Vax-a-Million

Ohio Governor Mike DeWine made national news when he announced a promotion to increase the vaccination rate in the state: Vax-a-Million. Beginning Wednesday, May 26, five lucky Ohioans will win one million dollars in weekly lottery drawings for adults vaccinated against COVID-19. In addition, five teens will win a full ride at one of the state universities if their name is chosen. And to think, I was happy to get a free Krispy Kreme donut by showing my vaccine card.

 

As expected, lots of people have an opinion on DeWine’s scheme. Couldn’t he have given something to everyone? Well, doing the math, at the current rate of vaccination, we each would have ended up with a buck or so, not worth the stamp to send it out. But he could have offered $100,000 each for fifty people – instead of two inches of jam on the toast, spread it a little thinner. Writing in the Washington Post, James Hohmann expressed a concern I share: “Think about how entitled and spoiled this must look to the developing world, desperate for access to vaccines. As states and cities sweeten the pot, India is recording more than 4,500 covid deaths per day.” American privilege in full view.

 

It's no surprise the late night hosts picked up on the news. Jimmy Fallon is afraid “some idiot out there is saying, you know, after taxes, it only comes out to $800,000, so it’s not really worth it.” Yeah, if it’s not the full million, I’m done with that. Fallon also gave us an unforgettable image. “Instead of drawing from a basket, they will pull numbered cotton swabs from someone’s  nose.” Trevor Noah put in his two cents: “By the way, the best part of the lottery is that you don’t have to worry about holding on to a ticket. If you win they will just find you by the microchip in your bloodstream.” Just kidding, I think. 

 

How is DeWine’s gamble playing out? After the vaccination numbers had been going down for weeks, there was a 6% increase in vaccinations for people between the ages of thirty to seventy-four post-announcement. State Health Director Stephanie McCloud is encouraged. “Not only have we achieved our goal of increasing public awareness and interest, but we have slowed what was a consistent decline, and in certain age groups we’re seeing an increase again . . . This is doing exactly what we intended it to do.”

 

Since my husband, sons, and daughters-in-law have already joined me in baring their arms to the shot, we’ve brainstormed about what we’d do with the money if we won. Drew mentioned fulfilling a life-long dream of traveling to the Big Easy, drawn there by the food and the music.  Greg would pay off his house, while Dan suggested moving to a place with a warmer winter; I’ll compromise and install heated seats in his truck if I win.

 

Larry thought about buying a cottage in Maine, but I suggested renting instead, getting a big house where all eleven of us could spend a couple of weeks near the ocean. I wonder how long we’d last? He wants to remodel our kitchen, and find a way to install a larger shower in his bathroom – a nice touch. My list was simple: a new phone, paying off our kids’ college loans, sending unexpected cash to a few friends who are struggling, making charitable donations, and setting up college funds for our grandchildren. To prove I’m not totally altruistic, I’d also rent a bright red convertible for the summer. 

 

Dreaming of what could be is fun for a bit, but the odds of winning this money are probably about one in a million, quite a bit steeper than the risk of dying from COVID-19. But it doesn’t hurt a girl to dream.

 

The moral of the story is: get vaccinated. When you do, go to ohiovaxamillion.com and sign up to win the money. Good luck! On second thought, as long as you get vaccinated, forget the vax-a-million lottery. The fewer people who enter, the better my chances. Instead, you can wave when I drive past in my convertible. Can’t wait!

We Can Do the Same

My friend Lauren is a grandmother of seven, including triplets, while I only have four grandkids. Halfway through a day watching our two-year-old cousins, the charming Henry Kyle and the sweet Emma Belle, I desperately texted my friend with these words: “How did you ever take care of triplets? I’ve had two little ones today, and I’m exhausted – and it isn’t even lunch time yet!”

 

Because Emma and Henry don’t see each other every day, they are still figuring out how to get along, and haven’t totally mastered the concept of sharing. Their interactions are a microcosm of human behavior at its best – and sometimes at its worst.

