Rain

The video of our granddaughter is adorable. The delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, age four, had dressed herself in her pink polka dot bathing suit and flip-flops (probably on the wrong feet), and wistfully stood at the living room window, singing to her front lawn: “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day, all the children want to play, rain, rain, go away.” 

By Wednesday, the rains of June 2019 seem a distant memory, as we spent our afternoon under the hot Ohio sun, our granddaughters splashing in the kiddie pool and chasing each other around our back yard with squirt guns and shrieks. Yet a series of waterlogged images are fresh in my mind: Grandpa’s Cheese Barn in Ashland surrounded by water, I-71 in Columbus closed due to flooding, Barberton neighborhoods underwater, and the Tuscarawas River overflowing its banks in Massillon. In Canal Fulton, the Cherry Street Creamery, where we’d recently enjoyed an ice cream treat, looked like an island in the newly formed “Canal Fulton Lake.” 

When we see flooding on the news or in the paper, it’s easy to lament the loss of access to a favorite ice cream stand, or to complain about rain dampening our vacation. Yet our “will it ever stop raining?” whine has a broader impact than a momentary disruption to our leisure-time activities.

For staff at the Salvation Army’s Camp NEOSA, situated on the swollen shore of Leesville Lake, it meant watching the rising waters overwhelm the beach and creep towards the dining hall. Rainy day fun was extra-challenging this past week at Camp NEOSA.

For people like Paulette Snyder, the co-owner of the Canal Fulton Livery and Campground, their very livelihood is threatened by the rains. “Between canoeing, kayaking, biking and camping, every avenue we have to make money is gone,” she said. When your business is dependent on summer tourists, the old saying, “making hay while the sun shines” is a poignantly prophetic reminder – there’s little hay to make when the sun isn’t shining. 

Farmers are facing serious concerns, as the Cincinnati Enquirer reported: “Ohio’s farmland is underwater and unrecognizable. The impact will last even longer than the rain.” As a kid, we’d drive through farm country on Sunday afternoon car rides, and my dad would remind us that the corn should be “knee high by the Fourth of July.” Instead, as the Enquirer noted, “Standing water comes up to the knee in some fields. Plots are more like muddy swamps where the only thing that’s growing is mold and disease and mosquitoes.” Anybody want more mosquitoes? I didn’t think so.

It’s not just here in Ohio. The recent flooding in Ohio pales in comparison to the Midwest states bordering the Mississippi River. Some communities and farmland have been underwater for months. Greenville, Mississippi’s mayor Errick Simmons describes the impact: “Our flooding has been over one hundred days. We have an increasingly severe homelessness situation . . . Hopes have been completely destroyed.”

Another number stands out: at the beginning of June of this year, thirty-one million acres of America’s farmland were still unplanted. Family farms, corporate farms, organic farms – neither the rain nor the changing climate are impressed by who you are.

Two takeaways for me on this topic. First, I’m reminded of how quickly we forget what’s going on in the lives of others. We can blame our response on the rapid news cycle, but unless we’re immersed in a situation – flooding, tragedy, or loss of any kind – it quickly slips our mind as we move onto the next sound bite or family outing. It’s not that we don’t care; we’re just focused on what’s next.

We’re also tempted to stand at the picture window in our bathing suits, wishing life was different. Instead, consider the alternative: we can pull on slickers and rain boots, stride out into the storm, and do what we can, piling up sandbags, mucking out basements and being aware of our neighbor’s struggle. But don’t forget – even when it’s raining and pouring, we can still let our joy show up. When the storm passes, see what happens when you jump in a mud puddle and dance in the raindrops. 

Hidden Gems

During a recent visit to The Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center, fondly known as “the Kroc,” someone said, “What a great facility! I never knew this was here.” I lived and breathed Kroc for six years during its development and early years of operation, so I was surprised by those words. Yes, it’s not as visible as the iconic presence of Grandpa’s Cheesebarn at the interstate exit, but it has signage on East Main Street, and has enjoyed generous coverage in the Ashland Times-Gazette over the years. It has hosted at least five thousand birthday parties, baby showers, retirement parties, and various community events since its opening in April 2009. Hasn’t everybody in Ashland County been to the Kroc Center? Apparently not.

I’ve always been curious about the space around me, exploring the neighborhoods of my hometown by bicycle long before I acquired my driver’s license. As Larry and I moved from place to place, I wondered, what were the gems of our new communities? What was hidden in plain sight?

