Saving Face

The iconic music begins with the timpani’s introduction to Leo Arnaud’s “Bugler’s Dream,” followed by the brilliant chords of the trumpeters. Then, as composer John Williams describes, the enchanting and empowering notes of his “Olympic Fanfare and Theme” express the “struggle that ennobles all of us.” From the last days of July through the first week in August, the Olympic Games of 2021 provided hundreds of ennobling moments as athletes from around the world swam, ran, dove, hurdled, jumped, twisted and wrestled their way into the record books. 

 

We’re proud of our local ties to the games, as Ashlanders cheered loudly as AU alumni Katie Nagoette cleared the bar of the pole vault at 16’ 1” to claim gold for Team USA. In the high jump, Mutaz Essa Barshim of Qatar and Gianmarco Tamberi of Italy offered to share the gold medal after many jumps left them tied for the top prize. Simone Biles helped us understand the mental aspects of gymnastics, teaching us that “the twisties” are more than twist ties for the bread bag. And in a less-than satisfactory performance, Saint Boy turned out to be not much of a saint when the horse refused to make any jumps in the pentathlon, leaving German athlete Annika Schleu in tears. 

 

Speaking of tears, another Olympic story caught my attention, as it described the reactions of some of the Japanese athletes. Kenichiro Fumita, a Greco-Roman wrestler, sobbed after winning a silver medal: “I ended up with this shameful result. I’m so sorry.” As in, “I’m so ashamed because I’m not the best in the world, I’m only second-best.” Wow!

 

I tend to consider an athletic endeavor as shameful if I face-plant ten steps into a run around the block, not as “only” a silver medal in the Olympics. But for Fumita, not only did he lose the match; he also “lost face,” a public humiliation.

 

The concept of losing or saving face plays a large role in Chinese and Japanese cultures, but it’s also alive and well in the United States. I had an instance with a boss many years ago where a public disagreement led to his loss of face. In hindsight, I should have known better, not just to protect a fragile ego, but because it hurt our working relationship from that point on. Once lost, “face” is difficult to regain. It’s tempting to suggest the other person just “get over it,” but a perceived experience of shame or humiliation is not easily forgotten. Often, it becomes easier to reach towards revenge than forgiveness.

 

In her book, “Saving Face: How to Preserve Dignity and Build Trust,” Maya Hu-Chansuggests that “face” represents a person’s self-esteem, reputation, status, and dignity. She  outlines a “BUILD” strategy that includes benevolence and accountability, understanding (seeing from another’s perspective), interacting, learning and delivery – walking the talk. Somehow, we must find ways to preserve dignity and respect for those we disagree with, thus “saving face” for both of us.

 

We live in a time when strong opinions rule. We feel passionately about the Indians and/or the Guardians, as well as mayo versus Miracle Whip, not hesitating to expound loudly on those preferences. To which we answer, “to each his own.” Live and let live.

 

Consider the concept of “saving face” in relation to the COVID-19 vaccination. Because of the politicized nature of the pandemic and the vaccine roll-out, many have taken a vocal position on the debate, using shame as a powerful tool. Within some camps, changing one’s mind on the vaccine is ridiculed. I wonder, with the increased contagion of the delta variant, might some unvaccinated people struggle with losing face if they decide to get the vaccine ? Instead of racking up mountains of hurtful exchanges with each other, could we call a ceasefire of judgement? No ridicule, no shame for changing one’s mind? Could we release our concerns over losing or saving face, and focus instead on saving life? If indeed the Olympics can symbolize the struggle that ennobles all of us, as composer John Williams believes, then might our battle against the Corona ennoble, honor, and dignify who we are as humans? 

In His Time

A young friend provided some much needed guidance on her Facebook post this week: She is awaiting the birth of her third child, who still has a few weeks in protective custody before he’s due to make his appearance. She warned, “If I see you in person this next week, I am fully aware of how ‘ready to pop’ I look, and I’m positive there is only one” [bun in the oven]. 

 

Thirty-eight years ago today, I was very, very pregnant, and as I would soon discover, only one day away from welcoming Andrew John Shade to our family. Happy birthday, Drew! It had been a hot July, and I was more than ready to deliver that baby. I was convinced that July 1983 had more than thirty-one days in it.

 

All these years later, I’m well past my child-bearing years, but I’m still giving birth from time to time as writing projects come to fruition. My latest book, “The House of Women: A Feminine Presence Under King David’s Roof,” has taken longer than anything else I’ve written, longer than nine months of human pregnancy, longer than the twenty-two months an elephant waits to birth her young, and longer than the female frilled shark, who carries her babies up to three and a half years before giving birth.

