The Creators Among Us

When Joan Kroc left most of her formidable estate to The Salvation Army, used in part to build and endow Ashland’s Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center, she required the organization to add a three-pronged approach to their traditional ministry, with access for the underserved to recreation, education, and the arts. With a symphony orchestra, a strong jazz presence, the university art gallery, the Ashland Regional Ballet, the summer concert series at the Myers Band Shell, and Ashland Chautauqua, we recognized Ashland’s deep roots in the arts, excited to soak in this rich cultural heritage and to supplement it through programming at the Kroc.

I’ve long ascribed to the truth, “garbage in, garbage out,” or as Jac Vanek explains: “You are the books you read, the films you watch, the music you listen to, the people you spend time with, the conversation you engage in. Choose wisely what you feed your mind.” I’m glad for the many ways we can be well-fed in the Ashland area in ways that don’t impact our waistline.

For many of us, it’s about appreciation. We receive music, art, drama and words with gratitude, but are not inclined to sing, compose, paint, act, or write ourselves. Joan Chittister illustrates this sense of appreciation from her early convent days: “Sister Marie Claire, steadfastly opposed to the suppression of joy in the name of holiness, went to her music room every Sunday afternoon to listen to records of symphonies, scores of operas, collections of piano performances . . . She would sit in her rocking chair all afternoon and simply listen. I remember being very moved by the model of such bold and wanton delight in the face of such institutionalized negation of it.” Love that image!

Yet creators live among us. Some have the luxury of an art studio, steady work in theater, or a quiet study with no interruptions. But for most creators, the work of creation is jumbled up with caring for kids, grandkids, or aging parents. Many creators have full-time jobs that relegate the art-making to a “catch as catch can” proposition. Some become discouraged, frazzled, or overwhelmed with the world around us, yet somehow continue to create. Meet some of our Ashland creatives.

Ashlander Barbara Nell Morejon is a fiber artist whose work is exquisite. Collaborating with Marlene Gruetter, they entered Wearable Arts Mandurah with a piece entitled “Captivated.” It’s now on display at the US Consulate in Perth, Australia! Working with felt, her creations of hats, jackets, animals and more are worlds away from my childhood felt art featuring googly eyes and Elmer’s glue  

For those whose dramatic talents exceed their artistic abilities, John Moser is the point person for the recently-formed Uniontown Players. The group provides the opportunity to participate in quality theatrical productions. Next on tap – “A Wedding to Die For.” It’s too late to audition for this comedy murder mystery, but there’ll be more chances in the future to get involved, and familiar faces in the cast.

On the literary side of things, Ashland’s contributions to the world of reading have been enhanced this month by Sarah Wells and Jody Thomae. Sarah has written “The Family Bible Devotional,” whose subtitle explains its purpose as stories from the Bible to help kids and parents engage and love scripture. Tested out on her three kids and husband Brandon (the voice of AU basketball), the chapters include conversation starters, prayer prompts, and practical activities.

Jody uses the image of Kintsugi, a Japanese art form which repairs broken pottery with a lacquer mixed with powdered gold, in “The Creator’s Healing Power: Restoring the Broken to Beautiful.” Like Sarah, she supplements her chapters with interactive activities including music, poems, and coloring pages, integrating visual art and music into her work. Powerful work.

Maxine Hong Kingston understands that creation isn’t limited to formal art forms, suggesting that even in difficult times, we can still create something: “a poem, a parade, a community, a school, a vow, a moral principle; one peaceful moment.” Barbara, John, Sarah and Jody are only a sampling of many who take her words to heart. Are you next?

The Corn is Ready!

On the hunt for good news this week, I came across the best news ever in a Facebook post from Honey Haven Farm: “Farmer John is excited to announce that his sweet corn is ready!” Only days ago, the corn was “knee high by the Fourth of July,” and now it’s ready to douse with butter and enjoy. Woohoo!

