I borrowed a book from the Canal Fulton Library, Collected Works, by G.K. Chesterton.
This man is one of the great Christian writers; have you heard of him? I just started reading the book and started with a short story, "The Wild Goose Game." A boy sees a wild goose and just knows he has to chase it. So he leaves everything behind and goes off on this adventure. He's met up with a number of different birds already, but now he encounters a wise, old owl for answers as to how to find the beautiful, white, wild goose.
The owl asks him why he wants to find this particular bird. "I think," said the little boy, "I seem to have followed it because I couldn't get it." "Logical," sniffed the Owl. "No," replied the Boy, "not logical, only natural. I looked at the white bird flapping far away against the fiery sunset and I seemed to long to spend my whole life seeking for it in the strange sunset lands. I longed to follow it and find where it lived and all about it simply because it seemed as if the chase might last forever."
Chesterton's works have strong Christian themes running through them, and I suspect that the white bird has a deep-seated meaning, but I'll have to keep reading to find out. Meanwhile, the writer has hooked me because we can all relate to this little boy and his quest. I'd bet that each one of you who reads this blog has had some kind of quest that has gone on for a long, long while. And I'd also be willing to bet that the quest continues in part because you have not been able to reach the goal.
We humans are wired that way by God, I think, because all of our lives the most important quest that we undertake -- that of reaching heaven -- is just over the horizon in the lands of the fiery sun. We know so little about it and we want to know everything about it.
Writers have been trying to tell us about heaven over the ages. A more recent book, "Heaven is For Real," deals with a near death experience of a child. One of the neatest parts of the book for me was when he saw his grandfather (whom he had never known), and recognized a picture of him in a photo album. Another great part was his response in answer to questions that Catholics had asked about heaven. He said that, yes, Mary was in heaven with Jesus and was always right by her. In another book about heaven, this one written with a lot of Bible references, the author says that he believes we will play sports in heaven, have our own room, and visit with whomever we want but will tend to visit with the same people (our favorites).
My sister always asks, "But where ARE they?" This we do not know for sure. Faith is not science. Faith is believing in something that we cannot see, an amazing gift. It is a gift we cannot explain to those who do not believe; it is a gift that we have to show through our lives and how we live them.
A Bible leader once said that faith is like a gift sitting on the table. And it will continue to sit there all wrapped in finery until we take the time to open it.
So if you haven't opened it, please do so. If you have opened it, but it needs a little dusting off, please do so. And if you haven't read Chesterton, make a little note and do so.
For doing the work of the Lord requires perspiration and also inspiration.
Light of Christ
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Friday, June 28, 2013
Mr. Archer
Yesterday was the funeral Mass for Herb Archer, 85 years old, and a long-time parishioner at SS Philip & James Church. There were many, many people at church and that should make all of his family members very proud.
Herb's primary job was as an employee at Superior Meats for 31 years. He then drove a school bus for Northwest Schools for 17 years.
Two of the people who sang in the choir for his Mass were among those Herb transported here and there. For one of them, it was the Archers' garage where they waited to take the bus to Central Catholic High School. For another one of them, Mr. Archer was her bus driver for a long while. According to Fr. McCaffrey, those bus loads of kids were "his" kids to Mr. Archer who took the job very seriously and put a lot into it.
One of those bus riders was Jill. Jill Burke started out as Jill Galehouse in Canal Fulton, Ohio, and it was obvious from a young age that she was blessed with a wonderful singing voice. Then Jill became Jill Jordan and she went to Nashville and was under contract for a period of years. She never really achieved the highest eschelon of fame in the country/western genre, but you would not have known that yesterday when she sang two songs for Herb. Jill was Country Newcomer of the Year in 1989, quite the honor from a competitive industry, and her beautiful voice remains strong and true. Her talent today is shown in nursing homes where she entertains residents.
The first song was during Communion -- Ave Maria. After Communion, she sang Heirloom, a country song familiar to most of us and made popular by Amy Grant.
I think that the words are profound and should resonate with every one of us. Who doesn't have boxes of photos and a few "heirlooms" about? Who doesn't have containers of memories? And really, in the grand scheme of things, what does all of this stuff mean except for the people we love captured in that moment in time.
So this is Heirloom.
Lifetimes of boxes, timeless to me
Letters and photographs, yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter, some bringing tears
Time never changes the memories, the faces
Of loved ones who bring to me
All that I come from and all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious family is more than an heirloom to me
Wisemen and shepherds down on their knees
Bringing their treasures to lay at His feet
Who was this wonder, baby yet King?
