Standing in Line

One of my pet peeves is waiting in line. Daily cafeteria lines in high school and college come to mind, as do security checks at airports and sporting events. My one cruise experience was even worse, as we were herded like cows through a cattle chute as we prepared to board the ship. I’m not much for small talk with people I don’t know, so I often carry a book when I anticipate standing in a line for an extended period of time. Girl Scout motto: Be prepared!

 

Disney’s FastPass+ and Cedar Point’s Fast Lane+ allow those willing to dish out extra money to skip the line (or at least access the shorter line) is brilliant. My commitment to the idea of equal access for all conflicts horribly with paying to cut the line, so it’s a struggle. However, I’ve also waited over an hour in the blazing sun without any water to go on an amusement ride that lasted about two minutes – and scared me half to death. If I ever get to Disney again, and if Disney resumes their FastPass+, I will be faced with a moral dilemma.   

 

One of the benefits of the pandemic is that it’s cut down on the time spent standing in line. I was thinking about that as I waited in the queue at a vaccination site that processes a thousand of my friends and neighbors each day. I’ve avoided many usual lines by going on-line, and even the DMV wasn’t crowded. The only times I’ve stood in a line of any size over the past year has been for early voting and to get a COVID-19 vaccine. Otherwise, just not happening. Will Rogers understands: “The older we get, the fewer things seem worth waiting in line for.” 

 

The two “V’s” of  2020-2021 are worth waiting for. However, it’s ironic that doing my civic duty and my medically-necessary duty (for myself and others) brought me into the closest contact I’ve come to strangers over the course of the pandemic.

 

When I went to the vaccine center, I was prepared for a wait if needed, with my book in hand and my cell-phone charged. I watched and listened as conversations started up around me. I also witnessed the kindness of strangers, as an older woman with a walker was offered a space closer to the front of the line (I later found out she was ninety-three). Had it been a hot day, perhaps the prepared Girl Scouts would have distributed water. Because we care about each other in community, we do whatever we can to make our line-waiting more comfortable for all of us. Unless we live in Georgia on election day.

 

But here’s my question. Why the line at all? At the amusement park, during peak hours, more people want to get on the ride than it can accommodate. Some rides are more popular than others, and therefore, we’re good with waiting, although do grumble a bit. But with voting? As individual counties and as a country as a whole, we know to expect a certain number of people at each polling place. An equitable distribution of polling locations and voting machines seems like a better answer than banning the distribution of food and water to those waiting for hours – that is, if we believe every American citizen should have a vote (that pesky fifteenth amendment).

 

And with the vaccines? I’m grateful for the tireless efforts of the scientific community in developing the vaccine. But why wasn’t there a simultaneous effort to create a comprehensive on-line sign-up system to schedule appointments? We can purchase tickets for baseball games on-line, down to the individual seats and date – 40,000 at a time. Someone could have sorted out how to match vaccines and arms so ninety-three-year-old women weren’t standing in line.

 

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” Winnie the Pooh gives us perfect advice for a lazy river in the noon-day sun. But we’re needing to draw upon every skill as we paddle for our lives in the raging storm to get home safe and sound with no more losses. All hands on board is the watchword for today. 

 

 

A Song On My Mind

In recent days, I’ve been waking up with a song on my lips. I’d love to tell you it’s been Beethoven or Bach, or a classic morning hymn such as “When Morning Gilds the Skies,” to the soaring tune Laudes Domini. However, the ear worm greeting the rising sun in my life these days is either “Chicken wings, chicken wings, hot dogs and baloney,” or one of the monotonous tunes from Cocomelon with lines such as “No, no, no, I don’t want to take a bath” or “the wheels on the bus go round and round.” 

 

Yes, there really is a term for songs that get stuck in your head, either ear worm or brain worm. Sounds like I need to call Dr. Pimple Popper to see what he can do for me. According to the font of all wisdom, the Internet, our brain attaches memories to tunes that make them hard to ignore or forget. Apparently, simple, repetitive songs are best at getting stuck; why Cocomelon’s songs attach themselves to our brain so easily. 