One of the benefits of living in Ohio is the availability of fresh summer produce, and one of the best places to access that produce is through farmer’s markets at the weekly Saturday morning gathering at Christ United Methodist Church and downtown on Wednesday afternoon in the municipal parking lot. Fresh local produce is also available at Honey Haven, Mitchell’s Orchard and Farm Market, and Local Roots, as well as at roadside stands and some of our local grocery stores. 

I’ve been spoiled for sure, growing up near the best farmer’s market in North Tonawanda, New York, and accessing the many options in Ashland. Now that we’re living in North Canton, I’ve been on the lookout for farmers’ markets, and visited my first one last Wednesday. With signs all around the community, a parking lot filled with cars, and at least thirty multi-colored tents and canopies, I was excited to sample the produce available for purchase. But many of the vendors didn’t have fresh fruit or vegetables. Lots of homemade breads, dog biscuits, and spices, but only four or five produce stands. 

As I was whining about the low number of real farmers there, I read about a more serious struggle facing many farmer’s markets across the country. I’m not sure how many of Ohio’s markets are impacted, so check with your local vendors to see. What’s happening is that a company providing the technology to process EBT cards at some farmer’s markets is closing, thus threatening the ability of farmers to accept that form of payment through the SNAP program (formerly food stamps). Apparently the most recent USDA contract was awarded to a company who chose not to use the Novo Dia software, effectively putting them out of business. 

What’s going on? As is often the case with government contracts, it’s complicated. As I understand, the coalition that previously had the contract wasn’t allowed to bid because they were a non-profit, and so another vendor was selected for the 1.3 million-dollar job, a brand-new company with only one employee at the time of the contract award. They won’t be ready to provide the needed services for at least a few months, and so the farmers will have no way to accept EBT cards. 

Who was FTM and its CEO Angela Sparrow, this one-person small business? My minimal detective skills couldn’t figure that out, even with Google’s help. I remember the struggle I had when attempting to complete an application to provide summer lunches through the USDA program at the Kroc Center. I felt I needed to promise the government my first-born child in return for reimbursement for a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. How does a new, one-person company get this award? Reminds me of the two-employee Whitefish Energy Holding group selected to restore the Puerto Rico power grid. 

New York governor Andrew Cuomo isn’t happy, and pointedly told the secretary of agriculture, “USDA’s failure to maintain an EBT system for SNAP benefits is the worst of government ineptitude and is a rejection of your agency’s core principles.” Should Cuomo be encouraged because Ms. Sparrow promises “to work with my partners with a maniacal focus on executing in a manner that will quickly resolve this . . . problem”? 

On vacation, the lovely Madelyn Simone had a ten-dollar bill she wanted to use to purchase a snack from the hotel’s vending machine. Without the technology to accept her payment, she was out of luck. SNAP benefits provide badly-needed food to those with minimal resources, and being able to use the EBT card at the markets has been a tremendous help to its users. Here’s hoping solutions can be found so the most vulnerable among us aren’t “out of luck,” but instead, can enjoy the bounty our land produces. Including juicy tomatoes and Farmer John’s corn.

Slime Volcanos

aI was four when my aunts took me to my first Vacation Bible School at the white clapboard church in Tonawanda, NY. With a toddler at home, my attendance provided respite for my mother and an exciting expedition for me. My memory of those days is vague, but does include singing, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and eating pink-frosted animal crackers. Amazingly, nearly sixty years later, VBS is still alive and well, and making its presence known in neighborhoods across Ohio this summer.

Writing for Time Magazine in 1999, columnist Amy Dickinson remembered her own experience at VBS: “Kids would gather in the musty sanctuary for songs featuring hand gestures that seemed, for our brand of Methodism, dangerously close to dancing. We played Bible tag, memorized the books of the Old Testament and drank gallons of KoolAid out of waxy paper cups. Our teachers entertained us so well that we scarcely noticed that with every Popsicle stick ark they helped us build, they were molding our little souls.” 

As a teen of about sixteen, I volunteered for VBS with The Salvation Army in my home town. With limited classroom space in that old building, I ended up with a table in the parking lot behind the building, assigned as the teacher of a class full of eight to ten-year-old boys. It’s a miracle I wasn’t frightened away from VBS forever, especially when two brothers ran away. 