Living and dying, He gave life to me
Time never changes the memory, the moment
His love first pierced through me
Telling all that I come from and all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious Savior is more than an heirloom to me
My precious Jesus
Is more than an heirloom to me.
It says a lot.
.
Herb's primary job was as an employee at Superior Meats for 31 years. He then drove a school bus for Northwest Schools for 17 years.
Two of the people who sang in the choir for his Mass were among those Herb transported here and there. For one of them, it was the Archers' garage where they waited to take the bus to Central Catholic High School. For another one of them, Mr. Archer was her bus driver for a long while. According to Fr. McCaffrey, those bus loads of kids were "his" kids to Mr. Archer who took the job very seriously and put a lot into it.
One of those bus riders was Jill. Jill Burke started out as Jill Galehouse in Canal Fulton, Ohio, and it was obvious from a young age that she was blessed with a wonderful singing voice. Then Jill became Jill Jordan and she went to Nashville and was under contract for a period of years. She never really achieved the highest eschelon of fame in the country/western genre, but you would not have known that yesterday when she sang two songs for Herb. Jill was Country Newcomer of the Year in 1989, quite the honor from a competitive industry, and her beautiful voice remains strong and true. Her talent today is shown in nursing homes where she entertains residents.
The first song was during Communion -- Ave Maria. After Communion, she sang Heirloom, a country song familiar to most of us and made popular by Amy Grant.
I think that the words are profound and should resonate with every one of us. Who doesn't have boxes of photos and a few "heirlooms" about? Who doesn't have containers of memories? And really, in the grand scheme of things, what does all of this stuff mean except for the people we love captured in that moment in time.
So this is Heirloom.
- Songwriters: Brown Bannister, Robert Burk Farrell, Amy Lee Grant
Lifetimes of boxes, timeless to me
Letters and photographs, yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter, some bringing tears
Time never changes the memories, the faces
Of loved ones who bring to me
All that I come from and all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious family is more than an heirloom to me
Wisemen and shepherds down on their knees
Bringing their treasures to lay at His feet
Who was this wonder, baby yet King?
Living and dying, He gave life to me
Time never changes the memory, the moment
His love first pierced through me
Telling all that I come from and all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious Savior is more than an heirloom to me
My precious Jesus
Is more than an heirloom to me.
It says a lot.
.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Thursday
What are we going to talk about today?
An NFL star is charged with murder. Another jury needs to be seated to determine the fate of Jodi Arias -- life or the death penalty. The George Zimmerman trial is in full swing in Florida.
Do soap operas imitate life or does life imitate soap operas? It's kind of hard to say these days. Each of the above mentioned stories involves a death. Three people are dead after contact with Aaron Hernandez, Jodi Arias and George Zimmerman. That makes it much different than a soap opera where after the taping is over, everyone gets to go home.
I almost hate to admit that I watched the made-for-TV movie about Jodi Arias a few days ago. It seemed to follow fairly closely the details that were provided in the newspapers and on TV. I did not watch the trial. The bottom line -- it would seem that Ms. Arias was not about to share "her" man with anyone else. And it would seem that Travis Alexander was leading a secret life, one that he did not share with his closest Mormon friends who would certainly not have approved.
George Zimmerman may be the type of person who loves the rush, and didn't find much of that in his personal life. Being a watch captain gave him that thrill; phoning 911 about suspicious characters gave him that thrill; being out at night with a gun gave him that thrill. There is so much he-said, he-said in this case that it is hard to say what will happen. But if you go by the experts on TV, his attorney didn't do him any favors today while questioning the girl that Treyvon was talking to at the time of his death.
The NFL player's story is a little vague right now. The authorities are keeping whatever evidence they have fairly quiet. Apparently, the victim in this case did know Hernandez and his body was found only about a mile away from the house belonging to Hernandez. Bags of evidence was removed from his house.
When I was still working at Akron, I took some for-credit classes. One of them was criminal justice, and it was really excellent. Our system of justice in the United States is an adversarial one by its very nature. The "state" prosecutes the accused and the defense defends the accused. Each is supposed to do their very best to provide the jury or in some cases the judge with all of the available information. The scales of justice should balance out.
What does all of this have to do with life in a small town and faith?
