Let It Snow!

As someone whose occupational status is “semi-retired,” I chuckled at my own excitement as winter storm warnings whispered the promise of being snowed in. Theoretically, it didn’t make any difference to me, as I had no travel plans, and no need to determine whether I could get to work safely or not. We’ve got cars that (finally) fit in the garage, a manageable driveway, and a snow blower, so we could get out if necessary. Putting on an extra layer of clothing, I cuddled up next to our gas fireplace, a good book in hand and the NFL conference championship games to look forward to on Sunday. With chili bubbling in the crock pot and a soon-to-be-opened box of chocolate from The Candy and Nut Shoppe, what more could a girl want?

After all the advance warnings, I was disappointed to see that the ground was still green when I got up last Saturday morning – no snow yet for us. But as the day progressed, the snow began to fall, quietly at times, but with some furious moments as well. Hoping to walk a bit in mid-afternoon, I was driven back by the icy sleet pelting my face and coating my hair. So much for a few minutes communing with nature! Instead, I decided to be content with experiencing Winter Storm Harper vicariously through the various Facebook posts from friends in Northeast Ohio and beyond.

Since when does a winter storm get a name? This inquiring mind discovered that the snowstorm name doesn’t come from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, which names tropical storms, but instead, they are named by The Weather Channel. Here’s hoping they don’t need to use Ulmer, Vaughn, Wesley, Xyler, Yvette or Zachary this year.

As a native of the Buffalo, New York area, this week’s snow drifts awakened memories of childhood snow. While we didn’t have to walk six miles uphill each way to school as my father claimed as his heritage, we did walk to our neighborhood elementary school, returned home for lunch, and headed back again for the afternoon session each day. Hats, mittens, scarves, and the ugly red snow boots lined with Wonder bread wrappers were an inevitable accompaniment to our daily routine. The city had sidewalk plows, so we stomped between walls of snow, sometimes towering over our first-grade bodies. We came home to snowball fights and snow forts, and often made the trek over to the sledding hill on the banks of the Niagara River.

With years of experience, the community had the right equipment and dedicated workforce to clear the streets and walkways so safe passage was possible. Consequently, snow days that forced schools to close were few and far between, as snow was an expected part of winter in Buffalo. I don’t remember wearing my pajamas backwards and inside out, or sleeping with a spoon under my pillow in hopes of a giant snowfall as some of today’s children do. But when the designation of “snow day” finally came, we were thrilled – as kids, we didn’t need to worry about missing a day’s pay or having enough bread for the family, 

Susan Orlean describes the feeling: “A snow day literally and figuratively falls from the sky – unbidden – and seems like a thing of wonder.” Snow days brings joy to the young and the young at heart, because for a few hours or a few days, the demands of life are put on hold. There’s no rush to get everybody out the door in the morning, no rehearsals or practices to attend, and minimal guilt over wearing pajamas until it’s time to shovel. 

Rachel Cohn sums it up for me: “[Snow] brings people together while time stands still . . . No one seemed to be in a rush to experience anything other than the glory of the day, with each other, whenever and however it happened.” In my more philosophical moments this week, I’ve been challenged to be more open to the glory of the day, the presence of the holy, the companionship of those we love, and the gift of wonder, snow or no snow. 

The Perfect Child for Us

Unicorn or mermaid? It’s time to plan for the lovely Madelyn Simone’s ninth birthday party. How can that be? As I wrote at the time of her birth and have subsequently echoed on many occasions, becoming a grandmother has been life-changing. I’ve received a new name (Nana), which on most days is the sweetest sound emanating from the lips of Madelyn and her sister. I’m familiar with every playground in Ashland and Stark counties, and a few in Summit county as well. The presence of the girls in our lives was the main factor in our decision to sell our beloved home in Ashland (what Madelyn calls the mansion) to move closer to the little ones. 

As my mother told me when Madelyn was born, “you are just crazy about that baby.” Just as my mother-love expanded when our second son was born, I’ve been grateful at how my heart has magically stretched to allow for the same smittenness for her sister, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. And now, my heart and my arms have an exponential challenge, for two new grandbabies are on their way, Henry Kyle (March) and either Emma or Jack (early June). Yes, both of my daughters-in-law have a bun in the oven, and I am eager to make the acquaintance of these new littles.

I wonder what stories we’ll tell about their arrival? I just googled “birth stories” and got 881 million hits. Some are way too graphic for me – I’ll stick to our family lore of liverwurst sandwiches, spilled coffee and interrupted sermons. Looking back at my own birthing narratives from the distance of three decades, I’m content to claim the words of Jesus (John 16:21): “When a woman is in labor, she has pain, because her hour has come. But when her child is born, she no longer remembers the anguish because of the joy of having brought a human being into the world.” 

