it was a difficult time.

I also remember the images: Nick Ut’s photograph of nine-year-old Phan Thi Kim Phuc, known as the Napalm Girl; planes taking off in Babylift, airlifting three thousand babies and children, mostly orphans, out of country as Saigon fell in 1975; the images of boat people, an estimated 800,000 who faced the dangers of the South China Sea in search of refuge. These boat people, as well as other escapees, lived indefinitely in teeming refugee camps 

What I didn’t know was that in 1979, Vice President Walter Mondale took the lead in developing a world-wide response to the Vietnamese refugee crisis. In a U.N. speech, Mondale pointed to the Evian Conference in 1938, where delegates from thirty-two countries met to discuss the refugee crisis in the years leading up to World War II. While speaker after speaker expressed sympathy for the Jews who were attempting to escape Germany, “most countries, including the United States and Britain, offered excuses for not letting in more refugees” (U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum). Mondale confessed: “The civilized world hid in the cloak of legalisms, and the result was the Holocaust.” By their inaction, they “failed the test of civilization.” Capturing his audience’s attention, Mondale outlined what he saw as a world problem, and as Dan Olsen reported, “exhorted them to fashion a world solution.”

In that response, the U.S. proposed doubling the number of southeast Asian refugees to the U.S., welcoming 14,000 people each month to resettlement opportunities across the country. In stark contrast, Washington this week announced the refugee cap for 2019-2020 will be 18,000 people – per year. In 2015-16, this number was 110,000.

The Pew Research Center notes that this reduction in refugee admissions comes when the number of refugees worldwide has reached the highest levels since World War II. The United Nation’s refugee agency report, “the global population of forcibly displaced increased by 2.3 million people in 2018. By the end of the year, almost 70.8 million individuals were forcibly displaced worldwide as a result of persecution, conflict, violence, or human rights violations.” Filippo Grandi, the U.N. high commissioner for refugees, said more than half of the 2018 refugees were children. More than half. Children. 

Immigration is complicated, emotionally fraught and politically divisive today, but it was complicated, emotionally fraught and politically divisive as Germans begged for asylum in 1938, and as Mondale spoke to the challenges of South-Asian refugees in 1979. In 1938, world leaders “failed the test of civilization.” In 1979, they were urged to do better – and did.

In 1979, James and Shirley Clifton had only met Thu-Hoang Ha’s father when the Vietnamese student came to Christmas dinner, but agreed to sign an affidavit of support, taking financial responsibility for his wife and daughter so they could escape Vietnam and enter the U.S. Ha writes: “It’s worth remembering that decades ago, despite widespread public opposition and xenophobia, a country opened its doors to those seeking safe, dry land. And they, in turn, left a lasting mark on a new home.” 

Mondale’s words are but a faint echo today, yet Madelyn’s actions remind me of the phrase from Isaiah: “. . . and a little child shall lead them.” The question of 1938 still reverberates: Is there truly no room for those seeking refuge?

A Banquet of Consequences

For the sake of full disclosure, my idyllic visit to the Ashland County Fair with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday didn’t turn out to be quite the “hap-happiest season of all.” The animal barns smelled, rowdy cackles and crows greeted us in the poultry barn, and the thunderous noise of the dragon roller coaster was overwhelming to our four-year-old Lizzie. Our balloons escaped into the heavens. I questioned my sanity as we rocked at the top of the rickety Ferris wheel - how could we possibly get rescued if the ride broke down?

With a no-nap day, a sensory overload, and a sugar high for which I totally take responsibility, it’s no wonder my precious granddaughter had a meltdown or two during our five-hour visit to the fair. Her behavior needed to be addressed, but as she wailed in the midway, the possible consequences were limited. I threatened to take her to the car if she couldn’t get it together. I looked for a quiet corner for a short time-out. I raised my voice. I thought about the word “spank.” I nearly cried along with her. And I wondered if maybe next year, we might just stay at Nana’s house and eat mashed potatoes and gravy on the day of the fair. 