 

For those readers who haven’t had the pleasure of Cocomelon’s experiential opportunities, suffice it to say that their songs are either familiar nursery rhymes or original songs created for small children, with video characters, bright colors, and endless repetition. As of July 2020, Cocomelon is the most watched YouTube channel in the United States. No wonder parents of young children are going crazy during the pandemic. When the lovely Madelyn Simone was potty-training, her dad composed a song with the tag line, “in the potty.” If only he’d waited a few years and pitched it to Cocomelon, he’s be a rock star to the toddler generation of today. Opportunities lost . . .

 

But back to the earworms. Apparently, the smallest trigger can set off an earworm. Recent or repeated music exposure can do it, as can a reminder in our dreams, a wandering mind, or even stress. 

 

However, there is good news: WikiHow has an answer to the problem you didn’t even know had a name, with two main methods for dealing with these annoying songs. The first is to engage with the song, which is good advice if it’s Bach, Beethoven, or even Lady Gaga. In doing so, you can listen to the song all the way through, look up the lyrics (back to the Internet), play the song on an instrument, or visualize the song changing tempo, key, or artist, or coming to an end – with much applause.

 

However, speaking from experience, these are not good methods if your pesky song is about chicken wings or the potty. Instead, try other avenues, what WikiHow labels as distractions. Do a word puzzle. Chew gum. Do math problems. Let your mind wander. Or if those don’t work, replace the offending worm with another tune, singing along to the melody. I don’t suggest “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” or “This Song is Gonna Get Stuck in Your Head” from Lego Movie 2. 

 

While I can’t cite any scientific research for my hypothesis, I’m betting that the arrival of spring can also set off an ear worm. My grandkids and I like to listen to a Sharon, Lois and Bram CD (remember those?) with a song called “O Mister Sun.” The plea of this ditty is simple: “O Mister Sun – won’t you please shine down on me.”  

 

Is there an earworm tickling your ear lobe? Instead of “O Mister Sun,” let me suggest a replacement tune from that great jukebox in the sky, aka YouTube. The original version is a Beatles’ hit, written by George Harrison, but I recommend the 2008 recording by Yo Yo Ma and James Taylor. With only a cello, an acoustic guitar, and Taylor’s voice, it offers the best of music, “footpaths to lead us out of our hiding places and . . . signposts to lead us along in search of what was lost” (Ken Gire). Listen in: “Little darling, the smile’s returning to their faces . . . it seems like years since it’s been here . . . Here comes the sun . . . it’s all right.” Yes, it is. 

It [Still] Ain't Over

As a child, getting our picture in the newspaper was a special event. It might have been a candid photo from a football or baseball game, celebrating the team’s victory. Other images captured the high school band marching in the Memorial Day parade, or a budding swimmer testing out the water at the local wading pool on opening day. That magical photo was clipped out of the day’s paper and hung on the refrigerator in a place of honor, where it stayed for a few seasons before making it to the family scrapbook – or the trash can. 

 

One newspaper photo that stands out in my memory was of a young neighbor who made the front page. She was four or five, and had just received an immunization at the health clinic. The indignation on her face at that moment of terror was classic, and while I doubt her mother proudly hung the image on her refrigerator, it did make its way to my mother’s scrapbook. I’m guessing that as my friend got older, she wasn’t too thrilled that her tears were spread across the front page of the Tonawanda News. 

 

In sharp contrast to that photo are the hundreds of images that newly vaccinated people are posting to our worldwide virtual refrigerator, aka the internet. Unlike my young neighbor’s wail of pain and fury, millions of people are greeting their COVID-19 vaccinations with huge smiles and audible sighs of relief. COVID-19’s toll has been heavy, and a vaccine offers the first glimpse of hope we’ve had since it began to spread around the world over twelve months ago. 