 

I’m in good company in the “taking forever to write a book” business. J.K. Rowling spent five years developing the complex culture of Harry Potter, while The Lord of the Ringswas sixteen years in the making as Tolkien imagined the world that has enchanted readers for decades. With that in mind, I better start working on my grand novel today!

 

As someone who writes a regular newspaper column every week, how could it possibly take me ten years to complete a book? I do have a streak of procrastination in me, but ten years? Perhaps it had something to do with the scope of the project. In an earlier book, The Other Woman, I attempted to draw out Hagar’s story from two Genesis chapters, but now I was tackling an entire family system as I looked at every biblical woman who had a connection to King David of Old Testament fame. Since David lived in a time when polygamy was accepted, especially for powerful men, he had a number of wives and concubines (secondary wives), as well as grandmothers, a daughter, and even a beautiful woman to warm the elderly king’s cold bed. 

 

Much of my prep time was spent in research, determining what scholars have to say about these women. But I was also able to turn to a favorite pastime, day-dreaming, as I imagined what life was like centuries ago. Was it possible to learn anything from these historical women who were so often at the margin of David’s life? Three hundred and thirty pages later, I guess I found my answer to that question. 

 

I follow Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of nineteenth century American history, as she intertwines familiar and sometimes obscure moments in history with current-day political happenings. Her comparisons are striking as to how applicable the historical lessons are to us in 2021. So are the whispers I’ve heard over the past decade from women with names such as Abigail, Tamar, Michal, Bathsheba and Rizpah. As I wrote about their experiences with an abusive spouse, a rape-intent brother, a fickle husband, a demanding summons from the king, and a heart-wrenching loss, I thought of so many I know who are walking a similar path to these ancient sisters. Yes, historical voices have much to teach us. 

 

When my kids were little, we’d often sing along with the Psalty cassette from Maranatha Music, and Linda Ball’s words came to mind as I put the finishing touches on my book: “In his time, in his time, he makes all things beautiful in his time.” For the “ready to pop” mom, the lumbering elephant, the frilled shark, and the sluggish author, that’s a promise. Yes, good things do come to those who wait.

Highway Robbery

After his service in World War II, my father received his union card for Carpenter’s Union #369, and began a lifelong career in construction. When I was quite young, he had the misfortune of falling off a bridge and breaking his back. There was no paralysis, but during his long recuperation, he was unable to perform the physically taxing work his job demanded.

 

Fortunately, his brother’s brother-in-law arranged for a job as a toll-taker on the Grand Island Bridge, part of the New York State Thruway system. Dad told many stories from those days, but my favorite was the anonymous driver who handed him a char-broiled hot dog on his way through the toll lane – with mustard and pickles, just the way my dad liked it.

 

In today’s world, the job that put a perfect hot dog in my father’s hands and kept food on the table for a young family is facing extinction, as we discovered on a recent trip to visit with the sweet Emma Belle (and her parents) at a campground in central Pennsylvania. I was prepared to hand over a wad of cash  at the PA Turnpike toll booths along the way, but low and behold, there was no toll-taker holding out a hand for my money. Instead, a camera snapped a picture of our license plate. No explanation, no possibility of paying our way as we moved along the highway. Blame the nasty Corona for this too – at least that’s what the turnpike commission claims. 

 

The bill came in the mail five weeks after our trip. Opening the envelope, I was stunned at the price tag – seventy two dollars and forty cents. We’d only driven about 120 miles each way on the Turnpike. That’s highway robbery! We’ve been pandemic-enforced homebodies for quite some time, but that was definitely sticker shock.

 

As it turns out, the robber barons offered me a deal – enroll in E-Z Pass and the cost becomes a bargain at $35.30, saving me $37.10, more than a 50% reduction in the toll. Visit our website or call this number, and easy-peasy, you’re a member of the Pennsylvania E-Z Pass club, with reciprocal kindnesses for Ohio. Of course, I’d have to put money on an account with my new friends, and pay for (and be responsible for) a transponder so that Big Brother could keep an eye on my movements. I’ve watched enough Law and Order: SVU over the years to know where this is going. Talk about conspiracy theories. 

 

Aside from the ability of the government to track my comings and goings, at least on toll highways, now I would have to keep track of an E-Z Pass transponder and have my hard-earned money sitting in some government account with the expectation that I’ll travel on one of their toll roads sometime soon. With no trip to Maine on the horizon, that’s wishful thinking on their part and on mine.