While I don’t mean to contradict the words of Jesus,the joy at the birth of a child can be tempered with other emotions, with more somber experiences. We count the fingers and toes and there may not be ten of each. Like our Lizzie, who arrived too early, NICU intervention may be needed to stabilize the newborn. Having children (and grandchildren, too) is not for the faint of heart. 

A few years ago, long-time Ashlanders Jay and Linda Pappas retired to the state of Maine, drawn by its beauty and its slogan (Maine: the way life should be), but most of all by the presence of their daughter and her family (they’re smitten too!). Eight years ago, they traveled to North Carolina for the birth of their second grandchild, whose parents located there after college. Excited to see the new baby, Linda was a bit unsettled as she observed him. Here’s how Linda remembers it: “Caden, lying there under the warming lights, looked like a sunbather on a Carolina beach. His arms and legs stretched outward, extending into such a relaxed pose that they barely moved at all. Caden seemed to be only slowly and gently awakening to this new world outside his mommy’s tummy, and he certainly wasn’t getting any too excited about the experience. That nagging feeling I had that Caden wasn’t acting quite right for a newborn intensified.”

Linda’s instincts proved spot-on, for following a battery of tests, Caden was diagnosed with Congenital Fiber Type Disproportion, a rare disorder that impacts skeletal muscles. Linda chronicles her family’s journey in the NICU and beyond in her recently released book, “The Perfect Child for Us,” available on Amazon. In her account, she doesn’t whitewash the struggles, but it’s clear that both Caden and their Maine granddaughter Cate are bringers of joy to their family. 

Welcoming a new baby into the family feels like Lizzie twisting the knob on the gumball machine – she knows a gumball is coming, yet she’s delighted every time to see what it looks like. Blue eyes, red hair, chubby cheeks, scrawny legs – the baby surprises await us. The only guarantee is this: each baby will be the perfect child for us, destined to bring their own unique gift of joy to our smitten family.

A Wall for You, A Wall for Me

The television ad is called, “One for you, one for me,” as a man surprises his wife with a special gift for the holidays. Taking her out to the driveway, she sees two brand new trucks – one black and one red. He bought the black one for himself, but his wife gravitates to that one, so he ends up settling for the red truck. The pitch has run seemingly non-stop since Black Friday, so now that the holiday season is over, I’m hoping I’ll never see it again, because that commercial was doing its best to influence my husband.

Consequently, Larry has started mentioning the possibility of new cars. How fun that would be, a Miata convertible for me and a hatchback for Larry (so he can transport his tuba to band rehearsal). Of course, there wouldn’t be room in the Miata for the grandkids, and we currently have car payments on two cars that are operating well, meeting our needs. So don’t bother calling, car salespeople – we’re not in the market. 

But what if Larry demanded an expensive new car or truck and I said, “We can’t afford it, we don’t need it, we’re not getting one”? He could whine, cajole, plead, beg, bully, threaten, and make life miserable for me. He could refuse to do the wash until I gave in, and I could shut down the kitchen in response. He could freeze our joint bank account, and even hide my car keys (given my history with lost car keys, I’d never find them). Even so, I’d be likely to dig my heels deeper into my decision and stand my ground. “No new car.”

There is a familiar ring here. The president of the United States wants something, and consequently, he has virtually shut down the laundry, the kitchen, and the bank account. An estimated 800,000 government workers are without paychecks, as are many more independent contractors. CareerBuilder says that 78% of us admit to living paycheck to paycheck. What would you do if your paycheck didn’t come this month?

As a result of the shutdown, many TSA workers are calling in sick each day (known as trying to find other work). The Coast Guard and national parks are struggling. The traditional food stamp program, now known as Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, is running out of money. Our relationship with the IRS may turn to hate if tax refunds can’t be processed and released on time. Somehow, I doubt our tax preparers will foot the bill for cash advances on delayed refunds. 

Perhaps the shut-down has already been resolved. Good news. Yet it could, as threatened, last for months. A long-term government shut-down doesn’t make sense to me, no matter our personal views on border security and immigration reform, or any other topic. There’s got to be a better way.

How did we as Americans get to the point where our brothers and sisters are being held hostage to a wall? Whatever happened to the principles of democracy, including informed discussion, debate, and decision-making culminating in a vote to determine what’s best? Is government now about who has the most leverage, using the lives of our fellow Americans as pawns in a battle of wills in D.C.? 