 

While it’s been devastating, the coronavirus of 2020-21 is not nearly as deadly as the dreaded smallpox. While the Chinese used a rudimentary vaccine against smallpox as early as 1000, it wasn’t until Edward Jenner experimented with cowpox biological material in 1796 that there was any possible preventative measure against the disease. He was so convinced of the need for this intervention that he tested it on his fifteen-month old son – and now because of his determination, smallpox has been eradicated. A century later, Louis Pasteur’s 1885 rabies vaccine began a rush to successful interventions, as diphtheria, tetanus, anthrax, cholera, plague, and typhoid began to lose their grip over the world’s population. 

 

Post-World War II, polio brought summertime fear to mothers and fathers, as waves of infection randomly swept across a community, especially hitting children. As an example of its devastation, of the nearly 60,000 cases in the U.S. in 1952, one third resulted in some kind of paralysis. Yet by the time I entered school, the names Jonas Salk and Albert Sabin were whispered with reverence, as their vaccines forced polio infections to the role of a historical footnote.

 

That’s where we’d like to see COVID-19 end up, and the vaccines are helping us put the virus out of business. While Salk and Sabin quickly became household names in the 50s, we’re not as familiar with Ugur Sahin and Ozlem Tureci, a married couple who worked with the messenger RNA that is tricking cells into reacting to bits of protein that look like pieces of the virus in the Pfizer vaccine. Their goal is for the immune system to attack the invader, and then do the same if the actual virus shows up. The science is beyond anything I remember from tenth grade biology class, but Sahin and Tureci get it, and their brilliant and committed work, along with so many others, has the potential to save us.

 

In 1991, Lenny Kravitz sang words that ring true today: “So many tears we’ve cried, so much pain inside, but baby, it ain’t over till it’s over.” As Dr. Fauci so wisely reminds us, the U.S. could risk a surge of infections if the country declares victory over the coronavirus too soon. Indeed, the ‘rona ain’t over, as it’s still attacking with vigor  and impudence (and even attempting some wicked mutations). But the more we bare our arms to the vaccine, and continue to mask up, wash our hands and keep our distance, the better the odds are of stripping this vicious virus of its power. It’s time.  

 

Adventures in Babysitting

As young Salvation Army officers, we attended a yearly three-day retreat, and  my parents traveled to our home to care for our sons, generally with good results. However, family lore holds a few traumatic memories for grandparents and grandsons. One that comes to mind is when Spartacus, our rescue dog, escaped out the front door and took off for parts unknown. My dad finally tracked down the dog and coaxed him into the car. Bringing him into the house and taking off the leash, my dad stared helplessly as our wandering dog ran through the house and out the (open) back door. 

 

When our son and daughter-in-law recently asked me to watch their kids for five days while they went on a short vacation, I immediately said “yes.” Piece of cake, I thought, as I’m with the kids each week, they know me well, and we’ll have great fun. Adventures in babysitting, here I come.

 

So there I was, with the lovely Madelyn Simone (11), the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday (5), and the charming Henry Kyle (nearly 2), along with Drax, the 100 lb. family dog who barks like a girl and slobbers a lot! And no, the dog didn’t run away, for which I am eternally grateful. 

 

Day 1. One girl on the school bus, one sick kindergartener, and one energetic toddler. With a three-hour Zoom meeting already on my schedule, Uncle Drew arrived to watch the kids for the afternoon so I could meet my commitment. 

 

Day 2. It’s picture day at school, and while dresses were selected the night before, last minute changes were in the air. Could we possibly find tights that fit and matched their dresses? As the two girls hurried down the driveway to catch the school bus with water bottles, name tags, back packs, snacks and masks in place, I was ready for a nap.

