The Graceful Exit

Writing in “The Marvelous Land of Oz,” L. Frank Baum said, “Everything has to come to an end, sometime.” This year, the ‘sometime’ has all too often been sooner rather than later. The Ashland University women’s basketball season ended on the brink of an undefeated year, the 2019-20 school year bit the dust in March, and the Tribe didn’t even make it out of spring training. How I miss “Tito” and Indians baseball. Will we possibly hear the crack of the bat and the iconic “play ball” at the corner of Carnegie and West 9^thStreet before the summer of 2020 ends? Hope springs eternal.

We live in a world filled with endings of all kinds. To the dismay of many Ashlanders, Belly Busters closed their doors this week. I remember their first Ashland location, in the tiny building on Main Street just around the corner from our Walnut Street house. Could an authentic BBQ restaurant find a home in Ashland, Ohio? After twelve years of delicious food, thousands of Facebook fans, and their huge hearts (400+ Thanksgiving dinners in 2019), the answer was “yes.” Linda and Will Anderson attempted to sell the restaurant last year without success, and the COVID-19 restrictions gave a final nudge to their decision to close. As Linda and Will grudgingly admit, “we are getting older.” Ashland will definitely miss their “all you can eat” Friday fish fry, ribs, pulled pork, and – my favorite – Linda’s German chocolate cake.

Their decision came just weeks after Bella Bleu’s announced they were not going to reopen for business. Rita Edwards had created wonderful food off the beaten track in an idyllic space at the water’s edge in Ashland. But like many other small business owners across the county and the country, there wasn’t enough of a cushion to sustain operations through the corona-tinged spring of 2020. 

An ending of retirement has come as well for former Ashland resident Rev. Janet Chilcote, who pastored Paradise Hill United Methodist Church for a number of years while her husband taught at Ashland Theological Seminary. In a tribute to his wife, Paul writes: “I simply want to say that Janet ‘gets it.’ Her life has always been characterized by selfless, humble love, every day that I’ve had the honor to be her partner in life. She taught me very early the art of the ‘win-win’ and has always sought reconciliation and peace in every difficult situation she has ever encountered.” This may be the ending of full-time ministry for Janet, but her selfless, humble love as seen in the roots of ACCESS, and her ministry at Hospice and Paradise Hill, will bear fruit in Ashland county and around the world for years to come. 

Baum stated the obvious when he wrote of the necessity of endings, but their inevitability doesn’t take away the sting of loss. As spectators at a stadium or arena, occasional patrons at a restaurant, or parishioners in the pew, we may experience a pinch of sadness, but we will soon transfer our loyalty to other athletes, restaurants, and pastors. Yet the loss felt by those fully invested in the teams, the businesses and the pastorates runs deeper, and we lament with them in their sorrow and disappointment.

In these days, when loss struggles to find a rhythm in the shadow of pandemic, Ellen Goodman’s advice brings encouragement . “There’s a trick to the ‘graceful exit.’ It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over – and let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving up, rather than out.” 

One of the losses to Pandemic 2020 was Ashland’s BalloonFest. Yet symbolic of Goodman’s “sense of future,” we may just be able to catch a glimpse of color soaring overhead if we look to the sky tonight and Sunday morning. Somewhere, you see, over the rainbow, dreams that we dare to dream, even if reimagined a dozen times, really do come true. 

To See Snow

Searching for financial records from 2018 in the dungeon, the descriptive name given to a storage room at The Salvation Army in Canton, I came across a stack of 3x5 cards, carefully printed on both sides and each containing a brief snapshot of a life in crisis. In 1991, as Ronald was traveling from Boston to Denver as a stow-away, he was removed from the train in Canton. The next year, Henry was heading to the Carolinas in search of a good job. The next card noted that government agents were after Tim, and his erratic behavior required a referral for a mental health assessment. 

Nineteen year old Brandy was kicked out of her parents’ home and had nowhere to go. When asked his source of income, John indicated he sold his plasma. Darla, her husband, and five kids were traveling: no job, no money, no home. Jerry simply wanted to go home.