What if these tactics were used in local governments? The mayor wants to build a new city hall, price tag $40 million, and until he gets it, he requires snow plow drivers to work without pay, while cutting back garbage pickups to a monthly schedule? Would Ashlanders give in to that kind of demand?

Most would say, “OK, enough with the threats and harmful actions. We’re not going to deliberately hurt others in our community here in Ohio so you can get your own way. We’re paying the plow drivers and picking up the garbage. We’ll use the processes of democracy to determine our direction.”

It’s the same in marriages. When we can’t afford the “one for you, one for me” car purchase, we strive for unified decisions that benefit the family, without holding someone hostage to get what we want.

Is that too much to ask of POTUS and those elected to represent us in Washington? 

A Taste of Heaven

“Heaven, I’m in heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.” For Fred Astaire, Irving Berlin’s words described his experience while dancing “cheek to cheek” with Ginger Rogers. With two left feet, the dance floor isn’t heaven for me; instead, I hummed that tune during a recent visit to Ashland Books. I agree with Tahereh Mafi: “I love walking into a bookstore. It’s like all my friends are sitting on shelves, waving their pages at me.”

As I scanned the shelves, I recognized hundreds of friends. Nancy Drew met me just inside the door with her sidekicks Bess Marvin and George Fayne, ready to jump into Nancy’s roadster and solve the next mystery to hit River Heights. While created by the same publisher as the Hardy Boys, somehow the boys just didn’t catch my interest like Nancy and her friends did.

A full shelf of Robert Heinlein reminded me of my adolescent connection to “Stranger in a Strange Land.” Perhaps it’s worth another look to see how Valentine Michael Smith’s ideas fit into my more mature worldview. Will I still grok it? (Martian for “to drink in all available aspects of reality, or to become one with the observed”).

I saw many other gems that longed to come home with me, but having scaled down my library quite a bit in our last move, I resisted the temptation to own more books, especially those I’ve already read. However, I discovered a pristine copy of an Inspector Armand Gamache mystery by Louise Penny and wrapped it up for my sister for Christmas, excited to introduce her to one of my favorite story-tellers and the captivating villagers of Three Pines. A few other friends, both old and new, snuck their way into my shopping bag, so there are now three piles by my bedside instead of one, just begging to be read soon.

As Vincent van Gogh testified, “So often, a visit to a bookshop has cheered me, and reminded me that there are good things in the world.” So too for me. It was a delightful morning, but overshadowed by the knowledge that this downtown store would soon close its doors. The owner was wistful in his reflection, wondering if his business might have been able to turn the corner if he had been able to hold on just a little bit longer. Since the announcement of the store’s demise, there have been many expressions of appreciation from regular customers and community members for his carefully curated bookstore, but not in enough time to keep its doors open.

The closing of old (and sometimes not-so-old) businesses and the opening of new ones is a constant in the landscape of small communities in mid-America. It can result from the natural cycle of economics, as technology and tastes change or family circumstances intervene. Change also occurs when proprietors retire, as Anita and Ray Weaver recently did – Ashland is thrilled that The Candy and Nut Shoppe will live on under a new owner. 

Yet at times, the closures come because these specialty shops in the downtowns of small cities and towns across the country just can’t make it financially. Even in communities that manage to get on the tourist track, there’s still often a tiny profit margin in these small retail shops. The death knell ringing in thousands of downtowns is a familiar refrain. 

Could the bookstore have been saved? Perhaps a different ambiance, a mixture of new books and old, more community events, celebrity visits, coffee and tea in a reading nook? Who knows? But in the end, it comes down to paying customers walking through the door and spending money. No matter the quality, quantity, price or uniqueness of merchandise, whether bicycles, jewelry, toys, or books, if customers don’t cross the threshold of brick and mortar stores with their wallets open, the stores can’t survive.

Sadly, Ashland Books has now moved its inventory to “Useful Junk,” an antique shop on State Route 58 in Sullivan, leaving a book-shaped hole in the soul of downtown. Perhaps that hole will remind us that “shop local” isn’t just a sales slogan – it is the lifeblood of Ashland. 

A Lustre of Midday

With a forty-foot evergreen as its centerpiece, Ashland’s Corner Park has been transformed into a shimmering winter wonderland. Long a fan of Christmas light displays, I do enjoy the blow-up snowmen, Santas, and even Minions I’ve encountered this year, yet the display of white lights at Corner Park is breath-taking. Turning the corner from Main Street to Claremont Avenue, I sensed what Clement Moore was describing in his beloved poem: “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave a lustre of midday to objects below.”

