All Over But the Shoutin'?

A family legend tells of when my dad nearly ran for mayor of Tonawanda. As a long-time union president and Democrat, he was active in local politics, and I often accompanied him on his rounds, delivering signs and visiting campaign headquarters.

He came home from a committee meeting one night to tell my mother: “Dorothy, they want me to run for mayor.” While the details are vague, my father’s enthusiasm was met with a vehement “no” from my mother. Thus began and ended my father’s political career.

I’ve never had the urge to run for office, but I am grateful for those who make that effort, as our communities, states and country need honorable people to provide leadership in our representative democracy. Yet as my mother understood, public service requires a sacrifice of time, privacy, and reputation for candidates and their families, and while I may have flourished as the mayor’s daughter, it was an experience she was unwilling (or unable) to consider.

As I watched a recent debate, I reflected on that moment in time when my dad nearly entered the political arena. The 60s were a contentious time in Tonawanda due to urban renewal, and my unbiased view from a distance of 50+ years suggests he would have been a good mayor, patiently able to hear all sides and bring people to consensus. But, alas, it wasn’t to be.

But there is to be a presidential election in 2020, and many spouses have said “yes,” even if reluctantly. Like the Republicans in 2016, the Democratic field is being winnowed down through early primaries, campaigning, town hall appearances, hand-shaking and hand-wringing, debate performances, and now, endless Bloomberg commercials. Throughout the process, pundits and political correspondents have made their own comments and predictions. Is there anything else to say?

Here’s one debate comment that caught my attention. In the context of gun control, Amy Klobuchar uses the example of whether possible legislation on firearms will hurt her Uncle Dick in the deer stand, but the concept is all-encompassing. Decisions made in Washington affect Uncle Dick in the deer stand, Cousin Allie in the throes of opioid addiction, Aunt Agnes buried under medical debt, and neighbor George in danger of losing food stamps and SSI. The question is not just about my self-interests, but about the government’s impact on my neighbor.

The debates themselves are challenging, as Teresa Hanafin of the Boston Globe notes. While it’s vital to hear from the candidates, I like her suggestions on the debate format. Among them: eliminate the audiences, schedule topical debates (foreign policy, health care, etc.), use real time fact-checking and challenge less-than-truthful answers, and enforce time limits and civility (good luck there). 

Much of the sound and the fury surrounding the Democrat’s primary efforts have revolved around the questions of electability. Can the candidate win? But it’s the wrong question. Shouldn’t we be asking if the candidate – on either side – can govern well? Can he or she unite a fractured country? Can they (cue the patriotic music) bring the determination of Lincoln, (this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom), the courage of FDR (we have nothing to fear but fear itself), or the inspiration of a young Jack Kennedy (ask not what your country can do for you . . .)? Winning is over-rated (although a necessary evil); the ability to govern for all people, including Uncle Dick, Cousin Allie, Aunt Agnes, and Neighbor George is what is needed “for such a time as this.”

The current primary system feels like a never-ending circus. Can’t we get the candidates together in a back room filled with cigar smoke, lock the doors, and not let them out until they decide on a presidential candidate? When is the convention? 

In Ohio, we patiently wait to cast our primary votes, but will our favorite still be standing after Super Tuesday? Will it all be over except for the shoutin’ by the time we get to the voting booth? And  BTW, when will they stop shouting? 

Need a break? Try the 1939 film, “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” and a bowl of popcorn – or maybe not!

It's Dastardly!

February 2020. The Super Bowl, once again held without the Cleveland Browns, the Buffalo Bills, or the Ohio State Marching Band. The Iowa caucuses, plagued by app glitches and conspiracy theories. The State of the Union address, with women in white, a grieving father in handcuffs, and grand dramatic moments (Russ Limbaugh and Nancy Pelosi come to mind).All in the midst of an impeachment trial.

While the Nixon impeachment proceedings heated up in the summer of 1974, I was a counselor at summer camp, with a cabin full of fifth and sixth grade girls. Swamp cake on the dessert menu seemingly had as much impact in that cloistered setting as did Nixon’s resignation on August 9.

When Bill Clinton was impeached by the House on December 19, 1998, it was five days from the end of The Salvation Army’s Christmas effort, and I doubt I even turned on the television. I have no recollection of watching the January trial in the Senate, nor do I remember much in the way of personal outrage in those pre-“me too” days. Impeachment took a back seat to a challenging ministry, three energetic boys, and grad school.

