Thought on Advent

As I entered the supermarket, a sign posted on the front door caught my attention: “We apologize that the advertised beer and wine advent calendars are not available.” Our family has used an assortment of advent calendars over the years, but I’ve never seen one featuring beer. I checked it out on-line, and there they were: a Brewer’s U.S. of A. Advent Calendar, a German edition, an Austrian edition, and even a “Bad Santa” version, especially popular with the young as well as the young at heart. At $59.95, it is a bit pricier than the cardboard advent calendars of my childhood, with the pictures of candy canes and Christmas trees waiting patiently behind each door. 

There are also wine advent calendars (choose naughty, nice, or one of each at $139.95), imported cheese advent calendars, a European chocolate advent calendar, and even an OmegaSnax advent calendar featuring salmon and sweet potato snacks for our canine friends. While I didn’t search for it, I’m sure there’s a Frozen II advent calendar, so that Anna and Elsa can help us get ready for Christmas too.

The word “advent” has its roots in the Latin word adventus, meaning “coming,” and historically has been used to describe the four-week period beginning on the Sunday nearest the feast of St. Andrew the Apostle (November 30), in preparation for the coming of Jesus. As such, the first Sunday in Advent is the first Sunday of the liturgical church year. Traditionally, Christians have marked the days prior to December 25 with fasting and increased times of devotion and prayer –no mention of dog treat advent calendars in the history books. 

As a child, our family had a simple advent wreath in our home. and each Sunday evening during December, we lit a candle, sang a carol, and remembered a town in Bethlehem, a babe in a manger, and a star in the sky. This advent rhythm modeled in my formative years has led to my own annual journey through the days of advent, with selected readings and my own creative expressions of poetry, prose and music. 

It’s tempting to whine as I did last week about how Christmas seems to stretch from Halloween to January, as holiday merchandise crowds the aisles of every store and our neighborhoods glow with glittering lights and an extensive assortment of inflatables. Why we need to see Santa in an outhouse is beyond me, but it is what it is. Christmas music has been flooding the airwaves for weeks, and the ever-present Santa, Rudolph, Frosty, Grinch, and the wished-for hippopotamus are blatant reminders of the secularization of Christmas. I checked out a top forty Christmas play list, and no mention was made of a divine purpose for the singing until hit #31, as Aretha belted out “Joy to the World.” 

It’s also predictable that no matter how much we plan ahead, most of us experience our share of frazzled days and late nights, determined that this year will definitely be the very best Christmas ever – until it isn’t. 

Stretched-thin days, the loss of sacred mystery, and a tendency to get overwhelmed – this is why I need Advent to temper the daze of the holiday season. I need to sing the ancient hymn, “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I need to light a candle in the darkness. I need to pray the prayers uttered through the centuries, to speak words of hope and faith. I need to tell the stories of old, of angels, shepherds, and magi, of a senseless slaughter amidst the promise of peace on earth, and of elderly women faithfully waiting (Elizabeth, Anna). 

Advent, in its purest form, doesn’t need the beer and wine, chocolate and cheese hidden behind doors1-25. Instead, Advent offers space for silence and light for darkness, a daily nudge to remember, to slow down, to wait. 

We may differ in our understanding of the spiritual and its influence on our being, but as we enter Advent, might we each find sacred space to light a candle, sing a carol of faith, and allow the treasured story of old to unfold within us. “And it came to pass . . .”

Coffee, Anyone?

One of the classic lines in our family lore was uttered years ago by the three-year-old Madelyn Simone, in imitation of her father’s early morning plea: “I need my caw-fee.” The slogan is a few years old, but for millions of Americans like my son, “the best part of wakin’ up . . . is Folgers in your cup.” 

As ever-present as coffee is in our everyday lives, we might expect that Adam and Eve shared a morning coffee or two; however, coffee wasn’t used as a beverage until the fifteenth century.  Some called it the bitter invention of Satan, but Pope Clement VII taste-tested it and gave his stamp of approval.