 

A pattern is emerging in the days they are together. First, they greet each other through the glass door with squeals of joy from Emma and a side-ways grin from Henry. They are excited to see each other, quickly heading to the toys. But then it starts to go south, as Henry wants to check out all of the toys and Emma wants to protect her turf – and her Toy Story friends. It’s not that either one really wants to play with a specific toy – they just don’t want the other one to play with said toy, especially Woody and Buzz.

 

Sometimes they hide the toys they want the most, while I’ve also observed one torment the other, holding out a toy and then swiftly running away with the prize. It’s hilarious to watch as they plot and plan their attack and defense. They remind me of the movement out of the gate at the Kentucky Derby as they jockey for position, even for the best seat on Nana’s lap. I have resorted to the dreaded warning a time or two: “If you’re going to fight over that toy, I’ll take it and then neither one of you can have it.” My mother used to call it, “biting off your nose to spite your face.” 

 

As I watch the little ones, I am reminded of human behavior, in marriage and families, in Israel and Palestine, and even in the U.S. Capitol. Divorce lawyers make big bucks because couples can’t find agreement over the family pet or time with the children. Tensions simmering for years in the Mideast have reached a boiling point this week , and if I understand correctly, it’s primarily a disagreement over territory. And an elected official in a leadership position in Washington proudly said, “One-hundred percent of our focus is on stopping this new administration.” Not to work towards shared concerns for the people of this country, such as fighting the pandemic, building much-needed infrastructure, or sorting out racism or immigration. Why? Because someone else is holding Buzz Lightyear. 

 

Is it because the “other” is inherently evil, the bad guy? Toy Story creator Andrew Stanton weighs in on the rather unsavory characters of Sid and Stinky Pete the Prospector: “Yes, in the eyes of toys, Sid is a brutal baddie . . . [yet] he’s at that age where blowing stuff up is more interesting than anything else.” As for Stinky Pete, Stanton wonders, “If I was stuck in a box and never got played with, what would it do to me?”  

 

Here’s the rub – I do expect parents, Mideast leaders and elected officials to be more mature than Sid, Stinky Pete, and my favorite two year olds. We can do better, because even the little ones are beginning to do better each day. By lunch time, they’re sharing their food, and by early afternoon, they’re playing together, realizing that if they’re on their best behavior, they won’t have to take a nap right away. They’re already beginning to learn the kindergarten lessons, Robert Fulghum spells out: “Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. Say you’re sorry when your hurt somebody. Clean up your own mess. Flush.” I may be worn out by the end of the day, but I have a renewed sense of hope for humankind. If two little cousins can figure it out, surely we can do the same.

 

A Window Into the Heart

As part of its observance of our national bicentennial celebration, the City of Tonawanda (my hometown) organized a swim across the Niagara River. The video evidence is probably long gone, as there was no cloud back-up in 1976, but it captured the image of a thirteen year old girl on her diagonal path across the mighty river. Stroke by stroke, her beloved father coached her on, shouting encouragement from the motorboat that puttered along within feet of my sister Janet. 

 

I’ve recently had the privilege of doing the work of a midwife, helping to birth a book of memory by Ashland area coach Forrest Pruner, a mainstay for many years at Crestview, Lexington, and even Brookside Pool. With the help of his friend Judy Ringler, Pruner tells the story of a life defined by faith, family, and his long-time vocation as a coach for track, cross country and basketball. At age eighty-eight, Pruner has decades to draw upon, and tidbits of his iconic wisdom are scattered among the stories of “Just Call Me Coach,” now available on Amazon. 