 

I had to make a tough decision: is saving $37.10 worth the trouble it takes to get an E-Z Pass, when I might not use it? I gave in and went to the website, signed away my first born, provided my credit card information, and got to the final step – paying my bill. Instead of paying $72.40, the original toll, I was now paying $73.30, which included the reduced toll, the annual fee pf $3.00, and a payment of $35.00 , “on account.” So much for “let’s make a deal” or “the price is right.” I’ll have to leave a note with my last will and testament so my kids can recoup that $35.00. 

 

What’s frustrating is the extortionist price of taxation for those without their precious transponder. Some, like myself, are unaware of this penalty, while others (maybe like myself) don’t trust this newfangled technology or simply want to pay their way as they go, a lesson learned from my depression-scarred parents. Why penalize responsible people like this? 

 

As I add mustard and pickles to my next Sahlen’s hot dog (available at Buehlers), I’ll remember this, Pennsylvania. One more occupation gone to the advances of technology. At least this fever hasn’t spread to Ohio – yet. Stay tuned . . .

 

It's Raining - Or Not

I recently read Kristin Hannah’s latest novel, “The Four Winds.” Her characters were engaging, and after a slow start, the plot kept me reading late into the night. Hannah’s setting was masterfully depicted, as it blended a historical time period (the 1920s-30s), the effects of an economic event (the Great Depression), and the geographical locations of Texas and California. Yet the setting, the plot and the characters of the book were overshadowed by one overwhelming, unpredictable factor – the weather. Unrelenting drought, suffocating heat, terrifying dust storms, and the specter of flash flooding robbed a family of its homestead, its livelihood, and its future – and strove to rob them of hope as well. It was a fascinating read, but definitely not a feel-good book to take to the beach. 

 

In the midst of reading Hannah’s pages, I watched videos of the Town Creek in Ashland as it raged through town, as the miniature golf course at Brookside flooded and detours popped up on many Ashland County roads. At the same time, a friend in Western New York shared pictures of flood waters encroaching on her home. “We are in a mess,” she wrote. “Water up to the house. Roads flooded everywhere. Have never seen water like this out here.” 

 

Her last line is one that’s being repeated throughout the western states, with a change in one word: “Have never seen temperatures like this out here.” Washington and Oregon experienced record highs at the end of June, reaching 118 degrees in both states. Eighty wildfires are burning out of control across the country. As reported in the New York Times, the Bootleg fire in southern Oregon is “so large and generating so much energy and extreme heat that it’s changing the weather. Normally the weather predicts what the fire will do. In this case, the fire is predicting what the weather will do,” said Marcus Kauffman of the state forestry department.

 

These weather-related changes aren’t limited to the west coast. The National Weather Service in New York tweeted, “A happy, hazy hump day” on Wednesday, because smoke from the western wild fires had traveled all the way to New York City. Another report suggested that Philadelphia is experiencing temperatures that are more like Atlanta, Georgia than a southeast Pennsylvania city.

 

I’m no Dick Goddard (the legendary Cleveland meteorologist), but I know enough about the whims of weather to recognize its unlimited power over humans. On my days with the grandkids, too much rain can spoil our outdoor plans, a minor inconvenience but often heart-breaking to the kids. But on a more tragic scale, I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastation of torrential rain and subsequent flooding in the Southern Tier of New York State, and Larry has seen the same along the mighty Mississippi. It’s life-changing, and not for the better. 

 

As “The Four Winds” described so vividly, too little precipitation is just as critical as too much. Those living in the Dust Bowl of the Great Plains in the 1930s were powerless to create rain. Day after day, they looked to the sky with a last sliver of hope, and day after day, there was no rain. While Roosevelt had no power as a rainmaker, his Civilian Conservation Corps ramped up to address the needs of farmers who faced bankruptcy and starvation. Even with no rain, there were methods to prevent soil erosion that could make a difference. Through the Agricultural Adjustment Act, the government paid farmers not to plant certain acreage, as their farming methods had aggravated the damage from the drought. Instead of a hands-off attitude, FDR’s government asked itself the question, “What can we do to make a difference for struggling people in our country?”

 

My understanding of the science of climate emergency is limited, and I’m far from a Greta Thunberg in my commitment to save the whales – or the world. But I do recognize that the drumbeat of rain and the crackling of fire will grow louder and louder as the earth heats up. Do we have the will to hear what their voices are trying to tell us?

 

Olde Canal Days

Canal Fulton is a small northeast Ohio town with a vintage toy store, two ice cream shops, and a towpath trail. Originally named Fulton, “Canal” was later added to its name to “convey a more dynamic quality.” The name change may have helped while the canal was prosperous, but alas, the coming of the railroad dealt Canal Fulton’s prosperity a serious blow. 