The ministry organization I served in for many years had a similar dilemma about consequences. A series of checks and balances were in place on a regional level, including an adherence to work standards and organizational policy. A weekly meeting of regional leadership reviewed requests and concerns and subsequently expected responses in line with policy. One day, a friend shook her head as she exited that weekly meeting, saying: “I wish I had known years ago that I didn’t need to do what headquarters told me to do!” Knowing my friend, her own sense of a moral compass wouldn’t allow her to consistently break the rules, but she recognized the struggle of leadership when faced with the response: “So what? What are you going to do to me?”

When a person utilizes a well-developed moral compass, they ask the questions: who will be helped by what I do? Who will be harmed? When the answer to the first question is “me” and to the second is “everybody else,” then we’ve got trouble. Many workplaces are constrained by a lack of enforceable consequences short of termination. “You’re fired” may resonate on reality TV, but it’s not a practical response on a day-to-day basis in the workplace or the family. Neither is “we’re leaving the fair now” only ten minutes into our visit. 

Parenting experts tell us that consequences for poor behavior should be age-appropriate, immediate, and enforceable. The consequence should also impact the misbehaver, not the enforcer or other family member. Taking recess away from the entire second grade class because two classmates didn’t finish their lunch on time is not effective punishment. That’s true in the workplace as well. Keeping a less-than-productive employee is tough on the rest of the staff, but a suspension or firing puts a heavier burden on co-workers and supervisor as they take up the slack until a replacement can be hired and trained.

If the breaker-of-the-rules knows there are few consequences for their actions, then why not do what they want? Pop music star Charli XCX blatantly admits the challenge: “I don’t wanna go to school, I just wanna break the rules.” 

In nursery school, Lizzie learned about making green choices and red choices, an early step in the development of a moral compass. She understands the difference, but still needs encouragement to make green choices, and age-appropriate consequences when she chooses red. Ideally, we expect adults to operate with a mature moral compass, guided by personal values and societal norms. But unless effective consequences are in place, we all pay the price when another’s compass is warped, ignored, or non-existent.

Robert Louis Stevenson provides a memorable image: “Everybody, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences.” Will the menu be bitter or sweet?

The Hap-happiest Season of All

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” croons Andy Williams, soon to be heard on the endless loop of Christmas music that takes over my brain long before December 25^th. While Edward Pola and George Wyle claimed the weeks surrounding Christmas were the “hap-happiest season of all,” I’m guessing these song-writing collaborators never experienced county fair week in Ashland.

I’m writing this year’s column based upon my own somewhat faulty memory and the miracle of Facebook posts, as my visit to the corner of Baney Road and Claremont Avenue with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday won’t take place until the final day of the fair, long after my column is due at the Ashland Times-Gazette.  

Memory and Facebook posts share a common limitation: we only see what comes up in our feed. Unless we search for a certain  social media post, we are at the whims of the Facebook gods (aka algorithms) that I can’t begin to understand. That’s also how my brain seems to work. Scientists tell us that memory is dependent upon the processes of encoding, storage and retrieval. Apparently, memories begin with either a visual or auditory cue, which makes sense, but my memories of the carnival-like atmosphere of the fair, both from childhood and more recent years in Ashland, seem to be associated with smells and tastes as well.

The smells of the animal barns are common to county fairs, with the freshly groomed horses, the newly shorn sheep, and the caged chickens, ducks and turkeys all vying for our attention. I remember trips to the zoo or the fair as a small child, and being fascinated as I watched the animals poop. With grandchildren, history tends to repeat itself – enough said!

I’m convinced I have a reserved place in my memory for fair food. My mouth is watering as I type, triggered by memories of my childhood favorite: sugar waffles at Crystal Beach. Guess what? They have these delicacies at the county fair. These aren’t the kind of waffles you make for yourself at the hotel breakfast buffet. One anonymous reviewer described them as “basically fried dough, crispy and crumbly and ultimately, just a means to an end: sugar.” And they usually have free samples! Lerch’s donuts, funnel cakes, candy apples, French fries . . . sugar and grease are king at the Ashland County Fair.

Madelyn is already asking if the kid’s roller coaster is at the fair this year. That’s her ride of choice, and I remember all too well her disappointment when it failed to appear one year. Here’s hoping the petite Lizzie is tall enough to ride, or there will be trouble in paradise for sure.