My own history with coffee is less favorable than Clement’s. My dad and mom filled the percolator every morning with coffee they’d ground at the A&P or Loblaws, and its rich aroma filled our kitchen. A sample from my dad’s steaming mug left me swearing off java for life. The idea that coffee “tastes as good as it smells” did not fool my taste buds.

Yet since coffee is such a cultural icon, I decided to give it another shot when I was in grad school. Since I agreed with Jonathan Swift that “coffee makes us severe, and grave, and philosophical,” I thought a cup of coffee in my hands might improve my image. I could picture myself with mug of java, pausing to take a sip for inspiration at a crucial moment in a counseling session. I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t learn to drink it, even with extra sugar or flavored creamers.

I still do not join the 64% of American adults who drink coffee every day, but I do know lots of people whose morning cry is “fill it to the rim with Brim,” or who put a warning sign on their office door: “Come back when I’m caffeinated.” 

Coffee drinkers seem to fall into two camps. The first are those who aren’t too fussy about the coffee-drinking experience. Their hats proclaim: “But first, coffee.” If it’s hot and strong, they’re happy. David Lynch understands them: “Even bad coffee is better than no coffee at all.”

Then, there are the coffee lovers. They have the designated mugs, the French press, the selected beans promising a citrus blend with a wisp of pipe smoke. They can be seen sporting tee-shirts saying, “Better beans, better coffee.” These connoisseurs claim that given enough coffee, anything is possible – and I believe them.

Years ago, Chock Full o’ Nuts was touted as “that heavenly coffee,” but today’s coffee world has moved on to auto-drip and pour-over, freshly roasted beans, and products from around the world. Group B, coffee lovers with the requisite handful of veritable coffee snobs, are in their own kind of heaven these days, as Goldberry Roasting Company has opened its doors on Claremont Avenue in Ashland. My husband has been purchasing their coffee beans for years, and in the early days of business, owner and long-time Ashlander Doug Cooper would slide a bag of freshly roasted beans inside our side door on Walnut Street. Now, Doug’s long-held dream has a brick and mortar site, where coffee aficionados of all ages can talk shop, solve the world’s problems over a cup of coffee, and take home a bag or two of their favorite blend.

I’ve debated giving coffee one last try before I turn my back on it forever.  After all, how can I walk into Goldberry Roasting Company and ask for hot chocolate? But on the other hand, if it hasn’t tasted good by now, why bother?

Rohan Marley, son of musician Bob Marley and co-founder of an organic coffee plantation in Jamaica, recognizes the value of coffee. “Coffee connects us in so many ways – to each other, to our senses, and to the earth that supports the coffee trees.” Seems like the local coffee shop has replaced the back fence and the front porch of yesterday, giving us a place to connect and come together, regardless of what is or isn’t in our cup. Coffee, anyone?

Silver Sneaker Time

The contenders for the Democratic nomination for president have been debating the possibility of “Medicare for All.” Might that be a viable option to provide healthcare to Americans and to reduce the current high cost of health care? There’s generally agreement that health care is expensive in the U.S. With the exception of Switzerland, the United States’ per capita expenditure on health care is double that of other developed countries. Our northern neighbor, Canada, spends $4826 per capita, while America on average spent $10,224 per person in 2017. According to the Peterson-Kaiser Health System Tracker, in 2016, the U.S. spent 8.5% of its GDP (gross domestic product) on health from public funds, similar to other countries. Private spending, however, is much higher, at almost 9% percent of GDP, compared to 2.7% in other countries.

Why do we pay so much, even with insurance? What is the best answer? Would Medicare for all work? I really don’t know, and will have to trust those whose economic education continued past high school to help me better understand what is at stake. But what I do know is that while Medicare for all is not the law of the land, “Medicare for Me” is definitely on the horizon for this woman of a certain age, as evidenced by the varied mailings cluttering my mailbox, social media, and inbox in the past few months. How do they know I am getting old(er)?

