Green Choices and Big-Hearted Friends

It seems like just yesterday, but it’s been ten weeks since Ohio kids were chanting the old trope, “no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.” Now, they are settled in to school year 2019-20, with the adventures of summer only a shadow in the rearview mirror. The western New York cousins are currently savoring their last hours of freedom, as their school doors don’t open until after Labor Day, but soon, we’ll all be back in the rhythm of school, with no weeknight sleepovers or late-night ice cream runs allowed.

Given the plethora of smiling first-day-of-school photos flooding social media, it’s tempting to believe there’s no drama on that magical day, but at least some kids woke up late, missed the bus, forgot their bus number or locker combinations, or left their lunch on the kitchen counter. Those events are part of our family lore, and we’re not alone in first day jitters.

Speaking of school lunches, there’s a buzz in Ashland City Schools this August, as the school board has approved an increase in lunch prices. It will now cost a student an additional shiny quarter to buy a lunch in the elementary and middle school cafeterias. Rather than an effort to enrich the coffers of the school board, the price increase was a necessary step so the district could continue to offer free and reduced lunches to kids who need them. As I understand it, the National School Lunch Program, administered through the Ohio Department of Education, requires paying lunch customers to fork over at least as much as it reimburses for the free and discounted lunches provided to students whose families qualify for the reduction in price. 

Back-to-school drama isn’t limited to the cafeteria, classrooms and hallways, as revealed at a recent school board meeting, because parents showed up to express concern over the stalled talks on a new teacher’s contract. I’ll spare you the details, pointing you to the T-G’s Dylan Sams and his reporting on the subject. Suffice it to say that “an impasse was announced in contract negotiations with the Ashland City Teachers Association.” Contract negotiation is tough, as the board wants to be responsible to the taxpayers, and the teachers want to be recognized for their work both monetarily and with appropriate work conditions. As one parent noted, “we have great people on both sides of the table. I just hope . . .this contract can get settled quickly and satisfactorily.” Do I hear an amen?

We do have great people in our schools who deeply influence the children of our communities. Mrs. Frank, my kindergarten teacher, began to instill a love of learning in a raven-haired little girl that continues to this day, and I’m grateful for the spark that’s been nurtured in myself, in my sons, and now in my grandchildren. 

Yet influence goes beyond teachers and staff. In Kansas, an eight-year-old boy saw a classmate “balled up into a corner crying, so he went to console him, grabbed his hand and walked him inside of the school!” His mom posted a picture of the boys, commenting, “He’s a kid with a big heart, the first day of school started off right.” I’m glad that photo and message went viral this week. 

That’s what I want for my grandchildren. Reading, writing, and arithmetic are important, but the ability to be kind, to see the “other” and respond with compassion – priceless lessons.

We are fortunate that the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday love going to school. In fact, four-year-old Lizzie was quite put out when her sister eagerly boarded the big yellow bus without her. Hang on, Lizzie. Tiny Tots Nursery School starts again after Labor Day. You’re more than ready to get back to school, and hopefully your teacher is ready for you. Here’s to a year of green choices and big-hearted friends for all our precious children.

My Favorite Apple

“O homework, O homework, I hate you, you stink/I wish I could wash you away in the sink.” While I am long past the day when I was under the curse of homework assignments, I thought of Jack Prelutsky’s sentiments recently as I bemoaned the challenges of computer usage in the twenty-first century. Allow me to rant a bit.

Monday night, I came home from my new job with a dedicated number of hours to complete a conference presentation and an editing task, with my T-G column on the to-do list as well. The house was quiet, and I was eager to do the needed work, but as I opened my computer screen to Word, I could see the words, but couldn’t make any changes.  There was a very narrow ribbon at the top of the page that said something about my subscription, that I needed to renew it or make some other kind of action. What that action might be, I had no clue, and I was unable to click on the message.

For four precious hours, I watched the hands of the clock rotate as I tried to figure out what to do. Google didn’t help, my son was tied up (my go-to), and I was stuck, a thirsty girl standing in front of the Pepsi machine with a twenty- dollar bill. Finally, after facetiming with our son, we make sure I had a correct app, did needed updates, and who knows what else, and Dan helped me find an itty-bitty button to click on. I was back in business, but by then, ready for bed! “Computer, computer, I hate you, you stink!”

