John Gladden

Thanksgiving Lament

2011-11-23T11:20:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Nov. 22, 2005 edition of The Medina Gazette. It also may be found in my 1997 column collection, "How to Elevate a Cow," available through The Wooster Book Company.

Thanksgiving Lament

Thanksgiving, I like a lot:

Turkey and yams, served up hot,

Pumpkin pie sure hits the spot.

But there’s one thing, I like not.

Green eggs and ham, I will eat.

Green apples are a treat.

Green onions cannot be beat.

Green grass feels good on my feet.

But I know one thing that’s bad.

One food that tastes real sad.

Its appearance drives me mad!

When it’s gone, I am glad.

It’s that green bean casserole!

Please bury it in a hole!

But why be cruel to a mole?

Just serve it in a toilet bowl.

I’d eat green beans any day.

They’re full of Vitamin A.

Good for you in ev’ry way.

I love them, I’m glad to say.

Green beans have served us well.

Most of us think they’re swell.

Why ruin them, do pray tell?

Why serve the side dish from hell?

How could someone be so mean

To do this to a green bean?

Pardon me while I vent my spleen.

It’s the cruelest thing I’ve seen.

How come this time of year’

Is the only time it comes near?

At your door, it will appear,

When your aunt says, ‘I’m here!”

She brings it in a covered dish.

It smells like week-old fish.

But you say, “Mmm! De-lish!”

Yet, you have only one wish.

“Oh, please take it away!”

Is what you silently pray

What’s in it, anyway?

I mean, who can really say?

Onions and soup – creamy style,

French beans from the frozen aisle.

Stir it up for a while,

Make it look gray and vile.

Then bake until overdone,

Until that icky fried onion

Looks like dry sliced bunion.

It’s true. I ain’t funnin’ yuns.

How can you eat that? How?

The sodium could kill a cow!

Enough cream to choke a sow!

Green bean casserole? Come now!

Green bean casserole? Ew! Ack!

It’s a hot dish heart attack!

Taste is its only lack.

From whence it came, take it back!

Nasty green bean casserole.

Its fumes add to the ozone hole.

Do culinary damage control.

Take a public opinion poll.

Nobody really likes it.

Not the least little bit.

A fact no one will admit.

They eat it, they submit.

They don’t want to hurt you.

Your guests love you. They do.

But it tastes like Elmer’s Glue

And makes their veins turn blue.

Now do you see the light?

Fresh green beans are a delight.

Go out and get some tonight.

Have courage. Do what’s right.

Serve green beans, nice and hot

With salt and butter – or not.

Homegrown or store bought

Your guests will like ‘em a lot.

Give your loved ones a treat,

A side dish that can’t be beat,

One everyone’s happy to eat.

Fresh green beans, bon appetite!

Please, this happy holiday

Serve beans the natural way.

Just make me a promise today.

Come on, what do you say?

This Thanksgiving, take control!

Serve the heart and serve the soul:

Turkey, potatoes, pie and a roll,

But not green bean casserole.

Preserving your family's stories

2011-09-08T05:34:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Sept. 6 edition of The Medina Gazette.

I wish the old clock could talk.

My grandpa brought it home from England where he was stationed with the U.S. Army in World War II. Every time I walk by the clock, I wish I could ask him about it. For much of my childhood, it was broken and stowed away on a closet shelf. As a kid, I was intimately acquainted with the contents of every closet in the old farmhouse, of course, but by the time I was an adult, I had forgotten about it. I asked Grandpa a lot of questions about a lot of things, but never thought to ask about the clock.

Now he’s passed away and the clock has passed to me. I walk by it almost every day and wonder about its story. Where did he buy it? How much did he pay? How did he get it home? What possessed a 20-something farm boy from Delaware County, Ohio, to buy a clock as a souvenir of World War II?

I had all that on my mind last month when I was invited to speak to a senior citizens group on the topic of preserving family stories.

Sitting down and writing an autobiography is something most of us will never do. It’s too intimidating. What we can do, however, is think small-scale. I’ve written enough people stories to know that it’s the little details of life that are most precious. Chances are, our family already knows our life’s timeline and has a pretty good idea of our religious and political views. What they will hunger for someday are stories. And there are some pretty simple ways to document them.

Use family heirlooms as prompts. Look around the house for clocks, jewelry, furniture, quilts, even that iron skillet you inherited from your mother. Write down what you know about them and what they mean to you.

That’s especially important to do with photographs. Go through old photo albums and make notes about the people, events, houses, cars and pets in the pictures. It’s sad to have a family photo no one knows anything about.

Use recipes as prompts. Do you have handwritten recipe cards given to you through the years? Tell about the person who gave you the recipe. Share memories of family events or potluck dinners where that dish was always on the table. What a great wedding gift a recipe book like that would be.

Share about holidays. Recall what Easter, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, Hanukkah or Christmas were like for you as a child or when you were first married. Tell about traditions, cooking disasters and special gifts.

Write in books and Bibles. Some shudder at this, but at least make sure special books are inscribed with your name, how the book came to you if it was a gift, and why it’s important to you. Make notes in the margins of passages that are special to you.

Record your daily activities on your kitchen calendar. The spaces are small, so it doesn’t require time, only discipline. It's a lot more doable than keeping a journal, yet what a gift to the future. “Canned six quarts of peaches,” “Attended Megan’s recital,” Took Philip for a haircut,” “Picked berries,” “Roasted a turkey for the church dinner.” All those things tell about who you are and how you choose spend your time. File your calendar away at the end of each year.

Write a letter to a grandchild, niece or nephew, to be opened on a special occasion. Imagine a future birth, wedding, funeral, baptism, Christmas. Tell someone what you would want him or her to know on that day if you could be there. And in that way, you are there.

If writing is physically difficult, try speaking into a recorder. Ask for one as a gift. Then invite an electronics-savvy teenager over for cookies and to help you learn to use it!

And if you decide to try ideas like these to tell your story, make sure your files are well-labeled and that at least one trusted friend and one family member know about them.

The thing is, you can’t force a child or grandchild to be interested in family history. Most young people are busy with growing up and learning to be themselves. You just have to have faith that someday, when they are grown, they will discover that who they are has a great deal to do with where they come from. Then they will be starving for these morsels from the past.

Above all, maintain a sense of humor about yourself. Writing is not easy, so keep your thoughts on why you want to pass along precious family stories – your love for the people who came before you and for those who will come after.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

As the French would say: "Wee-wee!"

2011-08-19T15:01:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Aug. 16 edition of The Medina Gazette.

A man’s life is, more or less, all about drainage.

In the beginning, it’s potty-training. And in later years … well, I don’t really even like to think about that.

In the middle, however, it’s a lot of lonely digging – a man and his shovel, excavating trenches, leaning thoughtfully on his spade to assess the situation. He’s carting gravel, laying tile, cleaning gutters, filling in low spots, grading slopes, all in search of the elusive dry basement.

The showers of April … and May … and June … and July, all pointed to the need for me to do something about the one corner of our sandstone cellar that seeps water when the gutters overflow in a heavy rain. Which, this spring and summer, seemed to occur at least once a week. At last, here in August, the weather is dry enough to dig.

So, I undertook the installation of a French drain, which I had watched a landscaper and homeowner install in about five minutes flat on an episode of “Ask This Old House.”

Our house is closer to its 200th birthday than not. Any time you go digging around a place like that, engineering quickly turns into archeology. Bits of old glass, a piece of china dinner plate, red-orange chunks of ancient brick, lots of sandstone, shards of slate from the roof. I kept hoping to find the prized rare coin or Civil War relic or antique bottle or cache of Depression cash would be worth enough money that I could hire the This Old House crew to dig this trench for me.

Below the treasure line, or where the treasure would be if I ever found any, the soil in southern Medina County turns to a nice, solid layer of orange-brown clay. It makes me think of beloved Cleveland Browns linebacker Clay Matthews and is just as difficult to get through. Digging in stubborn clay gives a guy plenty of time to think.

Two weeks into my evenings-and-weekends project, I began to wonder: What the heck do the French know about drainage, anyway? I would feel a much higher degree of confidence if it was called, say, a Netherlands Drain. Those Dutch know drainage. Maybe a Venice Drain. A French-Canadian Drain, even. Does anyone in France ever dig a ditch? The whole country takes the month of August off for vacation. It didn’t seem right for me to be spending my month of August digging a French drain.

Nobody writes poems about August – memorable ones, anyway. Nothing rhymes with the word “August.” That’s the problem. The best we can do are near-rhymes, which aren’t very good. Sawdust. Nonplussed. Robust. Pie crust. Not much to work with.

One day in August
I made a pie crust
Out of fresh sawdust.
Tho’ I found it robust,
My wife was nonplussed
See, August just doesn’t soar. It doesn’t inspire like May flowers or October foliage or December snowflakes. Poets wax rhapsodic about all that, but not about August. It’s the month with no holidays. There’s no National-Something-Month designation. All we know about August is it was named after Augustus Caesar. Isn’t he the guy who taxed the world? Is that really the sort of person you want to name a month of the year after? Those Tea Party people ought to look into this, I think.

By August, Mother Nature is looking a little rough. She walks out the front door in the morning in her rumpled bathrobe to get the paper. She nudges the cat out of the way with one of her frayed pink slippers and none too gently. The blush of summer is gone. Mother Nature looks drained. She brushes her hair away from her face and reads the back-to-school ads. She is nonplussed.

The peaches are ripe, the grass is dying back, the garden is bulging with zucchini, the baby birds have left the nest. August is the new September. What’s left for her to do but put the kids on the bus and call it a summer?

After a few weeks of digging, feeding the mosquitoes, and lots of thoughtful leaning on my shovel handle, the French drain is in, awaiting the autumnal rains, the frost on the punkin, and the poetry of fall. Oui-oui, Mother Nature. Or, as we say in America, "Wee-wee!" Turn on the spigots. I’m ready.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Livin' it big at the fair

2011-08-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Aug. 2 edition of The Medina Gazette.

What comes to mind when you think of the fair?

Do you see the Ferris wheel? The bright lights of the midway spiraling off in all directions like a fallen chandelier? Hear the roar of concert crowds and demolition derby cars?

What do you smell? What do you taste? Cotton candy? A sausage sandwich? A chocolate milkshake from the 4-H milkshake booth?

I think of all those good things when I think of the Medina County Fair, but not only those things. If you look, you also can see what’s behind them.

I see a church basement in wintertime. It’s a 4-H meeting, where an 11-year-old girl is poring over dozens of project ideas, trying to decide what she’ll enter in this year’s fair.

She settles on two: Rockin’ Rocks and Creative Writing. While a lot of her friends have put such things far out of their thoughts during the summer, she spends days in June and July writing poems in a spiral notebook. She hunts rocks in the garden and arranges them under labels that read: metamorphic, igneous and sedimentary.

On the appointed day, she appears before a judge – one of many adults who have given up an evening to interview 4-H’ers about their projects. The girl maintains her poise, answers questions about what she has learned, and walks away with her grades: An A for each. Her projects join those of hundreds of other 4-H'ers on display at this week’s fair.

Look back a ways and you can see the farm kid buying the calf he’ll raise, feed and groom. He’ll spend hours preparing the steer and himself for those anxious few minutes in the spotlight of the show ring at the fair, minutes that will go a long way in determining how much return he will get on his months of investment.

Of course, the real return is in the satisfaction that comes with seeing a project through, the feeling of partnership with his animal, and the experience he’s gained that will help him do even better next time.

A local business owner – who has plenty of other expenses calling for her money, especially in this economy – pays a generous price for the steer at the Junior Fair Livestock Sale.

It’s sometimes a difficult moment to part with an animal you’ve spent as much time with as you have with your own family. But, the profits from the sale go into the bank. In a few years, the money will help buy textbooks and pay college tuition. Maybe he’ll attend agricultural school, go into farming, and become one of the people who help put food on our dinner tables and clothes on our backs.

I think of that little moment in the E.B. White classic, “Charlotte’s Web,” when Mr. and Mrs. Arable watch their children – Avery is 10 and Fern is 8 – head off to explore the sights and sounds of the county fair.

Standing there at the livestock barn with Wilbur the pig, whom they have brought to show at the fair, Mrs. Arable feels that pang of anxiety familiar to parents.

“Do you really think it’s all right?” she asks her husband, as the kids disappear from sight.

“Well,” Mr. Arable replies, “they’ve got to grow up sometime. And a fair is a good place to start, I guess.”

You see that at the Medina County Fair: Kids taking responsibility. Kids growing up. Mr. Arable was right: It is a good place to start.

Look around and you also see bakers, canners, cooks, photographers, farmers, tractor-restorers, gardeners, artists, needleworkers and many others, who have brought their creations for judging and display. Like the kids, they have been working and planning for months for this week.

You see the fair board members, staff and volunteers who make the fair happen for the rest of us. They have held up heroically through difficult and tragic circumstances along the way. During the other 51 weeks of the year, after working their day jobs, they come to the fairgrounds to attend meetings, clean buildings, plant flowers, paint what needs painting and repair what needs fixing. And for vacation, they take this week off from their jobs and work 18-hour days at the fair.

Last week, figures released from the 2010 Census showed America’s rural population continues to decline. It stands at 16 percent of the U.S. population, the lowest ever. Big cities also continue to shrink. So where are Americans moving? To the suburbs. The percentage of Americans living there has reached an all-time high: 51 percent. The space between urban and rural communities continues to fray. We know something about this, living in Medina County.

The fair is an annual celebration of that ever-precious rural heritage – and of the steady, talented people who live that heritage when no one else is looking. For this one week, they live it big, where we can watch and admire them.

At the Medina County Fair.

See you there.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Me and my barbaric yawp

2011-07-29T16:23:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the July 26 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The list of audible bodily functions is relatively short.

There’s the one you’re thinking of right now, of course, as well as its little cousin, the burp. While discouraged in polite society, they remain widely admired in some families, including the one I am related to by marriage. Their forceful impact on the ears and nose, as the case may be, is a measure of manliness, an exclamation mark delivered at the conclusion of a well-prepared and heartily enjoyed meal.

But the bodily sound I find most entertaining is located directly between these two more popular noises, geographically and biologically speaking.

It’s the stomach growl.

Aside from the occasional creaky joint, the outside of our body generally doesn’t know what the inside of our body is up to. We don’t hear our heartbeat, for instance. Our breathing is silent, most of the time. Our spleen doesn’t feel the need to announce its presence. The synapses in our brain don’t go “bang” when they fire.

Really, the only thing inside of us that’s routinely noisy as it goes about its daily business is our stomach. To me, it underscores the comforting and terrifying truth that God has a tremendous sense of humor. The stomach growl has to be his funniest invention since the uvula.

(No, that’s not the instrument played by South African soccer fans at the men’s 2010 World Cup. You’re thinking of the vuvuzela. The uvula is that dangly thing behind your tongue that exists solely for the use of cartoon animators. Beside the picture of the uvula in the dictionary should be a picture of Olive Oil hollering: “Popeye, help!” with her uvula wiggling urgently in the back of her throat.)

I always think of the first people, Adam and Eve, reclining in the Garden of Eden in their birthday suits. With the exception of bellybutton lint, everything funny about the human body happened to them first. What must they have made of the first stomach growl?

Eve: “What was that?”

Adam: “I don’t know.”

Eve: “It sounded like a bear.”

Adam: “It came from inside me, almost the spot where God removed that rib the other day.”

Eve: “We’ll ask him when he comes through the garden tonight on his evening walk.”

Adam: “Good idea. Hand me those figs. I’m starving.”

Eve: “No more figs for you, mister. Remember that strange noise that came from your behind after you ate all those figs yesterday? It sounded like a vuvuzela. Here, try this apple.”

The strangest thing about stomach growls is their comedic timing. Stomachs seem to know when they can growl to the greatest effect.

Working alone at my computer all day, my stomach is quiet as a church mouse. But, on a Sunday morning, during a thoughtful pause in the pastor’s sermon, having skipped breakfast in the mad dash to get to church on time, my stomach emits a barbaric yawp that would make Walt Whitman blush.

There must be something about the resonance of those old wooden pews that make church stomach growls louder than any other stomach growls. You can feel it coming on, which makes it worse, because it leads to a whole series of actions as you try to mitigate the embarrassment.

You rustle the pages of the hymnal, trying to cover up the sound. Fake a cough. Cross your legs at the exact instant of the growl so that maybe it doesn’t seem so loud. Some people even shout “Amen!” to mask a church stomach growl. But nothing works. Everyone notices, especially Eve, who’s sitting right beside me.

“You should have at least eaten an apple,” my wife whispers.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Ode to the Five-Gallon Bucket

2011-07-13T08:07:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the July 12 edition of The Medina Gazette.

I give you: The five-gallon bucket.

Put your stuff in, then you can truck it.

That’s the beauty of it, the charm,

The necessity for home and farm.

Oh, the Bucket of the Big Shoulders!