Yes, my sixty-fifth birthday is less than four months away, and I will soon join the ranks of Medicare recipients. No longer will I be able to cling to the last gasps of midlife, as I will be anchored solidly among the elderly. As such, I am being invited to consider a variety of supplemental plans for medical coverage to care for me in my dotage.

As the AARP has helped me understand, basic Medicare coverage definitely has some gaps. It doesn’t cover routine eye exams, glasses or contacts. Nor does it cover hearing aids, often a $6000-$8000 expense, out of reach for low income seniors. Dental work? Nope. An appendectomy in Paris or a broken leg in Nepal? No again. Nursing home care? Rehab after hip surgery, yes, but not long-term nursing home care. As for face-lifts, nose jobs or tummy tucks, we’re out of luck if we expect Medicare to pay for such frivolity!

Then, of course, there are the various parts of Medicare. Medicare Part A provides inpatient hospital coverage, Part B, at $135.50 or so per month, is for outpatient/medical coverage, Part D offers prescription drug coverage, and Part C is an alternate way to receive Medicare benefits. Medicare Advantage Plans (Part C) provide all Part A and Part B services, but can do so with different rules, costs, and restrictions. That’s what my e-mail and snail mail correspondents are wanting me to choose, because those plans are run by private companies – thus the opportunity to profit!

According to the Kaiser Family Foundation, gross margins for Medicare Advantage plans averaged $1,608 per covered person per year between 2016 and 2018, a figure that’s about double the average gross margins for individual plans and for group markets, making these Medicare Advantage plans a lucrative investment for insurers. It pays for them to maximize the enrollments, especially among the youngest cohort of Medicare recipients (like me!). 

Did you know there’s even a Medicare Café, where I can combine light refreshments with Medicaid information from one of the local providers? I could get breakfast there, do lunch with free samples at Sam’s Club, and then take advantage of the invites we get for investment presentations at local restaurants – no need to buy groceries.

I’ve often said that locating the needed resources to survive poverty can be a full-time job. I’m beginning to think the same is true as I move into the world of official senior citizenship. Why does it have to be so difficult to understand? Just have one of those cute guys in the brown shorts deliver my silver sneakers to the door and I’ll be happy. Oops – does that sound politically incorrect or sexist? You’ll have to excuse me – after all, I am getting older.

Shop 'til You Drop

The announcement from Sears seemed inevitable. Their Belden Village store, a long-time anchor of the Canton area mall, will close at the end of the year. The Richland Mall store has already closed, as have more across the country. The once-proud retailer has been surviving on fumes for the past few years, and the Belden Village store had already abandoned its second floor to a soon-to-open Dave and Buster’s Restaurant. The writing was on the wall.

I remember our family trips to the huge Sears store in Buffalo, located at Main and Jefferson, now Canisius College. It had an attached parking ramp, and I was a bit scared of its cavernous space as my dad’s Buick maneuvered up its narrow ramp. We didn’t go very often, but when we did, we’d get fresh roasted peanuts or cashews from the snack bar. Soon, Sears was opening a number of stores at the newfangled malls, and my family changed its shopping allegiance to the Sears in the suburbs, too sophisticated for a snack bar..

Sears, Roebuck and Company was founded in 1893, and initially began as a mail order catalog company. Both adults and children would pour over the pages when the catalog arrived, enjoying many an evening dreaming of what might appear under their Christmas tree. Now, with nearly all of its retail sites closed,  Sears is returning to its roots, with customers still able to order from its on-line catalog. What goes around, comes around, I suppose. 

I am sad to see such an iconic institution close its doors. Even though I didn’t visit very often (nor did many other customers), I hate to see Sears and so many retail stores close, because I enjoy the physical experience of shopping. As a new wife, I loved to seek out the blue-light specials at K-Mart, joining with a group of eager shoppers to chase a portable flashing light around the store. I want to feel the fabric of the nightgown, and walk a few feet in the new shoes to see if they’ll give me blisters. I don’t want to pack up the wrong-sized item for return, so it would probably live in the trunk of my car for months on its way to the donation box.