It just goes to show that no matter how small the town, all of us have information about what goes on in the world to the extent that we want to know. It's everywhere, and 24 hours a day. It means to me that we see played out in the cases mentioned above that there is good and evil. Each one of us would certainly hope that we would make better choices -- choices based on what we know and understand about right and wrong.
And that goes for big towns and small towns too.
Amen.
An NFL star is charged with murder. Another jury needs to be seated to determine the fate of Jodi Arias -- life or the death penalty. The George Zimmerman trial is in full swing in Florida.
Do soap operas imitate life or does life imitate soap operas? It's kind of hard to say these days. Each of the above mentioned stories involves a death. Three people are dead after contact with Aaron Hernandez, Jodi Arias and George Zimmerman. That makes it much different than a soap opera where after the taping is over, everyone gets to go home.
I almost hate to admit that I watched the made-for-TV movie about Jodi Arias a few days ago. It seemed to follow fairly closely the details that were provided in the newspapers and on TV. I did not watch the trial. The bottom line -- it would seem that Ms. Arias was not about to share "her" man with anyone else. And it would seem that Travis Alexander was leading a secret life, one that he did not share with his closest Mormon friends who would certainly not have approved.
George Zimmerman may be the type of person who loves the rush, and didn't find much of that in his personal life. Being a watch captain gave him that thrill; phoning 911 about suspicious characters gave him that thrill; being out at night with a gun gave him that thrill. There is so much he-said, he-said in this case that it is hard to say what will happen. But if you go by the experts on TV, his attorney didn't do him any favors today while questioning the girl that Treyvon was talking to at the time of his death.
The NFL player's story is a little vague right now. The authorities are keeping whatever evidence they have fairly quiet. Apparently, the victim in this case did know Hernandez and his body was found only about a mile away from the house belonging to Hernandez. Bags of evidence was removed from his house.
When I was still working at Akron, I took some for-credit classes. One of them was criminal justice, and it was really excellent. Our system of justice in the United States is an adversarial one by its very nature. The "state" prosecutes the accused and the defense defends the accused. Each is supposed to do their very best to provide the jury or in some cases the judge with all of the available information. The scales of justice should balance out.
What does all of this have to do with life in a small town and faith?
It just goes to show that no matter how small the town, all of us have information about what goes on in the world to the extent that we want to know. It's everywhere, and 24 hours a day. It means to me that we see played out in the cases mentioned above that there is good and evil. Each one of us would certainly hope that we would make better choices -- choices based on what we know and understand about right and wrong.
And that goes for big towns and small towns too.
Amen.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Renovation
There is a new reality show -- probably hard to believe, right? It's called "Renovation Raiders" and the premise is that the husband knows but the wife doesn't that after they return from an evening out, their house will have undergone a drastic makeover.
In six hours they completely gutted a kitchen, did electrical and plumbing work, replaced all appliances and added one (wine cooler), installed hardwood floors, painted and decorated. They practice in a warehouse using the actual layout of the house they will be working on. Then they load up some of the prefabbed stuff into a box truck and off they go.
The unsuspecting wife ate a seven course meal with her husband and then found out (surprise) that their tire was flat, thanks to a good friend of theirs who acted as spy to let the raiders know what was going on.
Wouldn't it be great if we could completely renovate ourselves in six hours? And I'm not talking about physical condition here. I'm talking about our souls. In Bible studies, we talked about how God helps us to remember our past sins, particularly those we've chosen to bury deep. A few times lately as I've been otherwise occupied except for my mind that's busily humming along, I'll suddenly get a bolt out of the blue -- a memory of something that I did a long, long time ago. Something that hurt someone else's feelings for sure.
It's humbling and that's just what it should do.
When we were at Marblehead, I asked my sister whom she really misses there. Her house sits on Bayshore Drive and then there is a lane that runs straight down to the lake with houses on each side. The original owners of her house sold off parcels and created an association for the homeowners. There is a dock and some open space at the end of the lane where Lake Eric comes into view. Currently, only one husband-wife live there year round. She answered that she missed the Kreigers. They hailed from North Lawrence and had the cottage closest to the lake. They loved to fish!!
The last time she had spoken to Carrie Kreiger, the elderly woman wasn't doing very well and was in a nursing home. So when I got home, I checked online and found out that she died in February 2012. So I let my sister know that. Mrs. Kreiger was a well known figure in volunteer circles. She was a very giving person, but she was also earthy and forthright.