 

While Pruner’s story is his own, it is also the story of many men of his generation: early life on the farm, military service in a time of war, a return home to the factory, college on the G.I. Bill, a home in the countryside, a family of his own, and a passion to spur young men and women on in their life pursuits. With a few changes in details, it’s my father’s story as well. In contrast to Forrest Pruner’s stint in Korea, Frank Streeter served in World War II, and he chose a union card instead of the G.I. Bill, yet the two men walked similar paths. No wonder I could hear my dad’s voice on so many of the pages of Pruner’s book. Even Coach Pruner’s chapter detailing his weekly exercise regimen (did I say he’s eighty-eight?) reminds me of my dad and his daily bike rides. One of my father’s first questions after breaking his hip at eighty-two was, “When can I ride my bike again?” Not “if,” but “when.”

 

Writing in his book, “The Greatest Generation,” Tom Brokaw speaks of people like my dad and Coach Pruner: “They never whined or whimpered.” At least they didn’t let others hear them if they did. Life was difficult, but they seemed able to see the challenges as possibilities rather than as a cesspool of despair.

 

George MacDonald Fraser describes his experience with telling his story: “Looking back over sixty-odd years, life is like a piece of string with knots in it, the knots being those moments that live in the mind forever, and the intervals being hazy, half-recalled times when I have a fair idea of what was happening, in a general way, but cannot be sure of dates or places or even the exact order in which events took place.” Coach Pruner’s ‘knots’ were tied in a creek in Korea, in the purchase of cleats for a track team recruit, and in the dreaded ‘burn-out’ days and muddy obstacle courses his athletes remember with fond groans.

 

Why write our own story? Some write for fame or fortune, while others hope to preserve a story for history. But for Coach Pruner, I’m guessing he understands that he has a story that needs to be told. As Thomas Cirignano explains, “Each of us is a book waiting to be written, and that book, if written, results in a person explained.”

 

How I wish I had paid more attention to the stories my dad told over the years. I never thought to record his voice or to put his story to paper. Now, years after his death, my siblings and I are left with only snippets of memory, the bike rides and river swims, the carpenter’s picnics and the old red truck. 

 

One rookie memoir writer told me, “I’m worried there’s too much ‘me’ in my story.” Yet that’s what personal story is, a window into the heart of another fellow traveler whose journey intersects with ours. We are richer indeed when the curtains are pulled back through the gift of story.

Jeopardy!

So-do-so-do-do-so-do-so. These eight notes ring out across America as regularly as church bells. However, instead of calling parishioners to worship, they invite television viewers to “think,” the name creator Merv Griffin gave to the thirty-second ditty that counts down to the final Jeopardy! question of the evening. How much will the contestants wager? And will they be able to dredge up the correct question from the recesses of their minds during that terrifying thirty seconds? 

 

Approximately ten million Americans  push away from the dinner table each night in time to settle down in front of the television with a cup of coffee or a slice of pie, ready to exercise their brain cells in the pursuit of trivia. It’s hard to remember that Jeopardy! was actually cancelled many years ago, since it’s now such a staple of American life. When Griffin was attempting to revive the game show in 1983, he wanted its original host, Art Fleming, to return, but he declined, and Fleming’s friend Alex Trebek got the gig. While no longer interested in hosting the show, Fleming did express his opinion about the reincarnation, suggesting the writers were making the questions too easy by inserting hints. Hasn’t helped me too much!

 

I was surprised to learn that 150,000 people take Jeopardy’s contestant test each year, known to be quite the challenge to their brainpower. Considering there are only about four hundred annual slots for contestants, those are not very good odds. I’ve decided to pass on the opportunity to apply – while I often know the answers, I’m not quick enough to retrieve the needed fact before the contestants buzz in.

 

Nearly four decades after Trebek took the reins of Jeopardy, his death on November 8, 2020, left its producers with a tough decision: who could possibly replace the iconic host? He was the Jeopardy franchise. He had hosted for thirty-seven years. Would viewers accept a new host in place of Trebek? 