I love the small group of volunteers who make recycling a priority at the fair. Facebook even offered up a photo of the recycling fairy wearing her magic heels. While it seems a tiny drop in an ocean-sized bucket, when we toss the pop can in the recycling container, we are doing our part to create a better world for our kids and grandkids. Thank you, recycling team, for your faithful early morning work.

The county fair allows local organizations to meet and greet the thousands who pass through the merchant buildings and visit under the grandstand. Two booths, both trimmed in red, white and blue, provide aspiring political candidates and civic leaders the chance to chat with constituents. The Dems have added an intriguing component this year, as Ashlanders can vote in a straw poll, deciding which face they prefer as the democratic candidate for president in 2020. As of Wednesday, it looks like Biden and Warren are in the lead, with Mayor Pete a popular third. The Heartland speaks!

There’s so much more to see and do, smell and taste at the county fair, but I’m out of space. Be sure to head out to the fairgrounds today to sample your favorite fair food, congratulate the 4-H kids, and breathe one last glimpse into your memory of the “hap-happiest season” – the 2019 Ashland County Fair. I’ll be the one with two beautiful granddaughters and powdered sugar on my shirt. See you there!

Of Corsets and Tight-Lacing

The month of September is marked by the opening of the Ashland County Fair, Friday night football under the lights, the first cider pressing at Mitchell’s Orchards, and the thundering cannon blast at AU home games. Autumn beckons us onward, and for the most part, we’re ready. 

September is also a month to focus on the women of the greater Ashland community with this week’s celebration for 2019’s Ashland County Women of Achievement. The Women’s Fund of the Ashland County Community Foundation is also joining in the fun with their upcoming “Celebrating the Past and Envisioning the Future” program, on September 24. 

One of the features of the Women’s Fund event is a display of historical clothing, including the wedding gown of Edna Garber, the mother of Ashland’s beloved matriarch, Dr. Lucille Garber Ford, and the grandmother of retired ATS professor, Dr. JoAnn Ford Watson. As the pictures confirm, in 1914 the young Edna said “yes’ to a beautiful dress. 

As a girl, I enjoyed reading about the society weddings in the Buffalo Evening News, describing taffeta A-line creations with sweetheart necklines and cap sleeves, or ballroom gowns of organza trimmed with Chantilly lace. Yet despite my early interest in wedding attire, my fashion sense remains underdeveloped, so I can’t fully describe the Garber gown. It has a delicate lace insert at the neckline, and it’s apparent the bride had a slim figure, as the natural waist is accented by a lace bow. The cinched waistline was quite fashionable in the late 1800s and into the first decades of the 1900s, often seen in pictures from that era. It’s likely that Edna’s tiny waist came naturally to her, but I’ve discovered that many women went through a daily process of tight-lacing to achieve such a fashionable look.

Wikipedia, that twenty-first century source of all knowledge, explains that “the primary effect of tight-lacing is the decreased size of the waist.” I’m not sure whether Ethel Granger made the Guinness Book of World Records, but she is noted for having the smallest waist recorded at thirteen inches. She achieved that reduction by tight-lacing for most of her life, successfully reducing her waistline by ten inches. Ouch!

Obviously, I’ve never practiced tight-lacing, scared away by the scene from “Gone With the Wind” where Mammy tells the young Scarlet, “Hold onto something and suck in your breath.” Grabbing the bedpost, Scarlet does as instructed. Mammy tugs and pulls, and “the tiny circumference of whalebone-girdled waist grew smaller” (Scnoop website). Scarlet later remarks, “Goodness, but my stays are tight.” Or, as Lady Cluck complains as she plays tennis in the 1973 “Robin Hood” classic from Disney, “Oh, my girdle’s killing me.”

Because it pushed vital organs out of place, tight-lacing could be quite harmful to young women. I’m in possession of a copy of a letter from Maude B. Booth, who led The Salvation Army in the United States in the late 1800s with her husband Ballington. She wrote to women leaders, speaking of her consternation that “some women officers are addicted to tight-lacing.” She continues, “I say addicted purposely for I really think that tight-lacing is as bad as cigarette smoking in a man.” Pictures of Salvation Army women from that era confirm her observations. Even in women who swore off “worldly adornments” and the “follies of fashion,” the lure of the tiny waist was strong, and, according to Mrs. Booth, both sinful and life-threatening.

