A Passing Whisper of Wisdom

When news of the death of Martha Jorden reached me last Saturday, I was struck by a sense of loss that seemed disproportionate to my actual relationship with her. We'd met a few times, and there did seem to be a spark of connection between us, but we'd never lingered over a cup of coffee, we never rode motorcycles or horses together, and we never sat side-by-side at the bedside of a dying friend. She was on my short list of women in Ashland whom I want to get to know better, and I figured that one day, we'd make that happen. After all, we shared a number of interests and some mutual friends, and it would just be a matter of time before we'd find the time to come together. Yet with her death at age 64, it is not to be.

What I know about Martha is that her life has been about coming alongside. Whether in her work at Hospice North Central Ohio, in the counseling office she shared with her beloved husband John, or at the dinner table with friends, Martha turned "coming alongside" into an art form. Regular readers of the Ashland Times-Gazette can attest to this. While each week's Mental Health Matters column often provided factual information about issues like suicide, depression, grief, child abuse and more, Martha had a way of coming alongside even through the ink on the newsprint.

I turned to those words, grateful for the on-line archives of the newspaper that can supplement the columns I've stashed in my files over the last few years. So allow me to let the voice of Martha Jorden come alongside us for a few more moments this morning.

"Remember to be kind to yourself. Learning new ways of taking care of yourself takes time, perseverance and a good sense of humor to help lighten the challenges of change."

"Courage," said Martha, "is the part of our heart that speaks to those around us when hope is silent."

And then on grief: "Grief is not a problem to be solved, but a journey to be lived. We can either join in the journey or fight against it. We do not need to protect others from their grief. Rather, let us be present and love those we care about - and be gentle with their hearts."

And who can forget the mantra that ran in nearly every column: 'It is always OK to ask for help."

In words submitted the day before her death, Martha chose a story from a collection entitled "Everyday Greatness." After recounting the conscious decision of a man to be a loving father and husband while on vacation - "no ifs ands or buts," Martha wrote this to all of us: 'Long-term relationships take commitment and work. We make choices every day about our relationships - it truly is our decision to look for the best in each other, to take risks to grow, to change and to make room for differences." She then shared a final line from that account: Anderson (the husband) said, "I made a new vow to keep on remembering to choose love.""Yes," said Martha, "you can, too."

In June, Martha shared from the artist Flavia Weedn, quoting these words: "Some people come into our lives and leave footprints on our hearts and we are never ever the same. . . They help us become aware of the delicate winds of hope . . . and we discover within every human spirit there are wings yearning to fly. Some people awaken us to new and deeper realizations . . . for we gain insight from the passing whisper of their wisdom. "

This week, there are footprints on the heart of our community, along with an empty place at the table. We have gained insight and faith from the passing whisper of Martha's wisdom that will live on in the resiliency, courage and love she modeled as she came alongside the people of Ashland. She taught us to love deeply, and to grieve deeply. Blessed be Martha.

 

Bringing Our Children Home

The lovely Madelyn Simone is sitting at my feet as I write, drawing triangles, circles and donuts and sneaking in a line or two on her leg when she thinks I'm not looking. The days when I could tuck her tiny body in her crib, knowing she was safe and sound, are long gone. This 3-year-old is an explorer, resembli...ng our first (and last) family dog, Spartacus.

If the door of the house was left ajar, Spartacus was out like a shot, ready to roam the neighborhood to see what trouble he could stir up. Madelyn has a touch of that spirit, and that's why there's a special device on the front doorknob at her house so she can't open it on her own.

If she does manage to escape in the aisles of Walmart or wanders next door while we're picking beans in the garden, what does that say about my grandparenting skills? Could I be charged with neglect, her parents accused of leaving their child with unfit supervision? What constitutes neglect? That question is a vital one for the Ashland County community. Here's why.

The large font on the front page of the Times-Gazette on Wednesday, July 24 asked, "Why so many kids?" According to Missy Loar's report, Ashland County has more children in county custody than other counties and it's putting a strain on the general fund budget.

Ah, yes, the money. The legally mandated needs of children's services in the county's Department of Job and Family Services are soaring, causing our cash-strapped county to propose a designated tax levy. According to the Times-Gazette reports, children's services initially had a $500,000 projected budget increase over last year -- that's more than 40 percent, if my rusty math skills are correct.

Yet the money isn't the issue here. Why are more children removed from their homes in Ashland County, and why is it taking so long for them to be returned to their families? Where is the line between keeping children safe, and unnecessarily ripping children away from their families?