Some of the case notes had a touch of humor. Richard, from Kentucky, was heading to Erie, Pennsylvania because he heard it was a good welfare state. Tammy got stranded when she came to Canton to visit her boyfriend at the circus. And although not in this stack of cards, my favorite is recorded in my memory. Asked why he came to Canton from Florida without any plan to support himself, Jim answered, “I wanted to see snow.”

Along with the 3x5 cards used for transient clients, boxes and boxes of case files document the presenting needs of people who requested help with rent, utilities, clothing or food. Some paperwork dated back to the years we served at this very same Salvation Army center beginning in 1995. By policy, records more than seven years old can be destroyed, but like the boxes on the storage shelves in my basement and the dust bunnies under our beds, “out of sight, out of mind.” 

Sorting through a few boxes, I began recycling the file folders and shredding stacks of forms with self-identifying information. As I worked, my mind wandered. What a treasure trove these files could be to the anthropologist or sociologist who wanted to study human societies and cultures or even the scope of social problems and poverty. Contrary to popular assumption, very few of the case files showed “frequent fliers.” I’ve heard countless attacks on those who live in poverty, the stereotypical “welfare queens” who make a science out of milking the system. While I didn’t do any statistical analysis, the large majority of files had one, or maybe two notations. One month’s utility bill paid in2009, and then a month’s rent payment in 2013 when the car needed an $800 repair. 

That evening, my researcher brain started down the rabbit hole of the internet to gather information about poverty. One telling report is that less than a quarter of families in poverty actually receive cash assistance in the form of Temporary Assistance to Needy Families, and the monthly “welfare check” for a family of three is less than five hundred dollars. Kermit the Frog sings, “it’s not easy being green.” A modified refrain echoes :“It’s not easy being poor.”

Yet beyond the questions of both policy and statistical analysis, I’m drawn to the people and their stories. Did Ronald ever get to Denver? Did Jim open his mouth wide and let the first snowflakes melt on his tongue? Did it work out under the big top for Tammy and her circus boyfriend? Did Jerry ever get home? Where are these people today? Did the modest financial intervention or the gift of a listening ear or a guiding hand make a difference? 

As I washed my hands one more time at the end of a dusty day, my thoughts turned to those waiting to fill out a new generation of poverty-inspired paperwork, to plead their own stories of scarcity. As churches, social service practitioners, and government agencies, and yes, as neighbors and family, can we gently meet the cares of our brothers and sisters with grace and generosity? In these corona-tinged days, will their concerns be met with kindness, their dreams lifted up? These are the stories still to be written in 2020. 

The View from My Window

With a week off from my part-time job, I dusted off a book project and buckled down to write. If I was looking for an excuse to get distracted, the birdfeeder outside the picture window provided the perfect drama, often drawing my attention to the variety of creatures that visited.

Quite a few feathered friends have swooped by for breakfast or lunch. No ornithologist credentials here, but I’ve seen a few robins, some sparrows, and the flash of red from a cardinal. 

Our birdfeeder has also attracted other visitors. Alvin, Simon and Theodore have scampered up the pole and managed to fill their chubby cheeks with birdseed, before scooting off into their hiding places in our front yard. Chipmunks sure are cute little critters. 

And then there are the squirrels. The three elderly trees in our front yard provide the perfect setting for the rodents to engage in a frenzied game of climb, hide and seek. Soon after Larry fills the birdfeeder, the squirrels converge. Often, one climbs the pole and scatters abundant birdseed for his playmates waiting below. Another one likes to sit atop the birdfeeder, a king-of-the-hill, or perhaps queen. I’m not sure which squirrels are girls and which are boys, and I don’t want to get close enough to figure it out. 

I’ve been surprised at how strongly I feel about the squirrels and the birdfeeder. I’m more lenient with the chipmunks, but I do not want the squirrels to take over where they don’t belong. I’ve started knocking on the window to chase them away, and sometimes even go out the door to scare them off. I’ve googled “keeping squirrels out of the birdfeeder,” and Larry has even sprayed the pole with WD-40, but it hasn’t helped. Posting a sign “birds only” isn’t a viable option either. I can’t blame the squirrels for feeding themselves when there are easy pickin’s. 