 

Day 3. No school, but chilly weather and COVID-19 restrictions kept us from hitting up the mall, visiting the zoo, or grazing free samples at Sam’s Club, all things we haven’t been able to do in a year. We ended up with lunch at Wendy’s drive-through, a five-minute romp on a windy playground, ice cream cones at Dairy Queen, and a visit to the car wash. Not the greatest adventure, but at least we got out of the house. Popcorn and the final episode of Wanda Vision completed our night, as Lizzie patiently attempted to explain the action to me. Saturday brought a six hour respite provided by the kids’ other grandparents, and by Sunday, one or two of us may have been counting down the hours until the parents returned.

 

A full-time, five day stint at grandparenting wasn’t easy. And I had the bells and whistles of Hulu, Netflix, Disney Plus, and kids who knew how to work the remote, along with the internet, reliable transportation, and money for Dairy Queen. Fortunately, my family circumstances allowed me to turn in my super-Nana credentials after five days, yet that is not reality for too many grandparents, as at least three million children are currently being raised by their grandparent(s) across the United States. 

 

Many custodial grandparents cashed in their dreams of retirement when addiction or imprisonment, illness or death intervened. While some have adequate financial resources and support systems, many don’t. In only five days, I felt that pressure. Family was within fifteen minutes, but I was on my own when Henry coughed in the middle of the night, the internet was down, or we needed something from the grocery store. 

 

Speaking to his daughter in “To Kill a Mockingbird,” Atticus Finch said, “If you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”

 

We don’t know what our neighbors are walking through in these days. A kind word, a suggested play date, or a twenty dollar bill may be a much-needed lifeline to a custodial grandparent near you. Trust me, five days in their skin clearly opened my eyes!  

 

On Dr. Seuss

 True confession: my mother didn’t like the Dr. Seuss books. She didn’t like The Cat in the Hat or Green Eggs and Ham. She wouldn’t have liked McElligot’s Pool or Scrambled Eggs Super! either, if she had even heard of them. I haven’t been a top fan either, so haven’t thought much at all about his books until this week, when his name flooded the news cycle .

 

Why? Dr. Seuss Enterprises made the decision to stop publishing six of Theodor Seuss Geisel’s books, saying they “portray people in ways that are hurtful and wrong.” Now, headlines, chyrons, and social media posts are up in arms about how Dr. Seuss is being cancelled, and how terrible the world is. 

 

So what do we know? First, Dr. Seuss’ own people made this call, recognizing that what might have been acceptable in the 1930s when first written and illustrated may not be the best influence on pre-school and early elementary children in 2021. Those entrusted with publishing his books understand that portraying ethnic groups with racially-insensitive stereotypes in children’s books doesn’t have to happen. Cultural norms change over time, and best practices in education change as well. This did not come as a knee-jerk reaction to a tweet from a cultural icon like Oprah; instead, the library of Geisel’s work was reviewed as a whole and a decision was made to stop publishing six of his books. Not to ban them or burn them, but simply to stop printing additional copies.

 

But horrors of horrors, the announcement was released on Geisel’s birthday, which also happens to be Read Across America Day. The alarm was raised. “They” are killing off Dr. Seuss. Is there nothing sacred anymore?

 

And to add insult to injury, President Biden failed to quote Dr. Seuss in his proclamation for Read Across America Day. “Biden erases Dr. Seuss,” screamed the headlines. Barack Obama and Donald Trump both quoted from Seuss in years past (or at least their speechwriters did), while Melania read his book to children and Michelle danced along to his rhymes. But not Mr. Biden. 

 

What’s especially unfortunate about the hullabaloo surrounding Dr. Seuss’ absence from the president’s proclamation is that it turned our attention away from what was said by Mr. Biden. Since he’s married to an educator, we might expect the president to highlight the value of reading: “Reading broadens our perspective, introduces us to new worlds, cultures, and languages, and cultivates our sense of empathy and understanding of other people’s experiences and views . . . It helps us make sense of the world as it is – and inspires us to dream of what it could be.”

