all of the selves we Have ever been
Retail shops re-opened in Ohio yesterday. I am grateful to have these brick and mortar stores in my neighborhood. I hope they can stand up to both Amazon and the coronavirus. These shops are vital to the life of a community. My grandparents owned and operated a small grocery store in Adena, Ohio. It had a legal name. I am not one hundred percent sure what that name was. To all of us in the family, it was known simply as “the store.” That small shop became the centerpiece of my childhood. A short path linked the side-door of the store to the kitchen door of my grandmother’s home, the hub of her household. Hearing the store’s screen door slam indicated that a relative or neighbor was on their way for a visit. That sound was sure to grab your attention. Not many people visited the house. There wasn’t much need when so much visiting went on inside the store. It was at the store that I came to know the members of my community. It is where I heard their many languages and became familiar with their lovely immigrant accents. I came to know some of their stories and overheard many of their problems—a sick child, a drinking husband, unemployment, and “CA,” known to us now as cancer. The shoppers sought out the ingredients for their special recipes, a rich menu of native foods. There was no need for formalized “diversity training.” It happened naturally at the store. My Aunt Phoebe, the oldest of my grandparents’ children, ran the grocery business throughout my youth. She had a gift for languages and was skilled at rapidly switching tongues. Even though I knew these people came from many different countries, because of Phoebe’s skill, I thought there were only two universal languages, English and Polish. Never mind the fact that my grandparents came from Lebanon, and I heard my grandmother speak Arabic in our home. For the most part, in this small village, people came to the store on foot. It was a time when many women did not drive and families had few cars. The large majority of shoppers were women. Though post-war advertisers targeted women with the goal of turning them into buying machines, even from my child’s eye-view, I could see why women loved to shop. It got them out of the house and into communion with others. It was a break from the daily grind. They got some exercise and some time to themselves on the walk to and from the store. They were reminded that they were not alone. These women spent a few dollars and shed a few worries. The pantry was restocked. They left the store with some fresh hope in a brown paper bag. The women all seemed so old to me in their long skirts and comfortable shoes. They were unembarrassed by the graying of their hair that they sometimes covered with babushkas--not out of vanity but because of weather or custom. They smelled of garlic and spices. They did not visit salons for manicures. Their nails were shaped and worn from work and colored from the earth’s soil, coal dust, or simmering beets. I was taught that all of these were signs of women worthy of my respect. It was at the store where I learned to work, bagging groceries, dusting and stocking shelves. I learned how to read the wholesale catalog to determine the suggested retail prices. We used an ink stamper to price each individual item. There were no computer codes or scanners. My fingertips became black from the ink as I turned the tiny dials to change the prices. I learned about commerce as the delivery drivers arrived with trays of Wonder bread, cartons of canned goods, and Sugardale meats. There was a walk-in refrigerator where sides of beef hung from a hook and my aunts or the butcher stepped inside to cut the meat fresh and exactly as ordered. I realized where meat came from and saw how hamburger was made. I witnessed the dangers of knives and grinders even in the skilled hands of adults. The meat was weighed on a white metal scale, wrapped in butcher paper and tied with string pulled from a large bolt that hung from the ceiling. There were no foam trays or pre-packaged products. Unlike the produce departments of today, our produce section was small. While the shoppers came from all over the world, the products did not. The fruits and vegetables were locally grown or trucked in from a nearby wholesaler, but it was all limited and seasonal. Much more like today, there was a small rack near the checkout that contained candy and chewing gum. My favorite candy was Mallo Cups, a milk chocolate candy with a whipped, creamy, coconut-flavored filling. I also loved the sour orange gum. Between smokes in the back room, my Aunt Phoebe chewed on the Black Jack, the licorice-flavored gum that she preferred. Sometimes I liked to join her in the back room and chomp my sour orange gum while Phoebe smoked a cigarette and threw some chunks of coal into the furnace. There was a single checkout lane and cash register, a handful of grocery carts. I learned the check-out procedures and how to ring up a sale. We punched each digit into the round black cash register keys and learned how to count back change. Before credit and debit cards, customers had accounts. There was a little book for each customer. We would keep track of the dates of purchase, the amount and the growing total or payments. There were no collection services. My grandmother and aunts were well-known for looking away when someone could not afford to pay. I had the opportunity to learn where and how people lived as I helped to carry or deliver groceries to their homes. Sometimes we would be sent on secret missions to deliver anonymous bags of groceries to the front porches of neighbors in need. Though the stored closed early in the evening, about dinner time, it was 24-hour service for the family. If we needed something, we ran over to the