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 . . .

I'm Loving It!

Early on in what Larry and I fondly call our Kroc period, we planned a kitchen shower for the new community center being built in Ashland. Since our benefactor, Joan Kroc, was the heiress of the golden arches, we played a shower game involving McDonalds slogans from over the years. So when asked recently about the one-year anniversary of our retirement from the Kroc Center and Salvation Army work, my thoughts turned to a few of those jingles, starting with "You deserve a break today."

After 34 years, 16 days of active Salvation Army ministry, I don't think we realized how tired we were, how much we needed - if not deserved - a break. We would have kept on going strong had the Salvation Army not come knocking at our door with orders to depart from Ashland, but in hindsight, it's clear that our bodies weren't quite as young as we imagined them to be. One friend recently reflected on her last year of ministry, lamenting that she had become a keeper of the aquarium instead of an active fisher for people. I'm grateful we were spared that possible decline.

As I strapped the world's most beautiful granddaughter into her car seat this week, the lovely Madelyn Simone was intrigued with the automatic sliding doors of the minivan, amazed that Nana could push the buttons and the doors opened like magic. Do you remember that Mickey D slogan? "Do you believe in magic?" I don't quite believe in magic outside of Santa Claus, but what I've discovered over these past twelve months is the continued presence and provision that I can only define as a spiritual blessedness, the gift of grace. It's come in the form of unexpected yet much-needed financial support, the perfectly-timed words of a friend, the kindness of acquaintances and strangers alike, and a sense of the "peace that passeth all understanding." It's not magic, but I believe.

I've also discovered the semi-truth of another of McDonald's jingles: "What you want is what you get."I've lived long enough to know that you don't always get what you want, but here's what I've discovered - when you begin to define what you want in life, it's more likely you'll achieve/receive it. One of the top five phrases uttered in the counseling office, perhaps only second to "I don't know who I am," is this: "I don't know what I want." Common words out of our mouths at a restaurant, but not so beneficial when facing life transitions such as post-college, post-divorce, post job loss or post-retirement.

Here's the true part of the McDonalds' phrase - you can't hope to get what you want until you can articulate what you want. I wrote out a list a number of years ago, and that printed page sits in the front of my "organizing my life" notebook, where I look at it quite often. Here are a few of my desires: I want to walk by the water and pray, to love my husband and sons generously (add to that my daughter-in-law and Madelyn), to welcome brothers and sisters into my home, to write prophetically, to write a novel, to teach at a seminary, and to walk with other women wherever the path may lead. What you want is what you get, and these life objectives are more fulfilling than a happy meal.

One last slogan. I'm loving it! The words of Presbyterian minister Frederick Buechner have spoken to me for many years: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” As a young woman, I framed that calling in a sacrificial life of Salvation Army service that strove to save the world, at least in my assigned corner. In these days, this intersection of personal gladness and the needs of the world takes place at a quieter corner, in the less-public roles of writing, teaching, and coming alongside (and a side job or two). Add to that my precious Madelyn time, a flourishing garden, and fireflies in the backyard, and I can chime in with Ronald McDonald in these post-Kroc days - I'm loving it.

Chocolate, Spraypark, and Garage Sales

As a freelance writer working out of a home office, I've discovered a few temptations inherent in the profession. I cannot keep chocolate on my desk as I did when I worked with other people, because there is no one else to eat it - and so I do. Not good - well, actually quite delicious, but definitely not good in light of the fact that this is bathing suit season.

Which leads me to the second temptation, for on a picture perfect morning (or a sticky, sultry afternoon), I don't want to keep my nose to the grindstone - I want to head to the Kroc Center Spraypark. I admit to some self-conscious moments while strolling down Liberty Street in bathing suit attire, especially with no small child in tow. But I've perfected the doting grandmother look, so once I get there, I can stand under the tumble buckets without shame, even if the lovely Madelyn Simone isn't with me.

But the lure snagging me in these early days of summer is the garage sale bug. I used to work my way from front to back in the Times-Gazette each morning, starting with the headlines, checking out the obituaries, reading the opinion page, bemoaning the fate of Cleveland sports teams, and scanning the Tell and Sell. I'm still OK with that plan on Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday, I turn addictively to the classifieds to plot my garage sale adventure for the week.

