So Speak Out!

As a weekly columnist, I generally choose my topics based upon what’s going on in the life of our community or my own family circle. Recent weeks have brought significant changes to the fabric of our city (a new university president, the retirement of the long-time newspaper editor), as well as the death of my mother and the early birth of our second granddaughter, and so my last few columns have had a serious bent to them. [As an update for those who asked, Little Liza Holiday (this week’s choice of name) is still in the neonatal intensive care unit, but has made it to the five pound benchmark!]

In contrast, I was hoping to focus this week’s column on a lighter topic, such as the ubiquitous rain bonnet of my mother’s generation, or honest tea, naked juice, and dirty chips. Hopefully no one grabs those ideas before I get a chance to take a spin with them.

But instead, I must write about a somber topic, as once again our nation has been stunned by a profound tragedy in Charleston, South Carolina, and the greater Ashland community rocked by a heartrending loss of teens to the spillway at Pleasant Hill Lake. Many are weeping, and we don’t have the power to turn back the clock, to change the outcome. We feebly extend our hands to comfort the bereaved among us, but as the ancient words of Matthew 2:18 remind us, “In Ramah was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.” They are “no more,” at least in this world.

Will it ever stop? I want to write about flavored Triscuits, not about grief and loss. Yet the horrific truth is that even as I write these words, there is a child surfing the internet for companions in hate, there is a young adult drawn to the infamy of Adam Lanza, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, and now Dylann Storm Roof.

We stand helpless in the face of such profound horror, such devastating loss, often distancing ourselves from the news reports with the hope that the nightmare will prove to be only a dream, not reality. Yet the loss is real, the reports of desecration and destruction verifiable. Mention Columbine, Nichol Mines, and Sandy Hook, and we remember the violation of the high school cafeteria, the Amish schoolhouse, and the kindergarten classroom. In Littleton, Colorado, the movie theater was bathed in blood. In Blacksburg, the Virginia Tech campus was shaken. And now, in Charleston, it is Emmanuel African Methodist Episcopal, murder in an ordinary church basement. While all these murders were heinous, there is something different about sacred space, about bricks and mortar designated as “sanctuary.” In Charleston, holy space was invaded, and we weep in response.

A gruesome story near the end of the Old Testament book of Judges describes the brutal rape and murder of a young woman from Bethlehem. The biblical narrator concludes the passage with these words: “Everyone who saw it was saying to one another, “Such a thing has never been seen or done . . . Just imagine! We must do something. So speak out” (Judges 19:30).

How do we speak out? The Israelites responded with vengeance, war, and retribution. Yet the people of Mother Emmanuel (God with us) are showing us another way. The world is watching as reconciliation and redemption are trumping murder and hate. Yes, we must speak out about justice, about guns, about race, and about wounds still festering one hundred and fifty years after the Civil War, but as interim pastor Norvel Goff, Sr. understands, the power of love is stronger than hate. “This territory belongs to God,” Goff witnessed. “Bible study will continue, but because of what happened, we will never be the same.”

In our own ways, we are forever changed by tragedy, but we choose between retribution and restoration, revenge and redemption. As Charleston’s Mother Emmanuel speaks, she is guiding us through her valley of tears to a new way of remembering, a new way of justice, and a new way of reconciliation. Let anyone with ears, listen!

Welcome to the Family!

Paging through the photo albums that my mom carefully assembled over the course of her ninety-two years, the Principle of the Firstborn Child rang true in our family – the number one child gets the most pictures. Apparently that rule holds true if your grandmother is a newspaper columnist as well, for even before her birth, I devoted a number of columns to the impending arrival of the lovely Madelyn Simone.

Not so her sister, Elizabeth Holiday Shade, whose initial claim to fame is being Madelyn’s little sister. If memory serves me well, I may have mentioned her anticipated birth a few weeks ago, but hadn’t quite gotten around to spinning a tale about being the grandmother of two beautiful little girls.

This lapse in grandmother protocol was not intentional, nor was it really my fault, because I planned to write about her in a week or two. After all, I had plenty of time, or so I thought. But Little Liza had another idea, entering the world at dawn on Monday morning, five weeks early. Having heard her dad’s vain attempts to urge the Cavs on to victory on Sunday evening, perhaps she wanted to add her own voice to their valiant effort to force a game seven, but alas, it just wasn’t enough. But just wait ‘til next year!

I didn’t hear the ‘ding’ of the text message as her father announced they were on their way to the hospital in the middle of the night. We were nine hundred miles away, visiting my husband’s sister in Kansas, with the lovely Madelyn Simone in tow (or was she towing us?) Madelyn’s a much better traveler than I am, but that two-day car ride home to meet her new sister was tinged with both anticipation and anxiety.