 

I was excited when a notification for Lerch’s donuts appeared on my Facebook feed announcing their presence at the Olde Canal Days Festival in Canal Fulton during the time I was caring for my grandkids. I’d never heard of the festival before, but it seemed a good diversion while their parents were away – and yes, Lerch’s donuts too. 

 

I gathered up the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday, and the charming Henry Kyle, and off we went to Canal Fulton last Thursday night, with a pocketful of cash and our sturdy stroller, which I now know how to fold and unfold. We wandered down Main Street, ate our supper sitting on the curb, and bounced in the bounce houses manned by the high school band. As we headed to the car, Madelyn said, “Nana, there’s a Ferris wheel!” Apparently we’d missed a whole section of the festival – the midway by the canal. And I was out of cash.

 

The next night, with Henry safely in the care of his maternal grandmother, it was girls’ night out. As we strolled the midway, I had an aha! moment: this is what normal feels like. After the isolation and fear engendered by the pandemic, it felt good to be in the midst of people once again. Yes, there was some adherence to social distancing in the line for the Ferris wheel, and food vendors had hand sanitizer available, but the Corona seemed far from the festival, even if still lurking in the shadows.

 

Game barkers chattered endlessly, convincing the rubes to squander an Abe Lincoln ($5) for a chance to break a balloon and win a prize worth two quarters. Teen girls in the shortest of shorts (called hot pants when I was a teen) flirted with boys not even old enough to shave. Kids of all ages ate cotton candy (Lizzie), candy apples (Madelyn), and donuts (Nana). 

 

The Ferris wheel that Madelyn had seen shone in all its glory in the sultry night sky. Its original design was to be America’s answer to the Eiffel Tower of Paris, when architect David Burnham challenged a group of engineers to build something “novel, original, daring and unique” for the World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago in the 1890s. George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr. designed its thirty-six cars to carry sixty people each, and the experience was reported to be as if “revolving through a vast orbit in a bird cage.” 

 

For our 2021 ride operator, his was a more quotidian experience, performing his every day, mundane tasks of advancing the wheel, cranking up a small ramp, opening the bar, shooing off the current occupants and lowering the bar on the new riders. More than a hundred years of operation should have found a more efficient way to operate the ride, but apparently not. However, there was steady rhythm to this repetitive task, and the slow-moving line boosted the anticipation of its riders.

 

Unlike Ferris’ first attempt, this Ferris wheel only held two people per car, and I was relieved that our petite six-year-old could ride with “a responsible person” (Madelyn, age 11), so I kept my feet on the ground and sent the sisters into the air together. For the girls, it was as Joni Mitchell sang, “Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing way you feel,” as they rocked in the night sky. 

 

As we wandered back to our car on that pitch black evening, I felt a lingering sense of gratitude for this celebration of the intrepid spirit of early settlers and the back-breaking labor of canal diggers. Because of the daring design of young Mr. Ferris, we had a wonder-filled night, with a box of donuts to take home besides. After a long, long Corona-tinged winter, cotton candy sure does taste good.

Magic in the Air, or Ear

 Have you ever heard of the magic trick where you put a tiny neon pink Polly Pocket shoe up your nose and it comes out your ear? No, I hadn’t heard about that one myself until this week, when the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday tried to do it. While my vague memory from tenth grade biology suggests that our nose and ears do have some kind of connection, it’s more likely the tiny pink shoe would end up in the lungs or stomach, rather than the ear canal. Fortunately for Lizzie, the shoe in question lodged in her nose, and her mom was finally able to extract it (with the obligatory screams of terror from my favorite six-year-old).

 

Christopher Moore reminds us that “Children see magic because they look for it.” I think that’s so for our dear Elizabeth. Her interest in magic was evident at age three, when she performed a magic trick with a blanket. She got her signals crossed a bit, calling out “cock-a-doodle-do” instead of “abracadabra” as she made an object disappear. I’m afraid this most recent failure could mark the end of her promising career as the next David Copperfield, but we shall see.

 

Master magicians are incredible to watch, as their sleight-of-hand maneuvers can make believers out of the most skeptical of us. But a bad magician? I’ve sat through a display or two I wish I could forget. Before we send Lizzie off to study at Houdini University, I hope to shift her focus from magic tricks to the magic of our world. Instead of attempting to influence the course of events by using mysterious or supernatural forces, I want her to be able to see the wonder of the world around her: the magic of a glorious sunset, fireflies dancing in the twilight, a waterfall splashing into the rocks below. As master children’s writer Roald Dahl explains, I want her to “watch with glittering eyes the whole world around [her] because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.” 

