Let It Snow!

As someone whose occupational status is “semi-retired,” I chuckled at my own excitement as winter storm warnings whispered the promise of being snowed in. Theoretically, it didn’t make any difference to me, as I had no travel plans, and no need to determine whether I could get to work safely or not. We’ve got cars that (finally) fit in the garage, a manageable driveway, and a snow blower, so we could get out if necessary. Putting on an extra layer of clothing, I cuddled up next to our gas fireplace, a good book in hand and the NFL conference championship games to look forward to on Sunday. With chili bubbling in the crock pot and a soon-to-be-opened box of chocolate from The Candy and Nut Shoppe, what more could a girl want?

After all the advance warnings, I was disappointed to see that the ground was still green when I got up last Saturday morning – no snow yet for us. But as the day progressed, the snow began to fall, quietly at times, but with some furious moments as well. Hoping to walk a bit in mid-afternoon, I was driven back by the icy sleet pelting my face and coating my hair. So much for a few minutes communing with nature! Instead, I decided to be content with experiencing Winter Storm Harper vicariously through the various Facebook posts from friends in Northeast Ohio and beyond.

Since when does a winter storm get a name? This inquiring mind discovered that the snowstorm name doesn’t come from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which names tropical storms, but instead, they are named by The Weather Channel. Here’s hoping they don’t need to use Ulmer, Vaughn, Wesley, Xyler, Yvette or Zachary this year.

As a native of the Buffalo, New York area, this week’s snow drifts awakened memories of childhood snow. While we didn’t have to walk six miles uphill each way to school as my father claimed as his heritage, we did walk to our neighborhood elementary school, returned home for lunch, and headed back again for the afternoon session each day. Hats, mittens, scarves, and the ugly red snow boots lined with Wonder bread wrappers were an inevitable accompaniment to our daily routine. The city had sidewalk plows, so we stomped between walls of snow, sometimes towering over our first-grade bodies. We came home to snowball fights and snow forts, and often made the trek over to the sledding hill on the banks of the Niagara River.

With years of experience, the community had the right equipment and dedicated workforce to clear the streets and walkways so safe passage was possible. Consequently, snow days that forced schools to close were few and far between, as snow was an expected part of winter in Buffalo. I don’t remember wearing my pajamas backwards and inside out, or sleeping with a spoon under my pillow in hopes of a giant snowfall as some of today’s children do. But when the designation of “snow day” finally came, we were thrilled – as kids, we didn’t need to worry about missing a day’s pay or having enough bread for the family, 

Susan Orlean describes the feeling: “A snow day literally and figuratively falls from the sky – unbidden – and seems like a thing of wonder.” Snow days brings joy to the young and the young at heart, because for a few hours or a few days, the demands of life are put on hold. There’s no rush to get everybody out the door in the morning, no rehearsals or practices to attend, and minimal guilt over wearing pajamas until it’s time to shovel. 

Rachel Cohn sums it up for me: “[Snow] brings people together while time stands still . . . No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.” In my more philosophical moments this week, I’ve been challenged to be more open to the glory of the day, the presence of the holy, the companionship of those we love, and the gift of wonder, snow or no snow. 

The Perfect Child for Us

Unicorn or mermaid? It’s time to plan for the lovely Madelyn Simone’s ninth birthday party. How can that be? As I wrote at the time of her birth and have subsequently echoed on many occasions, becoming a grandmother has been life-changing. I’ve received a new name (Nana), which on most days is the sweetest sound emanating from the lips of Madelyn and her sister. I’m familiar with every playground in Ashland and Stark counties, and a few in Summit county as well. The presence of the girls in our lives was the main factor in our decision to sell our beloved home in Ashland (what Madelyn calls the mansion) to move closer to the little ones. 

As my mother told me when Madelyn was born, “you are just crazy about that baby.” Just as my mother-love expanded when our second son was born, I’ve been grateful at how my heart has magically stretched to allow for the same smittenness for her sister, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. And now, my heart and my arms have an exponential challenge, for two new grandbabies are on their way, Henry Kyle (March) and either Emma or Jack (early June). Yes, both of my daughters-in-law have a bun in the oven, and I am eager to make the acquaintance of these new littles.