King of all the handy holders!

Best of all, they’re practically free –

Which is quite an impressive mpg.

You may find them discarded and lost,

Salvaged for little or no cost.

There! In the ditch! One fell from a truck.

Some guy’s misfortune is your good luck.

Empty of pickles or drywall compound,

Their useful uses usefully abound.

Here’s what you might call a “bucket list.”

Do tell me if there’s something I missed.

Use one to water new plants and trees,

Drill a small hole to dribble by degrees.

It’s a pail for kitchen compost --

Rinds, peels, egg shells and burnt toast.

Mix up mortar, cement and plaster.

Your mom has ideas. Just ask her.

Toss in weeds as you pull them out.

I forgot to mention mixing grout.

Holds fish after you’ve caught ’em.

Upside down, a seat for your bottom.

Flip one over for a stepping stool.

(Just please be careful. Don’t be a fool.)

With a lid, it’ll keep birdseed dry,

Same for your kindling supply.

Good for washing the truck or car.

Makes any job easier by far.

Use it to carry tools to a project.

Also, any walnuts you collect.

Pick green beans, corn and a tomater.

Store some potting soil for later.

Get a ladder and clean the gutter.

Do it for your father and mutter.

Tote your horse its water, its feed –

And just about anything you need.

Grab it and carry in firewood.

That’ll warm you up pretty good.

As a cheap cooler, it works real nice

Brimming with beverages and ice.

Stow shoes, boots, anything you’ve got,

Gloves, toys, plastic bags and whatnot.

Put under the sink to catch a leak.

(Just be sure to empty once a week.)

For trash or recyclables, it’s stellar.

Same for bailing water from a cellar.

They make fine sawhorses in a pinch.

Go on. Use ‘em hard. They won’t flinch.

Clean up prior to mowing the lawn --

Leaves, sticks, whatever falls thereon.

Before washing, soak dirty clothes,

Likewise for dirty feet and toes.

An emergency chamber pot?

Some may try this, but not a lot.

In spring, pick morels in the wood --

Which, fried in butter, taste very good.

Lift a table or chair while painting

Works just as well if you’re staining.

A five-gallon bucket is essential --

When empty, it’s full of potential.

And now there’s only one thing I lack --

I gave you the bucket. Give it back.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Three generations, one wedding dress

2011-06-15T04:43:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the June 10 edition of The Medina Gazette.

CHATHAM TWP. -- If Claire May’s wedding dress could talk, what a story it would tell.

On June 4, she became the third generation of her family to be married in the dress – first worn by her grandmother, Ruth Milidonis, in 1947 and then by her mother, Joy May, in 1976.

Some have asked Claire: Why wear a 64-year-old wedding dress? For one thing, it has a pretty good track record of successful marriages, she said, a few weeks ahead of her wedding day.

“You can’t pass up on the history,” said Claire, 26. “It worked twice before!”

For another thing, the dress simply is beautiful.

Its story begins with a streetcar ride to the famed Sterling-Lindner department store in downtown Cleveland.

Claire’s grandmother, Ruth, was engaged to James Milidonis, who had recently returned from service in the Pacific during World War II.

Ruth and her mother, Bertha, were searching for a wedding dress. And it had to be special.

“My mother wanted the best for her only child,” recalled Ruth, 83. “She said: ‘My only daughter is not going to wear just ANY dress.’ ”

Bertha had grown up in a modest farm family. By the time she was in eighth grade, she went to work for neighbors, giving the money she earned to her father. When it came time for Bertha to marry, she wore a simple red dress. The only ones in attendance were the legal witnesses.

She and her husband, John Hartley, were of modest means themselves – making it through the Great Depression by opening their home to boarders. Yet, Bertha was determined to find Ruth a one-of-a-kind dress.

And she did.

A Martha Washington-style Skinner satin dress with elegant sleeves and appliqué roses along the front and sides. The price: $600. It was a small fortune for a middle-class family in 1947. According to the U.S. Dept. of Labor’s inflation calculator, it’s the equivalent of more than $6,000 today.

“You were gorgeous,” Joy said, looking at the black-and-white wedding portrait of her mother and father.

“Thank you,” Ruth said.

“But you knew that,” Joy added. They laughed.

The bride in the photo is indeed radiant – and so is the dress. It’s the Skinner satin, Joy said, which is no longer made. Its signature was the fabric’s unusually long weave.

“It has a glow about it,” Joy said.

Ruth, who lives in Medina Township, went on to earn her master’s degree in early childhood education and teach for 21 years in Cleveland Public Schools. Her daughter and granddaughter also found careers in education. Joy, who lives in Chatham Township, teaches family and consumer science at Bay High School. Claire teaches language arts at North Ridgeville Middle School and lives in York Township.

After the wedding in 1947, Ruth’s mother cared for the dress almost as if it was a living part of the family. From time to time, she took it from the box and carefully refolded it, placing layers of tissue paper between the folds.

On special occasions, Bertha brought out the dress to show her three granddaughters. Joy was the youngest. She remembers first seeing it when she was about 5 years old.

“Being little girls, it was like: ‘Oh, my gosh. Can we try it on?’ ” recalled Joy, 55.

Grandma was only too happy to oblige. It was her way of fostering in her grandchildren a respect for marriage – and a recognition of good fashion, Joy said.

So, when Joy was making her own wedding plans to marry Bruce May in 1976, she told her mom she would like to wear the dress. It pleased everyone, especially Bertha.

“My grandmother had a strong belief that nothing should be wasted. So she was thrilled I was wearing this dress,” Joy said.

They made a few alterations – removing hoops and shoulder pads, resetting the sleeves. Joy’s color wedding portrait looks as much like an oil painting as a photograph. The dress is lustrous.

When Joy greeted her grandparents after the ceremony, both were crying. She was afraid something was wrong. But no. It was seeing her in the dress.

“I may cry,” Ruth said, anticipating watching her granddaughter Claire walk down the aisle.

“You’re NOT going to cry,” Joy instructed, playfully.

For more than 30 years, the dress hung in a closet. Ruth’s husband James passed away in 1992, her mother Bertha in 1995.

Over time, the satin had turned from white to soft beige. Claire decided she wanted to continue the family tradition and wear the dress when she married Geno Conley June 4 in Medina.

The Mays took the dress to Midtown Dry Cleaning in Norwalk, where it soaked in a special solution for six weeks.

They resigned themselves to the possibility the cleaning process might not work. They worried it might even destroy the 64-year-old fabric.

In fact, the change was so startling, Joy and Claire at first thought they had the wrong dress.

Their first glimpse was from the back. When they turned it around and saw the roses, they recognized it instantly. The satin’s glow had been restored.

“I told her I think it’s far more elegant than Kate Middleton’s dress,” said Joy.

Alterations Express in Strongsville handled the fitting. The sleeves were removed and the material used to lengthen the dress to fit Claire, who is taller than her mother and grandmother.

The quality of the fabric also makes the dress quite heavy, Ruth said.

“I can tell you one thing,” she said, looking it over with Claire. “You’re going to have a backache!” They laughed.

Joy made Claire’s veil – that’s the “something new.”

“We’ve got lots of old,” Claire said.

Preparing the family heirloom for its third wedding day has been a wonderful adventure, Joy said. And there would be no one happier than Bertha, whose love, determination and eye for elegance has been a blessing to three generations -- and counting.

“My grandmother would be thrilled because every part of this dress was used to alter it to fit her great-granddaughter,” Joy said. “She is looking down and smiling.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Stop complaining and get a (civic) life

2011-05-31T09:51:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the May 24 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Like politicians, even small-time newspaper columnists have stump speeches. Unlike most politicians, however, when I speak to civic groups, I can sum-up my speech in one word:

Thanks.

Thanks for all you do. One would be hard-pressed to find another segment of the community as consistently under-valued, under-recognized, under-the-radar, often under-manned and under-womaned, as service clubs.

They include Jaycees, Kiwanis, Lions, the Rotary and Ruritans. I also would include many faith-related groups, as well as veterans organizations, 4-H and Scouts, whose members give massive amounts of time and money to their communities and beyond. Where there’s a need, they help, in ways big and small.

Earlier this month, I spent time with members of the Lodi Rotary Club as they tended the magnificent stand of rhododendrons at Woodlawn Cemetery. For half a century, Lodi’s Rotarians have been planting, pruning and fertilizing these beautiful flowering shrubs. Through their stewardship, we can enjoy what has to be one of the prettiest collections of rhododendrons in Ohio.

Attend a picnic or family reunion in a city or village park in Medina County this summer, and you are likely to lunch under a pavilion or play on a ball field built by a civic group. In some communities, the entire park is the result of a service club’s heart and sweat.

In 1961, the Seville Lions Club helped lead the village’s effort to build the county’s first from-scratch library building. It has since been expanded and still is in use today. One of my journalism heroes is Lee Cavin, then the editor and publisher of the weekly Seville Chronicle. In covering the construction of the library, Cavin wrote:

“Virtually every member of the Lions Club contributed both financially and in time to the project this summer. Many men learned new skills on the job. Finish carpentry, painting and other chores were attempted by men more accustomed to handling a pen.”

I love the last line. That’s what community service is all about. It’s about getting outside your comfort zone – whether it’s giving time, writing a check, or picking up an unfamiliar tool to do a job. Overcoming one’s comfort zone is like overcoming inertia. It’s not easy.

I have always been struck by the term “service club.” Most clubs center around a common self-interest. There are tractor clubs, quilting clubs, running clubs, fan clubs, on and on.

What’s the interest shared by members of service clubs? Not any one object or activity. Not self-interest. Rather, a willingness to give.

How special is that? Very special. Yet, many groups struggle to keep up membership and momentum. A generation or two ago, there were fewer options to connect with others in a community. Service groups provided a way to meet neighbors and make a positive impact at the same time.

Today, there’s a full menu of ways for people to connect socially. It must be said there are also more ways to spend one’s time and money on oneself.

There are still as many hours in the day as there ever were. I don’t buy the claim we somehow have less time today than previous generations had – especially with the cars, washing machines, microwaves, computers, cell phones, and all the other time-saving inventions you and I enjoy.

Few are as busy as someone who volunteers in a civic group. As the saying goes: If you want something done, ask a busy person to do it. It’s one of the sad ironies of life, but thank God for it. He or she has all the same family and employment responsibilities as the rest of us. The difference is in the choices we make with the resources we have.

Today, there’s no shortage of anti-tax sentiment. People puff up their chests and complain government is too big and costs too much, that it’s involved in too many things. That much of its work belongs in the private sector. Many of them say: Why can’t things be like they used to be?

All that may or may not be true. But I can’t help wonder how many of the loudest complainers are willing to give freely and regularly of their time and money to help those in need and to build good things in their communities.

The more we cut funding for the care of the poor and elderly, for parks and libraries, for schools and historical preservation, for arts and culture, the more we will rely on community groups to fill the void if such programs and institutions are to continue.

So who’s ready to go back to the future and pitch-in? We need to do more than put our money where our mouth is. We need to put our hands there, too.

No matter where you live in Medina County, I guarantee there’s a club, or youth organization, or historical society, or cemetery association, or veterans group, or church that could use a busy person like yourself. Most likely, you will find it a rewarding experience.

And thanks.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

When it comes to laundry, Dad rules

2011-05-16T10:42:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the April 19 edition of The Medina Gazette.

When Dad does laundry, my family knows a few simple rules are in effect.

No. 1: Any cash, change, valuable Pokémon cards, gift certificates or deeds to real estate investments found in the washer or dryer belong to Dad. Virtue may be its own reward, but those wadded up dollar bills at the bottom of the washer are going straight into the tractor fund.

No. 2: Dad does not check to make sure pockets are empty before putting clothes into the washer.

Why? See Rule No. 1. If you were to leave a $5 gift card to Dairy Queen in the pocket of your jeans and I reached in and found it while getting clothes ready to wash, there would be no moral gray area. It was in your pocket, therefore you can make a solid argument the card belongs to you. You don’t have to be Judge Judy to figure this out.

But, if a gift card or similar object of value is discovered rattling around the dryer by some hard-working dad, who can say with certainty to whom it belonged? If it was important to you, why did you leave it in your pants? Isn’t such carelessness tantamount to saying, “Here, Dad. Take this as a small token of my appreciation for the fact that you are willing to touch my dirty socks with your bare hands and return them, clean, to my dresser drawer. You deserve it.”
While it might be more noble of me to enter into a holy quest to return the gift card to its proper owner, such righteousness is almost never rewarded with a Buster Bar.

Also, I do not check your pockets because I see what you put into your pockets – used tissues, chocolate-smeared candy bar wrappers, muddy rocks for your collection, the random feminine product. No way am I reaching in there.

Rule No. 3: Dad sorts clothing by type, not by color or material. Usually this works out just fine. Dress clothes go together. Towels and cloth napkins go together. Underwear goes together. Never shall these be mixed, so saith The Dad. I do not want your underwear washed with the napkin I use to wipe ketchup from the corner of my mouth.

I know everything comes out in the wash, as they say. That’s what creeps me out.

Rule No. 4: If it’s not in the hamper, it’s not getting washed. Dad does not wade into children’s bedrooms and sift through piles of clothing trying to discern what can be worn again, what is dirty, and what is clean laundry that got thrown on the floor.

Besides, do you really want me poking around your room? I’m afraid to go in there, frankly. Mom is courageous enough to do this, but not Dad. I find enough trouble on my own without going and looking for more under your bed. We are both better off if I don’t know what’s under there.

Rule No. 5: If it’s a nice day, I’m hanging the laundry out on the line to dry. I don’t care if every car that goes by can see your underwear flapping in the breeze. I don’t care if you think line-drying makes your jeans and the bathroom towels a little stiff. It saves me a nickel on electricity and you’ll thank me when your pillow case smells like fresh air and sunshine.
Just be mindful of the occasional lady bug that gets folded into your sheets. And if a robin rested on the clothesline while your pajamas were hanging out there, well, that’s just a chance we all have to take.

Rule No. 6: When Dad hangs or folds clean clothes, I do not turn your things right side out. What am I? Your mom? No, I am not. If you peeled off your shirt and tossed it into the laundry inside out, that is exactly how it will be returned to you. It is one of those small, meaningless moral victories in life a dad must cling to.

I make an exception for Mom, because I am trying to stay in her good graces.

Rule No. 7: Everybody’s socks look the same to me. If you find someone else’s sock in your drawer, just put it on. Don’t complain. Nobody but you will know, anyway.

Rule No. 8: Lint from the trap in the dryer goes into the compost pail. It’s mostly cotton. When it decomposes along with the potato peels and melon rinds, I will mix it into the soil of the vegetable garden, where it will help the green beans and tomatoes grow.
I know this is disturbingly like eating your own socks and underwear, but get over it. I have. A dad has to be able to occasionally ignore reality and put certain thoughts out of his mind. It’s a survival mechanism.

Next week: Dad’s Rules for Loading and Unloading the Dishwasher. I’ll be sharing a few tips I learned back in ‘Nam before you were born. Don’t miss it. Take notes. You’ll be glad you did.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Another Day in (Retired) Paradise

2011-04-28T02:52:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the April 9 edition of The Medina Gazette.

CHATHAM TWP. -- Bruce May describes his music in four words:

“It’s old-fart rock,” he said.

It takes only half as many words to describe the music video he made with long-time friend Andy Tubbesing:

A winner.

The two recently earned the prize for Best Micro-Film at the 2011 Appalachian Film Festival in Huntington, W. Va., for their four-minute video: “Another Day In (Retired) Paradise.”

The competition is open to filmmakers who live in the 13-state Appalachian region. A micro-film – not to be confused with the microfilm at the library – is a film that’s less than five minutes long.
Here’s what the judges said about “Another Day”:

“(It’s) a whimsical, fantastic feast for the eyes and ears, combining animation and live action with a ’60s ‘Laugh-In’ feel to it. It is one man telling world he is retired and is doing OK with it.”

Quite a coup for a couple of guys who first met in Miss Bouga’s fourth-grade class at Ridge-Brook Elementary in Parma and got together last summer

Filmmakers Bruce May (left) and Andy Tubbesing

to make a video just for fun.

“We were delighted just to find out it was going to be judged,” said May, 56. “It’s nice to find out someone else likes it besides your wife and kids.”

May is a retired English teacher and media specialist who taught at Buckeye and North Royalton for a total of 32 years. He played drums already, but when he retired, May decided to take guitar lessons. His interest in making music has blossomed into five CDs of original songs, with a sixth on the way.

“Some people bowl. I give my friends stuff to listen to,” May said.

When he wanted to turn one of his songs into a music video, he called on Tubbesing, a Westfield Township resident. Tubbesing, also 56, is a graphic designer who teaches at Cuyahoga Community College. He has experience in animation and does special effects for locally produced films.