I wasn’t alone in the struggle. Harry Emerson Fosdick, also a native of Buffalo, would one day lead Riverside Church in NYC, but began his ministry less auspiciously, teaching at a summer Bible school for children in 1901. He reflected, “I was thankful that no one could visualize what went on that first summer. The experience probably taught me more than it did the children; I am sure that it did not do them the harm it did me.”

Can a program more than one hundred years old still be viable? VBS creators have kept their eyes on the baby (the spiritual formation of children) even as they’ve changed the bathwater, trading in flannelgraph boards and filmstrip projectors for interactive videos. New songs encourage the children to jump around (as though they need any encouragement!). Themes for each year, chosen long before events in Thailand and Hawaii cast a pall on Cave Quest and Lava Lava Island, encourage congregations to decorate for Surf Shack, Pets Unleashed, Cowabunga Farm, Shipwrecked, and Polar Blast. 

When my father died more than a decade ago, his church had transformed their sanctuary into a massive circus tent for “Under the Big Top” VBS. Our family had to find an alternate venue for his memorial service, painful at the time, but I believe my dad would have been glad that children were being welcomed into the church he loved.

Fast forward to VBS 2018. I’m pleased to report that I survived my most recent VBS experience with no run-aways. My week of fun with seven precious three, four and five-year-old children, including the youngest in our group, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, was a grand adventure. Since only two of the children had been in a structured educational program before, by day two I gave up on circle time and any prolonged story-telling, and ditched the idea of making slime volcanos. Whose idea was that, anyway? However, they did love their play dough and snacks! 

VBS 2018 proved to me that while my next career move won’t involve a pre-school classroom, I can help small children learn to sit “criss-cross applesauce,” even our little Lizzie. I can welcome a little one into my arms as he sobs for his mother, and can affirm children as they are kind to each another. Seemingly so simple –  providing direction, comfort, and affirmation – yet gifts we are all privileged to give to the little ones in our families and neighborhoods. 

Since I can’t imagine a summer without Vacation Bible School, I’m already looking forward to Roar! VBS in 2019, because even though life can be wild, he’s still got the whole world in his hands. Now to stock up on safari gear, play dough, and pink-frosted animal crackers. 

Every Child Matters?

In my early Salvation Army ministry, each year brought a new slogan focusing on evangelism and service. While most are long forgotten, one has resonated with me since its introduction forty-plus years ago: Every Child Matters. Specially designed pins were distributed (still available on E-Bay) and its own catchy theme song established the simple theological underpinnings for its work: “if they [children] mattered to Him [Jesus] they must matter to me.” 

Most religions and cultures accept the premise that every child matters, as evidenced in the news of the last few weeks, especially as we’ve heard reports on the soccer coach and twelve young team members trapped within a cave system in Thailand. At first, authorities were unable to locate them, but finally successfully made contact on day nine. Now, attention is focused on how to get them out. Engineers ask, can enough water be pumped out before the deluge comes again? Thailand’s Navy Seals wonder, can the boys be taught to use diving equipment to escape, a dangerous proposal since most can’t swim? Tesla’s Elon Musk even offered his assistance, as the world echoes: every child matters. 

Their dilemma reminds me of baby Jessica, who captured the nation’s attention more than thirty years ago when trapped in a well. First responders determined she was still alive by hearing her sing “Winnie the Pooh.” Broadcast nationally on CNN, the toddler was rescued after an agonizing fifty-eight hours, and the nation breathed a sigh of relief. Every child matters. 

On Canada’s Arctic Archipelago, Aaron Gibbons was mauled to death on July 3 as he put himself between his children and a polar bear. The children were unharmed (although traumatized). 