There’s also the thrill of searching through the clearance rack and landing the perfect find. It may not be exactly my color, but if it’s 80% off, who cares? Sure, there are sales on-line, but then I don’t have the satisfaction of the cashier saying, “You really got some good bargains today.”

Even though I spend quite a bit of time staring at the computer screen or on my phone each day, I still feel like I’m a step behind in using technology effectively. I can’t get used to shopping entirely on-line, even if the Amazon people deliver to my house and put my groceries away. Somehow, that seems like an abdication of my role as a woman of a certain age. 

I hate putting a damper on my shopping fun, but there is one little issue to bring up before I finish. I’m not a hoarder by the psychological definition, but I do like to buy “stuff” for my grandkids, seasonal decorations for the house, canned soup I seldom eat, and books. I never want to run out of toilet paper, so I keep those shelves stocked too. I also appreciate having meaningful items surrounding me that speak of memory and inspiration, or reminders of time shared with precious people. Until I have to go to “the home,” I’m keeping my “stuff,” but attempting to curb my accumulating tendencies, at least until I find a new discount store.

There are days when I bemoan the changing times, and as I watch the demise of Sears as I knew it, I’m feeling the loss of an old friend, even if we weren’t that close in recent days. Face it, JoAnn. Bob Dylan was correct all those years ago when he crooned, “your old road is rapidly agin.” I may not like it, but “the times, they are a-changin’.” I’ve got news for you, Bob. Fifty-five years later, they’re still a-changin’!

With Appreciation

While singing along with the music of “Frozen” with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, Lizzie often says, “You be Anna, I’ll be Elsa,” the Disney sister-princesses. Not every young woman’s #1 desire is to be a princess, but there is an attractiveness to the idea of royal living, with its promise of fame and fortune, shimmering ball gowns and sparkling jewels. 

Those of us who remember the fairy tale wedding of Diana and Prince Charles and then her tragic death in 1997 recognize that the fame of royalty can exact a formidable price upon its prisoners, especially young, beautiful women. Between the demands of the monarchy and the unwavering glare of a fishbowl filled with shark-like paparazzi, life as a modern-day princess isn’t a bed of roses. 

For Meghan Markle, an American actress who is now the wife of Prince Harry of Great Britain, life as a royal princess is more complicated than she imagined, especially with the incessant pressures of the tabloids. Recently, Meghan said, “I never thought it would be easy, but I thought it would be fair. And that’s the part that’s really hard to reconcile.” Prince Harry added: “Look, part of this job . . . means putting on a brave face and turning a cheek to a lot of the stuff. But again . . . there’s a lot of stuff that hurts – especially when the majority of it is untrue.” 

The need to turn the other cheek in public life isn’t limited to princes and princesses. This past week, a leading evangelical preacher opposed to women in the pulpit spoke disparagingly of Bible teacher Beth Moore, proposing she should “go home.” A fellow panelist suggested she was a narcissist, and also compared her to a television jewelry salesperson. Moore’s response was much more gracious than I could have managed. “I did not surrender to a calling of man when I was eighteen years old. I surrendered to a calling of God. It never occurs to me for a second to not fulfill it.” Instead of attacking her critics, she blessed them: “I esteem you as my sibling in Christ.”

As the assault on Moore illustrates, those whose lives are dedicated to ministry to others are not exempt from criticism, which has a lasting sting. Studies conducted by Dr. John Cacioppo (University of Chicago) show what he labeled the “negativity bias of the brain.” Apparently, our brains are more sensitive and responsive to unpleasant news, insults and criticisms – they hit us harder and stay with us longer. And as marriage therapist John Gottman notes, it takes five positive responses to outweigh the impact of one negative one.