“Another Day In (Retired) Paradise” stars May and his song of the same name. It was filmed on weekends in and around May’s Chatham Township home – with cameos by his wife Joy, daughter Claire, and cat Nike – named after the missile, not the shoe, for his mousing prowess.

May’s tune is sweet and clever, like a Smothers Brothers song. The live action is often comical and the animation bright and playful, giving it the feel of a Saturday-morning kids show. It’s filled with little visual rewards for those who pay close attention -- like May’s ever-changing hats and a Chippewa Lake Park poster hanging in the background.

The film tells the story of a typical day in the good life of retirement – May riding a big pink bicycle under a smiling orange sun, napping barefoot on the porch, enjoying a little snack of Oreos dunked in a mug of beer, listening sympathetically to his wife’s stories of workplace aggravation when she gets home at the end of the day.

Those were the images May had in his head while writing the lyrics, which the two scripted and storyboarded. Tubbesing’s vision was to avoid the lip-syncing and jittery camera shots that dominate videos today, in favor of simply telling a warm and funny story.

“My whole idea is: Whatever everyone else is doing right now, do the other thing, even if you don’t want to,” Tubbesing said.

They used no fancy equipment – a Mac computer, widely available software, and an off-the-shelf camera. May played all the instruments – guitar, piano, bass, drums – and put the music together using Apple’s GarageBand.

It was a do-it-yourself project all the way. To get Nike the cat to chase a leaf across the yard, they tugged the leaf through the grass on fishing line. To get the shot of May riding his bike, he pedaled in front of a white screen so Tubbesing could add the animated background later. The beer and the Oreos … well, of course, they had to practice that scene a lot to get it just right.

Completing the film and sharing it with family and friends was the real reward, but they sent the video to the festival on the hunch it might be different enough to pique the judges’ interest. It was a good hunch.

Tubbesing and May received a modest cash prize and a hand-blown glass apple for a trophy -- the Appy Award. They’ll use the money to recoup the entry fee and perhaps put the rest toward entering a few more competitions.

Otherwise, it’s back to the good life -- at least for May. As he sings in the final lines of the song:

I know I got it made in the shade / But don’t forget for 30 years I slaved. / Now my life is pretty good times twice. / It’s just another day in paradise.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

I pierce you with the ack-ack of love, flowerpot

2011-04-18T18:58:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the April 5 edition of The Medina Gazette.

This week, I am going to take a break from politics and write about skunks instead.

Hopefully, readers will notice the difference.

As Rubeus Hagrid – the larger-than-life gamekeeper in “Harry Potter” – might say: “Seriously misunderstood creatures, skunks are.” Skunks do good deeds, it’s true, but there’s one thing we do understand: They smell bad. That goes without saying, but if I stopped saying things that go without saying, I’d be out of a job.

What does skunk odor smell like?

Like rotten fish cooking in a pot of burning rubber on a smoldering pile of sweaty socks in a junior high boys locker room while a million gallons of sludge is being spread on a nearby field by a farmer smoking a cheap cigar after enjoying a big lunch of beans and cabbage boiled in sulphur water.

That’s what skunk smells like.

I know this because our 179-year-old house has been home to many of God’s creatures, besides ourselves. It’s a porous structure, as many old farmhouses are, which allows me to sleep comfortably knowing we will never die in the night from carbon monoxide poisoning. The wind that blows freely through the cracks around our old windows and doors means we are never lacking for fresh air.

However, it also means small chinks sometimes appear in our house’s eaves, slate roof and sandstone foundation. These are like little welcome centers that invite all manner of creeping, crawling, flying and walking things in from the cold to stay with us a while. In the 10 years we’ve lived here, we’ve shared our home with bats, wasps and hornets, birds, snakes, field mice, lost dogs, groundhogs, cats, and a boy and a girl, now 14 and 10, respectively.

If there’s anything else living in this house that I don’t know about, I don’t want to know about it.

Then, this winter, Pepe Le Pew, joined the party.

There’s a crawlspace under part of our old house, where the foundation is made of small, flat pieces of sandstone layered one on top of the other like … well, almost like a foundation, you could say.

Years ago, the aforementioned groundhog excavated a little doorway by removing a few loose stones. I caught him – why do I always refer to wild animals as male? – with a box trap. First I caught a sleepy raccoon who wandered by in the night and followed his nose to the leftover salad I put in as bait. I patched up the hole, but not well enough.

One recent night, we awoke to the smell of skunk wafting into the house on the breeze. We know we have skunks in the neighborhood because we’ve seen their handiwork digging up and eating nests of ground bees, which I appreciate, having been stung more than once while mowing the grass. Skunks are romantically active in late-winter, so it’s not unusual to smell one as he is out looking for love.

The odor always goes away quickly … except this time it didn’t. Not after one day. Not after two days. Not when I opened all the windows in sub-freezing temperatures. I soon realized Pepe had managed to re-open the entry point made by the groundhog and build his own little love nest under the corner of our house.

The surprising thing about skunk smell is it makes everything else smell like skunk smell. I’d smell coffee brewing in the morning – normally a great smell. It smelled like skunk to me. I’d walk into the steamy bathroom after someone had showered with fragrant soap and shampoo. Smelled like skunk. We’d all get in the car to go to church and we’d look at one another and sniff our noses. Is that skunk?

There are various methods of skunk eviction. I wasn’t anxious to use the live trap this time. I didn’t want to use poison. I didn’t want to take up a sniper post with a .22 and start blasting the neighborhood when Pepe emerged for the night. So I did a little research.

Proving there is justice, or that God has a sense of humor, or both, guess what skunks don’t like?
Powerful odors. Go figure.

I stuffed some leaves in Pepe’s doorway so I’d know when he was out carousing for the night. Before bed, I doused an old T-shirt with ammonia – lemon-scented ammonia, which I figured would really annoy him – and stuffed it into the hole in the foundation.

Next morning, the stinky t-shirt was still blocking the hole and there were some peeved-looking scratch marks in the dirt around it. I repeated the process on successive nights, dousing the whole area with ammonia. Pepe seems to have gotten the hint.

So have I. This time, I intend to plug that hole with cement. Barbed wire. A framed photo of Sarah Palin posing with a shotgun.

If all that doesn’t work, I will find a copy of Wile E. Coyote’s Acme Co. catalog and place an order. Some dehydrated boulders or invisible paint would do the trick. But I draw the line at TNT. I’ve seen enough Warner Bros. cartoons to know that never ends well.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com or on Twitter @thatjohngladden.

Drop the 'snail' from the mail

2011-03-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the March edition of The Medina Gazette.

There are certain terms I will not use.

“Meds,” for instance. “LOL.” Such abbreviations drive me crazy. I will under no circumstances say, “ave,” when I mean “avenue.”

I will not say “veggies.” I will not call Progressive Field “The Prog.” It sounds ugly. Sometimes I slip and use “info.” Needless to say, I have never in my life referred to a toilet as “the john.”

Another term you never will hear from my lips or read from my fingertips: “snail mail.”

Mail has always been something of a miracle to me. You write a letter, put it into an envelope, and paste a stamp on it – which I miss licking, by the way, in this age of self-adhesion. There was something rewarding about licking a stamp, something organic. It was like including a little bit of yourself, some of your personal DNA, in a letter. Most envelope seals are still saliva-powered, of course, but it’s not the same.

Then you put the letter in your mailbox and raise your little metal flag. No plastic mailboxes for me. I was raised on steel.

That’s it. That’s all you do. You walk back up the driveway and your part is done. For less than the cost of almost anything else – a newspaper, a pack of gum, way less than a gallon of gas – that letter will be delivered to a person or place hundreds, if not thousands of miles away.

I’m not sure why some wiseacre decided to call this “snail mail.” Like much in life, it’s a choice between what’s fast and what lasts. Electronic communication like e-mail is essential and I use it every day, but it’s insubstantial compared to a letter. Maybe we should call e-mail “rice cake mail.” All air and not very satisfying.

When my high school track coach handed out praise for running a fast race, he’s say: “You really brought home the mail.” Would that still be a compliment today? To me it would.

Growing up in rural central Ohio, when the mailman came down the road on solitary summer afternoons, it was an event. I thought it was cool how he always drove from the passenger’s side. Sometimes, when I wanted to mail a letter and didn’t have a stamp, I’d leave him a stack of pennies for postage.

Nowadays, working at home as I do, the arrival of the mail is still the turning point in my day. It’s when I get up from the computer, stretch my legs, get some fresh air, and walk down the driveway to see what’s in the mailbox.

It’s an eternally hopeful exercise. Anything could be in the mail: An unexpected check. A lavish book contract. Perhaps the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit catalog.

When people ask me how I got interested in writing, I list three things that had the greatest impact: 1.) The encouragement of teachers, 2.) Reading good books, 3.) Writing letters.

Every summer, because I lived in the country and my friends were some distance away, we wrote letters -- which I still have in a cigar box in the attic. In those days, kids didn’t just pick up the telephone any time they pleased. Some of us picked up pen and paper instead.

If you want to be a writer, writing letters is good practice. Always write them in pen so you can’t erase. That way, when you write yourself into a corner, you have to write yourself out.

Letter carriers are nothing short of heroic. This time of year, they climb mounds of snow that block mailboxes. They suffer the wrath of impatient drivers behind them. They’re out in the sun and the rain, the wind and the ice. You think your one magazine or catalog smells noxiously of glue or perfume? Think of that smell multiplied by hundreds.

Those lovely flowers you plant around your mailbox to make it look pretty? They do make your mailbox pretty, don’t get me wrong, but those flowers also attract bees. And we all know how exciting it is to have a bee fly into your car as you are driving with the window down, as rural carriers do all day long. We won’t even mention all the protective dogs they meet in the course of delivering the mail.

Our mailbox, for some reason, is a haven for spiders. There always seems to be a Charlotte who takes up residence in the back and hatches out babies, who sometimes catch a ride on our mail. When I was growing up, the mailbox at the end of Grandpa’s farm lane sometimes housed a mother wren, who made a nest of twigs and raised offspring in the spring. The mailman always was careful to leave the door ajar so she could get in and out.

When I think about all that, 44 cents for a stamp seems like a bargain

So, here’s what I want you to do. If you run a Web site, or business, or any other enterprise where you list “snail mail” as an option for contacting you, please remove it. Instead, just say “USPS.”

Or, better yet, say: “Real Piece of Paper, Picked Up and Delivered from my Hand to Yours, At a Cost of Mere Pennies, by a Fellow Human Being.”

Well, that is a bit long. I think good old “mail” would suffice.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Listen to your father: No bedewing

2011-03-21T07:41:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 22 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Today is the birthday of our national hero, George Washington. One wonders what the greatest of all Founding Fathers would think of the goings-on in the capital city that bears his name.

A believer in strong central government, some things no doubt would meet his approval. As one who prophesied the destructive effect of the “spirit of party,” chances are he’d be disgusted by the perpetual posturing in American politics.

Yet, posture did matter to Washington, evidenced by his famous schoolboy copybook work: “The Rules for Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation.” It’s a list of 110 moral precepts for maintaining dignity and good manners.

Let us never tell a lie about George Washington: He did not invent this list. It likely originated in 16th-century France and circulated in Washington’s day among young people who aspired to leadership and polite society. As a teenager, Washington probably was instructed to learn these maxims by copying them down, the same way some of us old-timers learned multiplication tables or spelling words – by writing them over and over.

There are more ways to learn than by rote, thank goodness, but there is value in running information through your brain and out your pencil onto a piece of paper. Some of it sticks to your insides on the way through, and that’s useful.

Historians say these rules had a formative impact on the future Revolutionary War general and president. Perhaps because at their heart, they teach not merely how to act, but how to be. They counsel us to show some self-control, for heaven’s sake, and to place others above ourselves.

So I cherry-picked (hee-hee) a few of Washington’s maxims I particularly liked – and that still have broad application today.

Rule No. 2: When in company, put not your hands to any part of the body not usually discovered.

If your shorts or bra require adjustment during the course of the day, please do it in private.

No. 4: In the presence of others, sing not to yourself with a humming voice, or drum with your fingers or feet.

Public whistlers should be prosecuted.

No. 3: Show nothing to your friend that may affright him.

This is why I hide tractor-repair bills from my wife.

No. 11: Shift not yourself in the sight of others, nor gnaw your nails.

See Rule No. 2 re: public shifting.

No. 12: … Bedew no man’s face with your spittle by approaching too near him when you speak.

Bedewing is bad, no matter what century you live in.

No. 18: … Come not near the books or writings of another so as to read them unless desired, or give your opinion of them unasked …

Does this mean I shouldn’t read over my wife’s shoulder and make fun of her Facebook friends?

No. 24: Do not laugh too loud or too much at any public spectacle.

Excepting Congress.

No. 38: In visiting the sick, do not presently play the physician if you be not knowing therein.

Keep your mouth shut. You ain’t no doctor.

No. 44: When a man does all he can, though it succeed not well, blame not him that did it.

This is what I tell my family after every unsuccessful home plumbing project.

No. 45: Being to advise or reprehend any one, consider whether it ought to be in public or in private, and presently or at some other time …

Hang up the cell phone. Honestly, buddy, the cereal aisle is no place for a domestic argument.

No. 47: … If you deliver any thing witty and pleasant, abstain from laughing thereat yourself.

Don’t laugh at your own jokes? “Car Talk” would be off the air.

No. 49: Use no reproachful language against any one; neither curse nor revile.

Excepting Congress.

No. 52: In your apparel be modest and endeavor to accommodate nature, rather than to procure admiration.

Accommodate nature by putting on some clothes, young people.

No. 71: Gaze not on the marks or blemishes of others and ask not how they came …

Although tempting, it’s impolite to ask: “Dude, where’d you get that scar?”

No. 73: Think before your speak …

Or blog, or Tweet, or text, or e-mail, or post on Facebook.

No. 89: Speak not evil of the absent, for it is unjust.

Excepting Congress.

No. 91: … Lean not on the table, neither find fault with what you eat.

Sit up straight, clean your plate, be thankful.

No. 94: If you soak bread in the sauce, let it be no more than what you put in your mouth at a time …

No double-dipping.

No. 97: Put not another bite into your mouth ‘til the former be swallowed. Let not your morsels be too big for the jowls.

I am forever saying this to my teenage son at dinner.

No. 101: Rinse not your mouth in the presence of others.

Please do NOT swish that soda around your mouth before swallowing.

No. 108: When you speak of God or His attributes, let it be seriously and with reverence. Honor and obey your natural parents although they be poor.

Amen to that, honey.

No. 110: Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience.

Memo to Wall Street.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Who would win?

2011-03-12T04:36:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 15 edition of The Medina Gazette.

It’s Thursday night at the old home place, otherwise known as Seafood Night. Friday we have homemade pizza. We’re protestant, after all.

Often, Seafood Night means salmon, which everyone likes but the 13-year-old boy, who would prefer a large roasted bison climb onto his plate, clutching a bottle of ketchup in one hoof and slices of American cheese in the other three. With the exception of deep-fried shrimp, he’s really more of a landfood guy.

To the 10-year-old girl, fish is made all the better by the fact her brother doesn’t care for it. Me, I am a clean-plater from way back. I was raised on chipped-beef gravy over toast, fried bologna, and fruit cocktail in green Jell-O. I will eat just about anything, and happily.

Mom, a responsible parent, is attending a meeting at the school, which is why I am making dinner and why we are not having something so good as baked salmon on Seafood Night.

In fact, the thin, orange-colored, triangular slabs I’m pulling out of the oven make the term “seafood” seem somewhat euphemistic. Exactly what part of a fish is triangle-shaped, I wonder? The fin?

To add flavor to our Triangle Fish – and possibly prolong the return to unfinished homework after supper – the boy says: Let’s play the “Who Would Win?” game.

It’s our new favorite dinnertime diversion – especially when Mom isn’t there to raise the level of discourse. It goes like this. Pick one character from one movie and another character from an entirely unrelated movie. Pit them together in a battle or some other contest. Who would win? Thus the name. We’re brilliant that way at our house. We eat a lot of fish. It’s brain food, you know.

“OK,” says the boy, throwing down the gauntlet. “Kreacher (from “Harry Potter”) vs. Jar Jar Binks (from “Star Wars”) in a footrace. Who would win?”

“Does Kreacher get to use his elf powers?” I ask. As moderator, I have to demand these sorts of critical clarifications from time to time, as well as admonish participants to eat their carrots.

“No,” the boy says. “No powers. Just a race.”

“Easy,” answers his sister. “Jar Jar. He’s got longer legs.”

Continuing the “Star Wars” vs. “Harry Potter” theme, I pose this one: “Chewbacca vs. Hagrid. Greco Roman wrestling!”

This is followed by a thorough discussion of Wookie physiology and temperament, based on more knowledge of the “Star Wars” franchise than any three normal people should have, even three who are genetically related. The nod goes to Chewbacca.

“Eat your carrots,” I say.

The girl chimes in with a non-movie challenge. “Cavaliers Coach Byron Scott vs. Judge Judy! Who would win?” she asks.

