Water

We recently enjoyed an extended weekend visit to my mother, which also included a fun time at Fantasy Island with the lovely Madelyn Simone and her cousins. While at the homestead, I worried that there was a bit of a poltergeist spirit present, as we had some minor trouble with the normal operations of Mom’s house.

First to go was the remote control for the television. Changing the battery didn’t solve the problem, my usual response for anything vaguely electronic, so I was at a loss as to what to do. Thank goodness my brother knew where the instructions were and re-programmed it.

That same evening, the remote control for the garage door didn’t work, so I had to close it from inside the garage, head out the back door, and stumble through the side yard, potentially disturbing the monster dog at the neighbors. Would I live to see the sunrise so that we could get a new battery?

I’m glad to testify that I made it safely past the canine fiend, into the safety of the house and the familiarity of my childhood bed. But when I turned on the faucet in the morning, there was no water. Now what did I break? I was getting a bit paranoid about what I might touch next, until Larry noticed the city trucks at the end of the street. A water main break was the culprit, presenting us with the challenge of how to complete our morning ablutions prior to visiting the bustling farmer’s market. With only thirty-two ounces of bottled water in the house, we managed to brush our teeth, and my always-prepared mom had filled the coffeemaker to the brim before she went to bed, ready to be brewed by the first riser in the family (not me!). But no showers that morning, so I took a quick dip in the backyard pool to wash off the outer level of grit and grime associated with the previous day at the amusement park.

Upon our return from the market and the grocery store, with gallons of water in hand, the water main had been repaired and water was flowing from the faucets again. Hooray! Now I could get a real shower.

The irony of our short-term water loss was the pool in the backyard filled with water, and our proximity to the mighty Niagara River, within walking distance. Yet the truth of the words of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner remained: “Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

What a First World perspective I have, whining over a small inconvenience. Yet as The Water Project reports, nearly one billion people in the developing world don't have access to clean, safe drinking water. The United Nations claims that “water use has been growing at more than twice the rate of population increase in the last century, and . . . an increasing number of regions are chronically short of water.”

One devastating water issue has been the prevalence of Guinea worm disease, a parasitic infection spread through the use of stagnant water. The Carter Center, led by former President Jimmy Carter and First Lady Rosalyn Carter, has worked diligently since 1986 to coordinate efforts to wipe out this ancient curse through teaching people in affected areas to filter all drinking water. Guinea worm infections have now been reduced by 99%, and are close to being eradicated.

As so often happens, once I focused on the concerns surrounding water, I couldn’t escape its voice. So as I viewed the Fragile Waters exhibit at the Massillon Museum, on display until mid-September, the delicate connection between water and life that my reading had revealed was visually confirmed. The 119 black and white photographs, created over the course of a century by Ansel Adams, Ernest Brooks II, and Dorothy Kerper Monnelly, speak to the crucial role that water plays for all life on planet Earth. Powerful images.

In his inaugural address in 1994, South African president Nelson Mandela said, “Let there be work, bread, water and salt for all.” I echo his words today, that the parched of our world might find sustenance in the simple gift of water, clean and safe.

Painting the Playground

As a one-day-a-week child-care provider for the lovely Madelyn Simone, (her Nana days), I’ve spent many a spring and summer afternoon at the many playgrounds scattered between Canton and Ashland. Many still resemble the playgrounds of my youth, with swing sets, metal slides and merry-go-rounds, although we haven’t encountered a teeter-totter in our explorations. Remembering the blistering hot temperature of the slide against my bare skin, and a massive wipeout at Veteran’s Park when I missed my connection with the merry-go-round, I issue words of caution as we undertake our playground adventures. However, I also know that a skinned knee is small payment for the socialization experiences and the large motor skills being honed at the playground.

What I’ve discovered is that play areas for children in at least some municipalities and school districts have suffered from lack of funds and/or attention in recent years. I’m not suggesting that every playground needs modern equipment, as Madelyn is content to swing on the swings until the cows come home, but many would benefit from a new layer of mulch or a fresh coat of paint.