store to get it. I remember the strange feeling of entering the dark, quiet store during off hours – it was like visiting a corpse compared to the light and liveliness of business hours. Later, after we moved to our new home in Pittsburgh, we would visit my grandmother’s house, usually on Sundays when the store was officially closed, but there was always a trip to the store as our send off. Our family was sent over to the store stock up on groceries which we carted back to the suburbs in our crowded station wagon. Even as a young adult, I returned to my grandmother’s house and to the store as often as I could. The store was small by today’s standards. Many gas station convenience stores have similar square footage. Had we been forced to “social distance,” we might have been able to have four of five shoppers in the store at one time. It was small, but the store was the world to me. I could always find someone I loved and someone who loved me. It was in the store that I joined in the work of my family and the life of my community. I could hang out or help out. No Ivy League education could have been finer. Things are not always what they seem. Our family store was humble in appearance, but inside my uneducated, but gifted Aunt Phoebe was a kind, compassionate, self-taught, multilingual philanthropist to her community. She proved to be a savvy businesswoman and investor studying the stock market reports each evening in the daily newspaper. When Aunt Phoebe died, she left a legacy of generosity to her community and a small fortune to be shared by her many siblings. Support your local brick and mortar stores. Shop safely. Wear a mask. Keep the heart of your community beating.
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This is one of my favorite poems about mothers. It was written by Ohio humorist and poet, Strickland Gillilan. The Reading Mother I had a mother who read to me Sagas of pirates who scoured the sea, Cutlasses clenched in their yellow teeth, "Blackbirds" stowed in the hold beneath. I had a Mother who read me lays Of ancient and gallant and golden days; Stories of Marmion and Ivanhoe, Which every boy has a right to know. I had a Mother who read me tales Of Gelert the hound of the hills of Wales, True to his trust till his tragic death, Faithfulness blent with his final breath. I had a Mother who read me the things That wholesome life to the boy heart brings-- Stories that stir with an upward touch, Oh, that each mother of boys were such! You may have tangible wealth untold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be-- I had a Mother who read to me. Happy Mother's Day! It is graduation weekend. And what should have been a special day for so many of our high school and college seniors. COVID-19 has cancelled this rite of passage in 2020. Along with their children and grandchildren, parents, nanas, and papas mourn the loss of the opportunity to celebrate both this academic achievement and the bittersweet end of childhood. I remember another such time. I carried my Philco transistor radio to school so I could listen as Selective Service officials called out the birth dates drawn in the draft lottery of 1973. I had prepared a list of the birthdays of my young male friends graduating from high school that year. The paper was tucked inside the black leather cover of my little radio. I attended to the broadcast with bated breath and crossed fingers. It was another frightening time in world history. Families could attend graduation ceremonies and celebrate in whatever manner they chose, but having your birth date called in the lottery and winning a trip to Vietnam put a damper on graduation for many. Some men volunteered and served willingly. Others were drafted and went reluctantly. Some refused. They left the country, went into hiding, or spent time in jail. Much like now, the streets were full of protesters who did not believe in that war or in being forced to serve. It gives me perspective when asked to wear a face mask into a grocery store. I could have been asked to wear a gas mask into a jungle. Back to my radio. Just a few weeks into the COVID-19 outbreak, I heard a report on my car radio. It was announced that the virus already had taken more lives than did ten years of the war in Vietnam. More perspective. Ironically, COVID-19 is a new war on the same men and women who served in Vietnam, those folks 63 years of age and older with pre-existing conditions. Adding to the irony is that many of those pre-existing conditions are the result of their service in Vietnam—the wounds of war and the ravages of Agent Orange. Many of our Vietnam veterans suffer from illnesses linked to the widespread use of the herbicide during that war, conditions such as diabetes, Parkinson’s Disease, at least seven different types of cancer, skin disorders, heart disease, and painful neuropathy. They seem to keep getting what they didn’t ask for. It remains a jungle out there for these veterans. As COVID-19 forces each of us to do things we don’t want to do, to make sacrifices we don’t wish to make, it would be lovely this graduation weekend to honor our Vietnam veterans alongside our class of 2020. Congratulations to our senior class of 2020! And thank you to our classy seniors, our Vietnam veterans! The adults have left the house. Party!!!!!!!! Without the needling, nagging, and interference of parents, nature’s class of 2020 has banded together for an international celebration. Bust into the wine cellar and bring out the good stuff! None of us are invited. In fact, nature is celebrating our absence. We can watch, but we cannot play. Apparently, nature loves a pandemic. I thought it was a vacuum she abhorred, but it appears people top nature’s list of the loathsome. Nature is getting a breather. Her gassy stepsister