 

Charles de Lint writes in the modern fantasy genre. He says, “I do believe in an everyday sort of magic – the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of synchronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.” 

 

Those magical moments can come between the pages of a book, in the quiet of the forest floor, or on a late-night walk along the beach under a golden moon. Yet they also are unveiled as we move within our family circle, as our connections with friends are renewed and as our faith is expressed through worship and celebration. I felt that sense of wonder recently as our church family began to gather together again. As the beloved stood in worship, singing Chris Tomlin’s “How Great is Our God,” there it was, that shiver of wonder that seldom came in front of a computer screen.

 

When we recently celebrated Lizzie’s sixth birthday, she blew out her birthday candles in a Covid-safe manner without spraying saliva all over her cake. Her wish, as she has articulated from time to time throughout the last year and a half, is that she wants the Corona to be over. We all do, Lizzie, we all do. That nasty Corona has been a thief, stealing life from those we love, robbing us of a sense of security in our daily interactions, and often keeping the magic of wonder at bay. 

The Corona is still hanging on so we can’t fully let our guard down yet, even if vaccinated. But as it retreats, I’ve been singing an old gospel chorus with these words: “I went to the enemy’s camp and I took back what he stole from me.” We don’t have the power to summon back those who have been slaughtered by the virus, but I am claiming a new sense of wonder in these in-between days. Welcome, magical summer. Welcome, tomatoes fresh from the garden. Welcome, the joy of faces reflected in the campfire. Welcome, shiver of the divine. We are watching with glittering eyes. 

 

Technologically Challenged

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, even a technologically-challenged old dog? New trick #1. When I went to the ATM to make a deposit, my debit card was expired. Turns out they sent its replacement to my old address. Wanting to get the money in the bank, I figured out how to deposit a check into my bank by using my phone, simply taking a picture of the check. Remarkable.

 

#2. After a fun day at the zoo with the grandkids, I couldn’t figure out how to fold up Henry’s stroller. I asked another family and they couldn’t figure it out either (so I am not the only one). I tried putting it in the car without folding it, but it didn’t fit, so in my desperation I thought to myself, “Google it, Barbara.” A couple of clicks on my phone, and I found an instruction manual with pictures. Success – the stroller made it home from the zoo along with three tired grandchildren and one exhausted grandmother. 

 

Two steps forward, one step back. By the end of that evening, I managed to get myself locked out of my gmail account on my laptop. It’s the email I use for the important stuff, like receiving bills, communicating with friends and clients, and sending my weekly column to the T-G. They’re telling me it will take until mid-July to let me back in, as they need that long to verify my identity – just because I forgot a password? I’ve managed to avoid Facebook jail all these years, and now this. While I may not be a wolf, I’m making his plea tonight: “Little pig, little pig, let me come in,” and the gmail peeps are taunting me in response: “Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin will I open the door so that you can come in.”

 

The fact that I had to google how to fold up a stroller speaks to my natural inability to figure out anything mechanical. But the fact that I could google how to fold up a stroller speaks to my privilege. I have the right equipment. I have a computer and a cell phone with a camera. I can read .I can afford to pay for cell phone service and internet every month. 

 

Yet that is not true for everyone I know. One friend has (and is quite happy with) a flip phone. Another has no cell phone at all, by choice. Many can’t afford the $100-150 a month it costs for a cell phone and internet. A twelve year old in our church cannot read. A couple of the grandmothers can’t either. Another friend has been dependent on the computers at the library, and we all know what COVID did to that accessibility for many months. 

 

The term “privilege” can seem to be overused these days, but how I understand it is that the playing field of life is not level. Depending upon where we are positioned in regards to poverty, race, gender, age, ability or disability, and more, finding success in life, whether folding a stroller or using a computer, is more difficult for some than for others. 

 

Catholic theologian Henri Nouwen speaks to privilege from a spiritual basis: “When we have nothing to cling to as our own and cease thinking of ourselves as people who must defend privileges, we can open ourselves freely to others with the faithful expectation that our strength will manifest itself in our shared weakness.” 

 

While the struggles of the “isms’ such as ageism, sexism, ableism, classism and racism are not easily resolved, Father Nouwen understood that the challenges facing humans went deeper than labels. Might it be that if we open ourselves freely to others, even to those “others’ who are different from us, we might begin to find our way forward? We may not be able to level the playing field created by privilege of all sorts, but perhaps we can discover ways to help others get to the field or to lift them up when they stumble. It’s worth a try.