In 2020, I’ve been more engaged with the impeachment drama – or lack thereof. A couple of snarky questions first. Is it OK to notice an obvious toupee, or wonder if a constitutional expert who previously defended Epstein wears boxers or briefs? Does Adam Schiff really have a pencil neck? Do fidget spinners help fidgety senators?

Two observations. First, Chief Justice Roberts refused to ask a question submitted by Senator Rand Paul, purportedly an attempt to reveal the identity of the original whistleblower. While Roberts was circumspect about it, I could hear the echo of my friend Shirley’s famous saying: “We’ll have none of that!” 

Rumors of this person’s identity have been quietly circulating in the great abyss of the internet for a while, but now, just days after Paul’s attempt to “out” him or her, posts started showing up in my social media feed with a full name and conspicuously photo-shopped images of the whistleblower next to prominent Democrats. What does it say about us when we take delight in potentially putting another human being in danger, when the law promises protection? Who in their right mind would report alleged wrong-doing if they fear their name will be vindictively spread across the internet?

My second observation is “inappropriate,” defined as “not suitable or proper in the circumstances.” Picking your nose in public is inappropriate. After the Super Bowl halftime show, the battle of appropriateness had a field day on social media. In the late 90s, Bill Clinton suggested his relationship with an intern was “inappropriate.”

Now, in 2020, “inappropriate” wins the word of the week. Senator Lamar Alexander: “The Constitution does not give the Senate the power to remove the president from office and ban him from this year’s ballot simply for actions that are inappropriate.” Or, as Ohio’s own Senator Rob Portman concluded, “I believe that some of the president’s actions in this case – including asking a foreign country to investigate a potential political opponent and the delay of aid to Ukraine – were wrong and inappropriate.” There’s that word again. 

I’m not sure when he said it, but Supreme Court justice Brett Kavanaugh gave us an alternative to inappropriate. “If the president does something dastardly the impeachment process is available.” Dastardly, as in wicked and cruel, is a great-sounding word. If inappropriate isn’t enough for impeachment today, could dastardly be tomorrow? 

Here’s the challenge: what are appropriate consequences for inappropriate or even dastardly actions? On the playground, some stop the behavior when confronted. Others admit no guilt, and even defiantly say, “What are you going to do to me?” Does the system, as it’s currently set up, have an answer to that question?

A final observation. Remember when the internet world was abuzz about “the dress”? Was it blue and black, or were its stripes gold and white? The opening challenges of 2020 go much deeper. Amazing dancing, female empowerment or soft porn? Innocent, guilty, perfect, inappropriate, criminal or dastardly? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is truth as well?

Time for a Story

https://www.amazon.com/Waiting-Emma-Belle-Becky-Shade-ebook/dp/B084127CH6/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=waiting+for+emma+belle&qid=1580566315&sr=8-1

Our first granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, will be celebrating her tenth birthday this month. How can that be? It was only yesterday when we were cuddling together on the couch on Blake Avenue, watching “Say Yes to the Dress.” Precious memories. 

Madelyn had an amazing ability as an infant to recognize one particular song that begins: “Down in the Treme, just me and my baby.” In the middle of a massive six-month-old meltdown, if John Boutté’s notes began to fill the room, she would immediately turn off the tears and listen intently. Often it soothed her, but at other times, she wailed again as soon as the song was over. 

 

Not to be outdone by her older cousin, the sweet Emma Belle, age eight months, has her own favorite music. I heard about her giftedness from her parents, but I experienced it first-hand this week as we spent an afternoon together. Since I’m completely unable to navigate their TV remote, Dan thoughtfully sets me up with re-runs of Law and Order SVU in the background as Emma and I play or nap for a bit. When SVU’s iconic theme music starts, Emma freezes, her head turning to the television. Once it’s over, she nonchalantly resumes her previous activity. Even if napping, she’ll startle awake, take in the music, and contentedly fall back to sleep. It’s an amazing thing to witness.