She also posed this one to her fellow fifth-graders at the school lunch table. Judge Judy won by a vote of 7-1. Sorry, Byron. It’s been that kind of season.

The game goes on from there.

Neville Longbottom vs. C3P0?

(Neville, hands down. He’s mild-mannered, but don’t let that fool you.)

Po the “Kung Fu Panda” vs. Mulan?

(Mulan. Po is bigger, but she’s more clever.)

Mr. Incredible vs. Lord Voldemort?

(Probably Voldemort, but we go with Mr. Incredible, because it’s the right thing to do.)

Inevitably, we shift back to “Star Wars.” It’s a fixation.

Han Solo vs. Indiana Jones?

(Tricky, as they’re played by the same actor, Harrison Ford. We solemnly chew our Triangle Fish and reluctantly admit the blaster beats the bull whip.)

SpongeBob vs. Bart Simpson?

(Also tricky, as both are small and yellow. Bart would play dirty, increasing his odds of winning, unless they had to battle underwater, in which case it’s a tie.)

“All right,” I say. “Last one. Mom’s workout DVDs: Leslie Sansone vs. Jillian Michaels? Who would win? Eat your applesauce.”

(No sweat there. Jillian Michaels. She’s mean. We all agree on that.)

That pretty well cleaned our plates. It was soon back to homework. Only one question remained.

Next seafood night: Triangle Fish vs. salmon? Which would win?

That’s no contest.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Chips and splinters

2011-02-18T09:19:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 1 edition of The Medina Gazette.

It’s crazy, but I love to split wood.

By hand. In the winter. The colder, the better.

It may be crazy, but in the same way golf is crazy. I’d rather swing a maul than a golf club. You get all the same benefits of exercise and being outside, but in the end, you have something more to show for your effort than a scorecard, a beer, and a lighter wallet.

I was always a unique child, you could say. I liked to be outside and I liked to work. Still do. On Sundays, when my brother and I visited our dad, who heated with a stove, I spent entire afternoons splitting wood. That’s where I learned to do it – not with a nice maul with a fiberglass handle like I have today. Back then, it was with a heavy sledge hammer and two steel wedges.

There was an art to choking up on the hickory handle of the sledge until your fist was right behind the head of the hammer, and then tapping a wedge into the wood until it was seated straight and firm.

Then came the exciting part. You took a step back, instinctively measuring the distance between you and the target, trusting that the length of the handle and your arms together would add up to a clean, square hit right on top of the wedge. If you were just a little off, that wedge would go flying. You wanted to make sure anything breakable -- such as a little brother or your dad’s car -- was safely out of range.

In a fluid motion, with one fist holding the bottom of the handle and the other at the top, you’d throw the sledge into the air behind you, slide your top hand down, and guide that hammer to the wedge with the radar of experience.

Sometimes the wood split then and there. Usually, it took a few more hits or required the second wedge. But woe to the boy who buries both wedges into an unsplit chunk of wood. It was a short distance, but a long walk, to go fetch Dad to work his fatherly magic and get the wedges out.

He was always patient. I think I would be, too. After all, I was going to school on wood and physics there in the back yard, which is a good thing for a boy or girl.

You learn quickly that all wood is not the same. You know this in your mind, of course, because trees are different. You might recognize the contrast between oak trim and pine trim in a house, but that’s not the same as the intimate knowledge you gain at the woodpile.

Different woods split differently. They have different sounds and smells. You’ve got to learn how to work with a knot or a stubborn “V” where two limbs joined. Some woods are stringy, like elm. Others like maple are usually straight-grained and hard and seem to explode apart when struck, especially if the weather is really cold. Boxelder often has a streak of red through the middle and ash a line of pith. Locust is yellowish and splintery.

In editions of The Gazette from the 19th century, there was a column called “Chips and Splinters.” It was a collection of random news tidbits from around the county. Back when virtually every household split wood for cooking and heating, it was an image that would have been familiar. After splitting a couple of wheelbarrows of firewood, I always think of those old newspapers as I gather the leftover chips and splinters to use as kindling.

Splitting wood is not boring. It’s better than the gym or the exercise bike. It feels good. When you split a piece with one shot, it seems effortless -- like hitting the sweet spot on a baseball bat or golf club or tennis racket. The physics of it are very satisfying.

I have a secondhand power splitter I fire up when I have a pile to do – but more often, I cut and split as I need it. We supplement with wood heat, especially on cold winter days and nights like those we’ve had lately. My back is older than when I learned to split, but the maul makes it easier, compared to the old wedge and sledge. I still enjoy it.

We have a constant supply of firewood – unfortunately. The ash borers, along with the gas company clearing the lines on our property, keep the wood box full. With natural gas prices relatively low, and firewood prices relatively high, I’d probably be further ahead to sell the firewood and use the money to pay my gas bill. But, that’s not taking into account the difference between the dry, dead heat that comes through the registers and the living, radiant heat that comes from the woodstove.

Wood warms you thrice, as they say – once in the cutting (and splitting), once in the toting to the house, once in the burning.

Call me crazy, but that sounds like a bargain.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Old Fergie

2011-02-02T16:54:00.000-08:00

If it's February, I'm plowing snow in our driveway with Old Fergie. The faithful 61-year-old tractor is the subject of this month's My Ohio column in Ohio Magazine. I hope you'll check it out. Click here to find a copy at a newsstand near you.

Thanks a lot, Mr. Smarty Hand

2011-01-24T11:57:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Jan. 11 edition of The Medina Gazette.

I wear my watch on the wrong hand, which is my right hand.

That’s right. I’m a rebel.

I remember my good-hearted parents and longsuffering teachers trying to explain that right-handed people – like me – are supposed to wear their watches on their left wrists.

Gather round, little children, and Uncle John will tell you a story of long ago. There was a time when watches got their power from springs the wearer had to wind every day. Yes! Every day! Physical effort, if you can imagine it. Manual labor. Tiny gears. Moving parts. Today, we would call this renewable energy. Green technology. But back then, it was an obstacle to our happiness.

Today, most watches run on batteries. In olden times, they were wound by turning the stem, which usually stuck out of the right side of the watch. Therefore, a right-handed person could conveniently use his or her dominant hand to wind the watch while wearing it.

The logic was baffling, even to my little brain.

Why not wind your watch in the morning before mounting it on your wrist, I argued, then again at night when you took it off? And what of left-handed people? Are they supposed to put their watch on their right wrist with the stem facing away from their left hand? Put it on upside down? Crazy talk, if you ask me, which no one did, of course.

I was also told I didn’t want my watch on my writing hand because the band would drag across my work. So did the cuffs of my shirtsleeves, I said, which often got stained from rubbing against the pencil and ink on the page. Should I abandon long-sleeve shirts, too?

You can see I was a troublemaker, even then.

Well, they continued. It’s easier for a right-handed person to fasten a watch band on his left wrist because the right hand is more coordinated and can work the clasp better.

What sense does that make? Am I supposed to coddle my left hand? Not expect it to do its fair share of the work around here?

Besides, I never thought of my right hand as being especially benevolent. If my watch was on my left wrist, my right hand eventually would smash it to bits.

I am proud to say I routinely operate power tools and still have all my fingers and thumbs. I type on a computer to earn my living, such as it is, so I am aware of which body parts I need to look out for.

Yet, I do have two prominent scars, both on my left hand. One on my thumb from a grizzly encounter with the razor-sharp metal lid of a Chef Boyardee spaghetti sauce can. My right hand held it out to my left hand and said, “Here … open this, would you?”

Yeah, thanks a lot, Mr. Smarty Hand.

Though you have to admit, if you’re going to cut yourself in the kitchen, spaghetti sauce really is the best thing to be cooking.

The other scar is from an old-fashioned bow saw with teeth as jagged as Mike Tyson’s smile. The blade jumped out of the groove of the piece of firewood I was cutting and, again, Mr. Coordinated Right Hand drew the saw right across the index finger of my left hand, which was holding the wood.

Both cuts probably should have had stitches, but I was raised in the “just-mop-up-the-blood-and-get-back-to-work” school of medicine.

So most of the damage I’ve done to my left hand – the cuts, the smashed fingernails, the beat-up wedding band – has been the work of my so-called smarter, more-coordinated right hand, which hardly gets so much as a splinter. It seems like there’s a metaphor for life in there somewhere.

Another reason I’ve been told I should wear my watch on my left hand is the old, “Hey, what time is it?” trick people sometimes will play when you have a hot cup of coffee in your watch hand. I drink right-handed.

Now what sort of people would play a dirty trick like that? Little people, such as the two who live in my house, for example. My kids are forever trying to get me to look at my watch and pour beverages down my front in this manner. Spilling on myself is something I need no help with, thank you very much.

It’s their revenge, since I am continually yelling at them to speed up, as fathers are obligated to do. Get out of bed, I shout. Get out of the shower. Get your shoes on. You’re going to miss the bus. We’re going to be late for church. Look at the clock. Get to bed. I’m tired.

My revenge, when they ask me for the time, is to hold out my watch – which has actual hands that go round and round – and show them. You can just about see the gears turning in their little brains as they instinctively search for a digital readout and can’t find one.

For now, I still have the upper hand. The right one, of course.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

A Marine comes home

2011-01-05T05:30:00.000-08:00

This feature appeared in the Nov. 11 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The family of Staff Sgt. Samuel E. Hewitt knows this much:

On March 22, 1966, the 19-year-old Marine was sent on night patrol in the Vietnam War, along the Demilitarized Zone near Da Nang. He never came back.

On Nov. 19, the much-loved son, brother and uncle -- remembered for his singing voice, his lanky legs, and his kindness -- will be laid to rest at Ohio Western Reserve National Cemetery.

Exactly what happened that night 44 years ago remains unknown, said his sister, Medina resident Paula Banks. Still, the call on Oct. 5 from the Joint POW / MIA Accounting Command that Sam’s remains at last had been found, eases a long and heavy burden on their hearts.

Sam’s mother, Hilda “Marie” Hewitt-Fromherz, asked God to allow her to live long enough to see this day.

“Now that we know, it’s been an answer to prayer,” said Marie, 87, who also lives in Medina.

Sam’s remains were discovered during an excavation in early June. Based on information from residents near the site and from former Vietcong, searchers had visited the area nine times looking for another serviceman when they found Sam. His remains were flown to Hawaii, where they were identified through dental records.

“His skeletal remains were still intact,” Paula said. “He still had his socks and boots on.” That alone was something of a relief, she added.

Officials surmise the Vietcong likely took items of potential value, including Sam’s dog tags and uniform, before burying him. The family will receive his boots, which will be placed in the Crile Archives and Center for History Education at Cuyahoga Community College’s Western Campus, where Paula’s husband, Jim, is founder and director.

When the plane carrying Sam’s remains lands in Cleveland, the pilot will announce to the passengers he is on board. Passengers will wait as military representatives remove Sam’s casket from the plane.

“His story was just beginning,” Paula said, “and there’s a huge gap, but now there’s a new chapter.”

Sam and Paula grew up in Koontz Lake, Indiana – a town smaller than the Medina County village of Seville. Sam was athletic and loved the outdoors. He worked part-time at a local gas station, where he indulged his love of cars.

He grew to be a strapping young man – 6-feet-2-inches tall, 175 pounds, with blue eyes and wavy brown hair.

“He was all legs and all hollow,” said Paula, 67, who was five years older than Sam. “He ate enormous amounts of food!”

When he outgrew his big sister, Sam loved to stand next to her and rest an elbow on top of her head.

“He really kept you on your toes,” said Marie.

Sam mowed lawns, planted flowers and put in storm windows for older neighbors. He had a lot of surrogate grandmothers.

“He was a jokester and an imp, but he really had this streak of kindness and caring for others,” Paula said.

Despite the difference in their ages, the two still had adventures together -- like the time they dragged home a huge snapping turtle to show their dad, she said.

There was a Christmas morning rule at the Hewitt house: It had to be at least daylight before the kids were allowed to open gifts. Paula fondly remembers spending many Christmas mornings with her brother staring out the windows, awaiting the first sign of sunrise.

Sam had a good voice and sang in the choir in school, at church, and in the service. The Hewitts often sang at home while doing dishes and on long car rides – everything from hymns, to doo-wap and camp songs, to old-time favorites like “Tell Me Why” and “Good Night Irene.”

“My children missed a wonderful uncle,” Paula said.

Sam entered the service after graduating from high school in 1965 and was assigned to the U.S. Marines 9th Division, 3rd Battalion. He arrived in Vietnam in December of that same year, where the expert marksman manned listening posts and served in an expeditionary scouting position. Sam’s last night on patrol remains a mystery.

“He went out and never came back,” Paula said. “And no one knew what happened.”

Sam’s late father, Eugene, received the phone call. He drove from Indiana to Medina, where Marie was visiting Paula, to break the news to the family in person that Sam was missing in action.

“When you don’t know, you have a glimmer of hope,” Marie said.

All she could do at first was cry and pray. But Marie soon told herself the best thing she could do for her son was to keep herself in the best mental and physical condition possible -- to be prepared and strong, no matter the outcome.

Initially, the military asked the family to keep the news private. After a year, they were encouraged to tell everyone. They gave TV and newspaper interviews about Sam and wrote to their local congressman.

“I think I had a lot of hope that first year,” Paula said.

Military officials visited the Hewitts with photographs of POWs. But none of them was Sam. No new information emerged. On Dec. 1, 1975, Sam was declared dead, even though his body had not been found.

“For me, it was more of a comfort to think of him gone, than to think of him captured and tortured,” Paula said. “I couldn’t handle those nightmares.”

Marie’s father served in World War I, her brother in World War II. Now she had lost her only son in Vietnam. The family traveled to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall and to “Punchbowl” National Cemetery in Hawaii, but there was no grave for them to visit.

Sam’s dad, who passed away in 2003, made a special case to frame his son’s medals. It was in part an expression of the loss he felt.

“You knew by his deeds he was deeply affected,” Paula said. “Sam was the last of the Hewitt name.”

The family received occasional reports through the National League of POW / MIA Families about the ongoing search. On visits back home to Koontz Lake, friends always asked: Have you heard anything about Sam?

After decades of keeping vigil, they have.

And it comes at a time of the year that was special to Sam, his sister said.

“He loved Thanksgiving,” Paula said, laughing. “He absolutely couldn’t wait to get into that turkey and pumpkin pie.”

His place at the table will be empty. He won’t join in singing “Tell Me Why” as the dinner dishes are washed and put away. But this Thanksgiving, after a long journey, Sam will be home.

“This is a gift, because we never knew for sure where he was. Now we know he’s back in his country,” Paula said. “We know where he is.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Jukebox Miracles

2010-12-02T06:19:00.000-08:00

If you ride a bicycle in or around Medina, there's a good chance you know Don Barnett. He's the service manager at the Century Cycles store on North Court Street. Don is among the staff members there who keep our family's bikes in great shape.

What you may not know about Don is that he is as good with a pen as he is with a wrench. When I visit with him at the shop, we spend about as much time talking about writing as we do talking about riding.

I'm happy to share this Christmas poem Don wrote in 1998. If anything, the story it tells is more appropriate now than ever. A poem can mean a little something different to everyone who reads it.

Don's poem makes me think about the "quarters" each of us might carry in our pockets and the difference they could make to someone who is lonely or facing tough times. There's a little bit of the mysterious stranger in each of us, I think.

I hope you'll leave a comment below or click here to send Don an e-mail and tell him what his poem means to you.

Jukebox Miracles
By Don Barnett

T’was a lonely Christmas Evening
I went driving in my car
No place to be, nowhere to go
I found an open bar.

It was lined with lonely people
All just needing someone near
I found a seat down at the end
And ordered up a beer.

Christmas dinner was a burger
With a pickle and some fries
For dessert I had another beer
And searched the vacant eyes.

Each face seemed to tell a story
And each seemed so sad a tale
With the beer and my own musing
I saw each in clear detail.

The fellow sitting two seats down
His kids don’t give a damn
He’s treated like an invalid
Because he’s an old man.

And the couple in the corner
All those years they worked so hard
Their kids won’t come around or call
They don’t even send a card

The looker at the other end
Knows loneliness too well
But there’s not many out tonight
Buying what she has to sell.

The lady sitting next to her
Has simply lived too long
Lost her husband, friends and kids,
And now she’s all alone.

The waitress leaning on the bar
Left home at seventeen
Now she’s bringing up a baby
That her folks have never seen.

And as for me, I’d have to say
For reasons of my own
I choose to keep myself apart
From everyone I’ve known.

Chorus:
So raise your glass and drink a toast
To our Savior born today
He died to save us from our sins
Or so the Scriptures say
And if He’s up there looking down
If He can see somehow
I only hope He really knows
How much we need Him now.

Now as we sat there all alone
Lost each in our own cares
Not knowing of the Miracle
About to happen there.