 

But what’s more, he said, “According to Department of Education estimates, more than half of United States adults (54 percent) between sixteen and seventy-four years of age lack proficiency in literacy, reading below the equivalent of a sixth-grade level.” Making a very rough estimate, that means more than one hundred million of our brothers and sisters across this country struggle to read well. That troubles me, and I’m guessing it would have troubled Dr. Seuss too.

 

I love the backstory to The Cat in the Hat. Geisel was commissioned to write it and similar books to promote literacy. Given a list of 348 words that first graders needed to know, he was instructed to write a book using at least 225 of those words. His textbook company was a proponent of the “look and say” method, while Geisel himself was hooked on phonics, so he mischievously managed to incorporate both: “I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am.”

 

I’m thrilled the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday (5) is discovering the magic of reading, and glad when the lovely Madelyn Simone (11) reminds me to bring over the Malala book so she can read her story. Yet knowing how many struggle to comprehend  the words, whether by Geisel or Shakespeare, is heart-breaking. Is it time to focus Seuss’ words through The Lorax  to the scourge of illiteracy? “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot. Nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” 

 

Lasting Words

This week began without much fanfare, but before Monday ended, it was marked by two losses that brought great grief to my soul. The first was the death of a young Salvation Army leader, as a heart attack robbed his body of breath, leaving his wife a widow in her thirties, and an infant son without his doting father. 

 

The second loss was that of a heart-breaking milestone, as America’s death toll from COVID-19 reached – and surpassed – the five hundred thousand mark. Half a million people, gone. The whole of Ashland county, times ten. To pause at this significant number, the doors of the south portico of the White House were draped with black bunting, and five hundred candles flickered in the night air as our president and vice president honored those lost and those grieving. 

 

With his comforting presence at Sandy Hook and his mournful singing of Amazing Grace in Charlotte following the murders in the sanctuary there, some called President Obama the ‘consoler-in-chief.’ Now, President Biden has accepted that mantle, speaking to the nation: “As we acknowledge the scale of this mass death in America, we remember each person and the life they lived. . . We have to resist becoming numb to the sorrow.” To a shaken nation, he repeated, “We must remember.”

 

One way we remember those who have died is by their last words. Nostradamus, known for his forecasts of the future, predicted his own death: “Tomorrow, at sunrise, I shall no longer be here.” By morning, he had died. As poet Emily Dickinson was dying, she said, “I must go in, for the fog is rising.” Pure Dickinson. And one of my favorite “last words” comes from Harriet Tubman, who longingly said, “Swing low, sweet chariot.” 

 

A tragic aspect of death by COVID-19 is that many of its victims die alone. Intubated and unable to speak, family is often forbidden from being present. Even if they could speak, there is no beloved son or daughter to receive a final word. Or, as with my young friend Damon, death comes so quickly that there is no time to call the family, no words to speak as the body passes from life to death.

 

In the long-ago age of letter-writing, grief-stricken families could read over a last letter, or more recently, listen to a final voicemail. Now, in the age of social media, many turn to a Facebook page or a Twitter thread to listen for one last word. 

 

Here’s what I heard on Monday. Damon and his wife Allison were preparing a meal at The Salvation Army to take out to the streets when a man wandered into the kitchen. Not sure how he got into the locked building, Damon described his own reaction to his Facebook friends. “I told him we were closed right then, but since he made it this far, how could I not help him? He asked for something to eat because he was hungry.” Within minutes, the man was eating a hot meal, perhaps the first in many days.

 

Damon continued: “After he left, one of the teens [who was preparing the meal with them] asked me if I was scared. I said, ‘Naw, just surprised how he got up in here. In my experience, nobody comes to rob The Salvation Army. People come when they need help, so we help them.’” Last words from the heart of a servant.