 

Writing for National Geographic, Amanda Fiegl explains one possible reason for Emma’s connection with the Law and Order music: “There are studies indicating that infants remember sounds experienced during the last couple of months before birth, although the hearing environment in the womb is very different – more like hearing under water.” For nearly two months, Emma’s mother was hospitalized with pregnancy complications, and SVU episodes helped the endless afternoons pass by. At times, Becky and I would ask each other: did we see this one before? Maybe we did, but since we couldn’t remember who was finally convicted of the crime, we watched again. As a result, baby Emma was exposed to the “da-dum” of the theme music on a regular basis.

Those were harrowing weeks for Dan, Becky and the extended family, as Emma’s birth was anticipated at any time from twenty-four weeks on. One of the ways we coped with the uncertainty of those days was to write, both on a private social media page and in journal entries. In a desire to collect our words in one place, I created “Waiting for Emma Belle,” a book (now on Amazon) capturing the words and images of hopefulness and fear that were a part of our journey, realizing howevery pinch and prod, every sleepless night and nauseous morning, and every anxious moment were redeemed when a squalling Emma Belle was placed in their arms.

Frederick Buechner’s words make sense to me: “The power of stories is that they are telling us that life adds up somehow, that life itself is like a story. And this grips us and fascinates us because of the feeling it gives us that if there is meaning in any life . . . then there is meaning also in our lives. And if this is true, it is of enormous significance in itself, and it makes us listen to the storyteller with great intensity because in this way all his stories are about us, and because it is always possible that he may give us some clue as to what the meaning of our lives is.”

It is no accident that the word ‘history’ includes the word ‘story.’ This week, we’ve acknowledged the 75^thanniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz with story. We relate the kindness of others with story. We claim the heritage of our family with stories of my grandmother Anna who couldn’t feed her babies and a newly-discovered great-great-grandmother Elizabeth Lauer (nicknamed Lizzie, just like our delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday).

Toni Morrison encourages us: “Don’t tell us what to believe, what to fear. Show us belief’s wide skirt and the stitch that unravels fear’s caul.” Our stories both preserve our history and shape the lives of those we love. There’s no time like the present for a story.

Sparkling Gems of February

It’s the third weekend in February, 2020, a month that often feels like the longest in the year rather than the shortest. While there is snow on the ground as I write this week, we haven’t had to use our snowblower at all this year (so far, so good – hopefully the groundhog and I don’t jinx us). I must admit that when I see photos of retired TG editor Ted Daniels walking a Florida beach in sandals, shorts and shades, I whisper to myself the biblical admonition against envy. I think all Buckeye state residents breathe a collective sigh of relief when the sun appears in the sky in February.

Yet even though February attempts to inflict a stupor of sorts on Ohio, there is much happening that brings a real sense of warmth to my soul during these days. First, our own Division II athletic program at Ashland University is amazing. Women’s basketball is undefeated, and after a rocky start, the men’s team has been entertaining and racking up a good number of W’s. Indoor track and field is on a roll, and bats have been swinging in preparation for the season openers, with a baseball doubleheader today, and a four-game weekend for softball at an Illinois dome. Go Eagles!

On Valentine’s Day, a local ministry gathered at the university to be encouraged in well-doing. ACCESS (Ashland Church Community Emergency Shelter Services) is proof that love for our fellow human beings isn’t limited to chocolate and roses on the 14^thday of February. Under the radar, every day of the year, ACCESS quietly moves throughout Ashland County to meet the needs of woman and families who are without adequate shelter. 

That same night, just a few blocks away, the stars were twinkling at The Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center, as the KC Big Band played their hearts out in three hours of love songs. Yes, I am biased about this group, as I am what Major Billy Francis calls the matriarch of the Kroc, but I am glad in my spirit when immersed in the music of the big band. 

I especially love the back stories the band has gathered over the years. Two especially resonate for me. The previous weekend, the Kroc held a Father-Daughter dance, which was a super-fun event for many dads and their girls. Yet for those whose fathers are not involved in their lives, there was a sense of exclusion, something that concerned Major Annalise Francis and other staff members. So on Valentine’s Day, moms and their daughters were welcomed, joyfully dancing the night away! 

Here’s another favorite back story. Because of Kroc music coordinator Neil Ebert’s long association with young people through the Ashland City Schools, he’s offered space for budding talent in the Kroc’s music groups, even in the Big Band. Friday night, a young man with a crisp red shirt and black tie took up his sticks behind the drum set for two numbers. I first met Jacob Slade in the old Salvation Army building on East Third Street, as he rested in his stroller. Now, twelve years later, this vibrant group of jazz musicians has made room for a gifted rookie. Go Jacob!