When all at once the door pushed in
And standing in the light
A ragged man in tattered clothes
Came from the frosty night.

The barkeep yelled out to the man
“We don’t give credit here
Just walk back out the way you came
If you can’t buy a beer.”

The man just looked around at us
As if he hadn’t heard
He slowly walked down past the bar
And didn’t say a word.

He went back to the corner where
A dusty jukebox sat
And pulled a grimy quarter from
The brim of his old hat.

While standing there he turned to us
I thought I saw him grin
Turning back, so slow it seems
He dropped the quarter in.

Then quietly at first, as though
As if from far away
From somewhere up above our heads
A song began to play.

"Silent Night, Oh! Holy Night"
Drifted out into the room
And with each note the song began
To brighten up the gloom.

Now when it stopped, without a pause,
'Ere we could say a word
From that jukebox in the corner
Another song was heard.

Then all at once it happened
Like a rare and magic thing
As one by one carols played
We all began to sing.

And as our hearts and voices joined
And rang out into the night
In the darkness where we lived our lives
There crept a little light.

In our loneliness we found a bond
If only for a while
To share our lives, our hopes and dreams
And have a chance to smile.

Chorus:
So raise your glass and drink a toast
To our Savior born today
He died to save us from our sins
Or so the Scriptures say
And if He’s up there looking down
If He can see somehow
I only hope He really knows
How much we need Him now.

Later as the hour grew late
And we all turned to go
One by one we said good-bye
And walked out in the snow.

As I turned to leave I saw
There standing all alone
The barkeep by the jukebox
Straight and still as if of stone.

I put my hand upon his arm
He slowly turned his head
I saw a teardrop in his eye
As quietly he said.

“There ain’t no carols in this box”
As he fought back his tears
“Not only that, but it’s been broke
For over fifteen years.”

Looking down I saw the quarter
Lying in the coin return
Just for a moment time stood still
I felt the world turn.

Right then I felt a chill run up
And down along my spine
That mystery man in tattered clothes
Had brought us all a sign.

Though I could not remember
When he must have just slipped out
But he found us for a reason
Of that I have no doubt.

Now you may not believe at all
This story that I say
But I carry in my pocket still
That quarter to this day.

Chorus:
So raise your voice and sing your praise
To our Savior born today
He’s come to us to bring us hope
To help us find our way
And He is up there looking down
I know He sees somehow
For He has shown He really knows
How much we need Him now.

Don Barnett©1998

A man's castle

2010-11-20T16:59:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Oct. 28 edition of The Medina Gazette.

YORK TWP. -- They say a man’s home is his castle.

In Walter Russell’s case, his home really was a castle.

As a boy, Walter fell in love with Medieval history, as well as the stories of the Knights of the Round Table and Sir Walter Scott’s “Ivanhoe.” When he was 14, Walter put a picture of a castle in his wallet and said: I’m going to build that someday.

In 1947, he and his wife, Ilona, began building a home on their Fenn Road farm. But not just any home. One with massive stone fireplaces. Stained glass windows. Two towers. Saw-toothed parapets. Their own brick castle – and they did most of the work with their own four hands.

“This was a showplace,” said friend Bob Stout, 81, as he looked out over a pond beside the house. Some of the pine trees Walter planted around it have now fallen into the water.

Walter died almost three decades ago, Ilona in 2007 at age 98. The couple had no children and the property fell to Stout, who lives nearby. He’s been working at repairs and clearing away overgrown shrubs and brush that hid the castle from the road.

“A lot of people went right by it, but didn’t even know it was here,” he said.

The house and surrounding 70 acres are for sale, but the pool of prospective buyers in the market for a castle so far has been small, said Stout.

He met Walter at the Carter Lumber store around the corner, where Stout was the manager. Looking at a 1950s photo of Walter at work on the house – with his angular face, strapping arms and broad shoulders – you’d think it was a picture of John Wayne.

Stout laughed.

“A lot people said that. He was a guy’s guy. I don’t know anyone who met him who didn’t like him,” Stout said.

Walter came from Cleveland, where he literally climbed his way through the ranks at Ohio Bell, from lineman to manager. A cabin not far behind the house is sided almost entirely with the wooden cross pieces of old telephone poles. The pieces are about three inches square and up to eight feet long, layered one on top of the other, like small logs in a log cabin.

“Those things are solid as a rock. It’s like they’re petrified,” said Stout. “He was creative. I don’t know how many people would ever think of something like that.”

Inside, the cabin is a single, expansive room with wooden floors -- giving it the feel of a small dance hall. It has knotty pine paneling, a fireplace, stained-glass windows and leaded-glass cabinets. It’s where Ilona, an avid collector, kept antiques. The collection, along with most of the couple’s household items, were auctioned to pay for Ilona’s care when she went to a nursing home, Stout said.

Ilona also was a gardener. There are a myriad of spring-flowering bulbs slumbering under the English ivy that surrounds the house.

For five years, the Russells traveled down from their Cleveland apartment to build their castle, mostly on weekends and vacations. Walter spent many a weeknight at Cleveland Public Library, studying architectural design and teaching himself the arts of masonry, plumbing, electrical, carpentry and plastering.

While the house reaches back to Medieval times for its inspiration, it also reached into the future for amenities few homes had in the late ’40s and early ’50s – like a dishwasher, marble countertops, a shower with two spray jets, finished basement, security system and intercom.

Many of the walls and floors are finished in wood from the farm – maple, walnut, ash and pine. There are cedar-lined closets, bird’s eye maple trim and pinned oak floors, plus handsome tile work in the kitchen, multiple fireplaces and a built-in bar. The fingerprints of Walter’s craftsmanship are on every square inch.

“He did it right,” Stout said. “He did it right.”

In opposite front corners of the house are the two round towers, each about eight feet across. The one in the master bedroom was for Ilona’s dressing table.

The tower in the living room held the library. Stout remembers when the living room, with its vaulted cedar ceiling, was decorated with suits of armor and tapestries. The focal point is a large fireplace, built with stones Walter’s friends brought him from around the country.

So far, prospective buyers have looked around the house and said: “Well, it needs a lot of updates.” Stout shakes his head.

“No! You don’t want to update it,” he said. “You’ve got to want to live in it like this. It’s got to be someone who loves it, as is.”

Updates to plumbing or electric, sure. He can understand that. But dismantle his friends’ dream? No way.

A few hundred yards behind the house, at the edge of a second pond, is an overgrown picnic area with graceful drooping willows, the ruins of a boathouse and pavilion, as well as a still-handsome outdoor fireplace. Peering out from the fieldstone chimney is a sculptured face Stout calls “The Man of the Grapes.”

It’s hard for me not to look at it and think of Walter, with his chiseled John Wayne good looks, gazing out over the place he and Ilona clearly loved so much.

“When he was alive, boy, this was pretty,” Stout said, looking at the water. “I’d sure like to see somebody get it who would put it back the way it was.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Gratitude

2010-11-09T09:50:00.001-08:00

This column appeared in the Aug. 3 edition of The Medina Gazette. It's about a chain-reaction crash I was involved in on July 1. A tractor-trailer traveling at full highway speed hit a line of cars stopped in a construction zone.

At the time, the driver said he was unable to stop the truck. Recently, I followed up with the Ohio Highway Patrol, curious if the cause of the accident was mechanical failure. The trooper I spoke with said the tractor-trailer's data recorder was so badly damaged after the cab burst into flames, they were unable to recover any information from it. The photos are ones I took with a Canon point-and-shoot I happened to have in the car. Click on the pictures to see them full-size.

One day last month, I was stopped in a line of cars in a construction zone on a rural Ohio highway. Hearing a noise behind me, I looked up to see the face of a truck driver in my rear-view mirror as the tractor-trailer he was driving hit the line of cars at full speed. Mine was the third from the end.

It was just enough time for me to think: I am about to get launched from this road and maybe from this life.

The first car was hit hard and the second was thrown into mine. Somehow, the semi itself missed me as it crashed its way through the line. It came to rest in a hay field a couple hundred yards up the road and burst into flames like a scene from a movie.

Amazingly, no one was killed. The driver got out of the truck and rescue crews were on the scene in minutes. Two emergency helicopters and a fleet of ambulances took the injured to hospitals. After firefighters put out the burning tractor-trailer, there was nothing left of the cab but the steering wheel sticking out of the engine.

In all, there were 10 vehicles and 20 people in the chain-reaction crash. I not only walked away, I drove away. Mine was the only car that still worked. Most were totaled.

A columnist’s trade is to read meaning into things. So, after some reflection, here’s what I take away from this experience. In a word: Gratitude.

More than ever, I am grateful for truck drivers. Virtually everything we buy in a store got there on a truck, driven by a man or woman doing a really difficult job to support themselves and their families. I don’t know what happened in this case, but it reminds me how many thousands of miles these professionals drive to bring us our stuff, usually without incident and without much thanks.

I am grateful for safety services. People seem chronically angry at the cost of government services and health care. But when you experience how quickly law enforcement, medical personnel and firefighters appear on the scene with state-of-the-art equipment and the training to use it, you don’t ask how much the emergency helicopter costs. You just expect it to be there and you’re glad when it is.

I’m thankful for the nearby residents and motorists who came running with fire extinguishers and comforted injured people until help arrived. Everyday people usually are the first-responders when there’s trouble. Thank goodness for their courage and compassion.

I’m grateful for government standards for automobile crash safety. Onlookers surveyed the mangled compact cars on the scene and said they’d never be caught driving one. Yet, thanks in part to air bags, engineers, auto workers, consumer protection groups and federal oversight, all emerged from their vehicles alive.

I’m thankful for highway workers, whose jobs can be not only physically demanding, but dangerous. How often do we gripe about encountering a construction zone when we’re in a rush and get stopped or slowed for a few minutes? If you’re me, that used to be about every time. I’m trying to be more patient and appreciative.

And, of course, I’m grateful for life. You go through a harrowing experience and the ability to walk never seems so nice. The air never smells so good, the sky never seems so blue. I was never more content to get into the “slow” lane on the freeway and drive the speed limit. I was never more grateful to get from Point A to Point B without a problem and to kiss my wife when I got home.

Those are all things I need to appreciate every day -- not just after surviving a crash -- and I hope you do, too.

Except for the kissing my wife part. You can leave that to me.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Ohio in November

2010-11-03T04:05:00.000-07:00

I hope you'll check out my feature in November's Ohio Magazine on Canton native Ted Gup's new book, "The Secret Gift: How One Man's Kindness -- and a Trove of Letters -- Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression."

Find a copy of Ohio Magazine at a newsstand near you.

A triple-dog Sabbath dare

2010-10-27T10:32:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the October 19 edition of The Medina Gazette.

It’s the time of year I love.

And don't.

I love autumn – the colors, the coolness, putting the garden to bed for the winter and saying hello to my old friend, the woodstove.

But I dread walking into the store and seeing the Christmas decorations that have already been put up beside the Halloween candy and vampire costumes.

If there were blood pressure monitors at the store entrance instead of anti-theft systems, the sirens would begin whooping the minute I walked in. I can feel the anxiety rise in my chest when I see Christmas go up the same time as Halloween. It’s like I am stepping into a tidal wave that will sweep me along in a headlong rush of holiday commerce and social commitments.

When at last I am able to stand up, blink my eyes and wring the flood water out of my clothes, it will be the first week of January. We’ll be pulling out the tubs to pack away the Christmas decorations and I will say: How could it be 2011? Where did the time go? What happened?

About the same time the Christmas offerings were going up in stores, my wife and I made our annual visit to the American Association of University Women book sale in Wooster. We try never to miss that one or the Medina AAUW branch’s sale in the spring. If you haven’t been to a local AAUW sale, and you love books, you are missing out.

One of the bargains I picked up was “Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith” (Harpers, 2006) by Barbara Brown Taylor -- an Episcopal priest turned professor and author. One passage in the book, about remembering the Sabbath, hit me at the right time:

“Sabbath is written into the ancient covenant with God. Remember the Sabbath, the rabbis say, and you fulfill all of Torah. Stop for one whole day every week, and you will remember what it means to be created in the image of God, who rested on the seventh day not from weariness but from complete freedom. The clear promise is that those who rest like God find themselves free like God, no longer slaves to the thousand compulsions that send others rushing toward their graves.”

Does that not hit close to home here in mid-October? The season we all profess to love, but proceed to rush right through? Among those “thousand compulsions” there’s something for each of us, whether we are in slavery to the calendar, to the sale ads, to rich foods, to making money, to the stress of trying to get everything done, or all of the above.

We can’t eliminate a thousand things – especially since some are necessities and many are enjoyable -- but we can add one thing: Sabbath.

Sabbath does not mean Sunday – especially if you are clergy or a firefighter or a nurse or a store manager. It means making time for rest and reflection one day out of the week. The day or time isn’t as important as doing it. Sabbath is more critical than ever this time of the year.

Sitting mindlessly in front of the TV or computer doesn’t count. Sabbath doesn’t mean yard work or cooking a favorite meal – even if those are tasks you enjoy. That’s a rationalization I make all the time. Raking leaves or tilling the garden or painting a room is relaxing for me, I say. It’s different than writing at a computer all day, I tell myself. Yes, but a different kind of work is still work.

NPR’s wacky and insightful science reporter Robert Krulwich aired a piece in February titled: “Why does time fly by as you get older?”

We say it all the time. The older generation tells the younger: You wait and see. The years will fly by. Enjoy every minute before it’s gone. And they are right.

Turns out, Krulwich reported, people across cultures have the sense time goes faster with age. The days all may still be 24 hours long, but there is some truth behind the perception.

Neuroscientists suggest when an experience is new, it makes a stronger impression – a first kiss, for example. Our mental scrapbooks have lots of open pages to fill when we’re young. So, when you’re a kid, summer lasts forever and Christmas never gets here fast enough.

The older you are, the more you’ve been there, done that. Summer goes by in a blink and Christmas arrives right after Labor Day. When our feet wear a familiar path through life, the smoother the road becomes and the more the journey seems to pick up speed.

Maybe the key to slowing down time is to keep having new experiences. Visit new places, eat new things, read new books, discover new music, meet new people, take on new work. Above all, shut off the cursed computer and TV and go out and live. Keep the Sabbath.

I triple-dog dare you, when you’ve finished raking a pile of leaves, in full view of the entire neighborhood, to dive into it, kick around a while, and then be still. Smell the leaves, feel them get under your shirt, and it will recall childhood joys you haven’t known for a long time.

And when someone rushes over to see if you’ve had a heart attack, say no sir. No ma’am. I am trying to keep the Sabbath and it is a new experience for me. One I may just remember in the headlong rush of the holidays.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Mr. Bartter

2010-10-20T04:27:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Oct. 12 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Seville lost one of its most colorful figures last month: Lawrence Bartter. He passed away Sept. 17 at age 93, after a long, vigorous and intensely independent life.

Cities have colorful people, too, of course, but they are spread out among a larger population. They are less visible. If you spent any time in the village of Seville, you would have noticed Lawrence.

A machinist by trade, he was the guy in town who could fix almost anything brought to him for repair. Look at old copies of the weekly Seville Chronicle from the 1950s and ’60s and you’ll find Lawrence’s classified ads advertising his handyman services. He was a man-of-all-work, as they used to say on the farm.

He was the one you called when you had a roof that leaked or a tree that needed trimmed, but it was taller than you cared to climb. If I heard it once, I heard it a dozen times, that Lawrence would fearlessly amble up a towering ash or old maple with nothing but a rope and a chainsaw. I’m told he’d tie himself off with the rope and swing around the tree -- part Flying Wallenda, part lumberjack -- trimming a limb here, cutting a limb there.

Lawrence was a passionate skier. He skied the Alps and the Pyrenees and his favorite, the Colorado Rockies. In cold weather, he wore his ski clothes around town. He always looked sort of dashing to me in his thick, colorful sweaters, scarf and knit cap, his face rugged and tanned. He skied into his 80s, until his eyesight no longer allowed him to drive to the slopes. Even then, Lawrence continued to run his errands around town on his riding mower. His wife, Martha, died in 1983.

He built his house with his own two hands and raised his own vegetables – even insisting on planting tomatoes out back of the nursing home where he lived the last few months. He also built his own casket – out of Osage-orange, hard as a rock. When I, God-willing, have lived a long, vigorous and independent life, I hope I can be so practical and accepting in contemplating my own passing.

His life is made even more remarkable because Lawrence suffered a childhood stroke that permanently damaged his sight, hearing and speech. It was his difficulty speaking that inspired him to memorize poetry. As a youngster, children sometimes mocked the way he talked, Lawrence said. Even as an adult, there must have been those who didn’t know what to make of him. That’s true for all of us once in while and true every day for people who look or sound different from us. Learning poetry, Lawrence said, gave him something beautiful to say.

“That’s the only way I could get anybody to listen to me,” he once said.