Goes back to what I was saying about six hours -- the approximate amount of time it takes to fly from Cleveland to Los Angeles including check in and out. We may not be able to clean out the cobwebs in six hours, but we can try an hour at a time, can't we? For prayer is like a good housecleaning for our souls. We pray for others and God works on us.
Bad storms last night. I pray for the families in Canton that were so hard hit!!
In six hours they completely gutted a kitchen, did electrical and plumbing work, replaced all appliances and added one (wine cooler), installed hardwood floors, painted and decorated. They practice in a warehouse using the actual layout of the house they will be working on. Then they load up some of the prefabbed stuff into a box truck and off they go.
The unsuspecting wife ate a seven course meal with her husband and then found out (surprise) that their tire was flat, thanks to a good friend of theirs who acted as spy to let the raiders know what was going on.
Wouldn't it be great if we could completely renovate ourselves in six hours? And I'm not talking about physical condition here. I'm talking about our souls. In Bible studies, we talked about how God helps us to remember our past sins, particularly those we've chosen to bury deep. A few times lately as I've been otherwise occupied except for my mind that's busily humming along, I'll suddenly get a bolt out of the blue -- a memory of something that I did a long, long time ago. Something that hurt someone else's feelings for sure.
It's humbling and that's just what it should do.
When we were at Marblehead, I asked my sister whom she really misses there. Her house sits on Bayshore Drive and then there is a lane that runs straight down to the lake with houses on each side. The original owners of her house sold off parcels and created an association for the homeowners. There is a dock and some open space at the end of the lane where Lake Eric comes into view. Currently, only one husband-wife live there year round. She answered that she missed the Kreigers. They hailed from North Lawrence and had the cottage closest to the lake. They loved to fish!!
The last time she had spoken to Carrie Kreiger, the elderly woman wasn't doing very well and was in a nursing home. So when I got home, I checked online and found out that she died in February 2012. So I let my sister know that. Mrs. Kreiger was a well known figure in volunteer circles. She was a very giving person, but she was also earthy and forthright.
Goes back to what I was saying about six hours -- the approximate amount of time it takes to fly from Cleveland to Los Angeles including check in and out. We may not be able to clean out the cobwebs in six hours, but we can try an hour at a time, can't we? For prayer is like a good housecleaning for our souls. We pray for others and God works on us.
Bad storms last night. I pray for the families in Canton that were so hard hit!!
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
The Essence of Faith
The trip to Marblehead was just what the doctor ordered. The weather, though hovering at 90 degrees on Saturday, was still beautiful and there was a breeze as there almost always is by Lake Erie.
Martha and Molly's was open as we had hoped, still operated by the older gentleman we've come to admire and enjoy. My husband's comment to him when we walked into the shop and found him in his usual windowed spot by the cash register was, "Hi Martha." My retort was, "Eric, that was actually very funny." Another shopper smiled at us in amusement.
As we rode in the car back to the cottage after getting some sandals, my husband said he'd asked the owner about the nun who had always purchased her shoes there. She made the trip once a year for the longest of times, and the last pair he had ordered for her, size 16, had been on display when we first visited the shop years before. They were quite the conversation piece. He'd ordered them for her yearly summer visit, but she never again came.
Lately, I've been ruminating about deep thoughts that often come out of nowhere. The visit to Marblehead did nothing to change that, and in fact, probably made me more introspective. I've been thinking about birth, life and death. The mystery of it all. Now I'm using a two-week trial membership in Ancestry.com to ferret out more information about people I hardly got to know. People whose genes I must certainly share.
During the weekend, my sister answered more questions about our grandfather. He had started at 26 as a newly-minted American, and according to a copy of a scrap of paper related to his naturalization, he lived at that time in New York City. Using Google Earth, I typed in the address and found myself on a street looking at a brownstone with the exact address hand written on a basement door. Already knowing what came next, my grandfather's humble beginning in the US was a blip on the radar screen. Soon he became an accomplished chef (trained by his successful brother) and was head chef at a huge resort in the Catskill Mountains with 1,200 rooms and also a very fancy eatery in Cleveland, the Union Club. He and his Alsatian-born wife (as was he) built a home on West Boulevard in Cleveland in 1902. Another trip on Google Earth plunked me right in front of a handsome two-story home with almost 1900 square feet, four bedrooms, and one bathroom. The stock market crash decimated my grandfather's savings, and he and his wife sold their home to a well-known Cleveland gangster, Jimmy Patton. They moved to a much more modest home in Fairview Park, my hometown. During the last years of his life closing in on 70 he rode a trolley to work where he was a night watchman, and his home was a rented room. He spent the last two months of his life in a hospital suffering from cancer of the gallbladder. Gathered in his room, family members were speaking of his death while he was in a coma. My mother instead looked at him and kindly told them that he could hear, since a huge tear ran down his cheek. And then it was over. This man who had known such success, who had been in the Knights of Columbus, who had owned a beautiful home and beautiful furniture, who had cooked for the rich and the famous, was gone from his family. His faith was all he had at the end.