Greg sent us two video clips as Elizabeth gulped in her first breath and proceeded to wail her irritation at being brutally thrust into the chill and bright lights of the delivery room. Madelyn watched those videos across Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana and Ohio, cooing and sometimes laughing out loud, and finally tucked my phone under her shirt, either to muffle the crying or to cradle her new sister close to her heart.

Once we finally made it to Canton, we were able to visit at the NICU, and Madelyn got to see her sister for the first time. Nestled in a high-tech incubator, our wee granddaughter had ditched the oxygen mask by our arrival, but still had an IV in her scalp, a feeding tube in her nose, and monitors galore attached to her tiny body. We’re grateful for the technology that is supporting her in these days, but we long for the day when she is untethered from its chains.

As her mother uses a breast pump to express milk for her newborn, Madelyn is fascinated with the mechanics of feeding a preemie. She’s unconvinced that she actually nursed at her mother’s breast, and insists that her mother is ‘milking the baby.’ Makes sense to a five-year-old.

Beyond the medical concerns and the separation anxiety felt by the whole family, Elizabeth has already caused me some literary angst. Obviously, I will still be called Nana, but what will I call this new little gift to our family? Miss Elizabeth, like the famous wrestling manager? Queen Elizabeth, Princess Elizabeth – already taken. Little Liza, as Madelyn suggests? Libby, Liz, Beth, Betsy, Eliza, Lizzy, or even Ibby ( a beloved name in her mother’s family tree)? Time will tell.

Welcome to our family, Elizabeth Holiday Shade. Even before I am allowed to hold you in my arms, I am holding you close to my heart. Breathe deeply, nurse greedily, grow strong, and before you know it, you’ll help us write the next chapter in The Adventures of Nana and the Lovely Madelyn Simone. Together we’ll introduce you to playgrounds, RJ’s spraypark, and Harry London’s Chocolate Factory. We’ll gaze at the stars, jump in puddles, and search the sky for rainbows. Madelyn and I promise we will love you forever, love you to the moon and back, and love with all our hearts. We’re glad you have come to share your life with us!

So Long, Farewell Ted.

Bob Dylan, the self-proclaimed prophet of the 1960s, said it this way: “For the times, they are a changing.’” From the moment his words were first preserved on a vinyl record album, they’ve proven true. Now, as Ashland Times-Gazette editor Ted Daniels retires, Ashland can sing, “The Times, they are a-changin’” once again.

More than eight years ago, I raised a question with a T-G marketing staff member, “Does the T-G ever run guest columns?” I’d submitted some columns to the Canton Repository in 2001, chronicling our week of service in New York City after the Twin Towers were attacked, and I wondered if I might contribute to the pages of our local newspaper in some way. Jason walked me across the newsroom to the office of the editor, where I repeated my question. Ted Daniels replied: “What do you have in mind?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but somehow I sputtered out how much I liked our new community, having immigrated to Ashland about six months earlier.  Maybe I could write about that, and about the Salvation Army Kroc Center development. Maybe a submission once a month or so, as the spirit moved me or the muse showed up. Could that work?

“Get me a couple of samples and I’ll see what we can do,” answered Ted. Those early columns described life in a small Ohio city, quite a contrast to our previous inner city assignments in Philadelphia and Cleveland. Even Canton had a more metropolitan flavor than did Ashland, with its Amish buggies, John Deere tractor traffic jams, and numbered roads (I still get confused with the numbered roads).

As I kept writing, I expanded my range of subjects to address social issues (child abuse, hunger, homelessness, and addictions), current events, holidays, and the changes taking place in the life of the Shade family. I had fun detailing my search for the perfect dress for my son’s wedding (navy blue, of course) and often told of the on-going joys of grandparenting the lovely Madelyn Simone.

Not once over the past eight years did Ted turn down a column or suggest a different path. Nor did he warn me of the treacherous road I was taking when I wrote a tongue-in-cheek piece on gun control. In fact, he got a kick out of watching me squirm with that one, recounting a similar experience of his own. He forgot to tell me that “to disagree publicly was considered a sign of incivility,” as he noted in last week’s T-G interview.

I’m currently compiling a third book of columns to join “Only in Ashland’ and “Family Connections,” already in print. My working subtitle for that collection is, “Reflections of an Opinionated Lady.” That’s what Ted Daniels has allowed and encouraged me to be, as I’ve (at least on my good days) expressed my opinions with passion and hopefully with grace. Thanks, Ted, for the chance you took on this fledgling columnist. I’m especially glad for the discipline of my current Saturday morning column rather than the “when the mood strikes me” submissions of those early years.

