Garage-Sailing

A friend of mine recently had an outing with her adult sisters, and reported that they visited twenty-three garage sales in one day. I’m not nearly at their level, but I do admit to being captivated by the fluorescent signs that pop up around town, usually on Thursday mornings. 

This summer, I’ve decided to leave my garage-sailing adventures to chance, so I don’t study the newspaper advertisements, plotting out a route to make the most effective use of my time as I’ve been known to do in past years. Instead, if I see a sign, I turn down that street. A slow drive-by often gives me an idea of what might be available, especially if there are kids’ items towards the front of the driveway. Nana’s got her priorities!

This past week I stopped at a house in our neighborhood with a for sale sign on the lawn and an estate sale sign calling my name. I bought nothing at that sale, walking away with empty hands, but I’ve not been able to shake the emotions raised for me that morning.

There it was, displayed for all the world to see and to bargain over. The cupboards were cleared, the dressers emptied, and even the junk drawer was turned out, as the remains of a long life lined the driveway, hoping to be spared the dumpster. Their presence belied the old adage that one person’s junk becomes another’s treasure. Not so true in this case, as clearly the items begging to find a new home had been an old woman’s treasure only months before.

Like so many of us nearing or in our golden years, the assortment of music drew a timeline from record albums to eight-track tapes (by now mostly discarded), joined by cassette tapes and a handful of CDs. No Beatles albums or Jethro Tull, but I recognized a handful of Evie records because I once owned the same albums. Evie’s “Come On, Ring Those Bells” was a bit of a Salvation Army theme song for me back in the day.

Who was the woman who lived in this home, whom I assumed to be deceased?  She obviously took good care of her home, as evidenced by the lovely interior as well as the assortment of cleaning products and tools. Books, records and wall-hangings spoke of a life of faith, Now, looking back, I wish I would have spoken to the women who were running the cash box. “Tell me about your mother . . .”

Here’s the other thing that went through my mind as I gazed upon the remains of an estate, the detritus of a life. Someday, my sons and daughters-in-law will open our garage door, set up some wobbly tables, and spread out the accumulation of my life, of our family story. Will anyone want my carefully curated library, the baby grand that gracefully fills our living room, the Christmas decorations that have so much meaning to me? What about the little rocking chair with the caned seat that my great-grandmother used to rock her children? The wicker doll cradle, the elementary school scrapbook, the Frances Hook figurines?

We’ve got two VCRs and some Disney tapes, a cassette boom-box, and even a wire recorder and a Victrola. Not enough to interest Frank and Mike from American Pickers, but here they sit.

Will anyone want any of the books I’ve written? I’m worried about discovering one of my books at the library book sale, priced at one slim quarter, but the thought of my kids having to toss out a dozen copies of Only in Ashland– that breaks my heart.  But since I’ll either be in “the home” or resting in an urn on the mantle, I suppose it won’t really matter any longer.

Two songs, quite possibly on CDs buried in a box in my basement, are singing to me. Cookie Monster laments, “My cookie did crumble, ‘cause I held it too tight.”  And Michael Card stirs my spirit: “It’s hard to imagine the freedom we find from the things we leave behind.” I’m not quite ready for an all-out Marie Kondo purge, but maybe it’s time to plan a garage sale. Or not! 

That's Insulting

When hurtful words are hurled our way, how often does the childhood chant come to mind? “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.” It’s a phrase often uttered to soothe a child’s feelings when the mean kids turn on them, but I’m not sure its premise is true.

Long before the advent of neon colored casts, I broke my arm two different times at the age of five and six. It was painful when it occurred, but fortunately, the breaks resulted in no permanent damage. In hindsight, the second fracture may have kick-started my literary career, as my report about the highlights of my summer featured the maggots in my cast when it was removed. No wonder it itched! 