Today's readings at Mass were about the apostles' realization that Jesus was the Christ, not a resurrected prophet as many people thought. The paragraph ended with the words of Jesus, that we should pick up our own cross and follow him.
To pick up our cross means to accept all of the hardships and burdens of this life, but even much more than that -- to do the work of our Lord. There are crosses made of mahogany, a naturally red wood that might appear to be stained with blood. There are crosses of deep brown oak, one of the sturdiest of woods, revealing a loyal servant of God. There are platinum crosses that reflect the light of the sun and the Son. There are gold crosses that I imagine being carried by the saints because of their worth to the world. There are acrylic crosses that are translucent, showing a soul of great purity and one that hides almost nothing. There are huge crosses and very small ones. All of the crosses are gifts to us because according to Jesus, we help complete his suffering on Calvary not that He needed us to do that. He has given us that chance.
A bioptic on TV on Sunday about H. Graham Greene, a writer who happened to be a convert to Catholicism, described one of his books about a priest who greatly sinned. Greene was criticized by many for the book, but his comment was that the mysterious and unfathomable mercy of God is certainly found in those who need it the most. I paraphrase here, but you get the idea.
Greene traveled the world more or less trying to escape from himself. Honestly, his trips to the Congo, Mexico, Vietnam, and other remote places put no distance between him and what he feared most. That he could not wrap his mind around the Divine Mercy of God forgiving all of his sins and apparently there were many. He didn't need to go to all of those places to find meat for his stories or answers to the deepest of questions. Inspiration is everywhere -- which takes us right back to Marblehead which has oft been mine.
Have a great Tuesday!!
Martha and Molly's was open as we had hoped, still operated by the older gentleman we've come to admire and enjoy. My husband's comment to him when we walked into the shop and found him in his usual windowed spot by the cash register was, "Hi Martha." My retort was, "Eric, that was actually very funny." Another shopper smiled at us in amusement.
As we rode in the car back to the cottage after getting some sandals, my husband said he'd asked the owner about the nun who had always purchased her shoes there. She made the trip once a year for the longest of times, and the last pair he had ordered for her, size 16, had been on display when we first visited the shop years before. They were quite the conversation piece. He'd ordered them for her yearly summer visit, but she never again came.
Lately, I've been ruminating about deep thoughts that often come out of nowhere. The visit to Marblehead did nothing to change that, and in fact, probably made me more introspective. I've been thinking about birth, life and death. The mystery of it all. Now I'm using a two-week trial membership in Ancestry.com to ferret out more information about people I hardly got to know. People whose genes I must certainly share.
During the weekend, my sister answered more questions about our grandfather. He had started at 26 as a newly-minted American, and according to a copy of a scrap of paper related to his naturalization, he lived at that time in New York City. Using Google Earth, I typed in the address and found myself on a street looking at a brownstone with the exact address hand written on a basement door. Already knowing what came next, my grandfather's humble beginning in the US was a blip on the radar screen. Soon he became an accomplished chef (trained by his successful brother) and was head chef at a huge resort in the Catskill Mountains with 1,200 rooms and also a very fancy eatery in Cleveland, the Union Club. He and his Alsatian-born wife (as was he) built a home on West Boulevard in Cleveland in 1902. Another trip on Google Earth plunked me right in front of a handsome two-story home with almost 1900 square feet, four bedrooms, and one bathroom. The stock market crash decimated my grandfather's savings, and he and his wife sold their home to a well-known Cleveland gangster, Jimmy Patton. They moved to a much more modest home in Fairview Park, my hometown. During the last years of his life closing in on 70 he rode a trolley to work where he was a night watchman, and his home was a rented room. He spent the last two months of his life in a hospital suffering from cancer of the gallbladder. Gathered in his room, family members were speaking of his death while he was in a coma. My mother instead looked at him and kindly told them that he could hear, since a huge tear ran down his cheek. And then it was over. This man who had known such success, who had been in the Knights of Columbus, who had owned a beautiful home and beautiful furniture, who had cooked for the rich and the famous, was gone from his family. His faith was all he had at the end.