 

The question is getting good traction, but not nearly as much as the monster television question of 1980, “Who shot J.R.?” Eighty-three million viewers tuned in for the answer to that question on the Dallas episode that aired eight months after the bullets left his sister-in-law’s gun. And yes, had I been given that answer on Jeopardy!, I would not have known the question. Google it, Barbara!

 

While it’s not as much of a cliff-hanger as Dallas created, the strategy to choose a replacement for Trebek is brilliant. Introduce a number of guest hosts, let them audition for a week or two on the show, and create new energy for a game show often thought of as an after-dinner gathering of the old folks at home. Jeopardy! is good for keeping those aging brain cells active, so it is popular with the older generation, but people of all ages tune in to test their skills against the week’s contestants, certain they could succeed too if given the chance.

 

So far, the hosts have spanned the spectrum of “show business.” Ken Jennings is a homegrown Jeopardy favorite, the winningest contestant ever, while Mike Richards is a long-time executive producer of the show. Katie Couric and Anderson Cooper come from the world of news, with Couric the first-ever female host. Dr. Oz raised some eyebrows as to credibility, while NFL quarterback Aaron Rodgers displayed his expertise at studying playbooks, calling audibles, and being good on his feet. Now, by popular demand, LeVar Burton has garnered an invitation too. The long-time Reading Rainbow host and actor (Roots, Star Trek: The Next Generation), will appear July 26-30. 

 

This season of Jeopardy! is a precious microcosm of life. The grief of loss, the realization that change is inevitable, the comfort of routine, the challenge to think, the joy of catching up with old friends like Jennings, the chance to explore new possibilities, and the anticipation of waiting for what is to come – it’s all there. So cue up the music, grab a slice of pie from the Lyn-Way and some Goldberry coffee, and settle in to hear Johnny Gilbert welcome us home. “And now, here is the host of Jeopardy! . . .”

 

 

Tethered to Each Other

A mantra we repeated in our many years of Salvation Army work was articulated often by our social worker, Barb Arnold: “No violence or threats of violence.” It’s a simple phrase in expectation that while we were together at The Salvation Army, violence would not be accepted. It reminded the young people in our care that even if we disagreed with each other or became angry, violence was not an appropriate response. We hoped the concept might extend beyond the walls of our building, transferred to homes, schools and neighborhoods as well.

 

Violent actions are not unique to today’s world, despite the headlines that suggest they are. In the 1960s, the assassinations of public figures colored my elementary years, as did the murder/suicide of a family from my school. In November 1978, the deaths of 918 people in Jonestown (Guyana) made international news, while a few months later, my New Jersey neighbor was killed by her husband. Soon, mass killings were labeled by the places they occurred: Columbine High School in Colorado, Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, West Nickel Mines in Pennsylvania, Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut. Closer to home, our employee’s daughters was thrown down the stairs by her estranged husband, a child in our Sunday School was beaten to death by his mother, and a young man entered the safe haven of our Salvation Army center with his gun and took aim at an “enemy.” 

 

Over time, the names of the towns fade, as we shove each subsequent attack into a category: church shootings, school shootings, grocery store shootings, workplace shootings. While I still recognize the names of victims from Columbine and Sandy Hook, not so from the Atlanta spas or King Soopers in Boulder. Nor do I remember the name of the woman murdered in a house within walking distance of my home a few months ago, nor of a woman shot to death in the local Bob Evans last week. Violence continues to cast its net around us, yet while I still shudder in its devastation, I feel like I’ve been vaccinated against its ability to shock. With the pandemic, racial unrest, and a haze of violence ever on the horizon, I’m weary, so weary.

 

John Pavlovich explains the emotional exhaustion I’m feeling. “I sense a corporate emotional weariness in kind people these days, the accumulated scar tissue created when you’ve absorbed more bad news, predatory behavior, and attacks on decency than your reserves can manage. Sustained cruelty will do that to the human soul.”