In other images, our national commitment to “every child matters” has been sorely tested as we’ve watched children torn apart from their parents at the southwest border of our country. Their reunification has been slow and problematic. Yeni Gonzalez was held in an immigration detention center in Arizona while her three children, ages eleven, nine and six, were shipped to New York City. Caring Americans, strangers to Yeni, arranged to post her bond and drive her across the country, and she was finally able to see her children after forty-five days. Her daughter gave her a blue and white lollipop. The children, however, were not released to their mother. Every child matters? 

Even those children who have been able to stay with a parent face steep challenges. Former Ashland resident Rev. Adam Baker visited the border, where he helped Kristen eat her hot soup while her mother, Vivianne, sat across the table in a Catholic Charities respite center. They fled violence and gangs in Guatemala, hoping to travel to a family member’s home in Phoenix. They traveled for fifteen days, seeking asylum in the U.S. Now to wait and to pray.

Washington Post reporter Eli Saslow traveled to Norwalk, Ohio, the community Ashlanders drive through on Rt. 58, heading to Lake Erie or Cedar Point. He met twelve-year-old Alex Galvez, whose mother Nora was lured to the break room with a promise of donuts, only to be taken into custody in an ICE raid at a Sandusky garden center. Now Alex lives with his eighteen-year-old sister, afraid to leave his home in the Norwalk trailer park.  

First responders don’t base their rescue response on whether the Thai boys are rich or poor, or whether they were reckless. They didn’t ask who was watching baby Jessica or how she happened to fall into the well. They responded because a child was in danger.

Dads don’t question their own chances of survival when faced with the attack of a polar bear. And desperate parents who fear for their children’s safety will do what they believe can protect their kids. I would do the same.

I understand the desperation experienced by Vivianne, Yeni, and Nora, and the fear in the faces of their children. And I wonder why the greatest country on earth cannot care as much about Alex, Kristen, and a little girl holding a blue and white lollipop in Harlem as we do about twelve boys in a cave in Thailand. 

Fourth of July Musings

It’s time for the Fourth of July, America’s Independence Day. I cherish the memories of holidays decked out in red, white and blue, with fireworks bursting in the sky above the Niagara River, Ashland’s Community Stadium, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, Cleveland’s Public Square, or even a weed-infested parking lot in Georgia. Our holiday is generally accompanied by family traditions of homemade ice cream, homemade root beer, and Sahlen’s Smokehouse natural casing hot dogs on the grill. To the uninitiated, Sahlen’s are the only hot dogs for July 4. A note to my Western New York friends – you can imagine my unbridled joy when I found Sahlen’s foot long hot dogs in the Canton Acme!! 

In my childhood, the award-winning American Legion Post 264 band played along the river bank prior to the fireworks. In our first Salvation Army assignment in New Jersey, the Dover Gutter Band lived up (or down) to its name, and the fireworks terrorized our six-month-old. In Cleveland, we ventured downtown to Public Square, taking the Rapid into the city for the Cleveland Symphony, with fireworks reverberating off the skyscrapers. New home – no problem. Let’s go to the fireworks!

Upon our arrival in Ashland in June 2006, I was thrilled to discover a symphony orchestra and its pre-4^thconcert, a new holiday tradition for our family. While most symphony orchestras pride themselves on a varied repertoire to delight the musical palates of their concert-goers, that strategy flies out the window for the 4^thof July celebration. From band shells, gazebos, lawns, and public squares, in Ashland or Cleveland, Tonawanda or Philadelphia, the familiar strains of patriotic favorites ring across the nation.

As we gather, we applaud as local veterans stand to the song denoting their branch of service. I still picture my dad standing proudly when “This is the army, Mr. Jones” began to play. I’ve jumped every time the first cannon blast shatters the night sky, and popped my paper bag with enthusiasm as the orchestra plays the 1812 Overture. I’ve also struggled to light my sparkler as “God Bless America” fills the air, burning my fingertips a time or two in the process. In Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever,” I’ve listened with great appreciation as the trombones pump their way down the scale, holding my breath as the piccolos trill above the music. While I haven’t gotten a sneak peak of the program for Sunday night, it’s also likely to include the broad stripes and bright stars of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and the Ashland Area Chorus with the orchestra in “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” It’s just not the 4^thof July without these crowd favorites. 