What’s ironic is that the animals aren’t having issues with each other. The squirrels don’t knock down the chipmunks, and the birds don’t assert their proprietary rights to the birdhouse by attacking the squirrels. They’re sharing the bounty of the seed while this human is sputtering about who should be allowed to eat. 

Without consciously realizing it, I’ve developed a hierarchy of worth for the animals that dwell in our yard. As a result, I’m hearing Bulda, the mama troll from the movie Frozen asking Anna about her hesitancy to marry Kristof. “What’s the issue, dear?” Do I have something against squirrels? I’ve never been bitten by a squirrel, but we did have a squirrel take up residence in our attic a few years ago, and it cost us a bunch of money to tighten up the house to avoid future freeloaders. Chipmunks are definitely cuter, and I do love the way they sing, “All I want for Christmas.” And birds – my concern for them doesn’t make sense – I watched Hitchcock’s The Birdsas a teen and, as our birthday girl Lizzie (five!!!) says, I was ‘fweaked out” for days. Perhaps I’m channeling the words of Jesus: “Consider the birds of the air.” Glad he didn’t say squirrels!

Am I reacting so strongly because it’s called a birdfeeder? The world should function in a right and proper way, and therefore birds should have first dibs on the seed, not squirrels. Because that preconception informs my worldview, how do I accommodate what I am seeing if it challenges my way of being in the world?

Years ago, I demanded of my counselor, “Just tell me what to do to fix this (thinking ‘them’ rather than me) and I’ll do it.” He wisely refused, showing me that sitting with the questions and becoming familiar with the roots of discomfort allows truth, courage and humility to lead to transformative change.

This week, there’s no specific “and the moral of the story is . . .” Instead, some gentle counsel. Take Jed Clampett’s advice to “Set a spell. Take your shoes off.” Push ‘play’ on Ecclesiastes 3 with the Byrds’ anthem by Pete Seeger: “There is a season (turn, turn, turn), and a time to every purpose, under heaven.” See what stirs in you. And breathe deeply. 

Deep in my heart . . . .

Traditional Hasidic wisdom tells us: “Rake the muck this way. Rake the muck that way. It will still be muck. In the time you are brooding, you could be stringing pearls for the delight of heaven.” I’ve been brooding, yes, but I’ve also gathered pearls of image and word to string together this week.

On Tuesday, former Vice President Joe Biden told a story from November 22, 1963, when little Yolanda King came home from school in Atlanta. Jumping in her father’s arms, she said, “Oh, Daddy. Now we will never get our freedom.” Biden told of her father’s response, reassuring, strong, and brave. “Now don’t you worry, baby,” said Martin Luther King, Jr. “It’s going to be all right.” We shall overcome . . .

When King himself was assassinated five years later, presidential candidate Bobby Kennedy faced a serious choice. Kennedy was urged not to go to the planned rally site in the poor, mostly black section of Indianapolis, and had every right to surround himself with bodyguards, hunkerrd down in his own remembered grief. Instead, deciding to address the crowd, he painfully broke the news of Dr. King’s death. As Michael Rosenwald later described, “Kennedy, wearing his brother’s overcoat and speaking without notes, quoted the Greek playwright Aeschylus. ‘Even in our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart . . .’” Following Kennedy’s words, “the threat of violence subsided. Everyone went home.” Across the nation that night, cities burned. Not Indianapolis. 

A year later, at a time when many community pools were still segregated, Mr. Rogers invited Officer Clemmons to join him in a kiddie pool to cool off his feet, to take a break from his work as a neighborhood police officer. In that iconic image, Fred Rogers and François Clemons sit side by side, a white man and a black man in the water of shared baptism. As the scene concluded, Fred Rogers took a towel and dried Officer Clemmons’ feet. 