Sharing my appreciation for these new lights with a friend, I was surprised by his vehement response (paraphrased): “Who likes white lights? Christmas should be for kids, and kids like – and need – colored lights!” (While I won’t publicly name my friend, those in the know will be able to identify him easily enough). I grew up with the old-school colored bulbs clipped to our gutters and encircling our Christmas tree, yet strands of white lights currently illuminate our tree. Giving it some thought, I suppose I prefer the white lights to the colored ones. But it’s way beyond a preference for my friend – it’s a passion.

However, my friend’s penchant for colored lights is not shared by his wife. Take a look at the glittering Christmas trees inside the Kroc Center, and you’ll see whose preference prevailed! 

Isn’t this symbolic of how relationships, especially marriage, work – or don’t work? How do you put the toilet paper on? Hellman’s mayonnaise or Miracle Whip? Hard or soft mattress? Blanket or no blanket? Late, on-time, or early?

Of course, there are more serious conflicts in marriage. Should we have kids? “No, Rhythm is not a good name for our son.” To spank or not to spank? How can we afford . . .?

Even end-of-life decisions can bring conflict in family relationships. Should the experimental cancer treatment be extended? Is it time to call hospice? What about the DNR order? Cremation or burial? Open or closed?

No matter what kind of relationship we’re in – marriage, partnership, family, even the puppy love of kids – there will be conflict. And playing “rock, paper, scissors” isn’t the best determinant for making critical decisions. 

Writing in “Caring and Commitment,” Lewis Smedes suggests what he calls “permissive caring,” “giving each other permission to be the different sort of person each of them is. They care enough to leave each other alone, enough to celebrate the gifts each brings within his or her character.” In other words, they learn how to set each other free. Smedes understands: “Committed love is a power to surrender our right to get what we desire so that the person we love can get what he or she needs. When my desire conflicts with your need, I will opt for your needs – if my love is committed love.” 

Mike Mason takes a further step: “Marriage at its best is . . . a backwards tug-of-war between two wills each equally determined not to win.” As in, “No, dear, please keep the toilet seat up. I don’t mind at all!”

Whether in marriage or family, work or neighborhood relationships, we are often called to compromise, not in the sense of a dishonorable or shameful concession, as one dictionary definition suggests, but instead, by negotiating a way forward, even if it means giving something up. By articulating each position, we can talk through the aesthetic of white lights in a public space versus the joy of children when surrounded by multi-colored lights. It may end by making space for multicolor Christmas trees in the family room. It helps to remember the assumption of the word itself – “com” (together) and promise. There is a promise inherent in the willingness to find a way forward within our committed love, acknowledging the value of the relationship over the color of the lights.

I do have a potential community compromise that could ease my friend’s angst over the white lights at Corner Park. Wouldn’t it be beautiful to thread the night sky with red lights for Valentine’s Day, green for St. Patrick’s Day, and red, white and blue for July 4^th? What do you think, Mr. Mayor? I know somebody who might help!

A Thing Most Wonderful

Listening to 24/7 Christmas music on the radio, I heard an advertisement for the all-new Paper Wonder cards by Hallmark, which promise to bring the holidays to life in a whole new way, offering the gift of holiday magic to friends and family. They appear to be a new and improved model of the pop-up books that seldom survived to the third child in our family. 

 

Merriam Webster defines the noun wonder as “the quality of exciting amazed admiration, or rapt attention of astonishment at something awesomely mysterious or new to one’s experience.” I doubt the new Hallmark cards totally fulfill that definition of wonder, but “the holiday season,” seemingly stretching on forever through the often dark and dreary days of December, does invite us to an exciting amazement within the awesome mystery of faith.

 

Think of the commemoration of Hanukkah, when the one-day supply of oil lasted for eight days, bringing light to the Hebrew people. Or of Kwanzaa, the December celebration honoring African heritage, and lifting up the principles of unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. With its Mishumaa Saba (seven candles), wonder is reflected on the faces of the children of the family, much the same as in the light of the Hanukkah candles or the Advent candles of the Christian tradition.

 

Our sweet granddaughter, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, has perfected the expression of three-year-old wonder at the delights of the Christmas season. The lights, the decorations and the carols all bring her joy, and she has approached the opening of early presents with great gusto. A visit to a personable Santa at the mall left her starry-eyed, and she chuckles with deep laughter when we drive past our neighbor’s house, as the Grinch attempts to pull down their Christmas light display. 

 

Margaret Philbrick suggests that children own wonder. “It’s engrained in the purity of their hearts and expressed through their senses.” She further notes, “They do not rush to get up and get on to the next thing. They gaze.”