"Taking custody of a child and achieving reunification or adoption is a continuum," according to Cassandra Holtzmann, Job and Family Services director, "but Ashland has children who are coming into the cycle who aren't leaving on time. We've got something of a bottleneck that's happening here."

Yes, you do. In my role as the director of the Salvation Army in Ashland for six years, I heard the stories from clients and our caseworkers. Stories of children being removed because they wandered out the back door a second time, stories of homeless families afraid to seek services for fear of losing their children in this county, and more.

Stories are stories, and I had no way of knowing if they were embellished or there were mitigating circumstances. However, my firsthand involvement in one case absolutely baffled me.

Children initially were removed from a home because there was abuse by the father. The injury to the child occurred when the mother was completing her mandated hours for her cash assistance, documented by police reports and court findings. Yes, she left the children with their father (we've all done that), but she had done nothing to endanger the children, yet they were removed from her custody, and she had to work through a reunification plan that took months to complete, while the county was footing the bill for foster care. The same months the children were separated from the loving care of their mother.

Might this kind of bottleneck be a common one? I can't imagine being separated from the lovely Madelyn Simone for months on end because of a bureaucratic bottleneck, and I'm not even her mother. Foster care should be the last resort for children. What would it take to get these bottlenecked children out of the county's custody and back home?

Before we throw another blank check at Job and Family Services, is it time for a trained ombudsman or a panel of wise, impartial professionals to review every single case and get the bottleneck opened up so our county's children can safely return home now instead of in three months? It's time to do something. It's time for at least some of our children to come home.
 

Vacation Musings

Our annual pilgrimage to Maine usually brings an insight or two to my spirit, particularly as the ocean waves lap at my sandy feet, or I sit in awe on the rocky shores of the mighty Atlantic. Staring at the computer screen on a rainy morning, I'm searching for a sense of this year's beach revelation, but so far, only one emerges: some bodies are not ...meant for bikinis.

While I often sported a bikini in my pre-childbearing years, since babies came calling more than 30 years ago, I consigned the skimpy beachwear to the donation bin. A few days of people-watching on the sun-drenched beach makes me wish other people had done the same. Don't get me wrong -- I appreciate the varying sizes and shapes of bodies of all ages, but I could do with a little less skin.

Will my only gift from the sea be such a shallow revelation? Hopefully the next day or two will bring more substantive and inspiring images, but for now, my most influential life reminder of 2013 was gleaned from a side trip before the trek to Maine.

With only a bit of trepidation, Larry and I offered to take the lovely Madelyn Simone, age 3, with us as we journeyed to Maine, so we could spend a couple of days at the home of my mother in Tonawanda, New York. While there, we splashed in the pool with my sister's sons, ages 9 and 7, and planned an excursion with them to Fantasy Island, a family-oriented amusement park across the river from my hometown.

Madelyn's eyes were wide as saucers as we pulled the wagon through the park, eagerly climbing aboard every ride in Kiddieland. She wasn't keen on waiting her turn, but quickly got the hang of it as she watched the other kids at work. Her only major meltdown came when she wasn't allowed to ascend the hill of the giant roller coaster -- "I big enough, Nana."

Ah, the lessons to be learned at the amusement park, of cowardice and courage, of bravado, and of the persistent love of parents as they wave each time their child comes into sight on the merry-go-round's rotations.

But what struck me most at Fantasy Island had nothing to do with the thrill of the rides or the sweetness of cotton candy melting on my tongue. Instead, it was the reminder that because of Fantasy Island, my life changed forever. Why, you might ask? Did I kiss the love of my life in the Tunnel of Love? No, for as we watched the Wild West show outside the Golden Nugget Saloon, I remembered -- Fantasy Island was the reason I met the Salvation Army.

Here's the quick version. As a freshman, I took organ lessons from an accomplished high school musician in the hope that I could become the organist at my church someday. I loved the swelling notes that filled the sanctuary, and worked hard to master the pedal tones to accompany my more practiced hands on those early Bach preludes.

One spring day, my instructor told me of his summer job in the Golden Nugget at Fantasy Island, a first step on his career in music performance. As a result, he had a church job he couldn't keep and asked if I would be interested.

So at the breath-taking rate of $4.25 per week, I began to accompany the singing of that small congregation -- morning and evening. That was the beginning of the rest of the story, a story of great joy and sorrow that wound its way through camp, college and courtship, parked for a while in inner city Philadelphia and Cleveland, and ultimately brought me to Ashland.