Now, more than one hundred years later, “we’ve come a long way, baby.” As we celebrate the accomplishments of this year’s Women of Achievement, and envision the future with ACCF’s Women’s Fund, it’s apparent that many of the constrictions that faced women a century ago have been lifted, as the constraints of limited opportunity have gone the same route as the daily wear of girdles and corsets. 

These words hang behind my desk: “Here’s to strong women. May we know them. May we be them. May we raise them.” For Madelyn, Lizzie, and Emma, for our daughters and granddaughters, for the girls in the pew and the young women behind the fast food counter, here’s to an un-corseted future marked with strength, courage and boundless dreams.

Deep In My Heart

When we were transferred to The Salvation Army in the Hough neighborhood of Cleveland in 1990, our son Dan was one, and we enrolled him in the day care at our center. Each year the staff planned a grand celebration for Black History month, and I was curious as to how the teachers might engage Dan’s class in the festivities. That first year, they lined up all sixteen babies in high chairs, gave them each a spoon, and popped a tape in the VCR. As family and friends proudly looked on, Hap Palmer sang “sittin’ in a high chair . . . bang my spoon,” the on-screen chimp wore a banana peel on his head as he messily ate his lunch, and our precious babies banged their spoons in joyous response. Brilliant!

By his third year in the center, Dan progressed from banging his spoon to being cast as Martin Luther King, Jr. in his class skit. He took his part seriously, especially the singing. I got a sneak preview at the fast food counter as he sang for all to hear, “We shall obercome some day!” 

Adapted from a gospel hymn by Rev. Charles Albert Tindley called “I’ll Overcome Some Day,” the song was first used in labor strikes in the late 40s, and would later be led by folk singers Pete Seeger and Joan Baez, familiar names from my adolescence. A theme song of sorts in the civil rights movement in the 60s, by the 90s it was being taught to our three-year-olds (including my young blonde son) to explain and explore the heritage of their people. 

Over the centuries, music has been at the forefront of history and change. In the nineteenth century, protest songs addressed war, abolition of slavery, and women’s suffrage (for and against). By the 1900s, the focus shifted to labor, the Great Depression, the Civil Rights Movement and Vietnam. One example:  Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” may be a patriotic song for fireworks shows today, but it was also a bitter commentary on the return of soldiers from Vietnam. 

As a teen in the late 60s and early 70s, I passionately sang Pete Seeger’s “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” and “Turn, Turn, Turn,” and Peter, Paul and Mary’s cover of Seeger’s “If I Had a Hammer.” I looked desperately for the answers that Bob Dylan promised were “Blowin’ in the Wind.” How fervently we believed, “The Times, They Are A-Changin.’” And change they did.  

One silly favorite is “Charlie on the M.T.A,” or “The Metropolitan Transit Authority Protest Song.” It’s a narrative account of “a man named Charlie,” who got on the subway “on that tragic and fateful day” and couldn’t get off because the exit fare was raised while he rode the train. Written for a mayoral candidate who couldn’t afford other advertising, the Kingston Trio recorded the song, and Charlie’s plight traveled around the world. “Did he ever return? No, he never returned . . .” 

As I was revisiting many of these songs, I stumbled upon a treasure of a book, “Songs of America: Patriotism, Protest, and the Music that Made a Nation,” by Jon Meacham and Tim McGraw. The flyleaf explains: “Through all the years of strife and triumph, America has been shaped not just by our elected leaders and our formal politics, but also by our music – by the lyrics, performers, and instrumentals that have helped to carry us through the dark days and to celebrate the bright ones.”

A stroll down Memory Lane is great for reminiscing, but what of the music of this century? Will music breathe life into protest, might it become a source of healing and hope? Meacham and McGraw echo my question: “Given the current state of the nation, can music play any role in smoothing out the sharp edges of our disagreements and easing the tensions of tribalism?” They poetically conclude: “The song of America is not finished; the last notes have not yet been played. In that spirit, in that cause, now and always, let us lift every voice and sing.” Because deep in my heart, I do believe . . .