So Bring Us Some Piggy Pudding

In a moment of near anguish this week, I dumped my collection of Christmas cassettes in the garbage can. Since I haven’t had a working cassette player for at least five years, it was long overdue. I was sad to say good-bye to the virtuosity of the Canadian Brass, reminiscent of a magical December night in Cleveland when we treated ourselves to their oasis of joy in the middle of a hectic holiday season. We also spent many December hours in the van with our young sons, and often sang along with Goofy and his five onion rings (“Twelve Days of Christmas”) and Miss Piggy’s “piggy pudding.” Farewell, dear friends.

As the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful Elizabeth Holiday sang along with a Christmas CD on the way to Ashland last week, Madelyn asked how I knew all those songs. I replied, “It seems like I’ve been singing them forever.” My enchantment with Christmas music began with the lead-in for Channel Four’s Santa Show, as children across Western New York waited impatiently for Santa’s appearance, along with his silly sidekick Forgetful. The orchestral version of LeRoy Anderson’s “Sleigh Ride,” with the crack of the whip and the whinny of the horse, still triggers a sense of anticipation learned in the living room on Klinger Avenue.

I’d rock in the rocking chair for hours listening to the “Holiday Sing-Along with Mitch Miller,” engraving those arrangements in the music section of my brain. My early favorite was the progressive song that concluded with the refrain, “Must be Santa, must be Santa, Santa Claus.

While I did my share of singing about Rudolph and his nose “like a lightbulb,” many of my Christmas carol memories are steeped in the music of the church. We traditionally processed from corner to corner of the sanctuary with the Quempas Carol, and one snowy night, greeted  parishioners with singing from the rooftop of the church vestibule. That performance was never repeated – those engineering types always put a damper on artistic brilliance. My Christmas carol indoctrination wasn’t complete, however, until I met the green “Caroler’s Favorites,” the tunebook used for playing at The Salvation Army kettle. Hand me a baritone horn, and the third part flows automatically, ingrained from hours of playing those sixty or so carols at the entrance to Grand Central Station in the Big Apple.

For centuries, the narrative of the nativity was preserved in many of those same melodies. The singing began on a hilltop near Bethlehem, where angels greeted the arrival of the newborn child with notes of joy: “Gloria in Excelsis Deo.” I doubt they sang in Latin, but we still repeat those familiar syllables each Christmas. Narrative carols such as “The First Noel” and “We Three Kings” were used to teach the Christmas story to generations of non-literate people, while composers such as Charles Wesley used carols to develop theological concepts. “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” is a good example.

The music of Christmas has expanded exponentially since those initial angelic glorias. Tiring of the angels, shepherds and kings, composers began to write of animals and other characters far beyond the scriptural record. Musicians sang of the friendly beasts at the manger, three ships, a good king (Wenceslas), a torch-bearing girl (Jeanette Isabella), a drum-beating boy, and a hippopotamus-seeking child. Movie-makers got in the act as well, giving us soon-to-be classics such as “White Christmas,” “Silver Bells,” and “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Even Charlie Brown added to the repertoire, with the three-note minor motif of “Christmastime is Here.” But I can live without the contribution of “Neptune’s Daughter,” “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.”

For Bess Streeter Aldrich, Christmas Eve was “a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart . . . filled it, too, with melody that would last forever.” Bess and I aren’t related by blood lines (it’s a long story), but we share a kindred Christmas spirit. Cassette or CD, playlist or piano, the melodies and the memories created during the days and nights surrounding December 25^th warm my heart, and I seldom tire of the echo of their notes.  

The Pull of the Smitten Grandmother

A reader recently suggested that I refrain from commenting on issues that have political implications, with the counsel that I stick with the “grandmotherly” topics, which I interpreted as those I’m qualified to write about, such as potty training and apple pie. Apparently, a sixty-two-year old grandmother shouldn’t have an opinion on policies that will increase the national debt (placing that burden on our grandchildren), deny medical coverage to nine million children (CHIP funding still hasn’t been authorized), or expose serial abusers (#metoo). How dare a silver-haired grandmother plead for non-violence in our world?

In that message, I was hearing echoes from WWE’s Stone Cold Steve Austin. “Know your role and shut your mouth.” I’ve heard that message before. The feelings remain long after the words are probably forgotten by the speaker. “Keep your wife under control.” “Are you sure you want to sign up for AP Calculus? You’re a girl.” “Did you know you’re called ‘that radical woman.’” “You sure are opinionated.”

Women have heard it. So have those in a “less than” position because of skin color, poverty, ethnicity, age, or an unequal balance of power. MILCK sings about the expected response in “Quiet.” “Put on your face, know your place, shut up and smile.”

I am certainly not ashamed of being a smitten grandmother, but I am not just a grandmother, just as I’m not defined only by my relationships. I’m also an author, speaker, musician, writer’s midwife and advocate. As a columnist, I consider myself successful when I’ve “stirred the pot,” and I hope my readers disagree with me from time to time. After all, it’s called an editorial page for a reason, so a variety of opinions can be expressed. Many of my ideas, formed over a lifetime of work among the marginalized and the powerless of our world, may not sit well with every reader. But I’ve come to MILCK’s conclusion: “I can’t keep quiet for anyone anymore.”