In retrospect, these unexpected turns may take us by surprise, but their notes also set the course for the days and years ahead. Some call it luck, fate or happenstance, but I claim Evelyn Underhill's image instead. No coincidences -- instead, God's universe in the act of rhyming, with tones heard once again in the simple yet profound notes of the Bach prelude, the rhythmic splash of the ocean waves and the gentle laughter of my granddaughter -- enough insight for a lifetimeSee More

Like · · Promote · Share

From My Garden . . .

Old McDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. The lovely Madelyn Simone and I sing these words with gusto, but I am definitely not a farmer by nature or nurture. Raised in suburban Buffalo, and residing in urban areas for most of my adult life, I've not experienced life on a farm like Old McDonald, and have no urge to add a chicken or cow to our homestead here in Ashland. But after a pitiful rookie attempt at a garden last summer, I was determined to find out if I had any speck of green on my thumbs, or if my house-plant killing reputation would extend to any semblance of a garden.

My desire to have tomatoes on our summer table spurred me on as I cast a longing eye on the small plot of land I'd attempted to cultivate last summer. That spot sat in the shade about 95% of the day, resulting in a pitiful crop. Unbeknownst to me, Jeff, our super-neighbor, had witnessed my feeble efforts, and decided to clear a spot behind our garage/barn and haul in some topsoil, providing me a great place for a few tomato and pepper seedlings. I'd watched his flourishing garden last summer with envy, and his thoughtful gesture was quite the gift to this budding gardener.

Jeff's garden began its days in an orderly fashion. He laid the weed-preventing material on top of the soil, placed his tomato plants in neat rows, with custom-made cages designed to guide the growing branches, and had a separate bed for squash and cucumber vines. By the first of July, his plants looked terrific, with tiny tomatoes appearing almost overnight.

Then there was my garden. I started with tomato plants, but I only had 4 stakes left over from last year, and I never did get to the store to get enough for all my plants. I put out some pepper plants as well, and a couple of cabbage, wanting to provide for Peter Rabbit and his cousins. I planted green and yellow beans, Swiss Chard, cucumbers, and three kinds of squash, and look - there's room for another row of beans between the tomato plants. I was so excited - I could taste those veggies already.

They say a watched pot never boils, but I still checked the garden every day, and one morning, there were hundreds of tiny plants peeking through the soil. Wow, I thought, I can't wait to see what these are. "Weeds," said Jeff, and thus began my short-lived attempt to weed the garden. Most were morning glories and some other creepy plants, but as the days progressed, another weed appeared with a root resembling a gigantic turnip or rutabaga. I knew that cutting off the spikes that stretched above ground wouldn't solve the problem, so I hacked at its massive root as best I could. It worked for about a month, but when I got back from vacation, guess what greeted me?

Finally, the beans began to sprout, but there was nothing growing in the spot where I'd planted the Swiss Chard, so I tried again with beets - but all I've got in that patch is one towering Swiss Chard plant - time to put that on our menu.

Looking at my garden today, one phrase describes it perfectly - it's a hot mess! Due to my overzealous, haphazard planting, beans are nestled among the cabbage and peppers, squash vines have commandeered the yard, and tomatoes lie strewn in the dirt. The pretty purple flowered morning glories are attempting to squeeze the life out of the cucumber vines, but the cucumbers are winning that battle. I've learned some gardening lessons, pocketed a number of sermon illustrations, and savored the best BLT's in the world. Hot mess or not, I love my garden.

I may not be a country girl at heart, but I've experienced the truth of May Sarton's words this summer: "Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace." Now, if I can just figure out how to make pickles!

After the Ball is Over

My 40th high school reunion is now history. My informal Facebook poll suggested that the stark reality of seeing classmates after forty years would provide great fodder for a column, but since I had to leave by 9:30 p.m., I probably missed the more raucous moments. Still, as my faithful readers might guess, I have a bit to say about the experience.

My initial response to the reunion? Thank goodness for nametags! I had planned to page through my high school yearbook to refresh my brain, but didn't get around to it, so I was trusting my memory to go into overdrive. I recognized a few old friends immediately, but some I wouldn't have known if they'd kissed me on the lips. I'm guessing the same is true when they saw me.  

Some classmates have barely changed, while others appear totally different from their 70's photos (that I reviewed when I arrived home). Yet as a group, we look great. More impressive, however, is that by our late fifties, we appear to be comfortable in our own skin, not always our experience as teen-agers.