But the nasty names, the hurtful words heaped upon us, the disrespectful or scornfully abusive remarks or actions of the insult – they stick around for decades. When Ashland author and poet Sarah Wells shared a social media post last week, her words dredged up one of those memories for me. She has a screensaver that randomly introduces new words, and the term ‘poetaster’ greeted her when she returned from a meeting. A new word to Sarah (and to me), a poetaster is a person who writes inferior poetry. She commented: “What an almost useless word. No one would ever use it in public settings to describe someone else without trying to be an arrogant jerk, and to say it of yourself would be met with, ‘No way!’ You’re an amazing poet.”

About fifteen years ago, I submitted some poetry to two denominational publications. In response, I received a letter from the first magazine, essentially labeling me a poetaster. Offering constructive criticism, the rejection letter suggested I take a course in poetry-writing, and then try again. Ouch! 

Insults come in many shapes and sizes: blatant or subtle, blundering or laser-like, shouted or whispered. For some, they become nearly an art form, dripping with sarcasm, a word that literally means ‘flesh-eating.’ Remember comedian Don Rickles? He earned a good living by way of the insult, and was nicknamed the “Merchant of Venom.” What an epitaph!

In 2011, George Weigel wrote a short essay on the art of the insult, concluding that “today’s political badinage is lame, lamer, lamest compared with the wits of yore.” In sharing some famous – or infamous – insults, he wrote of Winston Churchill. “Told over dinner by Lady Astor, the American-born female member of the House of Commons, that, “If you were my husband, Winston, I’d poison your soup,” Churchill immediately replied, “And if you were my wife, Nancy, I’d drink it.” 

What can we do when insults come our way? The temptation is to insult in return, but unless we have Churchill’s quick wit, we’re not likely to succeed. Philosophy professor William Irvine suggests an alternative strategy: become an insult pacifist. “When insulted, you carry on as if nothing happened.” As easy as ignoring the three-year-old in the throes of a tantrum in McDonalds.

Irvine continues: “If you do respond to an insult, you use self-deprecating humor; you insult yourself even worse than they did and laugh while doing it.” When Harry tells me I’m not fit to eat with the pigs, I can answer, “Sure I am!” I don’t like that strategy.

There is an alternative: we can practice a different art, the art of affirmation. The biblical counsel of I Peter applies here: “Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing . . .”

When I was wallowing in my induction to the poetaster hall of fame all those years ago, the second publication where I submitted my poetry responded. “Madame,” the editor wrote, “you are a poet.” I can’t begin to describe the difference those five words made for me.

Mr. Rogers understands: “Sometimes, all it takes is one kind word to nourish another person. Think of the ripple effect that can be created when we nourish someone. One kind empathetic word has a wonderful way of turning into many.” Here’s to many ripples in your pond – and mine. 

What Keeps You Up At Night?

The text from my daughter-in-law Lauren left me amazed: “My little man slept ten hours – I had to wake him up.” How is it possible that this four-month-old baby is the son of our firstborn, Greg, the child who woke me up every night until he was at least two years old? Is there such a thing as reverse karma? Not fair!

In contrast, our other new grandbaby, the sweet Emma Belle, has not mastered the art of sleeping at night, thus keeping her mom or dad on call as the hours of the night slip by. I vaguely remember living in the fog of sleep deprivation in my early months of motherhood as well, but I also cherished those hours spent in the rocking chair, as we were seemingly the only two humans awake in the silent world around us. 

Now, as those early childhood days are seen only from my rear-view mirror, I often sleep through the night, the way humans are created to do, waking rested and refreshed. However, there are other nights when my sleep is interrupted, and I watch the hands on the clock make their way around the dial. Usually, I’ll give myself a limited amount of time to fall back to sleep, but once that mark has been reached, I’ll get up and read or check social media, as television in the middle of the night is even worse than mid-afternoon.

Sometimes, I’m awakened from an unsettling dream, or with the need to “use the facilities,” and easily slip back into sleep. Other nights, I’ll toss and turn, focusing on my to-do list for the next day, outlining my next novel, and yes, even composing a T-G column or two at three a.m. However, unless I find a way to jot some words down, the ideas that seemed so brilliant in the middle of the night are either AWOL by morning, or lose their shine in the light of day. 