Which leads me to the reminder that October is Pastor (or Clergy) Appreciation Month, nudging people in the pews to express appreciation for the care of those who provide leadership within the realm of faith. I’m glad it’s an entire month, because it gives the procrastinators in our midst (me included!) one more Sunday to say thank you.

And here’s the good news. Pastors don’t expect an all-expense-paid trip to the Holy Land in return for the work they do. They’re encouraged by a heartfelt note, a verbal thank you, or a home-baked apple pie. An offer to babysit the little ones, a gift card for books (my favorite), or a prayer for the pastor and family – all are simple ways to say “we care.”

Exodus 17 provides a valuable image of how to support those who serve. In the midst of the battle, Moses is exhausted. “Aaron and Hur brought a stone for him to sit on, while they stood beside him and held up his arms, holding them steady until the sun went down.”

Today, there’s a pastor with tired arms, a worn-out teacher, a mayor who needs a stone to sit on, and a royal princess and a young woman at the drive-through in need of a kind word. Here’s more good news. We don’t need to wait until Mayor Day, Princess Month, or Clergy Appreciation Sunday to come alongside, bring a stone, lift someone’s arms, or simply say: “you are appreciated.”

Enquiring Minds Want to Know

Remember when Senator John Edwards ran for president of the United States? The National Enquirer was first to report an extramarital affair, and as the story unfolded, there was a scandalous pregnancy, the birth of a child supposedly fathered by Edwards, and even a plan to steal a diaper to confirm DNA.  

That’s the kind of story I expected when I read the words, “pregnancy scandal.” Instead, these two words were the subject line of a daily email I receive from the New York Times, highlighting recent coverage of a story Elizabeth Warren tells on the presidential campaign trail. No, Senator Warren is not pregnant, nor did she give up a three-legged baby for adoption at the age of fourteen, the kind of story found in the pile of True Confession magazines at the beauty parlor of my childhood. Click bait, perhaps, but a more factual title would be: “Workplace discrimination remembered.” Unfortunately, that description, while more accurate to the article, doesn’t entice our voyeuristic fingers to click and skim the connected article.

In case you missed this story in today’s rapidly evolving news cycle, Senator Warren has spoken about her own experience of workplace discrimination as a young mother-to-be. When pregnant with her first child in the early 1970s, she faced a policy that refused to renew the contract of female teachers “with child.” Those wishing to cast doubt on the Senator’s candidacy question her recollection of this occurrence, because school board minutes didn’t confirm her account. Here’s why: her contract renewal was approved before news of her pregnancy was revealed, then revoked before the school year started when word got out. That’s how it was in those days.

Amy Rankin, terminated from her real estate job as a new mother in the 1960s, told the Washington Post: “I can’t believe that there are people out there who do not believe Elizabeth Warren. If you are a woman and you are a woman of a certain age, you have been discriminated against, whether it’s pregnancy-related or whether it’s job-related.”

I’m not ashamed of being a “woman of a certain age,” and I too have stories to tell about gender discrimination. But more than that, I struggle to understand why we are so ready to condemn another’s experience, to try to poke holes in their story.

Shortly after the dress code at my junior high was changed to allow girls to wear pants in school, I was sent home for wearing “inappropriate” pants –  in eighth grade. Too tight? Too bright? To this day, I don’t know. This was particularly traumatic for me because I had proudly sewn those pants myself, but can I prove it actually happened? Probably not. If someone challenged me, should I be expected to offer evidence of the veracity of my tale, down to the color of my trousers? 

Yet in our twenty-first century culture, we are seemingly consumed with “digging up dirt” on people who have given years and years in service to our country. Or, if unable to find verifiable dirt, we seem willing to latch on to whatever rumored dirt is floating around the internet. Consider the awful lies spread about the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School – twenty death certificates for the five and six-year-old children were faked, the grieving parents were paid actors. Bizarre, right? But people read the posts, bought the books, and believed them.