 

In recent days, I hesitate to open my newspaper. Perhaps if I don’t look, there won’t be any reports of mass murders or domestic violence today. Unfortunately, my attempt at magical thinking hasn’t worked, and the violence continues. I’ve been humming a Christmas carol written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1863, expressing his desolation as he listened to the bells of Christmas, with his wife burned to death, his son severely wounded in a Civil War battle, and his nation  at war with itself. “And in despair I bowed my head: ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said, ‘For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good will to men.’”

 

Quoting Pavlovich again, “. . . one day something snaps and we lose the ability to respond with the same urgency and resilience we once had.A low-grade hopelessness sets in, slowly replacing our activism with apathy and one day rendering us immobile: cruelty sickness.” At times, apathy seems a reasonable response, forgetting the names of the dead and accepting a certain measure of fear as the needed price to pay for life in America.

 

Yet Pavlovich urges us forward: What do we do? “We tether ourselves to one another. Now, more than ever, good and tired people need to cultivate community, to stay connected to our tribes of affinity, and to carry one another through the fatigue when it comes.” Like Longfellow, we must sing of what is, but also listen for a new song. Bill Withers expresses it best: “Lean on me, when you’re not strong . . . we all need somebody to lean on.” A new day dawns. 

 

Changing with Stabler and Gibbs

In our old(er) age, Larry and I are creatures of habit in our television viewing. By 8 or 9 p.m., we settle down in front of the screen to watch network television. Among “our” shows are the NCIS and Law and Order series. We have a long history, as the first Law and Order episode aired in 1990, and SVU premiered on September 20, 1999.

 

The inimitable Leroy Jethro Gibbs of NCIS is a relative newcomer to our lives, debuting in 2003. I recently watched a couple of episodes from 2003 and 2004, and was struck by how much Gibbs has changed. His early interactions with his team showed a man who was arrogant, rude, and often unkind (or downright mean) to the people who worked for him. While he is still no Mother Teresa, the years have brought a transformation to Gibbs. He is still quirky and intense, but he exhibits kindness from time to time, and his arrogance has been tempered by all that life has brought his way over the past twenty years.

 

Can people change? In the hope of emerging from the Pandemic of 20-21, that question is often on my mind. Who do I want to be in the years ahead? Who do we as individuals, families, communities, churches, or even a country want to be when the dust from COVID-19 settles around us?

 

Olga Khazan, a science writer for The Atlantic, provided some answers in her recent New York Times op-ed. Khazan tells us that “adults can alter the five traits that make up a personality – extroversion, openness to experience, emotional stability, agreeableness and conscientiousness,” and we can do so within a few months. Khazan does warn us, however: “Changing a trait requires acting in ways that embody that trait, rather than simply thinking about it.” 

 

Consider those five characteristics. First, extroversion. Post-pandemic, do you wish to be more out-going or less? Are you starved for contact with people, or has the relative solitude been a balm for your soul? Perhaps you’ve been longing to become more open to varied experiences, the second element of change. What might that look like over the next year, the next five years? Sky-diving? Planting a garden?

 

As for  emotional stability, how might you better regulate your emotions? Can you discover ways to be more agreeable with others, kinder, more empathetic (#4)? And being conscientious regarding our responsibilities and relationships – that’s a no-brainer for a long-term over-achiever, but an extra measure of dependability could boost the character of some people I know. 

 

But how does change occur? Faith traditions suggest a supernatural experience is needed to bring about profound change. A personal trainer insists a pattern of regular exercise can change our bodies. A counselor offers cognitive behavioral therapy or even Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR), designed to alleviate the distress associated with traumatic memories. Peers challenge us to fake it till we make it. Now, there’s even an app developed by Dr. Mirjam Stieger, reminding us to perform small tasks that tweak our personalities. What did we ever do before cell phones?

It’s tempting to excuse the prickly personality of another person by saying, “that’s just who Gibbs is – he can’t help himself.” A similar scenario is unfolding with Law and Order, as we haven’t seen detective Elliot Stabler in ten years. Since only three episodes have aired since his return, it may be too early to tell, but from what I’ve witnessed so far, he hasn’t done as well as Gibbs in character development, especially in the emotional stability and agreeableness categories. But if Gibbs can do it, there has to be hope for Elliot – and for us.