I was surprised by the lack of "do you remember when?" conversation, at least at the table I chose. While it was an evening of story, those stories didn't focus on 1973; instead, they told of the joys and sorrows that have put their stamp on our lives over the intervening years. Take, for example, my senior prom date. A serious accident was a defining moment in his story, requiring subsequent lifestyle changes that he never expected to face in his fifties. We'd been in classes together since elementary school, and I could still see a glimmer of the mischievous red-headed boy he'd been, but his grin has certainly been weighed down by the truth that life is difficult.

A Charlie Brown cartoon says, "The smile on my face doesn't mean my life is perfect. It means I appreciate what I have and what I have been blessed with. I choose to be happy." One classmate who stopped by our table could make that her life motto, for she embodied those words. Her story, too, has its tragic chapters, but her choice to live life fully, with joy, is contagious.

There was a richness of conversation at that table, even though much of it came in snippets. It had been a long time since these old friends had connected, and we had much to say and too little time. Pictures of children and grandchildren were duly admired, with each of us secretly thinking that of course, our grandchild was the most beautiful. (Those who know the lovely Madelyn Simone know the truth). My frustration was that I craved long, leisurely conversations, while the set-up of the reunion felt more like speed-dating.

A party with a live band at the Elks Club is definitely not the best way for my introverted nature to make renewed connections with old friends. It was a start, however, and with the magic of Facebook at our fingertips, we have the ability to stay in touch until the time comes when we can sit on the front porch until long after the street lights come on, watching fireflies light up the darkness as we share the sorrows and the joys of the last four decades.

One last glimpse from the reunion. Our reunion cake was decorated with pictures from our yearbook. As I looked at the faces beaming at us from across the span of forty years, I thought of the many hopes and dreams shining in the eyes of my classmates, and the twists and turns they've taken. On the cusp of adulthood, Bob claimed the goal of surgeon, and he's tenaciously followed that star, perhaps not world-famous, but life-saving to be sure. Sue dreamed of teaching others to love music, and she achieves that on stage and in the classroom - in Sweden!

My "future plans" were less specific: "To become all that I am capable of becoming." Whew! In retrospect, it's ironic that my life goal has become the empowerment of others to become all they are capable of becoming. Thanks, Class of '73 reunion, for the memories and affirmation!

To Know Him is to Love HIm

In preparation for today's column, I pitched the question on Facebook - should I write before or after my 40th high school reunion? The majority voted for "after," although one of the "before's" suggested that the unknown is always more interesting. A few directed me to do both, as I could write about the anticipation - and then the stark reality afterwards. Decisions, decisions . . .

I'm grateful to be spared some of the traditional trauma of class reunions. Since the dress is casual, I won't have to suffer the clothes-shopping ordeal. Yes, the slender young woman with glistening black hair is still a part of me, but sadly, she doesn't make an appearance in the unforgiving dressing room mirrors.

The second blessing in disguise is that my long-time high school boyfriend is not on the attendance list. However, my prom date is, but since he recently reported to the world that he moved into senior citizen housing, I should look like a spring chicken in comparison! But enough of the anticipation - stay tuned for next week's column for the stark reality of the class of 1973!

I'm not sure that an evening at the Elks club once every 5-10 years allows us to truly know each other, as the temptation is to rehash old high school stories of pranks and crabby teachers, of broken hearts and shattered dreams. Yet the question I'm most interested in is not "who were we?" No, I want to know, "who are we today?" I've gotten some hints from reading about classmates on Facebook, but it is in the face-to-face connection, day after day, that we truly come to know one another.

So here's my segue to Part B. I am privileged to truly know long-time Mifflin resident Pete Twitchell. Not from the faded photos of a high school yearbook, not from his blog posts or Facebook pages (he hasn't made that leap yet), but up close and personal.

Larry and I spent a marvelous evening at Ashland's Kroc Center last week, celebrating this most recent June Metcalf Elder in Residence at the Salvation Army. Designed to honor the gifts of those who qualify for a Golden Buckeye card, the selection of Pete Twitchell as an Elder in Residence is the perfect choice. If the previous recipients were chosen for their specific focus (June Metcalf, knitting and crocheting, Bunny Wachtel, Abraham Lincoln buff), Pete displays the opposite, an eclectic mix of interests that embrace the world, from the home he built in Mifflin, Ohio to the Mosquito Coast of Honduras.