As my problem-solving mode kicked into gear, I began to think about how we could gather people together to spruce-up our local play areas, even checking out the Kaboom! website for potential funding options.

But wait a minute. I’m not talking about play areas like the Salvation Army Kroc Center, funded and maintained primarily by private dollars. No, nearly all of the playgrounds we’ve visited are either city, county or school-based, paid for by your tax dollars and mine. But since local communities and school districts are squeezed for money, the needs at the bottom of the priority list (like parks and playgrounds) may not get the attention they deserve. We make the same decisions with our personal budgets when we opt for home safety repairs rather than cosmetic touch-ups.

What does government do when there isn’t enough money to paint the playground? It either decreases spending or it raises taxes. In an incredibly complicated system of taxation (income tax, capital gains, gasoline, sales, real estate, specific levies, etc.), one way is relatively simple: raise the rate at which a person’s income is taxed. Little by little, the piece of our income pie that goes to fund government services gets bigger. Unless the size of our personal income pie increases, our disposable income shrinks, a sliver at a time.

Another way for government to increase its revenue is to enact a sales tax. Have you checked out your cell phone bill recently? A tax of about 6% is withheld, along with the Federal Universal Service Charge, the OH TRS Surcharge, and the OH Reg Fee. Fill your gas tank – pay tax. Get a tattoo or massage – pay tax. Use natural gas to heat your home – pay a gross receipts state tax that increased to 4.987% last September. Apparently the gas company had difficulty with that multiplication too, because they just dunned us to make up the difference between the old rate and the new.

Those in the know determine that Americans pay about 30% of their income in taxes. This percentage is up from the 5% rate in 1910, but has allegedly remained steady-ish for a number of years. In contrast, residents of France pay 53% of their income in taxes, so scratch a proposed relocation to Paris. 

With an increase in municipal income taxes proposed for the ballot in November, along with the struggles the country is facing, we as a community are faced with this question: what should government provide for us? And how big a slice of our income pie should the city, county, state and feds enjoy?

There are no easy answers to funding the services we’ve grown accustomed to and can’t provide on our own. Unless we can somehow entice LeBron James or Johnny Football to move into town and float the city budget for us, we do need to pay our fair share to maintain a safe community. But how much is too much, and what should we expect from paying our fair share? Here’s hoping for some open dialogue before we head to the ballot box in November.

Sheep and a Shepherd

In spite of my flourishing garden patch, I am definitely not a farm kind of girl. I grew up in a suburb of Buffalo, and worked most of my adult life in the urban sprawl of North Jersey, the narrow streets of Philadelphia, the ghetto of Cleveland, and the changing face of Canton. Life in a more rural Ashland has been quite a contrast for me, even though I live “in town.”

I also have not been much of an animal person over the years. Yes, there was the escapee hamster that terrorized us with his nocturnal wanderings for a few nights, and Spartacus, our son’s dog with a perpetual sense of wanderlust, but, apart from my grand-dogs, my involvement with animals has been as limited as my farm experience.

So it was with a slight degree of trepidation and much curiosity that I visited Hado-Bar Farm, the home and workplace of Judith Toth Bigham, a regular attendee at the Kroc Center writer’s group I facilitate on the second Thursday of each month. Participants are invited to read their work-in-progress, and so I’d had a glimpse into Judi’s vocation as an all-breed stockdog trainer through her writing. But it wasn’t until I actually stepped foot on her Nova farm that I realized the full scope of her work, day in and day out.

Here’s the secret to stockdog training: you need sheep, a herd of sheep. Currently, Judi has about seventy sheep, a working flock of Cheviot, Barbados Blackbelly, and Katahdin crossbreds, along with a few lambs not ready to be put to work – and each one has a name.

As we walked into the barn at feeding time, I was astounded at the sound echoing off the walls. We’ve taught the lovely Madelyn Simone that the sheep says baa-baa, but I never realized the volume of sound that seventy hungry sheep could produce, and the variety of their pitch and intensity created a symphony of sorts.