As America’s celebration of its 2018 Independence Day approaches, I wonder: what common thread runs through a nation? Obviously not Sahlen’s hot dogs, seldom available outside the Western New York area. Might it be language, history, symbols, monuments, shared values? The second decade of the twenty-first century has highlighted the struggle to find common ground where we used to think we stood together. But perhaps our music . . .

Don Raye’s words come to mind, learned with Mrs. Ditmer in first grade. “What difference if I hail from the North or South or from the East or West? My heart is filled with love for all of these . . .This is my country, land of my birth . . . this is my country, land of my choice . . . for this is my country, to have and to hold.” 

More familiar are the words of Irving Berlin, written in 1918 but not introduced publicly until 1938. His prayer was sung poignantly by Kate Smith amidst the gathering storm clouds. “Stand beside her [America] and guide her through the night with the light from above.”

Ray Charles sang another prayer, first performed in the shadow of Dr. King’s assassination, and later at the Yankee Stadium 2001 World Series following the World Trade Towers attack, as Katherine Bates’ words seeped into our soul: “America, America, God mend thine every flaw. America, America, God shed his grace on thee.” 

Hot dogs and sparklers, music and prayer seem like good choices for July 4, 2018. Happy Fourth!

An Echo of Terror

April 12 and February 8, momentous days in our family lore, are remembered  as the “gotcha” days for my well-loved nephews, Lucas and Noah. They joined our extended family prior to their first birthdays, having been in foster care placement before embarking on their long journey to the U.S. I was privileged to travel to JFK International Airport on both dates to bear witness to these long-awaited arrivals. Cherished memories of those days include assisting my sister as she gingerly changed her first diaper in the confines of an airport bathroom, and of tiny bare feet captured in a photo of Noah, his parents, and the young Korean student who transported an extra package on her way to university.

The boys were born on land south of the 38^thParallel on the Korean Peninsula, thousands of miles from their new home in North Tonawanda, NY. For reasons best understood by many birth mothers around the world, provisions were made for the children to be adopted through an international agency, and so they came, tiny immigrants, joyously welcomed and embraced.

Recent events in Korea, quickly displaced from the world stage by immigrants at a different border, include the glorious 2018 Winter Olympics, with its Korean team symbolically marching in unity, and the bluster exchanged between North Korean leader Kim Jong Un (labeled Little Rocket Man) and Donald Trump (a dotard, by Kim’s description). Remember the January tweet war? “I too have a Nuclear Button, but it is a much bigger and more powerful one than his, and my Button works!” 

By April 27, Trump was tweeting, “KOREAN WAR TO END.” And by June, the two men were meeting in a summit, after which Trump assured the world, “Everybody can now feel much safer . . . because there is no longer a Nuclear Threat from North Korea.”

Given my personal connection to Korea through my nephews, I’ve been deficient in understanding its history, including the open-ended war that I thought was over, and the North’s nuclear threat. My quick and dirty, internet-aided history lesson yielded these basic facts. For about five hundred years, Korea was a united country, led primarily by rulers of Korean heritage. In 1910, it was annexed by Japan and remained under its rule until the end of World War II. Considered one of the spoils of war, the country was carved in two. The land in the north was occupied by the Soviets, while the land south of the 38^thparallel was occupied by U.S. forces. 

When agreement could not be reached on the reunification of Korea, the Soviet-influenced government of North Korea invaded the south in 1950; thus, the Korean War. This conflict ended in 1953 with an armistice. Its cost: an estimated five million military and civilian deaths. 36,923 American bodies returned home in flag-draped coffins or were haphazardly buried in Korean soil. Now, more than sixty-five years later, South Korea is a thriving democracy, and the north is governed by dynastic dictator Kim Jong Un, with a familial reputation for immense cruelty.  