In 1992, having learned a new song for his day care center’s Black History Month program, our tow-headed three-year-old stood in the mall’s food court and belted out: “We shall obercome.” O yes, Dan, even in these days, I still string that pearl of memory and hope: “Deep in my heart . . .” 

Another Dan was in Dallas in November 1963. Later, he filled the news anchor seat at CBS Evening News for twenty-four years. Now at eighty-eight, elder statesman Dan Rather continues to lift his voice. In response to his own question of what gives him hope, he concludes his thoughts with this: “And I see millions of my fellow Americans saying give me a hammer, give me a bandage, give me a ballot, let’s go out there and get to work.” Sing on, Pete Seeger – we’ve still got a hammer, bell and song.

Columnist Connie Schultz has created an on-line community I visit each day. In these difficult times, she faithfully posts a daily photo, often of her grandchildren or canine companions Franklin and Walter, with the reminder to pause and to breathe. A community member asked how she can remain positive, and her answer handed me the final addition to my strand of pearls. “I’ve tried to be open about the times when I, too, struggle to remain hopeful. I cry sometimes, and at times I am so angry that, to paraphrase a long ago friend, I run out of walk before I run out of rage. I rest a bit, and keep walking.” Schultz continued: “I am a hopeful person by nature, and most of the time I can count on optimism winning out, even during some of the hardest times in my life. This is such a challenge, but I grasp onto joy wherever I can find it. That is what is keeping me going.”

The strength of a father’s arms. The prophetic mantle of a brother’s coat. The cleansing water of a child’s pool. The promise of a three-year-old’s song. A hammer, a bandage, a ballot; a bell and song too. The reminder to breathe. Glimpses of joy. These are the hope-burnished pearls I’m gratefully stringing to wear in June 2020.

 

A Mother's Voice

It’s been five years since my mother died, just three weeks before the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday made her early appearance in our family. My mom teased me about how “over the top” I was about our first granddaughter, the lovely Madelyn Simone, referencing my T-G columns about how smitten I was with Madelyn. I’m guessing she would have something to say about how Lizzie, Henry and Emma have also captured my smitten heart. 

My mother never did catch the internet bug, leaving that pursuit to my dad, so I mailed her copies of my newspaper column every couple of weeks. She saved every one, preserving them in albums. That’s what mothers do.

In my early years as a T-G columnist, I had a rule of thumb that asked, “What will my mother say if I write this, if I use a particular series of words and it’s printed in the newspaper?” Some people are able to leave behind any sense of mama-inspired conscience by age fifteen, but not me. I still have that niggling sense of what my mother’s response might be to something I say or do that crosses a certain line – and I know right where that line is. 

Sometimes I hear her voice and ignore it (at my own peril), but sometimes her cautionary nudge still causes me to rethink a decision or refrain from speaking. As an active pastor in the Ashland community for the first five years of my column-writing, I also had to recognize how my words might impact that ministry. And even now, eight years after retirement, I do consider my audience, knowing that many readers don’t share my social or political views. Yes, my mother’s voice, my ministry’s standing in the community, and my reticence to offend can sometimes temper the words I put on paper. Plus, I have no desire to be sued for libel or defamation of character. Words matter.

I still remember my high school English teacher, Mrs. Holcomb, and her admonition to never use the word “thing,” as there was always a more precise term to use. Yet I doubt Mrs. Holcomb or my mother had “skank” in mind to describe a former first lady, U.S. senator, and secretary of state. This derogatory term for a female, implying trashiness or tackiness, lower class status and/or poor hygiene, isn’t one that regularly crosses my lips. I picture Ralphie in A Christmas Story, contemplating his punishment for the use of a particular word.“What would it be? The guillotine? Hanging? The chair? The rack . . . Hmmph. Mere child’s play compared to what surely awaited me.” Thus the iconic image of Ralphie, a bar of red Lifebuoy soap filling his mouth. Words matter.

What might my mother possibly think about how easily alternative narratives can be created, such as one accusing a former congressman of murder with no basis, a family’s decades-old grief strewn about the internet with impunity? Twitter apologizes, but what about the tweeter? We couldn’t get away with that as kids.