Ted, I’ve watched from a distance as you’ve mentored young journalists, and I’m grateful for the ways you and Kathy have invested in their lives. I’ve also felt your pain as you’ve attempted to navigate the mine-laden fields of contemporary journalism, being pulled along by the treacherous current of change but longing for the old days when the newsroom was ruled by the resident curmudgeon editor.

Gregory Favre reminisced about two of his editors, and his words speak to your work as well: “They shared an affection for the community in which they lived . . . one that allowed you to point out the good and the bad; they continued a culture built on the belief that newspapers share a sacred trust with their readers and the idea that good journalism is good business.” Thank you, Ted, for upholding that sacred trust and preserving our institutional memory as a community through these ‘changin’ times.’ A traditional Irish blessing echoes my wishes for your retirement: “May you have warm words on a cold evening and a full moon on a dark night.”

Welcome to Ashland

As an alumnus of Ashland Theological Seminary as well as the parent of an AU graduate, I was excited to see that the university’s search committee and Board of Trustees selected a new president for our community’s institution of higher learning. Welcome, Dr. Carlos Campos – and your wife Karen! We’re glad you’re on your way to Ashland.

As a child, I was fascinated with the idea that the Welcome Wagon Lady would knock on our door with an overflowing basket of goodies if we moved into a new house. My parents never did move, so disappointingly, the Welcome Wagon Lady never rang our doorbell. Of course, neither did the Prize Patrol from Publishers Clearing House.

As adults, Larry and I have moved twelve times, but, unlike Presidents Kennedy, Nixon, and G.W. Bush, we’ve never received a visit from the Welcome Wagon Lady. The amazing Margaret Ann Hess delivered a plate of brownies to welcome our teen-age son when we first moved to Ashland, but that’s as close as we’ve gotten to the Welcome Wagon.

According to its website, Welcome Wagon made its last home visits in 1998, curtailing that component of its greetings. It now extends its community welcome through a booklet of coupons delivered through the mail or even on the internet. So, Carlos and Karen, while I’m hoping you’ll get some brownies from your new neighbors, I’d like to play the role of a 1950s Welcome Wagon hostess and greet you on behalf of your new Ashland neighbors. Here are some tips that may help in your transition.

It’s likely you’ll be eating at the University, with its amazing dining plan and the Accent Room. But when you sneak off campus, check out the home-cooked meals and pies at the Lyn-Way, the barbeque at Belly Busters, and the Coneys and root beer at the A & W for an alternative to the national brands of fast foods. Like to cook? There are farmers’ markets on Wednesday and Saturday, and you can get fresh produce and all things “Ashland” at Local Roots on Cleveland Avenue.

For entertainment, we don’t have the glitz of the big city, but you can enjoy free concerts on Thursday and Sunday evenings at the Myers Memorial Bandshell in Brookside Park. That’s also the location for Ashland Chautauqua 2015, as actors will portray historical figures to celebrate two hundred years of progress. Given your drama background, you might want to audition for one of those gigs next year.

If you stop by the festivities at United Way’s Fun, Fabulous Fridays at the Corner Park in downtown Ashland this summer, you’ll get a chance to meet and greet lots of your new neighbors. I’m not sure if you’ve discovered the joy of grandchildren yet, but when you do, the spraypark at the Salvation Army Kroc Center on E. Liberty Street is the place to be on a hot, humid summer day. Let me know if you’re stopping by, and I’ll introduce you to the lovely Madelyn Simone, our precious granddaughter.

You’re arriving just in time to celebrate our city’s bicentennial with us. It might be too late to enter the beard-growing contest, but you can discover the heritage of the Ashland community in Ashland200 events throughout the summer. Make sure you get to the Fourth of July parade with the Budweiser Clydesdales – that’s shaping up to be quite the event. There’s nothing like an Ashland parade! We’ll conclude Independence Day with the music of the Kroc Center Big Band at Community Stadium, followed by a fireworks display to illuminate the summer sky. You’re welcome to join our family there, as we’ll be in the front row with the traditional bag of Twizzlers.

As you embrace this wonderful university where the extraordinary happens on ordinary days, I know you’ll be busy on campus in the early days of your presidency, but I hope you’ll take some time to get to know the community of Ashland. We didn’t make the recent list of the seventeen coolest cities in America, but “cool” is overrated. So welcome, Carlos and Karen, to Ashland, Ohio, a solid Midwest city populated with caring people and good neighbors. Looking forward to greeting you soon. 