What do I look for? I'm not big on collectibles, so the Precious Moments and Hummels don't catch my eye. I don't fish or ski, and my husband still has all of his father's tools as well as his own. Exercise equipment - fat chance. The truth is, I really don't need much of anything, but I'm delighted when I unearth a few books for vacation reading, and I keep my eyes open for clothes or other surprises for Madelyn.

Here's the bottom line of garage sailing - at least for me. It's not about the stuff - It's about the hunt. Can I get something I might use some day at a bargain price? If so, I'm pumped!

The hunt begins with the drive-by drill. First, you check out the neighborhood, looking for adjoining houses with sale signs to make the trip worthwhile, and then you drive by slowly, getting a glimpse of the goods. If it's only knick-knacks and adult clothing, I don't stop. Unlike retail, presentation isn't everything, but curb appeal does help, and I'm appreciative when kid's clothing is washed and sorted by size.

At first I felt guilty if I walked out empty-handed - after all, the garage sale host or hostess went to all that trouble - but I quickly realized if I bought something at every garage sale I browsed at, I'd be starring in Hoarders by the end of the year.

While "the hunt" may be the enticement that draws me in, what I've experienced over the last few weeks of intermittent garage-sailing is the same thing I love about Ashland - the people. I've had the best conversations, often beginning with, "Don't you write in the Times-Gazette?" From there I've chatted about writing projects, world peace, teen age girls in the Bible, being smitten over grandchildren, and the spraypark (especially on the hot and humid days).

I've also been amazed at the kindness of people I don't know, especially the house where I scored a backyard swing. I asked if I could leave it there until I could arrange to pick it up, and the woman hosting the garage sale said, "Let's toss it in my truck and I'll follow you to your house." Let me tell you - that wouldn't have happened in Philadelphia or Cleveland. Thank you.

I have a few boxes set aside with fuzzy plans for a garage sale of my own. I even have my classified ad figured out - "buy my junk - CHEAP!" Now, if I can just get over my fear of rejection, I might sell enough stuff to buy some chocolate, and take Madelyn out for a happy meal.  Keep watching the classifieds!

Overcome Evil by Good

Scrolling through some Facebook posts in a hotel room in Philadelphia, I began to read of a federal enslavement case unfolding in Ashland, Ohio. I leave home for a week and Ashland makes the national news - what's going on?

Growing up on a quiet street of working-class families in a suburb of Buffalo, I wasn't exactly sheltered, but gained most of my knowledge of the more disreputable side of life by sneaking a peak at the True Confessions magazines while my mother sat under the hair dryer at the beauty parlor. In my world, most people were decent. They cut their grass, took care of their kids, and went to church on Sunday - except for the Catholics, who could go to Mass on Saturday night and sleep in on Sundays, a good trade-off for having to eat fish on Fridays.

In my more than 35 years of involvement with the Salvation Army, I learned that while most people are decent, some people are not, and in their non-decentness, they inflict serious harm on others, whether stemming from their own pain, psychological disorder, or just plain meanness.

As we traveled east this past week, we traced the path of our early Salvation Army days, from the training school in Suffern, New York, to Dover, New Jersey, our first assignment. We also traveled to Philadelphia, where we served in the Roxborough neighborhood and then in North Philadelphia,just blocks from where Bill Cosby grew up in the midst of Fat Albert and the gang. In those settings, we saw more than our fair share of man's inhumanity to man - gender inclusive.

Along with a mouth-watering cheesesteak, Larry and I shared a gazillion memories during the week of travel, some hilarious, some endearing, and some heart-breaking. As we reflected on the people caught up in the heart-breaking stories, we wondered out loud if there was something we could have done if only we'd known. That tends to be a common theme when the lives of others crumble around us. Didn't we see the abusive gleam in the eyes of our neighbor, the plea for help in the eyes of the child in our classroom, the despair of our suicidal neighbor? Why didn't we see?

Sometimes we did see, but the answers weren't clear-cut. How could we protect the most fragile in our midst? Should the family be reported? Should the child be removed from the home? Who do we believe? Could the support of the caring professional, the compassionate church, and an embracing community turn the tide? We saw it happen as people beat back the demons and pursued their dreams. We want to believe it can happen again, but sometimes the world comes crashing down instead.