During World War II, radio newscaster Paul Harvey presented stories that contained little known or forgotten facts on a variety of topics, with the tag line, “And now you know the rest of the story.” There is a “rest of the story” to my grandmother identity that has surfaced in recent months. As you may know, Larry and I were assigned to Ashland in 2006, tasked with the responsibility to develop the new Salvation Army Ray and Joan Corps Community Center. I quickly became a smitten immigrant, appreciating the small-town atmosphere after many years of work in larger cities. In fact, my column-writing days at the T-G began with the desire to chronicle the benefits I was discovering, looking at the oft-repeated phrase, “Only in Ashland,” as a positive rather than a negative.

After many years of a nomadic life, going where The Salvation Army assigned us to go, we put down deep roots here, assuming this would be our home long into our golden years. I’ve driven to Canton once a week for seven years to care for the lovely Madelyn Simone and now the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, and that was doable. But when our youngest son Dan and his wife Becky made an offer on a house in Canton in August, I began to ponder: what about the future?  

The decision didn’t come easily, but it made sense long-term. Ultimately, the smitten grandmother (and more reluctantly, the smitten grandfather) trumped the smitten immigrant, and our offer for a house in Canton was accepted this week.

We’ll miss this beautiful home, with its grand staircase, the colorful children’s playroom, and my light-drenched writing nook, and have no clue how we’ll downsize to a house half its size. But it’s time for one floor living, reduced yardwork, and children and grandchildren at our table for mashed potatoes and gravy.

As for my presence on these pages, I’ll continue here until we move (in January), and would be honored to keep stirring the pot longer if the editor wants me to.

So now you know the rest of the story. Stay tuned for more on our next chapter, thoughts on what we’ll miss about Ashland, and yes, a political hot potato or two still to come.

Plucking the Goose: Tax Reform

Writing in “The Political History of the Devil” in 1726, Daniel Defoe said, “Things as certain as death and taxes, can be more firmly believ’d.” Later, in a 1789 letter, Benjamin Franklin noted, “Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency, but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

Unless we are high fliers in the financial world, we seldom give much thought to the subject of taxes until it’s time to file our tax returns each year. We may stare wistfully at our pay stubs, wishing fewer dollars were withheld from our earnings, but today, we’re more concerned about the odds of the Browns winning a game this season, or finding out how Jack died on “This is Us.” Taxation is inevitable, so why lose sleep in November over taxes?

However, in the days leading up to the April 15^th deadline for filing our tax returns, I do have varied reactions: procrastination as I contemplate the unwieldy task, a loud and long whine as I collect the needed information, and a sigh of despair, when I realize how “bigly” my payment check needs to be. I’ve also been dazed and confused as I work my way through the dreaded forms, especially navigating the world of self-employment taxes. I should therefore be glad this month’s proposed tax reform will simplify that dreaded duty, right?

As one of our parishioners used to repeat in the middle of our sermons back in Canton, “Nope, nope, I don’t think so.”

First, I have my doubts that the IRS will end up simplifying anything, regardless of what tax plan is passed. That capacity is not in their DNA.

Secondly, I’m not happy they’re proposing changes that will negatively impact my family. We’ve got a teacher – no deductions for the classroom supplies she buys every week? No deduction for mortgage interest? Student loan interest? Local and state taxes? Moving expenses? These are deductions we’ve taken over the years, thus reducing our tax burden a bit. Will the other changes really offset those savings?

And what about the families of our community? Ashland University is an important employer here, and historically, its salaries have been a bit lower than other employers because it provided a tuition benefit for family members. These tuition waivers are slated to be taxed, as are stipends paid to graduate students at universities across the country. My young friend from a working-class family just began a doctoral program in psychology. Will he be able to continue? Not if he has to pay more in taxes than his cash income.

Yet the whole idea of taxes isn’t just about how it will impact us as individuals. Ever since an incredible tea party in Boston Harbor nearly two and a half centuries ago, our country has demanded representation in deciding how to fairly and effectively tax our citizens. We understand the need to pool our money to pave the streets, to care for the most fragile among us, and to keep us safe, but we want a say in it.

Sorting out taxes is never simple. The animated Disney movie “Robin Hood” offers two perspectives. The ruling Prince John boasted, “Taxes! Taxes! Beautiful, lovely taxes.! Ah-hah! Ah-hah!” Sir Hiss, his henchman snake, responded: “Sire, you have an absolute skill for encouraging contributions from the poor.” Prince John replied: “To coin a phrase, my dear counselor, rob the poor to give to the rich.”

Robin Hood took the opposite position philosophically when Little John asked, “You know somethin’, Robin. I was just wonderin’, are we good guys or bad buys? You know, I mean, uh? Our robbin’ the rich to feed the poor. Robin Hood answered: “Rob? Tsk tsk tsk. That’s a naughty word. We never rob. We just sort of borrow a bit from those who can afford it.” Little John replied: “Borrow? Boy, are we in debt.”

The seventeenth century French statesman, Jean Baptiste Colbert, described the fine art of taxation as “plucking the goose as to obtain the largest amount of feathers with the least amount of hissing.” As the plucking continues in Washington, that’s an image I won’t easily forget.