The week before my email hadn’t worked. I’m currently up to four email addresses: one for the seminary, one for my Salvation Army tasks, one for personal use, and the fourth my default for junk mail and other messages. When a store wants to send me coupons or I sign up for a drawing at the fair, I use my Juno account. I’ve had it for years, and even though I have to pay a bit for it each year, that address serves a useful purpose. 

Apparently, I only pay for 2GBs of storage through this email account, and I reached my maximum so couldn’t get any current messages until I deleted some old ones. Simply deleting emails on my laptop or phone, which I do regularly, didn’t remove them from cyberspace – I had to go on line and delete the 30,000+ emails that have been in limbo forever, without deleting ones I want to keep, thus requiring me to look at each one. “I wish I could wash you away in the sink . . .”

Think about it: the gift of e-mail allows us to have dear friends around the word who want to send us twelve million dollars from Sierra Leone because they’ve discovered they only have two days to live. Who would have known them without the blessing of the internet?

And how boring my life would be without those misspelled fake invoices for video games and the threats to expose my pornography viewing history unless I pay up, bit coin preferred. How could I possibly survive a day or more without a plea from my favorite candidate to donate so they can be in the next debate, or the ads for a puffy belly cure? Somebody must buy this stuff, but it’s not me.

I can just hear Dr. Phil asking me if I want some cheese with that whine. Thanks, readers, for letting me blow off steam. Yet what an amazing gift the computer is to us – especially when it works! I cannot imagine writing a book without internet access and the miracle of cut and paste. Computers have saved millions of trees, and claim to have made us smarter, although I’m not convinced. 

I’m not ready to return to typewriters and carbon paper, card files and encyclopedia volumes, so I’m offering a deal to my favorite Apple. I promise not to talk bad about you if you agree not to shut me out. Truce? 

Let Freedom Ring

This past week, I was privileged to witness the naturalization ceremony for Juan, who is part of the ministry team at our church. This was a first for me, and I didn’t quite know what to expect as I walked to the county courthouse. 

First, the mandatory metal detector. Nervous petitioners, accompanied by friends and family, milled about outside the courtroom, speaking softly in Chinese, Vietnamese, Swahili, Spanish and English. Miniature American flags were in-hand, as cell phones captured snapshots of expectancy and joy. “This is my country.”

As the judge spoke to the new citizens, she recalled helping a relative prepare for his citizenship test. She joked that even with a law degree, she didn’t get all the prep questions correct. I tried the sample test myself, and while some questions were easy, (who is the current president?) those who are geographically challenged might struggle to answer, “Name one state that borders Canada,” a no-brainer for someone growing up in New York State. But I did stumble on this one: “The Federalist Papers supported the passage of the U.S. Constitution. Name one of the writers.” No Google allowed!

The judge greeted each applicant for citizenship and conferred that designation upon them, asking if they wanted to say anything. Most demurred, while others shared words of gratitude. A few months earlier in a Cleveland courtroom, Indians’ first baseman Carlos Santana said it well: “I’m an American boy now.” Santana spoke for many new citizens when he said: “I was really scared when I came here [from the Dominican Republic] but now everything is positive and I’m happy and excited.” “I’m proud to be an American.”

Some immigrants don’t have to take a citizenship test or go through the naturalization process. I have two nephews who were born in South Korea, but I wasn’t sure how this worked. My sister explained that once an adoption by an American citizen is finalized, the child is automatically a citizen. However, she noted, for many years she had no “proof” of citizenship for her sons, choosing not to spend the $600 (now $1170) filing fee for a N-600 form for each child. Finally, the boys now have passports signifying their U.S. citizenship.

Recent chants of “send her back,” directed at U.S. Representative Ilhan Omar of Minnesota, a naturalized American citizen born in Somalia, haunt us in their sinister implication. Might we come to a time when citizenship wouldn’t matter? If congresswoman Ohar could be threatened by possible deportation, what might stop the same fear from descending on my nephews, my friend Juan, the Tribe’s first baseman, or on other citizens born outside our country’s borders? “God bless America . . . through the night with the light from above.”