 

And last words for this column? Dr. Paul Chilcote, a former Ashland Theological Seminary professor, repeated these ancient words on his Facebook page on that same Monday. First, from the New Testament book of Romans: “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words.” He also offered a song by Jake Runestad: “Angels where you soar up to God’s own light, Take my own lost bird on your hearts tonight. And as grief once more mounts to heaven and sings, let my love be heard.” Indeed, for all who have passed, for all who grieve, let our love, with or without words, be heard.  

 

A Deep and Mysterious Language

I grew up in the City of Tonawanda, a suburb of Buffalo, NY that hugged the shore of the Niagara River. In those days, Tonawanda was similar to its gritty big sister city in many ways: it had an industrial base in Spaulding Fiber, it was populated with mostly working class people , and had pockets of immigrant families, especially German and Polish. What it did not share with Buffalo was racial diversity. The nearest we came to having people of color in our elementary classroom was a Native American boy in third grade. As a young child, it was all that I knew.

 

By my teen years, the world as I knew it had expanded, if not in the neighborhoods of Tonawanda, at least in the corridors of my mind. A voracious reader, I’d begun to pay attention to the Civil Rights movement as reported on the pages of the newspaper, and my thirteen-year-old self was broken-hearted when Dr. King was assassinated. Yet while I knew there was a world outside my white, blue collar suburban bubble, I had not yet been in relationship with a neighbor, co-worker, fellow worshipper, or classmate of African-American heritage. I may have known more, but I still had no interracial experience. 

 

In the nearly fifty years since my graduation, life has changed in many ways, both in the world around me and in my own story. Our family has lived in multi-racial neighborhoods, we’ve served both African-American and multi-racial congregations, and were I to analyze the racial composition of my Facebook friends list, it would likely resemble the demographics of our country. Yeah for me, right? 

 

I wish it was that easy. I’m struggling to write this column because race remains a difficult topic to address. I write from my own privileged position, influenced by my own bias. There’s also a nagging worry that my comments may trigger a letter to the editor, labeling me a radical woman or worse. My reputation! 

 

Yet I also write from my own story, which runs through Hough. Cleveland’s Hough neighborhood was a fashionable residential area, predominantly white with a 5% non-white population in 1950. By 1960, its population was 74% non-white. In 1966, racial unrest boiled over and Hough burned. Hough’s story was complicated, repeated in many urban neighborhoods across the across the country. 

 

We arrived in Hough in 1990, and halfway through our second year of ministry there, rioting erupted in Los Angeles. Four police officers, who had beaten Rodney King, a Black man stopped after a car chase, were tried and acquitted, and L.A. exploded. As we watched and waited, wondering what might become of our neighborhood, the beaten man pleaded for peace. “People, I just want to say, can’t we all get along?”

 

Rodney King’s words echoed as time marched on, through Ferguson, MO, in the aftermath of the death of Tamir Rice in a westside Cleveland neighborhood, to the Black Lives Matters protests of the summer and fall of 2020. Can’t we all get along? But what my older and hopefully wiser self understands is that “getting along” isn’t as simple as it sounds. “Getting along” can be accomplished by walking on eggshells day after day, or pretending that all is well. Yet there is another way, one that embraces the hard work of reckoning with history, recognizing our own deficits, and reaching out to build relationships with those we see as “other.” 

 

I’m encouraged by a small group of Ashlanders who realize that it isn’t enough to wishfully hope that, Abracadabra!, all racial tension will evaporate and we’ll all live happily ever after. Instead, they’ve joined together in “Colorful Ashland,” with a mission to understand and share the way race impacts life in Ashland County, in education, religion, criminal justice, health, mental health, housing, employment and business. In doing so, they advocate for “liberty and justice for all,” not just as words recited in the Pledge of Allegiance, but as deeply held values.  

 

Artist Paul Gauguin recognized a simple truth: “Color! What a deep and mysterious language.” Indeed, the fulness of color speaks into us deeply, as who we knew to be is transformed to who we can become.