I wonder what stories we’ll tell about their arrival? I just googled “birth stories” and got 881 million hits. Some are way too graphic for me – I’ll stick to our family lore of liverwurst sandwiches, spilled coffee and interrupted sermons. Looking back at my own birthing narratives from the distance of three decades, I’m content to claim the words of Jesus (John 16:21): “When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world.” 

While I don’t mean to contradict the words of Jesus,the joy at the birth of a child can be tempered with other emotions, with more somber experiences. We count the fingers and toes and there may not be ten of each. Like our Lizzie, who arrived too early, NICU intervention may be needed to stabilize the newborn. Having children (and grandchildren, too) is not for the faint of heart. 

A few years ago, long-time Ashlanders Jay and Linda Pappas retired to the state of Maine, drawn by its beauty and its slogan (Maine: the way life should be), but most of all by the presence of their daughter and her family (they’re smitten too!). Eight years ago, they traveled to North Carolina for the birth of their second grandchild, whose parents located there after college. Excited to see the new baby, Linda was a bit unsettled as she observed him. Here’s how Linda remembers it: “Caden, lying there under the warming lights, looked like a sunbather on a Carolina beach. His arms and legs stretched outward, extending into such a relaxed pose that they barely moved at all. Caden seemed to be only slowly and gently awakening to this new world outside his mommy’s tummy, and he certainly wasn’t getting any too excited about the experience. That nagging feeling I had that Caden wasn’t acting quite right for a newborn intensified.”

Linda’s instincts proved spot-on, for following a battery of tests, Caden was diagnosed with Congenital Fiber Type Disproportion, a rare disorder that impacts skeletal muscles. Linda chronicles her family’s journey in the NICU and beyond in her recently released book, “The Perfect Child for Us,” available on Amazon. In her account, she doesn’t whitewash the struggles, but it’s clear that both Caden and their Maine granddaughter Cate are bringers of joy to their family. 

Welcoming a new baby into the family feels like Lizzie twisting the knob on the gumball machine – she knows a gumball is coming, yet she’s delighted every time to see what it looks like. Blue eyes, red hair, chubby cheeks, scrawny legs – the baby surprises await us. The only guarantee is this: each baby will be the perfect child for us, destined to bring their own unique gift of joy to our smitten family.

A Wall for You, A Wall for Me

The television ad is called, “One for you, one for me,” as a man surprises his wife with a special gift for the holidays. Taking her out to the driveway, she sees two brand new trucks – one black and one red. He bought the black one for himself, but his wife gravitates to that one, so he ends up settling for the red truck. The pitch has run seemingly non-stop since Black Friday, so now that the holiday season is over, I’m hoping I’ll never see it again, because that commercial was doing its best to influence my husband.

Consequently, Larry has started mentioning the possibility of new cars. How fun that would be, a Miata convertible for me and a hatchback for Larry (so he can transport his tuba to band rehearsal). Of course, there wouldn’t be room in the Miata for the grandkids, and we currently have car payments on two cars that are operating well, meeting our needs. So don’t bother calling, car salespeople – we’re not in the market. 

But what if Larry demanded an expensive new car or truck and I said, “We can’t afford it, we don’t need it, we’re not getting one”? He could whine, cajole, plead, beg, bully, threaten, and make life miserable for me. He could refuse to do the wash until I gave in, and I could shut down the kitchen in response. He could freeze our joint bank account, and even hide my car keys (given my history with lost car keys, I’d never find them). Even so, I’d be likely to dig my heels deeper into my decision and stand my ground. “No new car.”

There is a familiar ring here. The president of the United States wants something, and consequently, he has virtually shut down the laundry, the kitchen, and the bank account. An estimated 800,000 government workers are without paychecks, as are many more independent contractors. CareerBuilder says that 78% of us admit to living paycheck to paycheck. What would you do if your paycheck didn’t come this month?

As a result of the shutdown, many TSA workers are calling in sick each day (known as trying to find other work). The Coast Guard and national parks are struggling. The traditional food stamp program, now known as Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, is running out of money. Our relationship with the IRS may turn to hate if tax refunds can’t be processed and released on time. Somehow, I doubt our tax preparers will foot the bill for cash advances on delayed refunds. 

Perhaps the shut-down has already been resolved. Good news. Yet it could, as threatened, last for months. A long-term government shut-down doesn’t make sense to me, no matter our personal views on border security and immigration reform, or any other topic. There’s got to be a better way.