When we lived in New Jersey, we took visiting family and friends into New York City to see its many sights. Our self-guided tour included the ferry to Liberty Island, where the Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World has faithfully stood in welcome since 1886.

This week, Ken Cuccinelli, the acting director of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, defended the Trump administration’s newest policy on limiting immigration, known as “public charge.” In doing so, he revised Emma Lazarus’ oft-quoted words etched on the statue’s base to his own: “Give me your tired and your poor who can stand on their own two feet and who will not become a public change.” With more time to compose his thoughts, he might have exchanged the poet’s plea to “send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me” as well. As former refugee and secretary of state Madeleine Albright wistfully commented, “I think the Statue of Liberty is weeping.” How much longer will she be able to faithfully lift her “lamp beside the golden door” in welcome?

Back to the Stark County courtroom. A final invitation from Judge Farmer brought us to our feet to join the fifteen new citizens in the Pledge of Allegiance. With a catch in our throats, we repeated the familiar benediction: “with liberty and justice for all.” “My country ‘tis of thee, sweet land of liberty . . . let freedom ring.”

No Longer an Ordinary City

A week ago, Dayton, Ohio was an ordinary city. El Paso, Texas was an ordinary city. Now they have the unenviable position of joining a long list of communities across the United States forever scarred by a split second of time. Columbine. Newtown. Parkland. Sutherland Springs. Aurora. Las Vegas. Nickel Mines. Fort Hood. Orlando. Binghamton. Blacksburg. El Paso. Dayton.

In today’s rapidly evolving news cycle, a week can seem like a century, as headline stories from yesterday are quickly replaced by the next tragedy, the next outrageous comment, the next scandal, and yes, even the next mass shooting. Last Saturday, El Paso had less than twelve hours in its anguished spotlight before it was forced to share its bloody fame. Reading about the Ohio massacre, I felt the now awfully familiar shiver through my body, the lump in my throat. How could this have possibly happened again? 

Many words have been spoken and written this week, words that stir up fear, seek to place blame, or express shock – not again. I’ve heard two common themes in those words (among others). The first is a collective thread of horror and grief. Red or blue, Democrat, Republican or other, brown, black, white – only a tiny, tiny radical fringe is glad that Skylin, Victoria and two-month-old Paul were orphaned in El Paso, or that a Dayton grandmother must tell seven-year-old Hannah that her mother will never come home. We may not have known the thirty-one people who were killed, or the scores more injured, but we grieve nonetheless at the senseless loss of life. Regardless of our political views or socio-economic status, we want the same thing: we want those we love to be safe, and we want our own lives to be protected when we go to Wal-Mart, to dinner, or to worship in our synagogue, church or mosque.

The second familiar theme comes in the form of a question. What can be done to stop this? And, more personally, my Sunday morning plea: “What can I do?” The temptation is to sink into a sea of hopelessness, of helplessness, and decide we can do nothing. That’s a choice I’m unwilling to make. 

That’s why I’m grieving those who died. I’m looking at their pictures, reading their life stories, and remembering.

I’m joining with others who are asking the same questions. Everytown for Gun Safety, Moms Demand Action, the Center for Non-Violence at Ashland University are some options.

I’m working hard to listen to those whose views are different from mine, without the “yes, but . . .” response I’m so used to taking.

I’m educating myself. What’s happening in Columbus? What about the governor’s proposal? What do the scientists, researchers, and experts say? What has helped?

I’m speaking out. I’m asking my elected representatives, city, state and federal, to take this issue seriously, to schedule hearings, and to allow bills to come to the floor for a vote.

And, because I’m a writer, I’m writing about this topic, even though I’d rather not. The question raised by Margaret Sullivan of the Washington Post is convicting: “Can the news media manage to become part of the solution to this mind-numbing curse?” Media and moms, we all have a horse in this race. No city is safe; no place is sacred.

Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times has often written about a paradigm shift, from heated political discussion to reframing as a public health crisis. Shortly after the slaughter of five and six-year-old children in 2012, Kristof pleaded: “So let’s treat firearms rationally as the center of a public health crisis that claims one life every twenty minutes. The United States realistically isn’t going to ban guns, but we can take steps to reduce the carnage.” In 2015, he observed, “To protect the public, we regulate toys and mutual funds, ladders and swimming pools. Shouldn’t we regulate guns as seriously as we regulate toys?”

“All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.” Edmund Burke’s words, famously quoted by John Fitzgerald Kennedy, challenge me, as does the Nike slogan: “Just do it.” Preach, protest, prophesy or pray, march, vote, sing, speak. It is time. 

No Waves, No Cinnamon Buns

A year ago, my Ashland Times-Gazette column began: “Today’s column comes to you direct from the shore of the Atlantic Ocean.” Unfortunately, instead of emanating from a place filled with “the healing power of the rhythmic ocean waves and fresh-baked cinnamon buns,” this week’s column is direct from my Ohio living room. 

We’ve headed to Maine almost every year for the past thirty in conjunction with The Salvation Army’s historic camp meetings. This year, with two new grandbabies in the family, the rising cost of lodging at the beach in Old Orchard (a weekly house rental equals three month’s mortgage payment in Ohio), and some medical concerns Larry was facing, we made the painful decision not to travel to Maine this summer. It made sense in March, and it still makes sense this week, but I am wistfully longing for the great sea. I’ve even considered hopping on Amtrak, but the specter of jury duty hanging over my head daily made even that last-minute adventure impossible.

Pardon me a moment to whine, but I’m feeling a bit like Paul described in Philippians 3, “their god is their stomach.” The fresh seafood, the “chowda,” the grease-infused pizza and fries at the Pier, the lobster who drew a last breath only minutes before being consumed (I don’t know if lobsters breathe, but you know what I mean) – and yes, even Dairy Queen tastes better at the ocean. 

Beyond the food, our visits to Old Orchard have long been a time to connect with friends we only see once a year. It’s been a time to soak in the sunshine and sea breezes, and to feel the sand between my toes and to dump it out of my bathing suit. 

It’s also been a place where the veil between heaven and earth is less evident, what the Celts call “a thin space,” or liminal space. Writing in the New York Times a few years ago, Eric Weiner described his experience: “I’m drawn to places that beguile and inspire, sedate and stir, places where, for a few blissful moments I loosen my death grip on life, and can breathe again.” Two Lights at Cape Elizabeth, the ocean at daybreak, a plunge into the relentless waves – those have long provided thin spaces for me.

Yet we can’t always be where we want to be or do what we want to do. Some of us are privileged to enjoy the family vacation on a cruise, at the beach, or in the nooks and crannies of a new city for the weekend. Yet for others, jobs without paid vacation, chronic illness, expensive car repairs or miniscule bank accounts keep us at home during the summer months. As adults, we make the responsible choices, doing what needs to be done, and trying not to be envious of others. When all else fails, we resort to meaningful self-talk: “Suck it up, buttercup!”

Have we fallen for the “Calgon, take me away” enticement, the promise of the slogan, “Maine, the way life should be”? Do we really need to get away to claim relief from everyday life, to find a better life through a fleeting moment in the sun? 

Joan Chittister asks: “Who have lived well?” Her answer resonates. “Those who have sucked the juice of life from every period of its growing,” no matter where we are.  

I realize how my dad modeled that truth to me. As a union carpenter whose work was plentiful in the summer, he couldn’t take us away on vacation to the lake. Instead, he brought the lake to us. The first pool was self-constructed from 2 by 4s and sheets of polyurethane, but by the next year, a circular pool arose in the backyard. Voila! A summer-long oasis. 

Social media posts from Maine still issue their siren call, and I may wallow in self-pity and envy in the moment. But I can also drink deeply of the juice of today, a handful of cherry tomatoes kissed by the Ohio sun, the raucous call of the crow on my early morning walk, and the newly emerging smiles of the sweet Emma Belle, just for Nana. What more could I want for today?