has gone off to the penitentiary, and nature has her own room again. She’s pulling the candy wrappers, pop cans, plastic shopping bags, dirty undies, and smelly gym socks from under the bed, and she’s putting up some posters and rearranging the space. She will shower for as long as she likes, thank you! This is not just on the street where I live. It is happening all around the world. The air and water are clearing. The landscape is adorning itself. In my lifetime, the air has never felt fresher. The birds have never been happier or had more to sing about. The grass has never been greener or more luxurious. The spring blossoms have never been more beautiful. The blooming trees have never been so full of buds, and the buds never so strong, hanging on for days through wind, rain and storm like a teenage girl clinging to her beau on prom night. The daffodils have been lingering for weeks. They can’t let go. They don’t want this night to end. And lions and tigers and bears, oh, my! They are returning to the roads in Africa and the parks in California. Goats roam the streets of Wales where peacocks are spreading out more than their feathers. Wild boar wander the cobblestone streets of Barcelona, and sea life is returning to the Venice canals. All over the world, city skylines are visible, and rainbows appear, connecting the landscape to heaven. Perhaps this is what it was like for Noah when the rains finally stopped and he threw open a window. Clear skies, clean earth, and that rainbow--the promise that the earth would never again be destroyed by water. This shelter-in-place time has renewed not just my love for nature, but my need for her. Home alone, the sun lifts my spirits. The breeze caresses me. The birds converse with me. Beauty fills my eyes and keeps my heart from failing. Nature comes through for me. When this storm-tossed USS Pandemic finally comes into port from its wild ride, I hope our eyes are as wide open as Noah’s window. Let there be a rainbow and a pledge that we will never again destroy the earth with anything our hands have made. That will be a reason to party. Everyone is invited. Frustrated and angry people carrying guns into crowded public places is a worry. Did the forefathers anticipate such situations? Is that really what they intended with the second amendment--the right of the individual to keep and bear arms…? I wonder… What if there was a dictation problem or a spelling error? Those darn homonyms! Or maybe it was a misprint or an auto-correct situation and the forefathers really meant to guarantee Americans the right to BARE arms? After rolling up their sleeves and using their free speech to do away with tyranny, maybe the forefathers decided to go after oppressive clothing next. Maybe they liked the sight of their wrists, the freedom of movement, and the cool feeling up their sleeves – hence the second amendment. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this ten or eleven years ago when First Lady Michelle Obama came under rapid fire for wearing sleeveless clothing and showing off her guns. BARE arms, of course! Clearly, this mistake in constitutional privilege should not be taken lightly as the case of the First Lady demonstrates. FLOTUS was maligned by folks on the left and on the right. How dare she show off her limbs? “Out-of-season,” some said. Mrs. Obama EXPOSED herself in public! Too informal for a serious occasion. Wrong style, wrong season. Just. Plain. Wrong. Whew! If only Michelle had thought to carry an assault rifle into a state dinner instead. A little black dress and a string of pearls would have pulled that ensemble together nicely, and she would have been within her rights. What made her think she could bare her arms in public without protection under the U.S. Constitution? We may have to interrupt this pandemic season to ratify a 28th amendment and correct this error of the past. I’m all for keeping my arms. But some of us don’t have the courage to bare them. We just don’t have the guns. I have been thinking of Charles Dickens, the great English novelist of the Victorian era, and the opening line to his most famous novel, A Tale of Two Cities: It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair… He wrote those words in 1859, but it could have been this morning. We have high speed technology and millions of social media connections, but we must live in isolation from one another, keeping our social distance from even our grandchildren. We have science that has revolutionized health care. We can take a heart from one human being and set it to pumping inside another, but there is no PPE to be found. We have placed our faith in capitalism. Money is our God, but we find ourselves with neither jobs nor income. We experience the warmth of kindness from so many generous souls delivering groceries and sewing face masks, and yet, other souls are ablaze with outrage and contempt. They are armed with handguns and ak-47 rifles. We pray that it is a spring of hope after our winter of despair. Today, I think of those identified as most “vulnerable” during this pandemic, the men and women who are 65 and older with underlying health conditions. The oldest among them are the last surviving members of the Greatest Generation. They were born in the worst of times. They survived the economic collapse known as the Great Depression. Some were orphaned or abandoned as children as their families faced starvation and homelessness. As teenagers of 14 and 15, they signed up to fight the Nazis and fascism during World War II. So strong was that generation’s conviction to serve their country that some killed themselves if rejected for military service. These men and women who survived loss, famine, war, epidemics, a holocaust, fascism, and the tyranny of Stalin built the post-war