How did we as Americans get to the point where our brothers and sisters are being held hostage to a wall? Whatever happened to the principles of democracy, including informed discussion, debate, and decision-making culminating in a vote to determine what’s best? Is government now about who has the most leverage, using the lives of our fellow Americans as pawns in a battle of wills in D.C.? 

What if these tactics were used in local governments? The mayor wants to build a new city hall, price tag $40 million, and until he gets it, he requires snow plow drivers to work without pay, while cutting back garbage pickups to a monthly schedule? Would Ashlanders give in to that kind of demand?

Most would say, “OK, enough with the threats and harmful actions. We’re not going to deliberately hurt others in our community here in Ohio so you can get your own way. We’re paying the plow drivers and picking up the garbage. We’ll use the processes of democracy to determine our direction.”

It’s the same in marriages. When we can’t afford the “one for you, one for me” car purchase, we strive for unified decisions that benefit the family, without holding someone hostage to get what we want.

Is that too much to ask of POTUS and those elected to represent us in Washington? 

A Taste of Heaven

“Heaven, I’m in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.” For Fred Astaire, Irving Berlin’s words described his experience while dancing “cheek to cheek” with Ginger Rogers. With two left feet, the dance floor isn’t heaven for me; instead, I hummed that tune during a recent visit to Ashland Books. I agree with Tahereh Mafi: “I love walking into a bookstore. It’s like all my friends are sitting on shelves, waving their pages at me.”

As I scanned the shelves, I recognized hundreds of friends. Nancy Drew met me just inside the door with her sidekicks Bess Marvin and George Fayne, ready to jump into Nancy’s roadster and solve the next mystery to hit River Heights. While created by the same publisher as the Hardy Boys, somehow the boys just didn’t catch my interest like Nancy and her friends did.

A full shelf of Robert Heinlein reminded me of my adolescent connection to “Stranger in a Strange Land.” Perhaps it’s worth another look to see how Valentine Michael Smith’s ideas fit into my more mature worldview. Will I still grok it? (Martian for “to drink in all available aspects of reality, or to become one with the observed”).

I saw many other gems that longed to come home with me, but having scaled down my library quite a bit in our last move, I resisted the temptation to own more books, especially those I’ve already read. However, I discovered a pristine copy of an Inspector Armand Gamache mystery by Louise Penny and wrapped it up for my sister for Christmas, excited to introduce her to one of my favorite story-tellers and the captivating villagers of Three Pines. A few other friends, both old and new, snuck their way into my shopping bag, so there are now three piles by my bedside instead of one, just begging to be read soon.

As Vincent van Gogh testified, “So often, a visit to a bookshop has cheered me, and reminded me that there are good things in the world.” So too for me. It was a delightful morning, but overshadowed by the knowledge that this downtown store would soon close its doors. The owner was wistful in his reflection, wondering if his business might have been able to turn the corner if he had been able to hold on just a little bit longer. Since the announcement of the store’s demise, there have been many expressions of appreciation from regular customers and community members for his carefully curated bookstore, but not in enough time to keep its doors open.

The closing of old (and sometimes not-so-old) businesses and the opening of new ones is a constant in the landscape of small communities in mid-America. It can result from the natural cycle of economics, as technology and tastes change or family circumstances intervene. Change also occurs when proprietors retire, as Anita and Ray Weaver recently did – Ashland is thrilled that The Candy and Nut Shoppe will live on under a new owner. 

Yet at times, the closures come because these specialty shops in the downtowns of small cities and towns across the country just can’t make it financially. Even in communities that manage to get on the tourist track, there’s still often a tiny profit margin in these small retail shops. The death knell ringing in thousands of downtowns is a familiar refrain. 

Could the bookstore have been saved? Perhaps a different ambiance, a mixture of new books and old, more community events, celebrity visits, coffee and tea in a reading nook? Who knows? But in the end, it comes down to paying customers walking through the door and spending money. No matter the quality, quantity, price or uniqueness of merchandise, whether bicycles, jewelry, toys, or books, if customers don’t cross the threshold of brick and mortar stores with their wallets open, the stores can’t survive.

Sadly, Ashland Books has now moved its inventory to “Useful Junk,” an antique shop on State Route 58 in Sullivan, leaving a book-shaped hole in the soul of downtown. Perhaps that hole will remind us that “shop local” isn’t just a sales slogan – it is the lifeblood of Ashland.