For people of faith, the night hours can become a time for watchfulness and prayer. The Psalmist understood: “My eyes are awake before the watches of the night, that I may meditate on your promise” (Psalm 119). Night can also be a time of soul-searching. As recorded in the book of Genesis, Jacob wrestled with God through the night until daybreak came. Perhaps Mosie Lister, a gospel songwriter, was remembering that account when he asked a question: “How long has it been . . . since you stayed on your knees ‘till the light shone through?” 

At other times, we are kept awake by the burdens we carry for family and friends. Our child is far from home. An elderly parent is near death. A cousin is suicidal. Our neighbor’s husband is in prison. Our spouse is unfaithful. A baby is coming too soon. Our sibling is deployed. We pray and we weep, and when we awaken in the morning, our pillow is soaked by the tears we shed in the night.

Yet there are also times when we are kept awake by the suffering of people we don’t know. As the horrors of the Epstein case unfold, my heart aches for vulnerable girls, for women who aren’t believed, for those who will carry the secret of their abuse to their graves. 

For author Francine Prose, what’s happening at the border keeps her awake. She writes: “I’ve been surprised, and not especially pleased, by my own ability to absorb each new outrage, each new shock – and move one. But not this one. Perhaps because I’ve spent so much of my adult life around children, perhaps because I have children and now grandchildren of my own, the reports and images of these devastated families have been keeping me awake at night and haunting my daylight hours. And I believe that this should be keeping all of us awake.”

Stephanie Marsh, who played ADA Alexandra Cabot in Law and Order SVU, shares her perspective: “Thinking about the heartbreaking number of young children around the world who think they are unwanted and are uncared for can easily keep you awake at night.” 

What about you? What keeps you up at night?

There Will Be An Answer

Film director Danny Boyle recently talked with NPR’s Audie Cornish to introduce his newest film, “Yesterday.” I’ve never been much of a movie theater fan – while I love butter-drenched movie popcorn, I hate paying ten cents a kernel – but as I listened to Boyle talk, the premise of this film fascinated me. What if any knowledge of the Beatles, any memory of their music, any image of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart Club Band, was stripped from the minds of everyone in the world? Seemingly only one stumbling singer, Jack Malik, remembers them, and so he begins to introduce this amazing music as his own to his handful of fans, and ultimately, to the world.

It sounded like a fun concept for a movie, and promised a meandering stroll down Penny Lane – oops, I mean memory lane. Larry was certainly shocked to hear me ask, “Want to go to the movies?” Those words seldom come out of my mouth, but I’m glad they did. Writing in Vulture, Nate Jones suggests that “’Yesterday’ is the kind of movie that works best if you turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream.” Side by side with a yellow submarine. Works for me.

As an added attraction to the film’s story, there was Kate McKinnon, my favorite actor from Saturday Night Live, cast as Jack’s agent of greed. As I watched her stride through Jack’s life, I couldn’t wipe from my mind the impromptu yet spot-on impression she recently did of Marianne Williamson, spiritual guide and presidential candidate. McKinnon has convincingly imitated Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III, Kellyanne Conway, and Elizabeth Warren, and I’ll never forget her SNL rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” in November 2016. What an amazing talent.

Yet I digress from the Beatles. How can we possibly imagine a world without John, Paul, George or Ringo? The Fab Four made their first U.S. appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on my 9^thbirthday in 1964, but I wasn’t among the seventy-three million who watched their U.S. debut. Yet I was soon as enthralled as they were, making my first forty-five purchases of “A Hard Day’s Night” and “I Want to Hold Your Hand” (with “I Saw Her Standing There” on the B-side), back when forty-five still meant a record. For Americans, even the nine-year-old ones, it had been “a hard day’s night” since the assassination of President Kennedy less than three months earlier, and now the Beatles were somehow allowing us to breathe again, to sing again. 