When we read the headlines in the Times-Gazette, or hear the anguish in the pastor's office or the altar of prayer, we can't help but wonder why. Theologians speak of depravity stemming from the fall of our first parents in the Garden of Eden, psychologists identify the disorders that strike seemingly without rhyme or reason, and scientists point to the mysteries of DNA and to epigenetic modifications to the genomes as nature and nurture blend in mysterious ways. Often as the tragic stories unfold, a combination of these factors led the players to their thirty seconds of sordid fame.

So what do we do? Once again, our quiet community is shaken by the actions of a few. Following the attack at the Boston Marathon, Pope Francis drew upon the apostle Paul's words from Romans 12:21: "Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good," as Francis prayed that"all Bostonians will be united in a resolve not to be overcome by evil, but to combat evil with good, working together to build an ever more just, free and secure society."

That's the message that pulsed through our memory journey, the faces of goodness shining in the darkness. Now, in the shadow of Ashland's own story of the darkness of a few, we ask the questions, but then we do what we can as together, we plant seeds of goodness and keep the porch lights on, sustaining a just, free and secure home together.

I caught a portion of an NPR interview with Adam Johnson, the author of The Orphan Master's Son, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for fiction. As part of his research for the book, he was able to "finagle" a visit to North Korea, the setting for his novel. Restrictions were placed on what he could see, as his government minders controlled his itinerary. His comments were intriguing. Johnson said, "perhaps one of the more surreal things I've ever seen is seeing thousands of women wear the exact same shade of lipstick," and he noted that the men all had the same haircut. Odd, perhaps, but not earth-shaking, yet his questions were troubling to the North Koreans, especially when he asked, "where are all the handicapped people?"

Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times had the same reaction when visiting North Korea years ago. Told that handicapped people voluntarily moved from Pyongyang to other areas of the country, Kristof suggested that "the darker explanation is that North Korea systematically exiles mentally retarded and disabled people from the capital, so as not to mar its beauty."

How a country, culture and community regards those whose bodies or minds are fragile speaks volumes about that group's values and respect for life. That attitude shows clearly in our use of words. Sixty years ago, when my husband's teen-aged brother was living with muscular dystrophy, the family commonly used the word "crippled" to describe Jerome's physical condition. But over the years, "handicapped" became the more accepted term, now replaced by words such as "person with a physical or mobility disability."  

Sixty years ago, it was not uncommon for a child born with serious physical or mental limitations to be placed in an institution to be cared for by strangers for the rest of his/her life. That, too, has changed, as many long-term institutions have closed and families are provided the needed support to keep their children at home.

That's been my friend B.J. Brown's experience. Now in his thirties, he's grown up in the family home, sharing in the give-and-take of domestic life on a daily basis. He has cerebral palsy, and depends upon his mother and sister to dress him, feed him, and navigate his wheelchair through the world around him. While he has difficulty speaking, he's clear about one thing - he is a diehard Cleveland sports fan, and was thrilled when the Browns forced eight turnovers in their win against the arch-rival Steelers on November 25, 2012.

B.J. is a member of our Salvation Army congregation in Ashland, in his front row seat every Sunday, rain or shine, because family and friends make the effort to transport him to church. The Salvation Army congregation is sponsoring a Pep Rally Benefit for the Browns on Saturday, June 22 at the Kroc Center Spraypark from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., complete with stadium food, a silent auction, and lots of family fun. Since his father's death three years ago, his mother Carolyn has depended on others to lift BJ in and out of vehicles, but now she's purchased a van for the family, and is determined to "beg, borrow or steal" enough funds to complete the wheelchair accessibility conversion. Since we don't want anyone to go to jail for theft, we're planning this fund-raiser in support of van conversion to allow Caroline to transport B.J. on her own.

Margaret Meade reminds us: "If we are to achieve a richer culture, rich in contrasting values, we must recognize the whole gamut of human potentialities, and so weave a less arbitrary social fabric, one in which each diverse gift will find a fitting place." As our congregation and our community embraces the Brown family in the Pep Rally Benefit, we model a way of living the North Korean leadership has rejected - we want to live in a community where there is a 'fitting place' for everyone - the seeing and the not-seeing, the mobile and the not-so-mobile, and even a smattering of Steelers fans. Be warned, however: no gold and black at the Pep Rally Benefit - orange and brown are the colors for the day - let's go Browns!