 

It’s not too late, not for Stabler or for us, as the timing of 2021 offers great opportunity. Khazan explains her thinking: “What better time for transformation than now, when no one has seen you for a year, and might have forgotten what you were like in the first place?” If she offers inspiration, then Alan Watts provides the map: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” Shall we dance?

 

Weavers

As a child, I remember numerous elm trees of our community being devastated by the Dutch elm disease. On block after block, beetles invaded the trees, and their larvae tunneled under the bark, creating pathways for a deadly fungus to spread, clogging the water-conducting cells of the elms. Without water, the branches wilted, and the trees across the city began to die. Soon, Elmwood Park lost its leafy canopy, and the whir of chain saws could be heard across our small city.

 

I thought about the loss of those towering elms as I read the words of retired UMC pastor Tom Snyder and his wife Kitty. They wrote of the deaths of two long time Ashland residents: “Two giant oaks have fallen.” As the Snyders noted, Norm Sommers wasan educator who helped shape hundreds of educators in his long career, while Joe Murray was both a lawyer and a determined champion of social justice who never really retired. 

 

Many choose to live in a community based upon aesthetic factors such as attractive neighborhoods and cultural institutions, or due to easy access to highways or plentiful employment opportunities. Yet as I reflect upon the true fabric of the communities I’ve lived in over the years, I realize that it is seldom rooted in the oak or elm trees that line its streets; rather, it is woven by the people like Joe and Norm who bring their individual gifts and skills to its homes, schools, offices, factories, and churches.

 

Thus, Ashland becomes someplace special because of the giant oaks such as Joe Murray and Norm Sommers, as well as so many others who contribute to its health in large and small ways. Some are rooted in Ashland seemingly forever, like Joe and Norm, while others come for a time, make their mark on our lives, and then quietly slip away to another community, another opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others.

 

Two of the “oaks” who stand tall, whose lives have been woven bountifully into the fabric of life in Ashland, are Bob and Jan Archer. If a philanthropist is someone with the desire to promote the welfare of others, expressed especially by the generous donation of money to good causes, then Bob and Jan are Ashland’s philanthropists, sowing the seeds of financial resource with abundance. Yet while the financial support has been beneficial to the community, those of us who know them recognize how their desire to promote the welfare of others reaches far beyond any monetary gift they may give. In particular, the value of Jan’s words of encouragement to me have worth far beyond dollars and cents. Mighty oaks for sure.

 

But saplings also contribute to the health of a community. Our young neighbors on Walnut Street, Kaitlynn and Spencer Dolezal, were immigrants to Ashland for a time, and they wove their way into our hearts through Spencer’s music ministry and his commitment to the troubled teens of our community, and Kaitlynn’s service as a social worker and yoga instructor. Now, a job change has sent them north with their precious little boy, but Kaitlynn’s words of care serve as a benediction of sorts for those they leave behind:  “May we find the balance of grieving, healing, resting,  engaging, serving, learning, and unlearning.”  

 

Like Joe Murray, Norm Sommers, and Jan and Bob Archer, Spencer and Kaitlyn know what it means to be a weaver of community. The Aspen Institute sponsors Weave: The Social Fabric Project, explaining, “Weave supports the many Americans in every community who are working to create social trust and weave neighbors together to strengthen their communities.” They understand that “weaving is a way of life and a state of mind, not a set of actions. It’s about the spirit of caring you bring to each interaction with someone else. It’s a willingness to be open and loving, whether you get anything in return . . . Weavers make the effort to  build [honest, deep] connections and make others feel valued.”

 

Indeed, Ashland is blessed by those who live for others. We grieve a community’s loss today while giving thanks for those who continue to weave with care among us.