By the next year, they were once again speaking for us: “Help, I need somebody.” Personally, corporately, they were singing what so many were whispering in the darkness. Yet they were also optimistic, reminding us that “we can work it out,” because, as their 1967 hit promised, “All you need is love.” After all, we can get by “with a little help from our friends.” 

Unfortunately, their optimism regarding relationships didn’t carry over into their partnership, and in 1970 they went their separate ways. Still, the music continued. As Paul McCartney said, “I loved music too much to think of stopping.” John’s solo album, “Imagine” soon made its way to my turntable, and I often sang along: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one . . .” Even now, I still yearn for a world where all people live life in peace. 

In one poignant scene in the film, Jack tries to remember if Father McKenzie was darning socks, and why Eleanor Rigby was picking up rice in a church. I couldn’t remember either, but I do remember the category Eleanor and Father McKenzie belonged to – “all the lonely people.” Maya Angelou understood: “Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” 

All these years later, it’s not just about four young men from Liverpool. It’s about the music, and how it reaches us deeply, or, as Anne Porter describes, it “wanders where we wander.” Somehow, without knowing us, the Beatles spoke – and still speak – for us. That’s what music does. In times of trouble, in our hour of darkness, the notes whisper: “There will be an answer.” 

Rain

The video of our granddaughter is adorable. The delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, age four, had dressed herself in her pink polka dot bathing suit and flip-flops (probably on the wrong feet), and wistfully stood at the living room window, singing to her front lawn: “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day, all the children want to play, rain, rain, go away.” 

By Wednesday, the rains of June 2019 seem a distant memory, as we spent our afternoon under the hot Ohio sun, our granddaughters splashing in the kiddie pool and chasing each other around our back yard with squirt guns and shrieks. Yet a series of waterlogged images are fresh in my mind: Grandpa’s Cheese Barn in Ashland surrounded by water, I-71 in Columbus closed due to flooding, Barberton neighborhoods underwater, and the Tuscarawas River overflowing its banks in Massillon. In Canal Fulton, the Cherry Street Creamery, where we’d recently enjoyed an ice cream treat, looked like an island in the newly formed “Canal Fulton Lake.” 

When we see flooding on the news or in the paper, it’s easy to lament the loss of access to a favorite ice cream stand, or to complain about rain dampening our vacation. Yet our “will it ever stop raining?” whine has a broader impact than a momentary disruption to our leisure-time activities.

For staff at the Salvation Army’s Camp NEOSA, situated on the swollen shore of Leesville Lake, it meant watching the rising waters overwhelm the beach and creep towards the dining hall. Rainy day fun was extra-challenging this past week at Camp NEOSA.

For people like Paulette Snyder, the co-owner of the Canal Fulton Livery and Campground, their very livelihood is threatened by the rains. “Between canoeing, kayaking, biking and camping, every avenue we have to make money is gone,” she said. When your business is dependent on summer tourists, the old saying, “making hay while the sun shines” is a poignantly prophetic reminder – there’s little hay to make when the sun isn’t shining. 

Farmers are facing serious concerns, as the Cincinnati Enquirer reported: “Ohio’s farmland is underwater and unrecognizable. The impact will last even longer than the rain.” As a kid, we’d drive through farm country on Sunday afternoon car rides, and my dad would remind us that the corn should be “knee high by the Fourth of July.” Instead, as the Enquirer noted, “Standing water comes up to the knee in some fields. Plots are more like muddy swamps where the only thing that’s growing is mold and disease and mosquitoes.” Anybody want more mosquitoes? I didn’t think so.

It’s not just here in Ohio. The recent flooding in Ohio pales in comparison to the Midwest states bordering the Mississippi River. Some communities and farmland have been underwater for months. Greenville, Mississippi’s mayor Errick Simmons describes the impact: “Our flooding has been over one hundred days. We have an increasingly severe homelessness situation . . . Hopes have been completely destroyed.”

Another number stands out: at the beginning of June of this year, thirty-one million acres of America’s farmland were still unplanted. Family farms, corporate farms, organic farms – neither the rain nor the changing climate are impressed by who you are.