Watching Jacob in action, I remembered playing bassoon in the Ken-Ton Symphony Orchestra as a teen-ager. My junior high band instructor transported me to and from rehearsal, and while the music was challenging (especially the pieces in tenor clef), the encouragement was enriching, allowing me to meet the future challenges of life with confidence. Glad to see so many Ashland doors open to a new generation.

Roald Dahl wrote, “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.” Once again, the hidden gems of Ashland are sparkling, even in the dreary days of February. They’re visible at AU and in schools across the county, in the faithfulness of ACCESS and the caring actions of local ministries, and in the music and intergenerational relationships at the Kroc Center. Thanks, February, for these priceless reminders of light and life. I promise I won’t complain about you anymore.

It's Colder!

When I was twelve years old, the Beatles released a song that’s been on my mind the past few weeks. “Will you still need me, will you still feed me when I’m sixty-four?” Unfortunately, it’s too late for me to be asking those questions, because as of this week, I’ve crossed the great abyss between sixty-four and sixty-five. 

I’ve had a Golden Buckeye card for a few years, and my silver hair automatically earns me the senior discount at the fast-food drive-through and the buffet. So other than qualifying for Medicare, the threshold birthday of sixty-five doesn’t make much difference, does it? My hands may look like my mother’s did as she aged, but I haven’t succumbed to watching The Golden Girls or Lawrence Welk. I can still change diapers while sitting on the floor (although the charming Henry Kyle challenges me with his contortionist abilities). And I can even get up from the floor while holding a squirming baby – without help! That must count for something.

However, I am somewhat freaking out about this birthday. Here’s part of it – at sixty-five, I definitively no longer fit into the category of midlife. Much of my doctoral work was done around that topic, and to slam the door on that long, life-changing chapter feels so final. As one image for this period of life suggests, I am now a crone, and I don’t like that very much. Ugly, old, disagreeable, sinister: Yet Ann Kreilkamps redefines the word “In ancient days,” she writes, “Crone meant Crown. Crone is the messenger, translator of life’s passages, midwife to Death, Birth and Rebirth. Crone is the stage at which what was formerly passionately and often painfully or violently expressed is now recollected in tranquility.” Sorry, Ms. Kreilkamps, but when I think of crone, Cruella de Vil still comes to mind.

Turning to developmental psychology doesn’t offer much hope either. Erik Erikson created a model of eight stages of psycho-social developmental. Each stage is given a name, and has a suggested age range. In each stage, Erikson noted a conflict that became a turning point in personal development. Either the individual successfully navigates that stage by developing the particular psychological quality, or they don’t. Milestones are the development of trust, autonomy, initiative, industry, identity, intimacy, and generativity. For the final stage of old age (65+), Erikson calls for integrity rather than despair, suggesting the final psychosocial stage focuses on reflecting back on life, asking the existential question, “Is it OK to have been me?” 

Hold on a minute, Dr. Erikson. Life isn’t over at sixty-five. Somehow, I’m not content with stepping into that stage of reflection yet. While I doubt I’ll be zip-lining any time soon, I may hit the trampolines at the lovely Madelyn Simone’s tenth birthday party this month. I’m not ready to have 911 on speed dial, to be put out to pasture, or to admit I’m over the hill. 

Ashland’s own Dr. Lucille Garber Ford has been a perfect role model for me. After her retirement from her position as provost at Ashland University, she went back to graduate school, earning a master’s degree in counseling. Then, with some extra time on her hands, she gave leadership to the development of the Ashland County Community Foundation, which serves such a vital role in our community. I want to be like Lucille when I grow up.

The old crooner himself mused about the passage of life. Frank Sinatra began his reflection with seventeen, which “was a very good year.” Years twenty-one and thirty-five made the cut as well, with perfumed hair and limousines respectively. But for Sinatra, there was something to be said about the unnumbered years of autumn, seen as a “vintage wine . . . that poured sweet and clear.” 

Indulge me in a personal pep talk. “Buck up, sister. Time to quit whining. You’re privileged to be a Golden Buckeye and a grandmother. Enjoy the ride, the discounts, and the silver hair. Embrace the wisdom you’ve earned. And just think: if life begins at forty, as the old saying goes, you’re only twenty-five!” Can’t get any better than that.