According to a 400 page United Nations Commission of Inquiry report from 2014, “the gravity, nature and scale of these [North Korean human rights] violations reveal a state that does not have any parallel in the contemporary world.” Its prison camps (gulag) hold an estimated 120,000 political prisoners, and indoctrination and religious persecution is all-encompassing. As one North Korean woman explained, “if the government finds out I am reading the Bible, I’m dead.” 

In 1950, eighteen members of a brass band from The Salvation Army’s Seoul Boy’s Home were marched at gunpoint towards North Korea. These orphans, some as young as ten or eleven, were never heard from again. In the light of the terror, death and destruction in North Korea from 1950 to the present, their kidnapping is but a small drop in an ocean of misery. Yet as I listen carefully to the strains of Korean history, the lingering echo of the boys’ band marching to oblivion sounds a cautionary note to my ears. Dr. King warned, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.” Talks and tweets are a start; now to transparency and accountability.

Remember Me

Thanks to Netflix, Uncle Drew, Larry and I enjoyed a matinee performance of “Coco” this past Sunday in the comfort of our family room, joined by the lovely Madelyn Simone and the almost-birthday girl, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. While I’d heard of the movie, I had no clue as to its storyline, and was charmed by this Pixar/Disney animated film. Based upon the idea that twelve-year-old Miguel could visit the Land of the Dead, one of its themes was the value of remembering.

The concept of remembering was explored throughout the story line, and cemented through the frequent use of its Oscar-winning song, “Remember Me,” written by Richard Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez, the composers of the soundtrack for “Frozen” – no wonder Elizabeth likes it so much. While the filmmakers used both an up tempo, mariachi style and a heart-rending lullaby, the words remained the same, including this line: “Remember me, each time you hear a sad guitar, know that I’m with you.”

Remember me. These words have stayed with me in the days since we watched Coco, both in the news of the day and in the musings of my own heart.

The first “remember me” is connected to the nagging fear that LeBron James may have played his last game in the wine and gold of the Cleveland Cavaliers. Since his last contract was only for one year, LeBron can choose to sign with another team this summer, and the sports reporters wasted no time asking him about his plans at the end of the Cavs’ loss to the Golden State Warriors. According to James, he wants to make the best choice for his family, perhaps even leading to the day when he and his son will play on the same NBA court.

When LeBron left Cleveland for Miami in 2010, many Clevelanders hated him for what they saw as a betrayal of their city, their team. But now? If he does decide to leave, we’ll remember LeBron for much more than The Decision.” When LeBron James finally hangs up his basketball shoes, we’ll remember him for the 2016 NBA championship, for carrying his team on his back in 2018, bloodshot eye and broken hand included, and his promise of a free college education for low income kids in Akron.

We are also remembering the familiar names of those who lost their lives to suicide this past week. Kate Spade was first, and that unwelcome news was quickly followed by the report of the death of Anthony Bourdain. We hadn’t met them, but we’ve carried Kate’s purses and invited Tony into our living room to share a long-distance meal. We mourn the unexpected losses, and curse the pain that drives a human to suicide.

Marcos Antonio Munoz was unknown to me. His suicide took place after his wife and child were torn away from him as they crossed the border, seeking asylum in the United States. Did he have a mental breakdown? Did he lose all hope? We may never know what caused this Honduran immigrant to take his own life in a Texas jail cell, but today, I answer his unspoken plea, “remember me,” by speaking his name.

A final call to remember is personal for me this Father’s Day. As we honor the fathers among us, we also remember those who are no longer with us. My father died more than ten years ago, and yet each time I hear “O When the Saints Go Marching In” or see a package of scrapple in the grocery store, I remember my dad, and, as Miguel sang, I know that he is with me.

In “Coco,” Héctor explained the rules of the Land of the Dead to Miguel, “Our memories, they have to be passed down by those who knew us in life – in the stories they tell about us. . .” The story of LeBron is told over and over. The stories of Kate and Tony are being repeated in the wake of their deaths. But the stories of the imaginary Héctor, the distraught Marcos, and our own fathers, both living and dead, are ours to tell, to pass down, to remember. Happy Father’s Day!