Two takeaways for me on this topic. First, I’m reminded of how quickly we forget what’s going on in the lives of others. We can blame our response on the rapid news cycle, but unless we’re immersed in a situation – flooding, tragedy, or loss of any kind – it quickly slips our mind as we move onto the next sound bite or family outing. It’s not that we don’t care; we’re just focused on what’s next.

We’re also tempted to stand at the picture window in our bathing suits, wishing life was different. Instead, consider the alternative: we can pull on slickers and rain boots, stride out into the storm, and do what we can, piling up sandbags, mucking out basements and being aware of our neighbor’s struggle. But don’t forget – even when it’s raining and pouring, we can still let our joy show up. When the storm passes, see what happens when you jump in a mud puddle and dance in the raindrops. 

Hidden Gems

During a recent visit to The Salvation Army Ray and Joan Kroc Corps Community Center, fondly known as “the Kroc,” someone said, “What a great facility! I never knew this was here.” I lived and breathed Kroc for six years during its development and early years of operation, so I was surprised by those words. Yes, it’s not as visible as the iconic presence of Grandpa’s Cheesebarn at the interstate exit, but it has signage on East Main Street, and has enjoyed generous coverage in the Ashland Times-Gazette over the years. It has hosted at least five thousand birthday parties, baby showers, retirement parties, and various community events since its opening in April 2009. Hasn’t everybody in Ashland County been to the Kroc Center? Apparently not.

I’ve always been curious about the space around me, exploring the neighborhoods of my hometown by bicycle long before I acquired my driver’s license. As Larry and I moved from place to place, I wondered, what were the gems of our new communities? What was hidden in plain sight?

Some of those gems involved food (surprised?). I loved to buy pasties from a neighborhood storefront in Wharton, NJ, and eat at Carmen’s lunch counter in Dover, across the street from our house. 

Moving next to the thriving metropolis of Philadelphia, I was attracted to the steep and narrow streets of Manyunk (before its rebirth) and “the Ridge,” running for miles from the city’s western border, past our first assignment in Roxborough, to our second on North Broad Street in North Philadelphia. There, I was intrigued by the Divine Lorraine Hotel, once the home to Reverend Major Jealous Divine and the International Peace Mission, and known as the first hotel of its kind to be fully racially integrated. Now, the long-abandoned building has undergone a massive renovation resulting in 100+ luxury apartments. Later, Cleveland and Canton brought similar discoveries, of best-kept secrets known only to long-time residents, and spaces reclaimed from the dust of history. 

What about the hidden gems of Ashland? As in other communities, some places seem to stay the same forever, such as the Lyn-Way (best pie crust on earth), the Dairy Bar, O’Bryans’ Pub, and Kelly’s on Claremont. Others choose the makeover path, as David Lee’s buildings, as well as Uniontown Brewing Company and Water’s Edge Event Center (Bella Bleu’s) show what vision, investment, and elbow grease can accomplish. Coming attractions: Schine’s Theater and Fig & Oak. Tucked away in the countryside are other gems: The Parsley Pot (Middle Rowsburg Road), Mitchell’s Orchard and Farm Market (TR 1153), Honey Haven Farm (CR 1475), and the renaissance occurring in Hayesville. Donuts, anyone?

There’s an additional gem in Ashland County, not known for its exceptional architecture or historical significance, but for its sense of community and its focus on connecting local producers with local consumers. Seven years ago, Local Roots in Ashland was birthed by Local Roots in Wooster, first in the South Street warehouse, then the Appleseed fruit stand, and now at the triangle where Cleveland Avenue and Middle Rowsburg Road split. Based on a co-op model, it understands that “Improving access to food that was grown close to home, by people who cared for the land, meant a stronger community and a healthier, more sustainable world.” 

This local gem is now leaving its parent umbrella, changing its name to “Ashland Roots.” With locally-sourced products, including fruit, vegetables, baked goods, and meat, and craft items, soaps, and more, this co-op provides space to shop local, attend classes, and engage in meaningful conversation with neighbors. If you’re saying, “I never knew this was here in Ashland,” stop in this week and get acquainted – and enjoy some local strawberries before they’re gone.