Today's readings at Mass were about the apostles' realization that Jesus was the Christ, not a resurrected prophet as many people thought. The paragraph ended with the words of Jesus, that we should pick up our own cross and follow him.
To pick up our cross means to accept all of the hardships and burdens of this life, but even much more than that -- to do the work of our Lord. There are crosses made of mahogany, a naturally red wood that might appear to be stained with blood. There are crosses of deep brown oak, one of the sturdiest of woods, revealing a loyal servant of God. There are platinum crosses that reflect the light of the sun and the Son. There are gold crosses that I imagine being carried by the saints because of their worth to the world. There are acrylic crosses that are translucent, showing a soul of great purity and one that hides almost nothing. There are huge crosses and very small ones. All of the crosses are gifts to us because according to Jesus, we help complete his suffering on Calvary not that He needed us to do that. He has given us that chance.
A bioptic on TV on Sunday about H. Graham Greene, a writer who happened to be a convert to Catholicism, described one of his books about a priest who greatly sinned. Greene was criticized by many for the book, but his comment was that the mysterious and unfathomable mercy of God is certainly found in those who need it the most. I paraphrase here, but you get the idea.
Greene traveled the world more or less trying to escape from himself. Honestly, his trips to the Congo, Mexico, Vietnam, and other remote places put no distance between him and what he feared most. That he could not wrap his mind around the Divine Mercy of God forgiving all of his sins and apparently there were many. He didn't need to go to all of those places to find meat for his stories or answers to the deepest of questions. Inspiration is everywhere -- which takes us right back to Marblehead which has oft been mine.
Have a great Tuesday!!
Friday, June 21, 2013
Friday/Saturday
This post will have to suffice for both Friday and Saturday, so I suppose it should be doubly good.
We are leaving this morning for Marblehead on Lake Erie to visit with my sister, so basically we are trading one small town for another.
Marblehead gets its name from the limestone quarries that are still operational there. It's a jutting out of land that ends at its point with a beautiful white, trimmed-in-red lighthouse. A must see for visitors. The beautiful light tender's cottage is just darling. And the crazy part is you turn down this driveway that takes you right by a church in a residential area, and there in front of you is the lighthouse. It remains in operational but it is open now and again for tours. Check first.
The "downtown" of Marblehead is about the same size as Canal Fulton, maybe a little smaller. There are some unusual shops along the strip of land and no traffic lights. Let's pretend to visit some of them. Embellish is a little shop that sells women's clothing -- Fresh Produce brand for one. There are gauzy little skirts and dresses for warm summer evenings, shorts, tops, and trendy things that come and go. Some of their jewelry items are lovely. The clothes are not cheap and they are for mature women.
Martha and Molly's is a really interesting shop. The owner is an older gentleman who is an expert buyer. He focuses on shoes and some clothing. The place is packed with goods arranged on folding tables and you can always find something to like. The shoes are excellent quality and many of them are Minnetonka brand which seem to hold up very well; in fact, he told us last year that he got an award from Minnetonka for selling more shoes than anyone in the region. Not surprising. This is obviously my favorite shop. I have a number of nice zippered jackets for cooler weather, as well as some very individual tee shirts -- all purchased at Martha and Molly's. And there is neither a Martha nor a Molly in case you were wondering.
Across the street is an antiques store. It's worth a visit too; if not to buy, then to appreciate some nostalgia.
Another spot is an art gallery. You might want to stop there, but I never do. I find the atmosphere to be way too hoydy toydy, and always feel that I need to show evidence of wealth to look. It just never seems to fit in the little town.
Down the road is an old school house, and it is a great place for tourists to look. They have all kinds of things with the lighthouse on them, as well as other household items. There is plenty of parking there too. Not so much near Embellish and Martha and Molly's. There is a private parking lot across the street for $2 I think it is, but that's ridiculous!!
There is a place that serves great Cuban sandwiches along another little strip of stores. There may be some other stores down there too, but I haven't checked in a while.
If you like to swim, there is a public beach not too far away. The ferry is located along the main drag too. There is a great coney dog place and an ice cream place.
There are a few nice spots to stay overnight as well.
Marblehead is one of those not-to-be-forgotten spots in Ohio and it is not spoiled. And don't forget Johnson's Island that was mentioned in an earlier blog about Memorial Day. It is definitely worth a drive.