The challenge, especially for public figures but also for ourselves, is how to combat these baseless accusations and blatant lies. Once the toothpaste has been squeezed out of the tube, then what? Ignore the claims, and they could fester underground, suddenly bursting forth like a giant zit on prom night. Use precious time, energy and resources to prove your account is true? Speak clearly to the issue: “I have done nothing wrong.” Yeah, right – they all say that. Even a crisis management PR team has no easy answers.

Warren’s supposed “pregnancy scandal” reminds me once again to read past the headlines. But larger questions linger. Is our default setting “guilty” instead of “the benefit of the doubt”? Why are we so eager to believe the worst of each other? Enquiring minds want to know.

Play Ball!

Heading out to pick up wings with my son Drew the other night, I reached for the radio dial to turn on the baseball game, only to realize, “Oops, baseball is over.” With a smile, my son suggested that his beloved Yankees were still playing in October, but I respectfully declined to watch the Bronx Bombers, treasonous behavior for a Tribe fan. At least the Red Sox are crying in their beer this postseason along with the Indians. 

What is it about baseball that hooks me? In a Cleveland-based world of celebrity known for stars such as LeBron, Baker and OBJ (Beckham), Tribe players don’t generally earn a five-star paparazzi rating. Frankie Lindor’s smile lights up the diamond as does his bat and glove, but his fellow all-star Shane Bieber is best known for who he isn’t, his nickname jersey reading “not Justin,” the singer-actor whose name appeared on the pitcher’s baseball card. Due to injuries and the fickle finger of fate, so many other players rotated in and out of the lineup that it was hard to keep track of who’s who. 

One of those “fate” narratives was Carlos “Cookie” Carrasco, a pitcher diagnosed with leukemia partway through the season. His recovery and return to the team was a true highlights of the season. The biblical admonition to weep with those who weep and to rejoice with those who rejoice was front and center in Cookie’s health crisis, and it was good to see him compete in the last weeks of the season. 

We didn’t get to Progressive Field this year, so didn’t witness the excitement of life-sized condiments racing into the stadium, nor lift our voices in the iconic “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” at the seventh inning stretch. But many nights, we tuned in to Ashland’s Matt Underwood with the televised play-by-play, or to Hammy and Rosie on the radio as they gossiped around the baseball world in between pitches.

Compared to the constant motion of basketball and the bruising tackles on the gridiron, the action on the diamond is slow, even boring, punctuated by the occasional home run ball or the manager’s nose-to-nose discussion with the umpire. And don’t get me started on the big money earned by the best of the best. Since the Nationals are still in the hunt for a World Series berth this year, perhaps their contracts with pitchers Stephen Strasburg ($38.3 million this year) and Max Scherzer (a measly $37.4 million) will pay off in victory, but earning a million bucks every time someone takes the mound? It’s a great gig if you can get it.

What is it about baseball that keeps me reaching for the radio dial or wanting to check the box score? It’s twofold for me. I’ve been an Indians fan for nearly thirty years, and although they’ve only had two World Series appearances in that time, baseball still brings me hope. With a record of 93 wins and 69 losses, the Tribe played good baseball this year. Each time they took the field, anything was possible. Perhaps there would be a no-hitter, or Carlos Santana would hit a grand slam in the tenth inning. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast,” wrote Alexander Pope in 1734, perhaps foreshadowing the optimism of spring training each year.

Here’s the other draw for me. In a world of shifting values and ever-changing daily headlines, Tribe baseball is a constant. 

When everything around us is spinning at warp speed, we reach for constancy. The A & W will close in November, but opening day won’t be far away. Sixty Minutes will air in its entirety on Sunday nights, even if delayed by football. The sun will rise at dawn. Tulips will bloom and trees will bud. Hope will spring anew. “Play ball” will be heard at the corner of East Ninth and Carnegie once again.

Richard Nelson Bolles understands: “Change becomes stressful and overwhelming only when you’ve lost any sense of the constancy of your life. You need firm ground to stand on.” Give me a welcoming home, an enduring faith, loyal friends, a stack of good books, and Tribe baseball, and I’m ready to face the world.