If our moms and teachers had a problem with the words we used and the stories we concocted, they were even more concerned about actions that harmed others. How could a man be ambushed and executed while jogging or a man struggle to breathe as a uniformed man knelt on his neck? “That man could be my son,” said my friend, and I feel her words in my bones, the desperate, abject fear of a mother’s heart who can’t protect her son because of the color of his skin. Ahmaud Arbery and George Floyd, their deaths an anguish that can never heal. 

Irvin D. Yalom’s prophetic words frighten me: “If we climb high enough, we will reach a height from which tragedy ceases to look tragic.” Tragedy shrinks with distance, and evil flourishes in silence. Today, in my mother’s memory, my own mother-voice joins the ancient lament (Matthew 2:18): “A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning. Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are killed.” Today, my own mother-eyes will not look away; my own mother-voice will not be silenced. 

Down Faith-Inspired Memory Lane

The days of Spring 2020 have been “slower than molasses in January” as my dad would say, but finally, it’s Memorial Day weekend. In my hometown, will the cannons still boom their sunrise greeting as they’ve done for decades? We know people won’t be lining parade routes on Main Street U.S.A. in 2020. Nor will the neighborhood welcome mat be out at our backyard barbeques, out of a grudging respect for the wiles of that nasty corona virus. 

Memorial Day traditionally has been the unofficial start to summer, a day to honor those who lost their lives while serving in the military. The day has also expanded to remember those we love who are no longer with us, and we often place flowers or flags on gravesites to mark our connection.

The gift of remembering, of reminiscence, allows us to relive both joyful and painful times, and to consider the “long and winding road” our own lives have taken. For many of us, the Age of Corona has offered time and space for that journey of memory. Faith has been one of my remembering threads, and this past Sunday morning, I made a web-inspired circuit of familiar stained glass and steeples, comfortably clothed in my current Sunday finery, my favorite Minnie Mouse nightshirt.

My journey of faith began in a Presbyterian sanctuary, whose Corona-inspired on-line services are shared with two other local congregations, all pastored by women, quite the change from my childhood. Seeing the stained-glass of my childhood took me back to Paul Stookey’s “Hymn.” “Sunday morning very bright I read your book by colored light that came into the pretty window picture.” 

I also dropped by the worship service streamed by The Salvation Army College for Officers’ Training, where I spent two years in preparation for a lifetime of service to others. “Holy, holy, holy,” the brass quartet intoned, equipped with headphones and recorded in four separate locations. I don’t understand how that works, but I’m grateful for technology none-the-less, even on a Sunday when Zoom was less-than-cooperative. 

A stop at the Facebook page for the Salvation Army in Dover, NJ, our first ministry assignment showed photos of their on-going food distribution, as much a component of worship as is the singing and praying (see Matthew 25). Then, my virtual visit moved to our second appointment, as the grand piano at Philadelphia Roxborough flooded me with memories of little boys clamoring for my attention, an errant trombone slide, and the music that so filled our days in that location. 

Skipping ahead to the Ashland Kroc Center, the inimitable Major Billy Francis and team were faithful in their Sunday morning worship with the glorious stained-glass as a backdrop, its “jewels” symbolically lifting our prayers to heaven. If the walls could only speak in that place. So many stories to tell.

Tiptoeing through memory in these challenging days offers touchstones as we connect with our history – or her-story. We re-visit our paths of faith, the classrooms of educational experience, our varied workplaces, and the homes we’ve inhabited. With some virtual help to stimulate our brain synapses, we can even return to our favorite vacation spots, opening our senses to the salt of the ocean and the crisp air of the ski slope. Memory graciously allows us to hit pause for a few moments with those whose love shaped our lives, to hold their faces in our hearts and whisper our thanks.

Novelist Pat Conroy, whose words are as much memoir as fiction, mused: “I began to get the thought that some of us are the designated rememberers. Why do we remember? I don’t know. But I think that’s why memoir interests me – because we’re the ones who pass the stories.”  