See you on Tuesday, friends!!!
We are leaving this morning for Marblehead on Lake Erie to visit with my sister, so basically we are trading one small town for another.
Marblehead gets its name from the limestone quarries that are still operational there. It's a jutting out of land that ends at its point with a beautiful white, trimmed-in-red lighthouse. A must see for visitors. The beautiful light tender's cottage is just darling. And the crazy part is you turn down this driveway that takes you right by a church in a residential area, and there in front of you is the lighthouse. It remains in operational but it is open now and again for tours. Check first.
The "downtown" of Marblehead is about the same size as Canal Fulton, maybe a little smaller. There are some unusual shops along the strip of land and no traffic lights. Let's pretend to visit some of them. Embellish is a little shop that sells women's clothing -- Fresh Produce brand for one. There are gauzy little skirts and dresses for warm summer evenings, shorts, tops, and trendy things that come and go. Some of their jewelry items are lovely. The clothes are not cheap and they are for mature women.
Martha and Molly's is a really interesting shop. The owner is an older gentleman who is an expert buyer. He focuses on shoes and some clothing. The place is packed with goods arranged on folding tables and you can always find something to like. The shoes are excellent quality and many of them are Minnetonka brand which seem to hold up very well; in fact, he told us last year that he got an award from Minnetonka for selling more shoes than anyone in the region. Not surprising. This is obviously my favorite shop. I have a number of nice zippered jackets for cooler weather, as well as some very individual tee shirts -- all purchased at Martha and Molly's. And there is neither a Martha nor a Molly in case you were wondering.
Across the street is an antiques store. It's worth a visit too; if not to buy, then to appreciate some nostalgia.
Another spot is an art gallery. You might want to stop there, but I never do. I find the atmosphere to be way too hoydy toydy, and always feel that I need to show evidence of wealth to look. It just never seems to fit in the little town.
Down the road is an old school house, and it is a great place for tourists to look. They have all kinds of things with the lighthouse on them, as well as other household items. There is plenty of parking there too. Not so much near Embellish and Martha and Molly's. There is a private parking lot across the street for $2 I think it is, but that's ridiculous!!
There is a place that serves great Cuban sandwiches along another little strip of stores. There may be some other stores down there too, but I haven't checked in a while.
If you like to swim, there is a public beach not too far away. The ferry is located along the main drag too. There is a great coney dog place and an ice cream place.
There are a few nice spots to stay overnight as well.
Marblehead is one of those not-to-be-forgotten spots in Ohio and it is not spoiled. And don't forget Johnson's Island that was mentioned in an earlier blog about Memorial Day. It is definitely worth a drive.
See you on Tuesday, friends!!!
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Peace Core and VISTA
In the 60s when I was in college, we heard a lot about the newly-established Peace Corps and also VISTA (Volunteers in Service To America). VISTA was the homeland's version of the Peace Corps, and they were always seeking individuals who might want to help in impoverished places within Tennessee or maybe West Virginia.
When first hearing about the Peace Corps, what I was drawn to was the idea of helping people help themselves -- the old story of giving someone some fish for one meal, or teaching someone to fish for a lifetime of meals. To me it made sense and it still does. I'm honestly convinced that there are not many people on this earth who just want a handout. Oh, they might think that's what they want, but there is purpose in work and effort. Once an individual gets that feeling of worth from their work, it changes them much for the good.
Another thing I did back in the 60s was work for Cuyahoga County during my summers at home. The first two summers, 1965 and 1966 were spent at 24th and Payne at the Welfare Building. I walked from the bus station terminus at 15th, a long nine block stretch past the police station and unsavory bars. A brick hothouse of a building, the welfare building was not air conditioned and we were sent home if the temperature inside reached around 95 as I recall. I don't recall that ever happening. We ( a large group of women) were on the fourth floor working at desks in a wide expanse broken only by support pillars. At each desk was an electric typewriter and a Dictaphone machine. Stored on the desktop were disks that fit into the Dictaphone sized like 45 rpm records.
My job was to transcribe the recorded words of case workers for eight hours a day, five days a week. We used good quality paper and had to hand correct any mistakes we made, so I ended up buying the equivalent of white-out which at that time was handheld correction tape. Helped immensely. Once we selected a disk, we had to go to the adjacent records department and ask for the file folder for that client. Some of the folders were really thick, meaning that this welfare client had been known to the county for a long time. In the files behind the caseworker's notes, there were newspaper clippings sometimes -- robberies, accidents, murders, shootings, assaults.