Some of those gems involved food (surprised?). I loved to buy pasties from a neighborhood storefront in Wharton, NJ, and eat at Carmen’s lunch counter in Dover, across the street from our house. 

Moving next to the thriving metropolis of Philadelphia, I was attracted to the steep and narrow streets of Manyunk (before its rebirth) and “the Ridge,” running for miles from the city’s western border, past our first assignment in Roxborough, to our second on North Broad Street in North Philadelphia. There, I was intrigued by the Divine Lorraine Hotel, once the home to Reverend Major Jealous Divine and the International Peace Mission, and known as the first hotel of its kind to be fully racially integrated. Now, the long-abandoned building has undergone a massive renovation resulting in 100+ luxury apartments. Later, Cleveland and Canton brought similar discoveries, of best-kept secrets known only to long-time residents, and spaces reclaimed from the dust of history. 

What about the hidden gems of Ashland? As in other communities, some places seem to stay the same forever, such as the Lyn-Way (best pie crust on earth), the Dairy Bar, O’Bryans’ Pub, and Kelly’s on Claremont. Others choose the makeover path, as David Lee’s buildings, as well as Uniontown Brewing Company and Water’s Edge Event Center (Bella Bleu’s) show what vision, investment, and elbow grease can accomplish. Coming attractions: Schine’s Theater and Fig & Oak. Tucked away in the countryside are other gems: The Parsley Pot (Middle Rowsburg Road), Mitchell’s Orchard and Farm Market (TR 1153), Honey Haven Farm (CR 1475), and the renaissance occurring in Hayesville. Donuts, anyone?

There’s an additional gem in Ashland County, not known for its exceptional architecture or historical significance, but for its sense of community and its focus on connecting local producers with local consumers. Seven years ago, Local Roots in Ashland was birthed by Local Roots in Wooster, first in the South Street warehouse, then the Appleseed fruit stand, and now at the triangle where Cleveland Avenue and Middle Rowsburg Road split. Based on a co-op model, it understands that “Improving access to food that was grown close to home, by people who cared for the land, meant a stronger community and a healthier, more sustainable world.” 

This local gem is now leaving its parent umbrella, changing its name to “Ashland Roots.” With locally-sourced products, including fruit, vegetables, baked goods, and meat, and craft items, soaps, and more, this co-op provides space to shop local, attend classes, and engage in meaningful conversation with neighbors. If you’re saying, “I never knew this was here in Ashland,” stop in this week and get acquainted – and enjoy some local strawberries before they’re gone.

We’re not scheduling a grand vacation this summer, but as we wander about Ohio, I’m hoping to uncover a few more hidden gems along the way. In a landscape marked by golden arches and neon signs, it’s worth veering off the beaten path to see what’s below the radar. No secrets, though –let me know what you find, and I’ll bring our discoveries to the pages of the T-G before the summer’s over. Happy treasure-hunting!

Longmire and Mueller

We still subscribe to a monthly cable television service with a gazillion channels for our viewing pleasure. I much prefer a quiet corner and a book, but Larry enjoys watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on “Fixer Upper,” “Property Brothers” with twins Jonathan and Drew, and an occasional episode of “American Pickers,” starring Frank and Mike with their nose for antiques, memorabilia and junk. With our favorite network shows on hiatus until the fall, Larry was searching for something to watch in their place, and he ran across a series called “Longmire,” first shown on the A&E network in 2012. 

We’d never heard of it, but this modern Western crime drama ran for six seasons, now available for streaming on Netflix. What an amazing invention. Instead of waiting seven days to find out what the next week’s drama will bring, all sixty-three episodes of “Longmire” are right there at our fingertips. Between the activity on the nearby Cheyenne Reservation and in Absaroka County, Wyoming, there is enough lusting, loving, conniving and killing to keep viewers engaged in the storylines from hour to hour. Absaroka County is fictional, based on the setting of the Walt Longmire Mysteries by author Craig Johnson, but is similar to half the counties in Wyoming, with less than fifteen thousand people. At the rate they killed off people each episode, it truly is miraculous there was anybody standing by the series’end.

I watched a few episodes, but Larry kept up with them all. I’m glad to report that by the end (spoiler alert), the bad guys were all killed off or in custody, the sheriff got his girl, Ferg made his grand gesture to win Meg back, and Henry Standing Bear was successfully operating the casino. Great work, Walt!