Just as Mary had a little lamb who followed her to school one day (even though it was against the rules), Judi has a little lamb who follows closely at her heels. Moxie was rejected at birth, and Judi nursed the fragile lamb through its precarious first few days in the warmth of her kitchen with feedings around-the-clock. As a result, Moxie has claimed an exalted status on the farm, a celebrity, not just one of the flock. Although still smaller than the other sheep, Moxie doesn’t hesitate to claim her rightful place in the farm’s pecking order – at the top.

Judi has written about Moxie in her recently completed book, “The Lamb that Lived: Moxie’s Story. If Judi schedules a book signing, she may not want to tell a particular sheep about it, or Moxie will be tracing M-O-X-I E in the barnyard dust in preparation.

I came away from my visit to Halo-Bar Farm with a great appreciation for the life of the farmer. Scattered throughout Ashland County is a multitude of farms where the rhythm of the day is marked by the crow of the rooster, the lowing of cattle, and the bleat of sheep. While I may linger in bed on a day off, my brothers and sisters across the county are rising at dawn to care for the livestock and tackle the chores of the day.

My time with Judi and her sheep gave me a precious gift as well. As both a clergyperson and a follower of Christ, I’ve often read the words of Jesus in John, chapter 10: “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me.” Now, however, when I read of a good shepherd and his sheep, it will be with a richer understanding of my pastoral role as shepherd, and the care of the Good Shepherd for his sheep.

Sarah Ban Breathnach reminds us: “Every day offers us simple gifts when we are willing to search our hearts for the place that's right for each of us.” As the sun set over the pasture that night, I was grateful for the simple gifts of that day, carefully tucked away on an Ohio country road.

Piano Man

Since hearing of the death of Maya Angelou, I’ve been spending time with her words, in gratitude for her full and fabulous life. Her official bio calls her a global renaissance woman, as she was a poet, memoirist, novelist, educator, dramatist, producer, actress, historian, filmmaker, and civil rights activist. I have a collection of her quotes on my desk, and I’m especially drawn to those that speak of music. Reminiscent of her early memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Angelou said, “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”

She also spoke of the role music played in her life. “Music,” she remembered, “was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” I’m not sure I could have articulated it as well, but even as a young girl, I found great joy in the gift of music, and still I often steal a few minutes away from the work of the day to sink my fingers into the piano’s keyboard and my heart into its song.

Unlike Angelou, I didn’t pursued music on a professional level, but the daily discipline of piano practice, although not always welcomed at the time, built a foundation of rhythm, melody and harmony into my life that has served me well for many years. We had a battered old upright in our Cleveland home for a while, but for most of our married life, I played on the church piano or an electronic keyboard, definitely not the real deal but easier to move. I was thrilled when we recently were able to get an older baby grand piano, now lovingly nestled in the curve of our bay window – finally, a piano of my own.

So when I read the notice about a new exhibition opening tomorrow in the Coburn Gallery at Ashland University, I was excited to learn more about “The Piano Man Project,” featuring more than 75 artworks by artists from Ohio, Illinois and West Virginia. I discovered that the project was created by Mansfield artist Ken Arthur from salvaged parts originating from a destroyed baby grand piano. According to the press release, “after making a series of them [marionette assemblages], Arthur wanted to collaborate with a fellow artist on the project. He gave him two piano men in boxes with instructions that the artist could do anything he wanted to them.” Thus, in the collaborative spirit of the visual arts, the Piano Man Project was born.

Wait a minute. I was somehow envisioning Billy Joel singing a song for those of us in the mood for a melody as we viewed images of pianos in a variety of artistic expressions. Instead, the exhibit will feature doll-like creatures dancing on legs scavenged from a discarded piano. Ouch!

OK, I’ll admit that was a low blow. There is a life cycle for all things in our world, including beloved pianos. They’re heavy to move, take up a lot of space, and restoration is pricey. Who needs a heavy piece of junk in their living room, especially one better suited for a honky-tonk club? As much as I love the music of a piano, its notes bring little pleasure if it’s been neglected for twenty years.