world and gave birth to the next generation, the Baby Boomers, who, because of the contributions of the Greatest Generation, were born into the best of times. Perhaps, they all will now leave this world in this, the new worst of times. The virus will not be what makes this the worst of times, the season of despair. The worst will be if we begin to choose who will be sacrificed for the sake of the economy. Is this what we have come to? The Greatest Generation lived through years of hell. In a few short weeks, some among us are prepared to sacrifice them for a haircut, a tattoo, or a day at the beach. If we deliberately allow this virus to take our elders, we are no kinder than cannibals, no better than Hitler. There was no point in winning that horrible war. Hitler defined who was worthy and who was not, who should be eliminated and who should survive. He did away with the elderly, the sick, children—all were vulnerable to elimination. The Greatest Generation has already given us a prosperous economy. They gave from the orphanages. They gave from the dust bowl. They gave from the trenches of Europe, Asia, the South Pacific, and Africa. They gave from the front lines and at home on the assembly lines. They gave from the victory gardens and the coal mines. They gave us the roads and bridges we drive on and the parks we long to hike. They gave at the office, and they gave at church. Some say we should open the economy and leave it in God’s hands. God has already weighed in. He gave us minds and hearts. He created us in His image, and then He set us free. When He granted us dominion over the earth, He made us protectors of all creation. We have been careless. Maybe this virus is a second chance. I think of a lesson from an aging Holocaust survivor. He was a school boy when he and his family were transported to a concentration camp. He and his father were able-bodied for work. When they stepped off the transport train, father and son were ordered to step to the right. This man’s mother and younger siblings were directed to step to the left, and they soon perished in the gas chambers. In his old age, this Holocaust survivor believed he would see his mother and siblings again in Heaven, but he dreaded the reunion. He felt shame and guilt for having survived when his loved ones had perished. “How will I answer to them?” He had lived horrors unimaginable, and not for days or weeks, but for years. He had been a vulnerable child. He had no choices, no power. This survivor could not even look forward to heaven so tormented was he despite the passage of 70 years. Is that the agony we leave to our children and to the future if we dismiss the value of our aging loved ones? If we choose for them? Should the Greatest Generation and their children be allowed to perish as scapegoats for a virus-altered economy in an unprepared nation that lacks a coordinated national response? And who will be next if the virus and the economy fail to respond to our impatience and to our chaos? “It requires courage to have a change of heart.” This morning I found that quote in a little notebook I refer to in times of prayer and reflection. During this shelter-in-place time, I don’t change my clothes much, but I seem to have a change of heart every couple of hours. Perhaps all of us in this boat are more courageous than we realize. My daily wardrobe is sweatpants. I have three identical pairs, and except for the hours I am doing the laundry, my daily wardrobe remains the same. Not much changes. But my heart… What changes my heart with such frequency? In the morning, I pull up to the drive-through window for a small order. It is a meager contribution to the economy. A young man leans out the window, hands me my food, and says, “It’s on me today. Take care of yourself.” My heart swells. I need a 3X t-shirt to accommodate the gratitude I feel from the kindness of this stranger. The governor comes on television at 2 PM for his daily news conference. He addresses the ranks. Our leader provides his army of hearts with armor and a battle plan. Properly attired, mine is a courageous and confident heart. I watch the evening news and see emergency rooms bursting with the sick and dying. Hospital workers and first responders fill every square inch of space with their hustle and bustle. Some lay prostrate on the ground outside the ER doors. Others weep on park benches. Yet, they carry on. My heart is broken. It needs a cast. Will it ever mend? I see protesters on the streets and on the lawn of the state house. These people are armed and angry, yelling, and saying hateful things. I am bewildered. And frightened. I can feel my heart withering. It needs an oxygen mask. I watch a fundraising concert on television. Through the wonders of modern technology, the biggest names in entertainment sing to me from their homes. It is simple, and elegant. My heart shifts in my chest. I might need a special mesh screen to hold my heart in place so moved am I by the beauty of the performances and the talent and generosity of the participants. I turn on the computer and find my email inbox full. The emails come with attachments and YouTube links. My friends and colleagues are thinking of me. The messages they send are filled with clever, funny, charming, touching, and sometimes laugh-out-loud ridiculous jokes, stories, songs, dances, and interviews. My heart is comforted; these contacts are vacation beachwear for my overworked heart. I have been lounging in my sweatpants for weeks. The only iron I’ve been pumping is the irony of being perpetually dressed for a workout while I stretch out on the couch. Now I realize that I am exhausted. My heart has been running a marathon. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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