I like stories that tie up the loose ends by the final page, often by way of an epilogue that checks in with each main character. In the Maisie Dobbs novels, author Jacqueline Winspear allows her main character to complete a final accounting, visiting each of the main actors in the book’s drama to fill them in on the results of her investigations. A nice, neat package, just what I need.

My summer reading list includes many books that will provide that same kind of satisfaction when I reach the end, with cold cases resolved, family estrangement repaired, and the hero and heroine in each other’s arms. I’m currently reading a book that promises international intrigue and dogged FBI pursuit, but it provides no final resolution to its mysteries, at least in part because the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday must have taken a black Magic Marker to its pages and crossed out hundreds of lines before I started reading.

Yes, I’m committed to reading the entire Mueller Report this summer. It’s not as engaging as Longmire or an old Agatha Christie murder mystery, yet my current read is fascinating, recognizing the depth of investigation and the careful recording done by Robert Mueller and his team. The redactions are frustrating, often with the note, “harm to ongoing matter” or “redacted for personal privacy,” and I wonder if my fill-in-the-blank imagination ends up making the account worse than it really is. 

Writing in Salon, Claire Wexler suggests that “legal experts found the dense document a ‘page-turner,’” but also admits that even in her Washington, D.C. circle of activists and journalists, “I haven’t found anyone who’s actually read it.” 

So why bother? No, not to improve my cocktail party conversation, but for these reasons. I’m a nerd, and find its painstaking examination impressive and thought-provoking. I’m also curious, for “enquiring minds want to know.” More than curious, I’m concerned. Its introductory sentence is chilling: “The Russian government interfered in the 2016 presidential election in sweeping and systematic fashion.” 

My last reason? I’m an American. Don Raye’s lyrics ask: “What difference if I hail from North or South, or from the East or West?” Or from a red or blue state? Raye’s answer is my answer. “This is my country, to have and to hold.” I’m not conceding its future to talking heads, Facebook memes or political spin – I’m reading Mueller this summer. Join me?

Only One Buck!

On the last day of the 2019 school year, the lovely Madelyn Simone and I arranged to have a date together. She generously invited her little sister, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, to join us. A dreary day meant no playground; instead, I let Madelyn decide our lunch and afternoon destinations. 

Sadly, her favorite restaurant has closed (American Oven), so she settled on Golden Corral, knowing she could get all the mashed potatoes, noodles and gravy she wanted. Following lunch, we headed for the mall. Madelyn is selective in her choices, but her little sister is still in the “I want everything” phase of mall shopping. I was unwilling to pay fifteen dollars for some mystery package or ten dollars for slime, and when I said, “Look with your eyes, not your hands” for the fifty-third time, I was done.

“What if we go to the Dollar Tree? I’ll let you each pick out two items.” Still young enough where quantity trumps quality, the girls agreed to my plan. 

As we strolled the aisles of the Dollar Tree, Madelyn began to ask, “How much is this?” I told her, “Everything in this store is one dollar.” She seemed genuinely – and happily – surprised that everything there was only a dollar. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there would be sales tax on her purchase, not wanting to take away the joy of the bargain.

I’m old enough to remember the section of the corner store that sold penny candy for one penny. Ah, the wax bottles with juice, the strips of paper with candy dots, the bubble gum and red licorice strings, all for the low price of one copper-colored coin. Not sure there is anything today that can be purchased for that miniscule amount of money. But at the Dollar Tree, everything still is one dollar, at least for now. 

I’m no economic whiz. My last formal economic education took place almost fifty years ago in a classroom at Tonawanda High School. About all I remember from that instruction is “there’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Tariffs? I’ve heard the term, a tax on imports or exports between sovereign states. Wikipedia suggests that “taxing items coming into the country means people are less likely to buy them as they become more expensive.” That makes sense, but I’m not sure how tariffs influence “dumping,” export subsidies or currency manipulation, other concerns mentioned by Wikipedia.

I haven’t paid too much attention to the impact of the recently-imposed tariffs. Apparently, early tariffs against Chinese-produced goods raised the price of washing machines by at least 12% (a $96 increase for an $800 washer if I did the math correctly), but my washer is working fine (knock on wood). Curiously, even though dryers aren’t generally imported from China, their price went up as well. Smart business people and gullible consumers, I guess.