Enter Ken Arthur and friends. Instead of mourning the demise of the rejected piano, they’ve given new life to the bits and pieces destined to be strewn carelessly across Ohio’s landfills. If the piano’s got to go, theirs is a noble endeavor, fulfilling the axiom that one person’s trash is another’s treasure.

Despite my initial reservations, I’m committed to viewing the exhibit with an open mind. Again, Maya Angelou helps me see life beyond the grief of an abandoned piano, when she reminds us, “Everything in the universe has a rhythm. Everything dances.” Sometimes, life dances in the chords of a piano. Sometimes, life dances to the rhythm of reclaimed pieces, of a new spirit breathed into the detritus of time. And in the space that connects the two, I’ll be listening for the sad and sweet memory of what’s been, and the new melodies of creative voice.

A Satisfying Benediction

In June of each year, the Salvation Army commissions new leaders from its College for Officers’ Training. After two years of study and hands-on experience, these graduates receive their diplomas in recognition of their achievement, and are also given their first assignment in front of a couple of thousand of their friends and family members. There is a great deal of speculation as to where they might be placed, but the exact location remains secret until they hear of their new assignment from Salvation Army leadership.

During this year’s public “great reveal,” Commissioner Barry Swanson, the eastern territory’s leader, decided to describe the community prior to announcing the location. An urban center of great historical significance, one of the top ten micro-cities in the United State, a community at the headwaters of the St. Lawrence Seaway – each descriptive statement gave a clue as to where that first assignment would be. One of my favorite was the town that hosts the largest chainsaw carving gathering in the U.S. (Ridgeway, Pennsylvania).

How is a community described by those who have lived there forever, or by visitors stopping in for a day or two? Is it best known by its physical characteristics (river, rolling hills, scenic view), its history (a Revolutionary War battle), or its manufacturing (steel, automobiles)? Or is a community best known for its festival, such as Mike the Headless Chicken Days in Fruita, Colorado, Eeyore’s Birthday Party in Austin, Texas, or the Twins Day Festival in Twinsburg, Ohio?

How do we describe our community? Fortunately, we haven’t been slapped with the moniker of the Mistake by the Lake (Cleveland) or the Armpit of the East (Buffalo). Having lived near both of those cities, the label is uncalled-for, as there is much to celebrate in both locations. Titles are deceptive, for I’ve also lived in the City of Brotherly Love, where crime was rampant and love was often absent.

So what about Ashland, Ohio? Ashland is someplace special, according to the city website, and Ashland “has benefited from having its city capabilities cloaked in a rural backdrop. The pace of life is less stressful than many large cities and there are plenty of opportunities for enjoyment outside of work.” I can agree with that.

Although I hesitate to say it, while I do understand that Ashland is someplace special, I also recognize that Ashland is an ordinary place. We don’t have majestic scenery, bizarre festivals, or multi-million dollar corporations. We manufacture cookies and shaving cream, not airplanes or blimps. Our citizens work hard, care for their families, and pay their taxes, but there aren’t many millionaires or celebrities among us. We are ordinary.

All too often, “ordinary” gets a bad rap. Even its definition isn’t exciting: “with no special or distinctive features, normal.” While I don’t suggest that we make it our new tag line, “Ashland, Ohio: someplace ordinary,” I’d rather be called normal than abnormal or paranormal.

A similar word is quotidian: “occurring every day; belonging to every day; commonplace, ordinary.” There is a quotidian rhythm to life in Ashland, sometimes a struggle to the young among us, but a gift to those who may not want to drink the kool-aid our fast-paced culture is peddling. It is the gift of an evening stroll on tree-lined sidewalks, attendance at the summer concerts in the park, and the unexpected sound of a horse-drawn buggy clopping down the street.