It's Time to Come Home

It was an ordinary day, as are most of the days of our lives. And then my phone chimed with a dreaded yet somehow expected message from my sister. It was time to go home. At the age of ninety-two, my mother had suffered bleeding on her brain and the prognosis was not good. Even though the damage was extensive, she did not give up her precarious hold on life easily, but four days later, she slipped gently from one life to the next.

I’ve typed a couple of thousand words for this column, but I’ve erased the majority of them. What is there to say when your mother dies? Although words have defined my life for many years, I am at a loss for words of my own at the moment. So let me borrow from the memories, the kindness, and the connections of the last ten days. Yes, it is a personal loss, the death of my mother. It’s my heartache, it’s our family’s grief. Yet we all walk this lonesome valley sooner or later, and we also walk alongside those who suffer similar losses. And so I return to the keyboard, to the words, and write of these days, this time of transition and loss.

During my mother’s hospital stay, she was ministered to by the tender hands of the nursing staff, and we were as well. On my good days, I’m a take-charge person, and on bad days, I can be downright bossy. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t fix this situation. I could do nothing but wait. The nurses understood, and moved quietly in and out of the room, doing what they could to provide support to us. An especially kind gesture was the provision of a warmed blanket in the air-conditioned room. As I wrapped its folds around my shoulders, my body remembered a similar moment following the birth of our first son on a frigid February afternoon. Life and death, wrapped together in a warm blanket.

How comforted I was by the outpouring of care through the medium of Facebook. Hundreds of friends from around the world extended their comfort, often simply through the word, “Praying.” It seemed rather odd, posting on Facebook about my mother’s medical condition and subsequent death, but I experienced an amazing expression of grace through the days of waiting that was of great consolation to me.

I also found much support and solace in the ancient words of liturgy, hymnody, and scripture. Some of the words appeared on social media, while other words and melodies were whispered or sung to our mother. While we don’t have a Catholic heritage, our words became last rites, an anointing of spirit and release. Marty Haugen’s words spoke deeply: “Shepherd me O God . . . from death unto life.”

There was also a sweetness in story shared, in the telling once again of the escapades of youth and the heritage of generations. Realizing we could no longer check the veracity of our accounts with our mother or her siblings, we have a new responsibility to protect the stories of the past and to create new narratives for the days ahead.

Yet in the midst of a plethora of words, at times there were no words. Sometimes, the silent presence of another in the hospital room brought consolation. In the watches of the night, the silence was broken only by our breaths as they agreed in measured rhythm. And, as I stood at the close of my mother’s memorial service, with the strains of Amazing Grace filling the sanctuary, it was the presence of the lovely Madelyn Simone at my side, reminding me once again of the passing of life from generation to generation.

As a small town columnist, I often write to cheerlead for our community, to share information, and, at times, to be an opinionated lady just because I can. But for today, I’m writing to remember my mother, and to honor those who came alongside with their words and with their presence. There is a blessedness in the ache, and I am grateful.

Gentler, Kinder

From 1990 to 1995, Larry and I were responsible for the operations of the Salvation Army center located at 6000 Hough Avenue in Cleveland. It was a bustling place, with a large day care center, gym, roller rink and pool, and often showcased the Army’s services to potential supporters or visiting dignitaries. One afternoon, we got a call from our administrative headquarters that Mrs. Marilyn Quayle, the wife of the Vice President of the United States, would soon be visiting.

What a whirlwind experience. We went on a cleaning spree, wanting to put our best face forward for Mrs. Quayle. Secret Service agents and local police paid an advance visit to scope out the site, and even placed a sharp-shooter in the second floor of a house across the street from the center during her appearance. As she toured the facility, chatting with our pre-schoolers and greeting staff, we were proud to share in a special moment in the history of the Hough Center and neighborhood.

Just this past week, Majors Paul and Alma Cain, leaders at the Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center in Camden, New Jersey, received a similar call (or e-mail). Not the VP’s wife, not the VP, not the First Lady – no, they went right to the top, for POTUS himself was coming. President Barack Obama wanted to highlight the work of community policing in Camden, where the crime rate has been reduced and relationships between police officers and area residents have improved considerably. Holding Camden up as a symbol of promise for the nation, Mr. Obama suggested that “this city is on to something.”

What a great day for Camden, a city that has suffered more than its share of crime and poverty in recent years. And what a great day for the Salvation Army, with a visit from the President of the United States. A day to stand with pride for what has been accomplished in a tough place, a day for handshakes and selfies, and a huge sigh of relief when the motorcade pulled out of the parking lot.