He was famous for reciting poems – Lawrence claimed he had enough poetry committed to memory he could recite it for five hours straight. I don’t doubt it. Among his favorites was Robert Service’s 900-word poem, “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”

Anyone who’s read this column over the years knows that, being a hopeless old English major, I sometimes write about poetry. I’ve invited readers to share original poems – locally themed haiku and limericks – with small prizes awarded to the best submissions. I am always amazed and heartened by the response. By golly, there are people out there in the world who still love poetry.

I think it’s time formalize things just a little bit. With the blessing of Lawrence’s daughter, Nancy, I’d like to institute an annual poetry contest in his honor: the Lawrence H. Bartter Poetry Prize.

In the coming weeks, I’ll put out a call for original poems by Gazette readers, giving you the rules and the deadline. Fall is a rich time for writing -- with the changing of the seasons and the approach of the holidays. The very best poems I’ll share in a column the week of Lawrence’s birthday, Dec. 18. Winners will receive a certificate and a modest prize.

When I once remarked to Lawrence on his gift for memorization, he laughed.

“Anybody can memorize poetry,” he said. “All they have to do is read it. It will come to you. You have to craft the story and it will come to you. But take your time, you see.”

That’s good advice for writing, it too, which can seem intimidating. Read poetry. Craft your own story. Take your time. And it will come to you. That’s how it’s done. Poetry gives each of us a voice, the same way it did for Lawrence, and enriches our lives in unexpected ways.

Lawrence was something of an institution in our small town and he will be missed. Many, many good-hearted people looked in on him, helped take care of him when he needed it, and are richer for knowing him. I know I am.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

Ohio's Big Tree Hunter

2010-10-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

Check out the October edition of Ohio Magazine for my story on Brian Riley, a forester with the Ohio Division of Forestry with a passion -- and a knack -- for discovering the state's largest trees. Of the 263 trees that have been identified as the largest of their species in Ohio, Riley is responsible for discovering 125 of them.

Click here to find a copy of this month's magazine on a newsstand near you.

Riding for Hope

2010-10-05T07:29:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the July 28 edition of The Medina Gazette.

LAFAYETTE TWP. -- It’s 6 a.m. and only the birds and the bicyclists are out on the Chippewa Inlet Trail at Buckeye Woods Park. Even the sun was slow to get out of bed and burn through the heavy morning mist.

Chuck Coleman and his daughter Catie were just embarking on a 45-mile training ride to Wooster and back again. Don’t ask which one of them steers when they’re riding their Burley tandem. They get good-natured ribbing like that all the time.

“People pass us and say, ‘You know he’s not pedaling,’ ” said Catie, 23, who sits in the captain’s seat.

Her dad smiled and leaned forward.

“The truth is, I’m not,” he whispered jokingly.

Chuck, 57, has been blind since birth. And in January, the Lafayette Township piano tuner and musician began to lose his voice.

“I thought I had bronchitis,” he said.

When antibiotics failed to help, a Cat scan revealed a mass in his left lung. It was Stage 3 cancer.

That started him on a regimen of chemotherapy, radiation treatment – and bicycling.

The father-daughter team has been training for the Pan Ohio Hope Ride -- a 328-mile bicycle tour from Cleveland to Cincinnati. Sponsored by the American Cancer Society, it raises money for the Society’s Hope Lodges. The lodges provide a free home-away-from-home for those who travel long distance for cancer treatment.

The tour – which will pass through Medina County on Thursday morning -- is July 29 through Aug. 1. Friday will be a 100-mile spin from Wooster to Columbus, but otherwise the route averages 70-80 miles per day.

The Colemans found a brochure for the Hope Ride at a doctor’s office. Chuck said: What the heck. Let’s sign up.

Exercise was already part of their routine. Chuck rides a stationary bike, walks with his dog and uses a treadmill. They bought the tandem in 2000 and have done other multi-day tours together, like the Great Ohio Bicycle Adventure.

Catie, who has commuted by bike, was a standout runner at Cloverleaf High School and Ohio Wesleyan University. She’ll soon be entering nursing school.

They’ve been training right through Chuck’s treatment – something his oncologist was surprised he could do, Catie said. He’s felt pretty good, especially as the side effects of the chemo and radiation have diminished. Chuck will have another scan in August, which will show if the tumor has shrunk and if his paralyzed left vocal chord will come back.

Spending father-daughter time together on the bike has been fun, they said. They talk and play games – like 20 Questions – to wile away the miles. Catie lets her dad know if there’s a bump in the road ahead and when they need to shift gears or slow down. Otherwise, they average about 15 mph on the tandem.

“I just like to feel the breeze,” Chuck said. “It’s just cool to be out in the open.”

And the Pan Ohio Hope Ride is a chance to help others whose lives have been impacted by cancer. In the course of his own journey, Chuck has met a lot of different doctors, nurses, technicians and surgeons, but he’s been struck by one thing they have in common.

“Through all of it, I realized how much these people care,” he said. “I never dreamed I’d get anything like this – nobody does.”

Catie and Chuck’s fundraising goal is $1,500 each. The ride begins Thursday, but contributions will be accepted through August.

To make an online donation on their behalf, or to learn more about the Pan Ohio Hope Ride, visit www.panohiohoperide.org. Click on the button that says “donate,” then search for Chuck or Catie Coleman’s name.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@frontier.com.

'A Modern-Day Betsy Ross"

2010-05-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

The current edition of American Profile magazine features my story about Lois Csontos-Nielsen, a volunteer at Western Reserve National Cemetery who mends tattered flags. It's part of the magazine's Hometown Heroes series. Lois certainly is that.

Remembering the Palm Sunday tornado

2010-04-27T05:26:00.000-07:00

This story was published in the April 10 edition of The Medina Gazette.

BRUNSWICK -- Every time the wind picks up, it carries Pat Klaehn back 45 years to Palm Sunday, April 11, 1965.

That’s when just before midnight, the worst tornado in local history came calling on northern Medina County, spawned by a series of deadly storms that swept through the Midwest earlier in the day.

Coming in from the west and traveling just south of state Route 303, the tornado splintered homes, broke barns in two, tossed cars, snapped off trees -- and left an indelible impression on those who lived through it.

“I’ll tell you when I think of it,” said Klaehn. “All the time. Not just Palm Sunday.”

Whenever the wind rises, so do the memories of that night.

“They say you don’t see the wind? I see the wind,” she added with a chuckle.

Klaehn, who lived on Brunswick’s Anderson Drive with her husband and children, remembers the menacing skies.

“Before we went to bed that night, I was looking out, toward the north. I told my husband: ‘That sky looks terrible. That sky just looks terrible.’ He goes: ‘You always say that when it gets windy,’ ” she recalled, laughing.

“So, what do you know? The next thing, we heard this ‘engine’ going,” she said, describing the storm the way many do – like the sound of a train.

It was followed by the sound of the house next door being torn apart and then by the voices of their neighbors, the Kinneys, making their way out of the rubble toward the Klaehns’ home.

“We were fortunate. Our house wasn’t totally taken. We had damage, but no one was hurt,” Klaehn said. “The people next door, their house was totaled.”

Photos from The Gazette Leader Post showing wreckage from the storm include a picture of a pair of scissors embedded, point-first, in the Klaehns’ metal siding.

Lumber from the house next door came flying into a bedroom shared by her two young boys, Bob and David, who were asleep in their bunk beds. Another son, Jeff, was a baby and was in another room.

Some of the wood landed on David, who was in the lower bunk – and who slept through the whole thing.

“My husband went in to get him out and had to pull him out from under this 2-by-4,” Klaehn said.

They bundled up the baby and picked their way through the debris across the street, where the homes were untouched. The family lived in an apartment for about a month while their home was repaired. Klaehn now lives in Brunswick Hills Township.

The fact the storm occurred at night made it all the more frightening and its sounds more vivid. Klaehn recalled the hissing of broken gas lines, knowing a single spark could have turned one disaster into another.

‘WE WERE ALL ALIVE’

On nearby Myrtle Lane, Alda Mae Smeltzer was alone with her three children – her husband was at work – when she was awakened by the sound of the house “exploding" around her.

She grabbed the children – plucking her 4-year-old from bed just as the room’s ceiling began to collapse.

“I finally got them to the front of the house … and there was no front of the house,” Smeltzer recalled.

“We lost just about everything,” she said. Their home was a total loss, but all four stepped out of the rubble without a scratch.

The next day, as the neighborhood was busy cleaning up, Smeltzer stood amidst the overwhelming wreckage of her home and made an announcement.

“I hollered: ‘Does anyone want to buy a house … cheap?’ ” she recalled with a chuckle. “You had to laugh. What else were you going to do? We were all alive and that’s what was important.”

It took four or five months for the family to rebuild – and Smeltzer still lives in the white ranch-style home today.

WORST OUTBREAK IN U.S. HISTORY

Along with twisted buildings and damaged homes from Liverpool to Hinckley, the most serious destruction occurred in the center of Brunswick along Andrea Drive, Myrtle Lane, Anderson Drive and the surrounding areas. The Gazette reported every one of the 70 cars on the lot at Shepherd Ford on Pearl Road was damaged. Across the street, Carlson Funeral Home was hit hard, too.

Remarkably, there were no fatalities in Medina County and only a handful of injuries. The American Red Cross set up headquarters in Brunswick City Hall. Citizens groups stepped up to help those in need. Residents opened their homes to neighbors whose houses were destroyed. Restaurants and school cafeterias fed workers who were clearing debris.

The Red Cross reported at least 19 homes were rendered uninhabitable. Another 10 were livable, but in need of serious repair. Damage was placed at about $1 million. That’s the equivalent of $6.9 million in today’s economy.

The situation was far worse in Toledo and in Lorain County, where the crossroads town of Pittsfield was wiped off the map. In Toledo, a tornado picked up a bus and slammed it on its top, killing five.

From about 8:20 p.m. to 1 a.m., 18 separate tornado-producing systems wreaked havoc in half a dozen Midwestern states. According to the Weather Service, it was the worst tornado outbreak in U.S. history, leaving 250 people dead, 1,500 injured, and half a billion dollars of damage in its wake.

Six of those storm systems hit north-central Ohio, killing 55 people. In state history, only the 1924 Sandusky-Lorain tornado was deadlier, claiming 85 lives.

In 1965, many residents had little warning before the tornadoes. Most weather-tracking systems were no more than 1950s-vintage airport radar scopes. The machines were capable of spotting a tornado only when they picked up the telltale “hook echo” on the radar.

The Palm Sunday tornado outbreak prompted the Weather Service to develop not only better technology, but also the present-day public alert system of issuing a “tornado watch” when conditions are prime for tornado development, and a “tornado warning” when one is imminent or on the ground.

‘LIKE A BOUNCING BALL’

Ohio Gov. James Rhodes and even President Lyndon Johnson toured northern Ohio by air, declaring it a disaster area. Gazette writer Al Thomas got a bird’s eye view of the region in a plane piloted by Medina’s Willard Stephenson.

“The tornado struck like a bouncing ball,” Thomas wrote of the scene in rural Lorain County. “Here a home or two scattered over the fields, then homes untouched, then more homes pulverized into rubble.”

The ball bounced most cruelly on Pittsfield, he observed, which three days after the storm remained “just smoking ruins.”

“In Brunswick,” he continued, “the wild winds skipped a thousand homes to vent their fury on a handful of houses near the center of the community. Smashing into some 30 homes, leveling half of that number, the tornado roared into Hinckley.”

LISTEN TO THE WARNINGS

Ask Medina’s Lyle Roberts how often he thinks of the April 11, 1965, tornado and he’ll tell you: Every time.

“Every Palm Sunday I think about it,” said Roberts, who had been assigned the midnight shift as a Medina County Sheriff’s Deputy on what he remembers as a hot and muggy night.

He worked 48 hours straight – checking collapsed buildings, assisting medical personnel, directing traffic, guarding against looters, and keeping people safe from downed electrical lines.

The tornado’s path wasn’t wide, Roberts recalled, but it was devastating.

“I think we were very fortunate we didn’t have any fatals,” he said. “It’s an experience I don’t care to go through again.”

Klaehn repeatedly expressed her gratitude, knowing the outcome could have been much worse.

“Even though it was terrible, we were fortunate,” she said. “We were blessed that we got out of there fine.”

Today’s high-tech weather monitoring systems are a blessing, too, she added, urging others to take storm warnings seriously when they’re issued.

“People have to be aware,” she said. “Boy, now that they have signals, don’t ignore them. All of your stuff can be replaced – unless you lose a life.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

Food waste: Some facts to chew on

2010-04-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the April 6 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Here’s a little something to chew on along with your breakfast bagel.

The U.S. Department of Agriculture estimates Americans throw away more than 25 percent of all food produced for domestic consumption. A family of four tosses about $590 worth of food every year.

This seems a bit stunning at first. It’s like saying out of a dozen eggs, three go into the trash. You buy four packs of ground beef, one of them goes into the garbage. One-fourth of your food bill at the grocery is money out the window.

Hopefully, most households are not that wasteful. The study also takes into account production facilities and restaurants, where the problem can be especially difficult to solve. Convenience stores prepare foods and hold them, ready to eat, waiting for hungry customers to walk through the door. When they don’t, and those hot dogs and deli sandwiches are no longer appetizing, they go away. That’s one of the hidden costs of the “convenience” American consumers demand.

We’re fairly frugal at our house. We don’t even throw away empty bread bags. We reuse them for packing lunches. Why buy sandwich bags when you can get them for free?

I think we’re under the 25 percent, but I can still see where some things go to waste. Food left on plates because eyes were bigger than bellies. Yogurt we let slip past the expiration date. Leftover hamburger buns that turn into science experiments in the bread drawer. Potatoes that go soft before we can use them.

Like others, we throw everything we can into the compost pile, which reduces our trash and provides rich organic material for our garden. In that way, yesterday’s food waste is in part redeemed by helping nurture tomorrow’s tomatoes and sweet corn.

When food goes into a landfill, however, it can percolate there for a while, producing methane gas. Some communities have figured out ways to harness it for energy production, but where it escapes into the air, methane gas is 23 times more powerful than carbon dioxide in trapping heat in the atmosphere.

Then there’s the cost of water, fossil fuels and everything else that goes into growing, processing and transporting the food we throw away. Those resources get wasted, too.

And the human cost?

The USDA estimates that at some point during 2008, 16 percent of Americans were unable to buy enough food for a healthy diet. When the 2009 numbers are released some time this year, that number is likely to rise. Even an English major like me can do the math and see the difference our 25 percent of waste might make in the lives of the 16 percent of our neighbors who know hunger.

Some might frown on such talk as “redistribution” of resources. I call it good stewardship and just using what you need, which is common sense

Editor Nancy Pittman once asked, rhetorically: “Isn’t the conservation of our natural resources the highest kind of patriotism?” Perhaps the same can be said of conserving food resources.

What to do? As with other things, simply being more conscious of our attitude toward food is a significant step toward reducing waste.

Just in time for the Easter season, a study published in the International Journal of Obesity showed how the meal portions have grown over the centuries in artistic renditions of The Last Supper. Maybe there’s something to be learned about how our ideas about food have evolved.

As long as we have the money to spend, the variety and year-round availability of foods is greater than ever. Cooking-oriented TV programming has grown, making food as much about entertainment as nourishment. Food in America is practically its own culture.

Nothing wrong with that, except perhaps in the context of the negative impact overeating and processed foods have on our health. Cooking smaller, eating smarter, not going back for seconds (something I struggle with as my middle-age metabolism does not always keep pace with my teen-age appetite), and sharing our surplus with others, is not only good for our bodies, but good for our neighbors and natural resources, too. Like most profitable things in life, it comes down to discipline.

It would be nice if Americans could translate some of their fascination with food into something more resembling a reverence for the gift that it is.

Something to chew on, as I say. By the way … are you going to finish that bagel?

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

2010 Medina County Big Tree Contest

2010-04-12T17:47:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the April 6 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The Eastern Cottonwood is a tree for the senses.

Its deep-furrowed bark is an invitation to the fingertips. The tree’s triangular leaves shimmer in the sunshine and their flattened stems rattle in the wind.

And then there’s the cottonwood’s namesake – the white, fuzzy seeds the female trees send flying through the air like June snow.

Homeowners who sweep the seeds from sidewalks and driveways may grumble, but there’s something a little wondrous about the sight of these fluffy white strands drifting through the air, as if Mother Nature was playfully blowing giant dandelion seeds.

Just goes to show that trees have interesting lives of their own – and that they’re a big part of our lives. That’s the point of the annual Medina County Big Tree Contest, now in its eighth year. Trees provide building materials, food and habitat for wildlife, shade and windbreaks for us, not to mention the beauty they add to the landscape.

Each year, the contest invites the public to submit nominations of big trees of a selected species. This year’s competition is open to the Eastern Cottonwood – one of the true giants among native Ohio trees. The purpose of the competition, sponsored by the Medina County Soil and Water Conservation District and The Gazette, is to draw attention to the important role trees play in our ecosystem and to celebrate the stewardship of the landmark trees in our community.