Walter Martin offers advice to parents: “Help [your children] to find the wonder and the marvel of an ordinary life. Show them the joy of tasting tomatoes, apples and pears . . . And make the ordinary come alive for them.” The ordinary, quotidian rhythm of life can appear to be boring and mundane, but Kierkegaard speaks of the alternate truth: “Repetition is the daily bread which satisfies with benediction.”

Ordinary? Perhaps so. Yet there is value in the constancy of Ashland, as we live united, reflected in the fidelity of faith both proclaimed and practiced. As such, Ashland is a special place: special in its ordinariness, special in its people, and, at the end of the day, special in its satisfying benediction.  

Well Done, Sister Suffragette!

During the lovely Madelyn Simone’s recent visit to Pop-Pop’s house, we dusted off the VCR and watched Mary Poppins, a Disney film released fifty years ago. I can’t remember if I first saw the movie at the Star Theatre in Tonawanda, NY, or across the bridge at the Riviera Theatre, but whatever the venue, I was definitely charmed by the adventures of Mary, Bert, Jane and Michael.

It was quite the movie in its time, bringing five Academy Awards to the Disney studio. The profits from the film allowed Walt Disney to purchase 27,500 acres of land in central Florida, changing family vacations forever. Be sure to say thank you to the perfect nanny the next time you pass through the gates of the Magic Kingdom.

My fondest memory of Mary Poppins is from the piano in my childhood home, as I played the songs from the film over and over again. As I think about those days, my fingers are itching to trade the computer keyboard for the eighty-eight keys of the piano. I wonder what my sleeping household would think of “Step in Time” as a morning wake-up call?

Fifty years later, the words sprang easily to my lips as Jane and Michael clung to the string of their kite in “Let’s Go Fly a Kite,” happily swallowed their medicine with “Just a Spoonful of Sugar,” and nodded off to sleep in “Stay Awake.” I brushed aside a tear as Julie Andrews sang “Feed the Birds,” my favorite from that tattered volume of Mary Poppins songs, and chuckled along with Uncle Albert in “I Love to Laugh.” Yet I was especially struck by “Sister Suffragette,” led quite enthusiastically by Mrs. Banks, the mother of the household.

Apparently, her role as a suffragette was an addition to the movie version to explain why Mrs. Banks did not have time to take care of her own children. It’s played rather comically, but one line in particular stands out: “Our daughters’ daughters will adore us, as they sing in grateful chorus, well done, sister suffragettes.” At age four, Madelyn has no idea what Mrs. Banks is talking about, but it has been less than one hundred years since the nineteenth amendment to the constitution was passed, giving women the vote across the United States. It was the women suffragettes, with their protests, their parades, and even their hunger strikes, who changed our world.

I didn’t know much about the suffragettes until I stumbled across Katja von Garnier’s film, “Iron Jawed Angels.” Her depiction of suffragette leaders Alice Paul and Lucy Burns was in stark contrast to Winifred Banks marching through the halls of Seventeen Cherry Tree Lane. Yet Mrs. Banks’ suffragette actions nudged me to remember that there was a time, not all that long ago, when gender disqualified half of our country’s citizens from voting.

Watching 12 Years a Slave, I had a similar nudge. It wasn’t all that long ago that slavery was legal in the United States. It was the nineteenth century abolitionists who pushed hard for slavery to be eliminated, often at great risk to themselves and their families. Even after the Emancipation Proclamation was issued by Abraham Lincoln on January 1, 1863, it took one hundred more years for the passage of the Civil Rights Act 1964, and the continued lifting of voices has allowed our children to see race through colorless lenses.

“Well done, sister suffragettes.” Well done, abolitionists, civil rights workers. Your voice made a difference. Yet new voices are being called forth in our day. Voices that speak to the scourge of modern day slavery, the plight of kidnapped young women in Chibok, Nigeria, and sexual trafficking. Voices that call for immigration reform. Voices that speak of global warming. These voices are our century’s suffragettes and abolitionists.