Pete's a buggy-lugger from way back. If it needs to be moved, he's your man. He's hauled topsoil and compost to the Kroc Center gardens, and toys and coats, blankets and beans to poverty-stricken Cranks Creek, Kentucky. As a stone mason, he's hauled stone for a living, creating handsome patios and walls across Ohio. And he's hauled medical supplies in a canoe up-river year after year to the most remote reaches of Honduras.

Pete's life is a captivating story. With an adventurous spirit, he joined the Air Force to see the world, not to fly a desk in Boston. Early on in their marriage, he and his wife Cass lived in a teepee for a year while clearing their property, and discovered that a water bed in a teepee gets cold in September. His tale of the standoff with a groundhog intent on eating his way through his garden is a classic. I believe the old hymn, "I Love to Tell the Story," was written especially for Pete Twitchell - above all else, he's an evangelist of heart and voice.

Years ago, our dear friend Bill LaMarr preached a memorable sermon, "To know him is to love him." That's how it is with Pete. Pete's energetic smile spreads from his mouth to the crinkled corners of his eyes, and his joy has blessed generations of Ashlanders, Kentuckians, and Hondurans.

I can't vouch for my high school boyfriend or my prom date, but I can tell you this - Pete Twitchell's the real deal. What he talks, he walks. Up close and personal - indeed, to know him is to love him!

 

Divided Loyalties of a Smitten Immigrant

As a newcomer to Ashland in 2006, I fell in love with the character of the community and the rhythm of its lifestyle. Music at the band shell, Ashland Arrows football, the budding opportunities of the Kroc Center, and the intermittent clatter of horse hooves served as welcome reminders that we were no longer in inner city Philadelphia or Cleveland. Over the past seven years, Larry and I put down roots, and our charming home on Walnut Street has brought us much joy. I even compiled a book of Times-Gazette columns that expanded on my smittenness - Only in Ashland: Reflections of a Smitten Immigrant. Yet over the last few months, the guilt has begun to creep in, because I'm wrestling with divided loyalties. Since confession is said to be good for the soul, let me explain.

It started out as I did some contract work for the Massillon Museum, located in the city of Massillon, which is nestled along the Tuscarawas River on the western end of Stark County. I've learned about Massillon's founders and the city's namesake, eaten pizza at Smiley's, and decorated Christmas cookies at MassMu with the lovely Madelyn Simone while awaiting Santa's arrival. I've met some great people and heard the stories of struggle and success of its downtown. I've experienced my first MassMu Island Party, an event that draws thousands of people each year, and even encountered the spirit of Andy Warhol as the museum is currently presenting SNAP: In the Photobooth with Andy Warhol. I may not be quite as head over heels in love with Massillon as I am with Ashland, but it is tugging at my heartstrings.

As the girl with two boyfriends on a string, it was working out pretty well, as I was careful not to invoke jealously between the two. But then I cavalierly answered the phone on June 20th, unaware that the ensuing conversation would lead me down the path of further betrayal to my first love. It was the Salvation Army calling, asking if I could fill in at one of its Ohio locations for a few weeks, until they could assign officers to that center. I had a bad phone connection and couldn't hear the conversation fully, so finally asked - where did you say this was? "Oh, didn't you hear me - it's Wooster, Ohio."

So, since I had some spaces available on my dance card, I agreed to give leadership to the Wooster Salvation Army for five weeks. Yep, back in the saddle again, and I'm having a great time. Visionary that I tend to be, it's tough knowing there's a time limit to this gig, but I'm also grateful it's July rather than December in the Salvation Army world - no kettle bells ringing in Wooster this month. But here's the challenge - I'm loving the community of Wooster. I've met some terrific people, enjoyed samples of amazing food at their downtown tasting party, Artfully Delicious, and I attempt to get out of the building to explore a bit of downtown each day, although the weather hasn't cooperated very well with that plan.

Oh, dear Ashland, I don' want to betray you, but I'm getting smitten all the same by Wooster and Massillon. As I read their newspapers, walk their streets, and get to know their people, I see that despite our differing names and locations, these cities have much in common - big enough but not too big, a rich heritage, intriguing stories, solid values, and hopes and dreams for the future. 

In writing these words, I've had a revelation. Instead of looking at these loves as polygamous relationships or cheatin' on my man, I'm changing the metaphor to a mother's love. I've always been glad to pull another seat up to the dinner table, so as I'm making room in my heart for my new communities, those new affections don't negate my love for Ashland. This line from Lilo and Stitch says it all: "Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind - or forgotten." Now let me tell you how much fun I had at Canton's First Friday . . .