Yet even before the president’s driver had time to adjust the rearview mirror, the naysayers were at work, suggesting that Obama doesn’t know what he’s talking about when it comes to the police or the problems of race or poverty. The New York Times reported that some law enforcement officials felt, “Mr. Obama had a chip on his shoulder when it comes to the police.” Social media posts ranged from critical comments on policy to vicious personal attacks.

The Salvation Army also garnered criticism in the social media world for providing a platform for Mr. Obama’s position on social issues. Some went as far as to point out that evil was working through the President, warning the Army to distance itself from him.

Whatever has happened to the respect for the office of President, or Governor, or Mayor? To a civility of spirit, to accepting one another’s good intentions, to acknowledging our differences yet celebrating our shared hopes for our country and our children? Even if we don’t agree with all our leader does or stands for, why the vitriolic nature of the comments?

It doesn’t have to be this way. Mahatma Gandhi taught that “We must be ever courteous and patient with those who do not see eye-to-eye with us. We must resolutely refuse to consider our opponents as enemies.” Presidential candidate Ben Carson believes, “One of those choices is to respect others and engage in intelligent conversation about differences of opinion without becoming enemies, eventually allowing us to move forward to compromise.” Former candidate Barry Goldwater understood: “To disagree, one doesn’t have to be disagreeable.” And Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton says, “You can disagree with people and debate over their positions with issues without engaging in the politics of personal destruction.”  

In 1988, George H.W. Bush expressed his desire for a gentler and kinder nation. We’d all appreciate that, but now, before the next campaign cycle gets into gear, perhaps it’s time to extend a gentler and kinder spirit towards those who are willing to serve our country and our communities in civic leadership.  

The Lonely House

When I looked out our front window last week, I saw a large handwritten sign nailed to the tree in front of the vacant house across the street. Its words scrawled this message: House for Sale. Cash. $30K (or thereabouts). Call 555-1234. I’ve seen plenty of those signs in undesirable neighborhoods in Philadelphia and Cleveland, but not usually in my neighborhood, on my street. The sign was gone within days, victim to a quick sale, a windy day, or perhaps an energetic city code enforcer, but sign or no sign, the lonely house continues to sit vacant.

The house at the other end of our alley has been empty ever since we’ve owned our house. Quite a few of their lonely siblings are scattered throughout our neighborhood and Ashland County, forlorn houses with a story to tell if only we could hear their voices. Family illness or death, a drop in the real estate market, a foreclosure that couldn’t be dodged, or investments gone sour, all contribute to the seemingly high number of vacant homes that dot Ashland streets and the streets of our nation.

A quick internet search estimated there are anywhere from six to eighteen empty housing units for every homeless family in America. Yet ask those who work daily in search of housing for low-income families, and they’ll concur that the rental market in our area is tight. Affordable, adequate housing is hard to find for those with limited resources, and while the idealist that still has a claim to my heart wonders how we as a community might be able to bridge that gap, I’m not even sure what the first step would look like.

There’s much to be said about families without homes, but I’ll save that discussion for another day. But after taking a walk around my neighborhood this week, I’m feeling sad for the homes without families. Now before you suggest a psych evaluation, I understand that houses are inanimate objects that don’t have emotions, that don’t live or love. But still, the purpose for a house is to be lived in by humans, and its walls are happiest when they enclose a human unit of relationship – a family (whatever that looks like in this day and age).

Speaking of family, the lovely Madelyn Simone came for an overnight visit this week, and we read Audrey and Don Wood’s charming book, “The Napping House, . . . where everyone is sleeping.” Somehow, “the Vacant House, where everyone is gone” doesn’t have the same ring to it.  Houses are meant to be homes, a homestead for generations of the same family, places where babies are greeted by welcoming arms and elders gently come to the end of their earthly days, where relationships are forged and sometimes break down.

My writing to-do list includes a historical novel centered around our home, and when I brave the creaky steps that lead up to our attic, it is with the hope that I’ll discover a diary or a stash of love letters hidden in the eaves of our home. Wouldn’t it be great to be able to read of the secrets of life and love from years gone by – of fortunes lost, of telegrams received, of hearts broken? While I know the title has already been claimed by the PBS show, I’d love to “Ask This Old House” to tell me its story, for houses preserve the continuity and character of a community.  

In his poem, “Homesick in Heaven,” Oliver Wendell Holmes spoke of home: “For there we loved, and where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.” Feet of all types and sizes have paced the floors and scampered through the yards of the dwellings that now stand vacant in our community, and while the feet have departed, the memories remain. I’m hoping that sooner rather than later, new feet will walk up the steps of the lonely houses in my neighborhood, prepared to once again christen the dwelling as ‘home” rather than house, birthing a new chapter: “There is a house, a happy house, where everyone is laughing.”