But now, with expanded tariffs on Chinese goods, some are worried the Dollar Tree company may have to raise their prices due to the tariffs. Others suggest the packages will just get smaller. Sixteen crayons instead of twenty-four, the slime container only half-filled, the “made in China” 4^thof July decorations with ten stripes and forty stars. 

Yet maybe we won’t have to pay more for less. After all, our president has assured us that China will be the one to pay, but recent studies suggest that Americans are carrying the heaviest burden. We shall see.

Too often, we pay little attention to national policies until they hit our pocketbooks. When our washer breaks down, we need to purchase a new automobile, we can’t sell our soybeans, or the dollar store raises its prices, then we pay attention. Remember the frog in the kettle? At first the warm water feels comfortable, but by the time the frog notices how hot it is getting, it’s too late. 

But here’s an idea: maybe the government can donate the tariff money it’s raking in to families with busted washers and broken-down cars, farmers with fields of soybeans, and to the Dollar Tree people, so they can keep their promise to Americans: great deals for only one buck. 

Graduation!

In May and June, family and friends gather in stadiums and auditoriums across the United States, waiting for the orchestra (or the sound system) to play the stately chords of Edward Elgar, as “Pomp and Circumstance” welcomes candidates for graduation. Cell phones are held high in the air, as proud parents attempt to capture an image of their daughter with the honor cords, their son wearing the decorated mortarboard. How did that squirmy baby, that determined toddler, that defiant teen, ever make it to graduation?

The ceremonies themselves draw upon the tradition of cap and gown, Elgar’s music, recognition of accomplishments, and the customary graduation speeches, leading to the moment in time when the diploma is transferred into the hands of our graduate, as parents breathe a huge sigh of relief, followed by whoops of joy. 

I’ve graduated a time or two, and have no recollection of who the speaker was or what he or she said. Yet I do remember our son’s graduation from Ashland University, as Ashland Symphony maestro and graduation speaker Arie Lipsky concluded by lifting his flute to his lips, the pure notes of “Amazing Grace” filling the stadium. That was memorable.

Businessman Sumner Redstone approached his speech uniquely, noting the early placement of his address in the program. “There’s a reason for that. It’s what Mark Twain called the ‘live frog’ principle. Twain used to argue, and quite convincingly, that one should swallow a live frog at the beginning of every day. That way you’d know the worst part of your day was behind you.” He continued, “That said, I do have a mission to accomplish here. It is up to me to utter those words of profound wisdom and inspiration . . . that your mother will remember ten years from now.” 

The commencement advice is often simple. Admiral William McRaven’s first words of counsel: “If you want to change the world, start off by making your bed.” Why? “If you can’t do the little things right, you will never do the big things right.”

Steve Jobs had a clear message to graduates: “Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don’t lose faith. I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did.”

I also like actor Matt Damon’s approach: “Turn toward the problems you see. And don’t just turn toward them. Engage with them. Walk right up to them, look them in the eye . . . then look yourself in the eye and decide what you’re going to do about them.

There are thousands of stories behind the procession of students who will half-listen to graduation speeches in 2019. One is told by the New York Times’ Nicolas Kristof. Marilyn Webb completed her coursework and preparation for her dissertation in educational psychology in 1967. Then she ran into a brick wall of professors demanding sexual favors. In those days, Webb notes, “There was no word for sexual harassment, there was no language for this . . . no administrator to report it to . . . So I left.”

She’s had a great life in the intervening years, but she still thought about how her academic career had been derailed. As a 75^thbirthday present to herself, she wrote to the university to ask if the injustice she had suffered could be corrected. This week, Ms. Marilyn Webb will become Dr. Marilyn Webb.  

Many have juggled part-time or full-time jobs and parenthood, or suffered from illness, the loss of a parent, school shootings, or natural disasters. The race to the finish line may have had unexpected bumps along the way, as did Dr. Webb’s. But they’ve made it, cheered on by proud family and friends. It is a commencement, a celebration of what has been accomplished and a commitment to an unknown future with optimism and hope.

In a graduation speech in 2002, Mr. Fred Rogers offered a benediction I’m extending to 2019 graduates: “In all that you do in all of your life, I wish you the strength and the grace to make those choices which will allow you and your neighbor to become the best of whoever you are.” Amen.