Tucked away in a fifty-year-old children’s movie when I least expected them were these compelling reminders. There is a time for kite-flying, a time to feed the birds on the steps of the cathedral, and a time to lift our voices to transform the world our daughters’ daughters (and sons) will inherit from us. Thanks, Mary Poppins. It was good to see you again.

 

One Hundred Days of Summer

From last Saturday's Ashland Times-Gazette:

I don’t know if the tradition still stands, but back in the days before Ipods and smart phones, our singing filled the band bus to and from the high school football games. We’d work our way through the pep songs, sing a round or two of “Salvation Army, put a nickel in the drum, save another drunken bum,” and usually end up with the classic “One hundred bottles of beer on the wall.”

We sang in the car when our kids were little, but due to their tender age and our Salvation Army connection, we chose the more benign “One hundred bottles of pop on the wall.” I doubt we made it much past seventy on that countdown ditty before anarchy erupted in the rear seat, but that melody came to mind when I discovered the One Hundred Days of Summer calendar that the Ashland Area Convention and Visitors Bureau developed for Summer 2014 (available in placemat format at their office, and on the web at www.visitashlandohio.com).

I’m a day late and a dollar short on this, because the calendar creator began her countdown (or is it a count-up?) on Memorial Day, the unofficial beginning of summer, so I’ve missed a few days of activities. But since we still have 95 “bottles on the wall” as of today, it’s definitely not too late to check out our community, silencing the familiar summer lament, “there’s nothing to do.” According to this calendar, there’s plenty to do in Ashland County.

Some of the activities are event-connected, such as BalloonFEST 2014 (July 3-6), the Downtown Dream Cruise and Car Show on July 12, and Pioneer Days at Wolf Creek/Pine Run Grist Mill (July 26-27). My favorite authors are in town for Ashland Chautauqua (July 15-19), including Dr. Seuss, Robert Frost, and C.S. Lewis. The lovely Madelyn Simone and I can create balloon sculptures at the Ashland library and eat green eggs and ham, like it or not – right, Sam I am?

With NCIS, The Good Wife, and Law and Order SVU on hiatus for the summer, we’ve decided to get out of the house more at night, joining the rhythm of Thursday and Sunday nights at the Myers Bandshell. Here’s a sample of what’s scheduled. Dr. Insecta Bug Lab will open for the Ashland Area Community Concert Band on opening night, June 15. There will be “Pops in the Park” with the Ashland Symphony Orchestra (June 29), and Motown Sounds of Touch on June 26. The Diamond Project Band is appearing July 3, so I’ll be singing Sweet Caroline and Cracklin’ Rose for weeks. And since I’ve got family connections, here’s a plug for the Kroc Center Big Band on Thursday, August 14. If I didn’t have two left feet, I’d bring my dancing shoes that night.

Too tired to go out at night? Try lunchtime activities instead. United Way has great times planned for Fun Fabulous Fridays, and a series of Brown Bag concerts at the Kroc Center takes care of Wednesdays in June and July. Saturdays are filled with visits to the Farmers’ Market at Christ UMC, and the downtown Farmers’ Market is back in session on Wednesdays beginning June 11^th. There’s a library book sale on July 19^th, an antique tractor show at the Career Center on July 12, and a Lincoln Highway exhibit at the Ashland County Historical Society on August 10^th. Tired yet?

In between these scheduled events, there’s bowling, bingo, story hour, geo-caching, golf, canoeing, roller skating, nature hikes, outdoor movies and much more. “More” definitely includes ice cream and frozen yogurt, backyard picnics, shopping in Downtown Ashland and Loudonville, swimming at Brookside, and splashing at the Kroc Center Spraypark. Look for Madelyn and me – I’m sure we’ll be there!

If you attended the Downtown Walk-in Movie (Frozen) last weekend, you may remember what Olaf the snowman said to Kristof: “But sometimes I like to close my eyes, and imagine what it'd be like when summer does come.” School is out, the sun is shining, and summertime has come. We don’t have to imagine anymore – it’s finally time to soak in the fun of one hundred days of summer in Ashland, Ohio.