We’re not scheduling a grand vacation this summer, but as we wander about Ohio, I’m hoping to uncover a few more hidden gems along the way. In a landscape marked by golden arches and neon signs, it’s worth veering off the beaten path to see what’s below the radar. No secrets, though –let me know what you find, and I’ll bring our discoveries to the pages of the T-G before the summer’s over. Happy treasure-hunting!

Longmire and Mueller

We still subscribe to a monthly cable television service with a gazillion channels for our viewing pleasure. I much prefer a quiet corner and a book, but Larry enjoys watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on “Fixer Upper,” “Property Brothers” with twins Jonathan and Drew, and an occasional episode of “American Pickers,” starring Frank and Mike with their nose for antiques, memorabilia and junk. With our favorite network shows on hiatus until the fall, Larry was searching for something to watch in their place, and he ran across a series called “Longmire,” first shown on the A&E network in 2012. 

We’d never heard of it, but this modern Western crime drama ran for six seasons, now available for streaming on Netflix. What an amazing invention. Instead of waiting seven days to find out what the next week’s drama will bring, all sixty-three episodes of “Longmire” are right there at our fingertips. Between the activity on the nearby Cheyenne Reservation and in Absaroka County, Wyoming, there is enough lusting, loving, conniving and killing to keep viewers engaged in the storylines from hour to hour. Absaroka County is fictional, based on the setting of the Walt Longmire Mysteries by author Craig Johnson, but is similar to half the counties in Wyoming, with less than fifteen thousand people. At the rate they killed off people each episode, it truly is miraculous there was anybody standing by the series’end.

I watched a few episodes, but Larry kept up with them all. I’m glad to report that by the end (spoiler alert), the bad guys were all killed off or in custody, the sheriff got his girl, Ferg made his grand gesture to win Meg back, and Henry Standing Bear was successfully operating the casino. Great work, Walt!

I like stories that tie up the loose ends by the final page, often by way of an epilogue that checks in with each main character. In the Maisie Dobbs novels, author Jacqueline Winspear allows her main character to complete a final accounting, visiting each of the main actors in the book’s drama to fill them in on the results of her investigations. A nice, neat package, just what I need.

My summer reading list includes many books that will provide that same kind of satisfaction when I reach the end, with cold cases resolved, family estrangement repaired, and the hero and heroine in each other’s arms. I’m currently reading a book that promises international intrigue and dogged FBI pursuit, but it provides no final resolution to its mysteries, at least in part because the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday must have taken a black Magic Marker to its pages and crossed out hundreds of lines before I started reading.

Yes, I’m committed to reading the entire Mueller Report this summer. It’s not as engaging as Longmire or an old Agatha Christie murder mystery, yet my current read is fascinating, recognizing the depth of investigation and the careful recording done by Robert Mueller and his team. The redactions are frustrating, often with the note, “harm to ongoing matter” or “redacted for personal privacy,” and I wonder if my fill-in-the-blank imagination ends up making the account worse than it really is. 

Writing in Salon, Claire Wexler suggests that “legal experts found the dense document a ‘page-turner,’” but also admits that even in her Washington, D.C. circle of activists and journalists, “I haven’t found anyone who’s actually read it.” 

So why bother? No, not to improve my cocktail party conversation, but for these reasons. I’m a nerd, and find its painstaking examination impressive and thought-provoking. I’m also curious, for “enquiring minds want to know.” More than curious, I’m concerned. Its introductory sentence is chilling: “The Russian government interfered in the 2016 presidential election in sweeping and systematic fashion.” 

My last reason? I’m an American. Don Raye’s lyrics ask: “What difference if I hail from North or South, or from the East or West?” Or from a red or blue state? Raye’s answer is my answer. “This is my country, to have and to hold.” I’m not conceding its future to talking heads, Facebook memes or political spin – I’m reading Mueller this summer. Join me?