As we pass the hot dogs and potato salad this weekend, don’t forget to pass the stories as well, of sacrifice and service, of remarkable places and cherished people. Sue Monk Kidd understands: “Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.” 

Welcome, Memorial Day. Thanks for reminding us of who we are and why we’re here. Glad you’ve finally made it to 2020!

Simple Gifts

“There’s nothing to do.” That plaintive refrain has sounded through generations of children as the “lazy-hazy-crazy days of summer” stretch before them. Thanks, Nat King Cole, for the  wish “that summer could always be here.” My mother used to tell me, “be careful what you wish for.” She had a point.

Since schools closed in March, some families have developed structured schedules of home-instruction and Zoom classes, while others (no judgement here) feel like they’ve checked into “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” Now, as school winds down for the year, “there’s nothing to do” will tax the imagination of even the most creative parents and caregivers.

But it’s not just the kids. With a myriad of non-essential activities on the taboo list, even us Golden Buckeye folks are getting antsy. Did you know that the “stir” in “stir crazy” meant “prison”? Now you do.

In March, USA Today Life compiled a list of one hundred things to do while stuck inside due to a pandemic. I got hung-up on #19: “Try on all your clothes and determine whether they ‘spark joy’ a la Marie Kondo.” That might have worked in March, but halfway through May, forget the joy-sparking – I’m hoping something still fits. I’ve cleaned out my sock drawer (#64), watched Frozen II (#54), and moved in slow motion (#95) but I have no interest in #72, memorizing the periodic table (been there, done that in eleventh grade). I haven’t watched “Tangled” recently, but Rapunzel’s ideas for castle isolation are inspiring: ventriloquy, candle-making, papier-mâché, and adding a new painting to the gallery.

Fortunately, we can still go outside, which opens up options for exercise and sunshine on alternating days. Lots of people are bike-riding and walking in our neighborhood, and as they pass our picture window, I think that maybe I’ll join them – tomorrow. 

Last weekend, the stir-craziness was pretty intense. Let’s take a ride in the car! Our family used to do that on Sunday afternoons when I was young. Sometimes we’d follow the Niagara River towards Buffalo or Niagara Falls, hoping we wouldn’t have to travel past the smelly chemical factories in the Falls. With no Gameboys or DVD players, we sang songs, often belting out “Show Me the Way to Go Home” long before we arrived back at Klinger Avenue.  

In the spirit of those long-ago road trips, Larry and I headed to Ashland last weekend. Our leisurely trip did have a purpose beyond boredom relief, as we wanted to get flowers and vegetable plants for our home. Governor DeWine determined that garden centers such as Honey Haven Farm could open, where Farmer John welcomed us and we giddily made our purchases. Knowing Lerch’s Donuts would be on-site may or may not have tipped the scales on our choice of destination (smile emoji). We stopped for groceries at Millers-that-will-always-be-Hawkins to me, and completed our Ashland day by picking up supper at A&W. The simple pleasures of a Corona-inspired escape.

Because I’ve still been going into work, we made the early decision to socially isolate from our kids and their families. The lovely Madelyn Simone and the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday have talked often with me about what we can do together when “The Corona” is over. Wanting to improve her skills on her new-to-her Corona typewriter, Madelyn created her list: “Things to do with Nana after the COVID-19 ends.” 

I’m not sure when Sluggers and Putters or the McKinley Museum will re-open, and who knows if we’ll ever eat at a buffet again. But I’m holding out for Madelyn’s “at-Nana’s-house” list: making pancakes for breakfast, washing dishes with Nana, cleaning Pop-Pop’s fish tank, and going on Nana’s phone. 

Laura Ingalls Wilder understands: “The real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures; and have courage when things go wrong.” In that spirit, Joseph Brackett’s words echo. “Tis the gift to be simple, ‘tis the gift to be free, ‘tis the gift to come down where we ought to be.” Spring flowers, Lerch’s donuts, breakfast pancakes, washing dishes together: today’s gifts, tomorrow’s promise.