I remember when I too was captivated by wonder. I stood on my bed for what seemed like hours to scour the night sky for the appearance of the “right jolly old elf,” but finally succumbed to the pull of my dreams. A few years later, I kept my Christmas Eve candle alight into the midnight darkness, protecting its flickering flame during the drive home. I longed to sustain the holy awe of worship, unwilling for the wonder of my young heart to be extinguished. 

In the years since, I’ve developed a complicated relationship with Christmas. Some changes came naturally, as they do for many adults. The 24/7 Christmas music, the cha-ching of the cash/credit register, and the “I want, I want” call of constant advertising threaten to make these December weeks a burden to bear rather than an awe to embrace. My experience was complicated by my exhausting Salvation Army work, as the demands of fund-raising and people-serving colluded to hijack any sense of wonder I had in the holiday. In my attempt to fulfill a calling to ministry that intersected where my deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger met (Frederick Buechner), it’s ironic that a sense of wonder at the mystery of the incarnation flickered dangerously, just like my childhood Christmas Eve candle. 

And yet, the words of E.B. White continue to speak: “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder,” the wonder that shines from the eyes of children and has no patience for the scrooges among us. We claim it on a midnight clear, in the little town of Bethlehem, and in the echo of the angels: “Gloria in excelsis Deo.” 

In the next days, a holy book will be opened and the ancient words read aloud once again: “And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.” Indeed, it is a thing most wonderful. A blessed Christmas of wonder to you. 

Lost

On Tuesday morning, I rose before the sun for a Nana day with the lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. My tasks were simple: get both girls ready for school, make sure Madelyn caught the bus on time, and deliver Lizzie to the welcoming arms of Tiny Tots Nursery School. I tend to run at least five minutes late in the morning, so I was excited to head out with ten minutes to spare. Maybe I could even stop for a muffin at Dunkin Donuts. Reaching into my purse for my car and house keys, my hands came up empty. 

Did I leave them on the counter, the table, in my coat pocket? No, no, and no. After a frantic search, I grabbed the spare set of car keys and ran out the door. Where could those keys be? The night before, I had pulled into our attached garage, carried a couple of bags of groceries into the house, and settled down to watch an hour or so of television. Logic tells me the wayward keys have to be within the confines of our home.

Two days post-loss, they are still missing. I’ve dug through garbage, searched and vacuumed my car, checked the refrigerator and freezer, and nada! I’ve also received well-intentioned advice, such as these sincere words from Madelyn: “When you lose something, you need to retrace your steps.” Since I can get from the garage to the end of my house in less than one hundred steps, that journey didn’t take too long.

Of course, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’m no novice when it comes to searching for missing objects. I’ve lost an entire set of facility keys, lost my cell phone at Disneyworld, and drove off from our new house last Christmastime with my phone on the roof of the car. And while I hate to mention it, Larry and our two older boys became separated from Dan and I at Cedar Point in the days before cell phones, and we spent many miserable hours trying to find each other. It happens.

We’ve all lost things, well, except for those people who live perfect lives, who have it all together. And then there’s us, the people with the refrigerator magnet that says, “I finally got it all together but I can’t remember where I put it.” Busy lives, forgetful moments, and inattention can lead to an unexpected search that turns up empty. Sometimes we get lucky and find the errant object, but not always.

About twenty years ago, volunteers were assisting in the clean-up from our Salvation Army Christmas toy distribution. We’d provided toys, clothing, coats and food for two thousand families over a two-day span, so the level of exhaustion was high that night as we sorted through mismatched mittens and packed away the remaining toys for the following year. In between counting the Christmas kettles, we worked in the gym, sealing a dozen boxes for the storage unit. 

Suddenly, one of the volunteers cried out, “My ring!” Her antique ring, in the family for generations, was missing from her finger. We unpacked every box that night, but the ring wasn’t to be found. Heartbroken, we finally gave up, reluctantly admitting defeat. 

Life can be like that. We lose hope, we lose control, we lose courage, and we may even lose faith for a time. We look in all the familiar places, we retrace our steps, we search diligently, and we even call on our companions for help, but our hands and hearts are empty. 

Yet there comes another chapter. Setting up for the next year’s toy shop, we had unloaded more than a hundred boxes when a volunteer came to me with a ring in her hand. “Look what I found in one of the boxes. Isn’t this pretty? I wonder if someone lost this?” 

There it was, Mary’s ring.

Thousands of years ago, the Hebrew psalmist understood. “Weeping,” David wrote, “may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” I write tonight with gratitude for recovered rings, compassion for discouraged hearts, and my fingers crossed that morning will shine its light on my keys!

P.S.  After searching for three days, the errant keys were discovered cushioned between the blanket and bedspread in the middle of our king sized bed.