The caseworkers were overloaded but did their best to make visits in a timely manner. One of the key things they were looking for was signs that a man, a husband, or the father was staying at the home because that negated the client's qualifications for getting welfare. Even at that time, the idea that the men were not welcome in the home made me wonder what sort of effect this was going to have. Essentially, this policy made it illegal for a father figure to be present in the home. It created the matriarchal arrangement that still dominates many poor neighborhoods. Getting the handout came at a price, and although caseworkers tried, no one was learning to fish.
It was a system and each client was a number.
The second summer, I was sent downstairs to "Intake" one day to drop off some paperwork. I'd never been down there before because we entered the building from a separate entrance. I was ill prepared for the cacophony of sounds and sad souls in that area, people who had reached the last straw and were there to try and get help. My emotions were really shaken that day by what I saw and from that point on, the case histories were something much more profound -- they were the stories of life's failures on so many levels.
As naïve as I was back then, what was missing in the system was so obvious. We weren't helping anyone in the long run, and the craziness continues to this day because no one has come up with something that might actually work. Generations of children have grown up in dysfunctional homes where the caseworker is a spy for the system. Caseworkers made notoriously low pay and work in difficult conditions and there is turnover.
How much would it cost to teach people to fish?
As I picked up another file, it was yet another person's story. One that began with an innocent baby with potential and possibilities. A child of God created in the image and likeness of God. A child created with abilities and talents. There must be better ways.
When first hearing about the Peace Corps, what I was drawn to was the idea of helping people help themselves -- the old story of giving someone some fish for one meal, or teaching someone to fish for a lifetime of meals. To me it made sense and it still does. I'm honestly convinced that there are not many people on this earth who just want a handout. Oh, they might think that's what they want, but there is purpose in work and effort. Once an individual gets that feeling of worth from their work, it changes them much for the good.
Another thing I did back in the 60s was work for Cuyahoga County during my summers at home. The first two summers, 1965 and 1966 were spent at 24th and Payne at the Welfare Building. I walked from the bus station terminus at 15th, a long nine block stretch past the police station and unsavory bars. A brick hothouse of a building, the welfare building was not air conditioned and we were sent home if the temperature inside reached around 95 as I recall. I don't recall that ever happening. We ( a large group of women) were on the fourth floor working at desks in a wide expanse broken only by support pillars. At each desk was an electric typewriter and a Dictaphone machine. Stored on the desktop were disks that fit into the Dictaphone sized like 45 rpm records.
My job was to transcribe the recorded words of case workers for eight hours a day, five days a week. We used good quality paper and had to hand correct any mistakes we made, so I ended up buying the equivalent of white-out which at that time was handheld correction tape. Helped immensely. Once we selected a disk, we had to go to the adjacent records department and ask for the file folder for that client. Some of the folders were really thick, meaning that this welfare client had been known to the county for a long time. In the files behind the caseworker's notes, there were newspaper clippings sometimes -- robberies, accidents, murders, shootings, assaults.
The caseworkers were overloaded but did their best to make visits in a timely manner. One of the key things they were looking for was signs that a man, a husband, or the father was staying at the home because that negated the client's qualifications for getting welfare. Even at that time, the idea that the men were not welcome in the home made me wonder what sort of effect this was going to have. Essentially, this policy made it illegal for a father figure to be present in the home. It created the matriarchal arrangement that still dominates many poor neighborhoods. Getting the handout came at a price, and although caseworkers tried, no one was learning to fish.
It was a system and each client was a number.
The second summer, I was sent downstairs to "Intake" one day to drop off some paperwork. I'd never been down there before because we entered the building from a separate entrance. I was ill prepared for the cacophony of sounds and sad souls in that area, people who had reached the last straw and were there to try and get help. My emotions were really shaken that day by what I saw and from that point on, the case histories were something much more profound -- they were the stories of life's failures on so many levels.
As naïve as I was back then, what was missing in the system was so obvious. We weren't helping anyone in the long run, and the craziness continues to this day because no one has come up with something that might actually work. Generations of children have grown up in dysfunctional homes where the caseworker is a spy for the system. Caseworkers made notoriously low pay and work in difficult conditions and there is turnover.
How much would it cost to teach people to fish?
As I picked up another file, it was yet another person's story. One that began with an innocent baby with potential and possibilities. A child of God created in the image and likeness of God. A child created with abilities and talents. There must be better ways.
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