The Eastern Cottonwood grows fast and it grows large. It's capable of reaching 100 feet in height and 3 to 4 feet in diameter over a lifespan of 80 years. Because it’s a rapid grower, the tree is often planted along waterways and even strip mines, where the Eastern Cottonwood’s heavy root system helps keeps soil from eroding.

“We as Soil and Water folks recognize the cottonwood does a great job of stabilizing stream banks,” said Beth Schnabel, education specialist with SWCD.

Even though they make good shade trees, because Eastern Cottonwoods are prolific seed producers and the relatively weak wood is susceptible to storm damage, they are not routinely used in home landscapes. However, because they are fast growers, cottonwoods are favored for producing high-quality printing paper, added district technician Jim Dieter.

The tree likes having “wet feet” and is often found in floodplains and along rivers and streams – where the water carries the seeds along and helps plant them along the banks. The Eastern Cottonwood's big identifying features are the heavily furrowed bark – among the thickest of all Ohio trees – and the broad, toothy-edged, triangular leaves.

Of course, when the cottonwood seeds are flying in early summer, that’s a pretty good giveaway, too. The males generate pollen, but only the females produce the downy seeds.

To nominate a big Eastern Cottonwood for this year’s contest, visit the SWCD Web site at http://www.medinaswcd.org/ for guidelines and an entry form. You don’t have to own the tree in order to nominate it, but you do have to obtain the landowner’s permission first. The tree must be located in Medina County. It makes life easier for the judges if you include a map of the tree’s location with your entry.

Qualified personnel from SWCD will score each nominated tree on its height, crown spread and circumference. The Eastern Cottonwood with the highest number of points wins. Its owner will receive a plaque and a $25 coupon for tree seedlings at SWCD’s annual meeting.

All entries must be received by the district office at 6090 Wedgewood Road in Lafayette Township by the end of the business day on May 28. Visit the office for more information or call 330-722-2628, ext. 3.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

It's Easter recess ... Play nice

2010-04-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the March 30 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The default setting in American public life these days seems to be anger. It’s an odd way to limp into the season of colorful eggs, flowers, butterflies and bunny rabbits – all signs of Easter, of springtime, and life beginning anew.

Those symbols stand in contrast to town-hall shout-downs, bricks thrown through windows, spitting, threats and epithets. Vice president Joe Biden dropping a celebratory “f-bomb” within earshot of White House microphones. Leaders raging in violent language, then expressing surprise when others respond with violent actions.

When Texas Congressman Randy Neugebauer shouted “Baby killer!” during a speech by Michigan Congressman Bart Stupak, it brought back echoes of the “peace” activists who used that phrase and others to antagonize U.S. servicemen returning home from the Vietnam War.

Neugebauer later apologized, but like South Carolina Congressman Joe Wilson of “You lie!” fame, he immediately began running campaign fundraising ads capitalizing on the behavior he just claimed to be sorry for. To be sure, Stupak is cashing in on the incident, too.

You could say those guys are apologizing all the way to the bank. If there seems to be something backwards about that to you, join the club.

I’d say we all could use an Easter recess, like Congress, to re-focus tired minds and embittered hearts.

At the center of Easter tradition is someone whose listeners frequently addressed as “teacher.” No matter your faith tradition, or lack thereof, his words are a mirror we can hold up to our lives and perhaps learn something by what we see.

In his most famous message, called the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus offered guidelines for living known as The Beatitudes: “Blessed are the merciful …,” “Blessed are the peacemakers …” and all the rest that many of us learned in Sunday school, but routinely abandon in our daily thinking and behavior.

In a culture that embraces winning at all costs, that encourages us to put ourselves first, we practically have turned those familiar phrases around 180 degrees.

Blessed are the poor in spirit? Instead, we say blessed are those rich in self-confidence, for they will climb the ladder of success.

Blessed are those who mourn? We say blessed are those who show no sympathy, because sympathy is only a sign of weakness.

Blessed are the meek? We say blessed are the assertive, because they will get to the front of the line while others have to wait.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness? We say blessed are those who hunger and thirst for the latest gadgets and fashions, for buying them supports the economy.

Blessed are the merciful? We say blessed are those who show no mercy, for when others stumble, it’s their chance to leap ahead.

Blessed are the pure in heart? We say blessed are the worldly wise, for they will enjoy life’s pleasures.

Blessed are the peacemakers? We say blessed are those who divide and conquer, for they will be re-elected.

Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness? We say blessed are those who effectively play the role of martyr, for they will rally the faithful.

A few years ago, Yale Law School student Amelia Rawls wrote a column for the Washington Post, pointing out something she had noticed about being surrounded there by America’s “best and brightest.” They were high-minded and high-achieving, but they weren’t always nice to be around.

“… Some of these students will denounce world hunger but be unfriendly to the homeless,” wrote Rawls. “They will debate environmental policy but never offer to take out the trash. They will believe vehemently in many causes but roll their eyes when reminded to be humble, to be generous and to ‘do what is right.’

“It is these people, though, who often climb America’s ladder of success,” she continued. “They rise to the top, partly on their own merits yet also partly on the backs of equally deserving but ‘nicer’ people who let them steal the spotlight. Before they, or we, know it, they are the politicians and corporate executives subverting the very moral positions they espouse. They are the (frighteningly) many figureheads who purport to be leaders even as they embarrass our country and mar our history books.”

Christians call this Holy Week. In Jewish tradition, it is Passover – the commemoration of the release of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. What if we could shake off some of the bondage of anger that shackles us today? Each of us holds the key to that chain.

It’s spring. Consider the lilies. Play nice at Easter recess. Pick a beatitude, any beatitude, and make it your own. I don’t know if our political system can change, but I am confident people can.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

What's good for print

2010-03-27T16:39:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the March 16 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Suffice to say, I am an NPR junkie.

In the morning, when I’m cooking breakfast for the kids, I’m listening to the news on National Public Radio. When I’m working at my computer, I’m listening to “The Diane Rehm Show” and “Talk of the Nation” and “Fresh Air.” When I’m working in the garden, I’ve got my headphones on and I’m listening to “Car Talk” and “Wait, Wait … Don’t Tell Me!” and “A Prairie Home Companion.” It’s the soundtrack to my day.

Accordingly, during one of public radio’s annual fund drives – the spring campaign is presently underway – we call in a pledge. Our family uses the service, we benefit from it immensely, and we support it financially. It’s the right thing to do.

There’s only one thing that causes me to bristle during these fund drives, and that’s when the on-air hosts invariably tell listeners to support public radio so it won't have to shrink its newsgathering operations the way struggling newspapers and magazines have. We can’t afford to lose public radio, they reason. Readership is declining in America, while listenership is up. We need high-quality radio news more than ever.

The thing is, if we listeners depend on public radio, public radio depends to a large degree on the news, circulation, business and advertising staffs of newspapers and magazines. You can hear this connection on a daily basis.

As a devoted public radio listener, I wish I had a nickel for every NPR newscast that contained the words: “Today’s Wall Street Journal is reporting …” or “An investigation by the Washington Post has revealed …” or “For details, we turn now to the reporter who’s been following this story for the Dallas Morning News …”

Better yet, I wish those newspapers and reporters got a nickel every time I heard this.

The same is true for Northeast Ohio’s NPR affiliate stations, which routinely draw on local print newsrooms for journalists to fill roundtable discussion panels or provide insights into the news of the day.

Certainly the on-air exposure is something of a benefit to publications and individual journalists, but there is an even larger benefit to radio newsrooms that are generally able to enjoy the fruits of the labors of print newsrooms without sharing in the cost of watchdogging, reporting, editing and distribution.

So when a public radio station fundraiser suggests listeners have a moral obligation to pay for content they are consuming, they are correct. It’s the honor system at work. The same could be said on behalf of the print content other media outlets count on. Newspapers have always done a lot of the heavy lifting for radio and TV news, as well as the Web. What’s good for print is good for them. What’s bad for print is bad for them. We are interdependent, not independent.

Today there are any number of Web sites that aggregate print content and enjoy the benefit of providing it to their own readers and advertisers without sharing in the newsgathering expense. Some would argue newspaper Web pages benefit from the clicks the aggregation sites send their way.

In some cases, maybe so. But, given the pace of modern life, many Web news consumers certainly get as much as they need from the summaries on the aggregator’s site and don’t feel the need to click onward to the newspaper’s Web page or buy a copy at the newsstand to get the full story.

There has been some movement in newspaper trade organizations toward lobbying Congress to strengthen U.S. copyright law and protect original newspaper content from Web aggregators. So far, not much has happened.

I began writing for print when I was a junior in high school, earning $15 per story to cover local sports for a small-town Ohio weekly, The Sunbury News. I delivered my handwritten stories to the newspaper office, where women sat at massive typesetting machines and keyed them in. The stories appeared in the paper and a check appeared in my mailbox. I loved it. I still do.

I still believe in the enduring value of print journalism, where thoughtful reading and writing matter more than ever in a culture that just wants the headlines – if that – and wants them for free. The fact is, it’s not any more free to produce than public radio is.

I’ll cheerfully continue to support NPR. I’d be even more cheerful if on-air fund-raisers dropped the “don’t let this happen to public radio” line from their scripts and stopped pointing to print publications as a cautionary tale while the industry works to reinvent itself in the digital age.

Instead, I’d like to hear a shout out to the local and national print newsrooms they – and we – depend on for much of the news. Like pledging to public radio, it’s the right thing to do.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

At 90, still a man-of-all-work

2010-03-20T06:02:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the March 17 edition of The Medina Gazette.

MONTVILLE TWP. -- There’s a job description that once was common, but today is rarely heard: “man-of-all-work.”

On a farm or in a factory, it was the person who was able to do – and most importantly, was willing to do – any job that was asked of him.

At Tiger General, which manufactures specialty equipment for the oil and gas industry, George Rapenchuk is the man-of-all-work.

You need a carpenter to frame up new offices, he’s your guy. You need a road warrior to run parts to Cleveland or Columbus, he’s your guy. You need someone trustworthy to make bank deposits or lock the doors at night, he’s your guy. Need someone to shovel snow, make the coffee, take out the trash, Rapenchuk is your man-of-all-work.

For the past 24 years, he’s put in 40 hours per week doing all those jobs and more. Tiger General estimates he’s racked up 300,000 miles on company vehicles, shoveled 6 tons of snow from the building’s sidewalks, and emptied 13 tons of trash. He’s never taken a sick day.

Oh, and here’s one more number to consider: George Rapenchuk just celebrated his 90th birthday. Wiry, with a ready smile and a strong handshake, he shows no signs of slowing down.

“He does more at 90 than most guys do at 50,” said parts manager Bob Honaker. “The day he does retire, people will realize how much he does around here. Light bulbs go out? They get fixed. Miraculously. Who does that? George.”

The key to a long working life, Rapenchuk said, is, well … work.

“You need ambition and you need stamina,” he said. “If you don’t have either one, you’re not going to make it.”

Rapenchuk, who lives in Medina, learned about work at an early age. He was born to Russian immigrant parents who ran a grocery store on Cleveland’s Orange Avenue. His father, Adam, was killed with an ice pick during a robbery in 1925 when Rapenchuk was just 5 years old. The killer was never found.

“My mother had five kids to raise,” Rapenchuk said. “It was rough.”

They moved to a Litchfield Township farm in 1929, but his mother, Celia, soon lost the farm in the midst of the Great Depression.

“That’s where I started working – out in the field with horses,” said Rapenchuk.

After they gave up the farm, he worked at Medina Farmer’s Exchange to help pay off the equipment they still owed on. The family moved to a Lafayette Township farm, which they ran on shares.

After graduating from Lodi High School in 1938, he worked at the Dolly Madison pickle plant in Medina – earning 35 cents an hour -- before entering the Army Air Force during World War II. Rapenchuk served as an armament clerk for the 379th Bomb Group, stationed in England. The only reason they made him clerk was because he knew how to type, he recalled with a laugh.

Following the service, he went to electronics school on the G.I. Bill, was a partner in a radio and TV shop in Cleveland, and later worked for the Free Oil Co. in Medina, where he eventually retired in 1985.

Of course, “retire” is a relative term.

“George has trouble with retirement,” said Mark Overholt with a smile. He and his wife, Sherry, are Tiger General’s owners.

Rapenchuk came on as a temporary worker in 1986 to help with a parts inventory and was invited to stay. Now, he’s affectionately known as the “Head Tiger.”

“George doesn’t miss a day of work,” Sherry Overholt said. “If there’s not something to do, George finds something to do.”

Rapenchuk knows his limitations when it comes to lifting heavy objects, but he’s otherwise in top health. He doesn’t take a single pill, he said. His wife Willene – with whom he’ll celebrate 27 years of marriage this month – has not been as fortunate.

“My wife’s been in the hospital more than 100 times,” Rapenchuk said. “I work to pay the rent. That’s why I keep going.”

And he no plans to hang up his Tiger General cap any time soon.

“As long as I can work and they let me work, I’ll keep on going,” he said.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@verizon.net.

Drudging at the writing table

2010-03-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 23 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Recently, I was asked to share some tips on writing.

This is a bit like asking your plumber for relationship advice. Sure, he has some knowledge about how things fit together, but when it comes to the big-picture questions, he’s just a practitioner, like you and me.

I am a humble pilgrim on this road, like everyone else. By sheer repetition, I guess I have learned a few things over time. About writing, I mean. Not about relationships and certainly not about plumbing. If you’re a veterinarian, doctoring cows all day doesn’t necessarily get easier the longer you do it. But, after a while, you do learn a little bit about the nature of the beast. Same with writing.

The first thing I tell people is this: Writing is work. It’s indoor work, mostly, usually with heat, air conditioning, and coffee close at hand, but it’s still work. You’re not up at 4 a.m. plowing snow, or down a muddy hole fixing a broken water pipe, or standing in a conference room facing a bunch of surly board members -- but it is still mentally and physically draining.

Don’t be dismayed because it is hard. Anything worth doing is difficult. The blessing in life is to find labor you enjoy. It doesn’t make it easier. It just means it’s work that feels good. Running is work, but horses love to run.

That’s Truth No. 1 about writing: It’s hard work. It requires hours of seat time, the way being a basketball player requires time on the court and being a chemist requires time in the lab.

Practice, practice, practice. Write a love letter. Write a poem. Write down the story behind a family recipe. Write a letter to the editor. Keep a journal. Start a blog. What you write is less important than simply sitting down to write on a regular basis.

Truth No. 2: Writers write in ink. I read this years ago and I practice it when I write letters. If you say something you didn’t quite mean to say, it forces you to write yourself out of trouble. You can’t erase pen. You don’t want to make a sloppy mess crossing it out. You don’t want to throw away the letter and start over when you’ve already invested time in writing it.

Instead, press on. Elaborate. Obfuscate. Say it in a different way. Own up to your misstatement. It’s part of what makes a handwritten letter the most intimate form of communication. And it’s good exercise for writers. The backspace key on the computer keyboard has made us lazy.

Truth No. 3: Writers stare out the window. A lot. While you can’t be a writer without spending time writing, you also can’t be a writer without spending time in quiet contemplation.

This may be in the shower, while you’re doing dishes, mowing the grass, or drifting off to sleep. Make sure there’s always a notebook within reach. Maybe not in the shower, but you know what I mean. You say you’ll remember an idea or clever turn of phrase and write it down later, but then it slips away, like soap bubbles down the drain.

Truth No. 4: Be a brutal self-editor. This is where most would-be writers go off the rails.

Write something, then set it aside for a few days, or at least a few hours. Let time give you a little emotional distance from your work. Then go back over it. Print it out if you’re typing on a computer. Read it aloud. Where it sounds like you’re reciting a tongue-twister, smooth it out. Eliminate non-essential words. Show, don’t tell.

A word on accuracy. Check every number and every proper noun at least twice to make sure you’ve got the right figure and the correct spelling -- especially if you are writing a paper or writing for publication. Errors are huge distractions to readers and sap your credibility.

Truth No. 5: Read. A lot. When he was learning to be a writer, Garrison Keillor sat down and copied the writing of E.B. White word for word, just to internalize the great essayist’s style.

You are what you eat, you write what you read. If you read good and challenging material, you may be inspired to write good and challenging material. The same way good physical health requires a balanced diet and exercise, being a fit writer requires nutritious mental food and regular workouts of writing skills.

Yes, write what you know -- but want to know everything. Be curious.

In the end, writing is a lot like translating between two very different languages. We think largely in an internal language of pictures and feelings. Getting those images and emotions from your head and heart onto a printed page can be baffling. And it is a grind.

But it's the sort of work a writer loves. When you get it right, when the words on the page come pretty darn close to matching what’s inside, it’s very satisfying. It’s enough to make you come back and try again tomorrow. In fact, when you fail, it’s enough to make you come back and try again tomorrow.

On days I don’t feel like switching on my computer and working, I often think of a line in letter from Thomas Jefferson, describing to a friend how he spends a portion of his day.

“From sun-rise to one or two o’clock,” Jefferson wrote, “I am drudging at the writing table.”

Founding Father. Author of the Declaration of Independence. Founder of the University of Virginia. President of the United States. Drudger at the writing table, just like you and me.

So take heart.

Then get to work.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

March edition of Ohio Magazine

2010-03-15T07:51:00.000-07:00

Check out the March edition of Ohio Magazine for a piece I wrote on antiquing along the Historic National Road. Click here to find a copy at a newsstand near you.

Thanks for reading!

A canine guardian angel

2010-03-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Feb. 23 edition of The Medina Gazette.

WESTFIELD TWP. -- It’s been said that a dog’s remarkable instincts can tell if its owner is feeling happy or sad, afraid or in trouble.

Canines have long served as helpers for individuals with sight or hearing impairments. Their sensitive noses have been trained to sniff out everything from explosives to missing persons.

Dennita Kindall is hopeful a little Australian Shepherd named Epie, now being trained as a diabetic alert dog in California, will be able to sense something Kindall’s 6-year-old daughter Joy cannot: impending changes in her blood sugar.

You’ll never meet a more aptly named child than Joy. She’s all smiles, golden hair and Barbies. Joy plays soccer, does gymnastics and takes horseback riding lessons.

“I wanted her to always be joyful,” Kindall said of her daughter’s name. “Being joyful is more than being happy. Joy is something you have inside.”

Joy is everything a kindergartner should be -- and one thing most kindergarteners are not: She is diabetic. What’s more, Joy is hypoglycemic unaware. She is unable to tell when her blood sugar is life-threateningly low or dangerously high.

“Her sugar is up and down, up and down,” said Kindall. “She can’t tell if she’s low. She’ll say she’s low, I’ll test her, and it’s high.”

Joy was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when she was 15 months old. Learning to walk seemed to take a lot out of her. Joy was unusually tired and thirsty and wanted to be held. A test at the doctor’s office showed her blood sugar levels were off the charts. By age 2, Joy was outfitted with an insulin pump.

Some diabetics lose their hypoglycemic unawareness, Kindall said, but others go the opposite direction. They start out being able to know if their sugar is high or low, but develop unawareness over time. There’s no way of knowing if Joy will grow out of it.

In the meantime, extreme fluctuations in blood sugar can cause organ damage and lead to a shorter life expectancy. If the changes can be detected faster, Joy can receive the necessary insulin sooner, and avoid the dangerous stress on her system. With practice, the sharp ups and downs might be preventable.

“I’m trying to get her so she has a better life at 55,” Kindall said. “Because if I don’t, she won’t have any kind of life at 55 – if there is a 55.”

That’s where Epie comes in.

When Joy’s blood sugar runs low, her mom puts a gauze pad in the girl’s mouth to absorb saliva. Then it’s frozen and sent to Epie’s trainer, Crystal Cockroft. Later, they will do the same when Joy’s levels run high.

Epie is being trained to alert Joy first -- then a nearby adult, which could be Kindall or a teacher -- when she smells a change in blood sugar.

“If you get a good dog, they alert you 10 minutes before your sugar goes down,” Kindall said.

Since Epie will go everywhere with Joy, the dog’s intensive training is preparing her to do everything a 6-year-old might do. She is learning to sit through the school day in a kindergarten classroom. Epie has been to the movies, to Disneyland and to Sea World.

You can see pictures of Epie by visiting the Guardian Angels Diabetic Alert Dogs page on Facebook. Joy points to a photo of the dog dressed up in goggles and a little yellow rain poncho.

“This one’s silly!” she said with a giggle.

Kindall found two others in Ohio with diabetic alert dogs and drove to meet one of them in Toledo. Not every case turns out to be a success, Kindall said, but she believes many reported failures can be attributed to a lack of follow-through on the part of the dog owners. The animal’s training doesn’t end on its first day of work, she said. It must be ongoing if the alert dog is to remain effective.

“It’s a dog, not a machine,” Kindall said. “You can’t just plug it in.”

And while Epie will be at her daughter’s side 24 hours a day, she’s not a pet – which will be an adjustment for Joy.

“This dog’s going to be a lot of work,” said Kindall. “She’s like, ‘Oh! I get to have a dog all the time!’ ”

Epie is expected to join the Kindalls in July. Cockroft will travel with her to Ohio and spend a week with the family, helping Joy and Epie get to know one another. The Kindalls will take the dog to obedience classes and to other training opportunities to help her bond with Joy. Epie will wear a special vest that lets others know she is a service dog.

The Australian Shepherd should have a 10-year working life before being retired, which puts Joy at age 16 – old enough to help decide if she needs another alert dog.

Joy has lived with diabetes her entire young life. But it doesn’t make it any easier.

“She’ll say, ‘Why am I the only one with diabetes? When will I not have to do this?’ ” Kindall said. “I’ll say, ‘Honey, you’re always going to have to do this until they find a cure.’ ”

Kindall, a Cloverleaf elementary school music teacher and a single parent, said the dog and its training will cost $5,000. She estimates other expenses, such as travel and a dog fence for their yard, will bring the total closer to $8,000.

Local churches have stepped up to help with the cost, which is not covered by insurance. Christ the King Lutheran Church has set up a fund for Joy and already has hosted a benefit dinner. There is also a benevolent fund for Joy at area FirstMerit banks.

The Kindalls’ church, LeRoy United Methodist Church, is planning a fundraising event – possibly a carnival this spring. Lafayette United Methodist Church has offered its assistance, too.

While most people understand how a service dog helps someone with a visual impairment, some may not immediately understand why a person who is hypoglycemic unaware needs an alert dog at his or her side at school or on a trip to the post office.

Kindall hopes the community events will help raise a greater awareness of diabetes and the role alert dogs can play in helping those like Joy.

“Other people need to know 15-month-old children get diabetes,” she said. “Hopefully, not too many.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Ohio's best

2010-02-19T07:40:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Feb. 10 edition of The Medina Gazette.

WADSWORTH -- Chris Glockner is the best grocery bagger in Ohio.

On Feb. 11, the 21-year-old Wadsworth Buehler’s employee will find out how he stacks up against the best in the country.

Glockner is headed for Las Vegas to take part in the National Bagging Competition, sponsored by the National Grocers Association. He earned the opportunity by winning his way through a company contest among Buehler’s 13 stores, followed by regional and state competitions.

There’s a big difference between fastest and best when it comes to packing tomatoes, eggs and bread in a shopping bag – as any grocery customer will tell you. Like a pitcher with a lightning fastball, speed is only good when you can put the ball – or can of corn – in the right spot. And Glockner does.

“Chris is very, very fast at carryout – and not everybody can be accurately that fast,” said Buehler’s Wooster Towne Market Manager Jim Fox.

Glockner entered the bagging contest for the first time two years ago. The Wadsworth High School grad did well at the local level, but the results at the regional and state competitions were disappointing.

He was as quick as ever, but the weight of the groceries was not evenly distributed among the bags. Judges weigh the bags and competitors lose points if they are not uniform.

“Once I solved the problem, I knew we were golden,” Glockner said.

This year, he won the statewide contest in Lancaster, sponsored by the Ohio Grocers Association -- even though he wasn’t the fastest bagger there, he added.

In addition to speed and the weight of the bags, contestants are evaluated on how well items are organized and on their professionalism.

There are some basic rules to packing groceries, said Glockner, a political science major at the University of Akron. The first step is to build the bag’s “walls.” That is, line the insides of the bags with tall items, like cereal boxes, for support. Next, heavier groceries, like canned goods, go on the bottom. Finally, the light stuff goes on top.

You want the bag to stand up straight on its journey from the checkout, to the customer’s car, to the kitchen counter, even if it gets bumped along the way. Baggers also have to be able to read customers, Glockner said, packing bags lighter for those who may otherwise have trouble lifting them.

“We take a lot of pride in our bags, you could say,” he noted.

Some of Glockner’s skill is instinct, but a lot of it is practice. He’s been spending about an hour and a half per day getting ready for the competition – which Fox said is amazing, considering everything else Glockner has going.

“What this guy does is go to college full time, works 25 to 30 hours a week at Buehler’s, then on his days off, he comes in and practices on his own,” Fox said. “Wadsworth Buehler’s is proud of Chris Glockner.”

He’s worked at the store for four years and enjoys the customers, as well as the camaraderie of fellow employees.

“You have to like your job or you’re not going to do a good job,” Glockner said.

Contest organizers in Las Vegas won’t be asking competitors the question: “Paper or plastic?” While previous contests have used those bags, this time competitors will be working with reusable ones.

“That was the curveball they threw in,” Fox said.

It’ll make things more challenging, since the reusable bags generally don’t stand up as straight as the others when you’re filling them, Glockner said.

He readily admits he’s nervous – who wouldn’t be? – but he’ll have some familiar faces in the crowd for support. His parents, Mark and Mary, will be traveling to Las Vegas with him, along with Fox and Mike Plosonka, front end lead at the Wadsworth store. The Ohio Grocers Association is paying Glockner’s way to the competition.

The best bagger in America will take home more than bragging rights. The national contest winner will get a check for $10,000, while the runner-up receives $5,000. Those finishing third through fifth receive $1,000 each.

If he wins one of the prizes, Glockner said the money mostly will go to pay bills and student loans.

To a grocer, a good bagger is priceless, Fox said. How they do their jobs can make or break a customer’s experience at a store.

“They’re crucial,” Fox said. “They’re the last person the customer sees.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Flexible Flyer memories

2010-02-15T17:21:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 9 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Flexible Flyers are still flying in the memories of readers.

The legendary sled was manufactured in Medina for a brief time, from 1969-73. In a Jan. 30 story on the history of the Flexible Flyer, I invited Gazette readers to share some of their sledding stories. As always, you offered up some beautiful memories. Here’s a sampling.

Buz Cormany was 7 years old on Christmas morning in 1933. At his grandparents’ house, he opened a small package from Santa with a note inside that said: “Look under Grandpa and Grandma’s bed.”

There it was: a brand new Flexible Flyer.

“My dad must have been as excited as I,” Cormany wrote in his e-mail. “Grandpa's house was on Route 303 between Richfield and Peninsula -- all downhill, six inches of packed snow from the few cars the day before, and desolate on this rural road on Christmas morning, 1933. Dad took a run with me right behind and then a belly slammer with me on top. We didn't quite make it to Peninsula, but it was the longest, most exhilarating sleigh ride of my life, and I will never forget it.”

Now that’s when sledding was sledding, sports fans.

And by the way – some 77 years later -- Cormany still has that Flexible Flyer.

Liz and Len Timpone were living in New Jersey when they bought their young son a Flexible Flyer in 1970. Two more boys came along and the faithful sled got a good workout on the hills of New Jersey and upstate New York.

Fast-forward to the year 2000. The Timpones were cleaning out their garage, preparing to retire to … Medina, where their eldest son and his family lived. They rediscovered the old sled -- the runners of which had gotten a little rusty over time.

It almost went into the trash -- until they noticed a label underneath that said the sled had been manufactured in … Medina. Their soon-to-be retirement home.

That’s some good sled karma.

So, they decided to bring the Flexible Flyer back to its birthplace. The Timpones said they may refurbish it for their grandchildren, or they may just leave it as is, and let the rusty signs of its well-loved use remain as a testament to glorious winter days gone by.

“We have fond memories of our own children riding down steep slopes, laughing and playing for many years with their Flexible Flier sled -- crashing into moguls of snow and coming home soaking wet from their day of winter fun -- and we hesitate to part with it,” the Timpones e-mailed. “It has become a part of our family history and parting with it becomes a decision that I’m not sure will ever be made.”

Curt Waite remembers family sledding adventures on a Flexible Flyer near what is now Bunker Hill Golf Course, coasting down the hill with his parents, brothers – and his 60-year-old grandmother. Just goes to show you’re never too old for a sled. Afterward, they all enjoyed cookies and hot chocolate together.

“Well, time marches on,” Waite wrote, “and we grew up and my grandparents are no longer here, but the Flexible Flyer still lives on. After my grandparents passed away, each surviving family member was given the opportunity to look through their belongings to see if there was anything special that we would like to keep to remember them by. I decided to save the three snow sleds that they had, one of which was the Flexible Flyer.”

After enjoying the Flexible Flyer with their own son on the “dare-devilish” slopes of Hinckley Township, the sleds were retired to the barn, where they waited to see the snow again on some distant day.

When Waite and his wife got word that their son and daughter-in-law – who now live in Idaho – were expecting a child, he got to work cleaning up the old Flexible Flyer for the next generation. When it was finished, they drove the sled West, a gift for their new grandson.

“My hope is that when he is old enough to use it, he will enjoy it as much as we did,” Waite wrote.

Thanks to all who shared their sledding memories. With snow and cold temperatures in the forecast, it’s not too late to get out there and make some new ones.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Tip of the cap

2010-02-10T17:34:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Feb. 2 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Like most people, I wear many hats. This requires me to have many hats.

I’m a husband and dad. I have a job. I have a garden. I like to work on our old house -- to my best abilities as an English major. Actually, English majors make pretty good home renovators. If you can diagram a sentence and untangle a James Joyce novel, believe me, you can install a toilet.

Next to a pocketknife, there’s not a better all-around tool to carry with you on your day’s work than a hat. Its uses and benefits are many. For a lot of us, putting on a ball cap is as much a part of getting dressed as putting on socks.

I’m mainly a live-and-let live kind of guy when it comes to flying insects, but if I’m in tight quarters and a bee or fly starts buzzing around my head, a hat becomes a ready flyswatter.

On hot days, a ball cap keeps the sweat from running into your eyes. Absorbency is a much-overlooked quality when it comes to selecting a hat. Soak it with water, and it’s a natural air conditioner. A hat keeps the glare out of your eyes and the sun from beating down on your head.

On cold days, it helps keep your brain warm. On rainy or snowy days, it keeps some of the precipitation out of your face. Working around briars and low-hanging branches, it saves your noggin from scratches. Pulled down over your eyes after lunch, a hat turns out the lights for a mid-day catnap.

My grandpa wore many hats – factory worker, truck driver, farmer, auction-goer, fixer of broken tractors, bluegill fisherman. I don’t think I ever saw him leave the house without his green workman’s ball cap – and I can vividly remember the day I got one just like it when I was a kid. I wore that hat out.

Hats make excellent impromptu baskets for bringing a few handfuls of cherry tomatoes up from the garden for dinner, for picking berries, for collecting loose nuts and assorted parts from the lawnmower or bathroom sink you are working on.

There is also the intangible benefit of a hat -- thoughtfully taking it off and scratching your head when presented with a problem such as a stuck bolt, an uncooperative machine, a mathematical calculation, or a paragraph that falls flat. Somehow, it helps. A favorite work hat is like an old friend who helps you get out of a jam.

There are other times to remove one’s cap, of course: entering a church or courthouse, for the National Anthem, for prayer, for dinner. Although, I have been known to remove my hat long enough for table grace, and then put it back on. I figure the rudeness of wearing a hat at the dinner table is preferable to the sight of my sweaty, grimy, mussed-up hair when I’ve just come inside from doing a dirty job.

All this requires me to maintain an inventory of hats – mostly ball caps – each with its own special use. My wife probably could deduce my plans for the day based on the hat I pull out of the closet.

The paint-spattered hat? Self-explanatory, of course. Stocking cap? I’m headed out into the cold for a while to split wood or plow the driveway. Old, clean cap? Covers early morning bed-head when I sit down at the computer to work or need to run an errand in town. New, clean cap? Worn to formal occasions, such as family picnics, the fair and baseball games. Dirt-stained ball cap? You may not want to know. Could be any messy, greasy, filthy, sweaty job.

And people in ball caps tend to be just as useful as their hats. When you’re in trouble, when you need a hand moving a heavy object, when you could use an assist in changing a tire or fixing a fence, there’s almost always a guy in a hat you know you could call on to help.

So, to my fellow ball cap wearers out there, I tip my hat.

Don’t mind the messy hair.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

The Flexible Flyer

2010-02-05T06:41:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Jan. 30 edition of The Medina Gazette.

When you’re a kid, and you grow up with a certain iconic brand, sometimes you think it’s the only brand there is. Later in life, we find there are others that may be just as good or better, but none can replace the original in our fond memories.

I thought all soup was Campbell’s Soup. All trucks were Tonka trucks. All motor oil was Quaker State. And in my little mind, all sleds were Flexible Flyers.

There’s nothing like the graceful arc of a Flexible Flyer piled with kids as it steers down a snowy hillside. For a short time, some 40 years ago, the arc of this famous sled steered right through Medina, where it was produced from 1969-73.

It was patented in 1889 by a New Jersey farm equipment maker named Samuel Allen. Writer Joan Palicia tells the story in her book, “Flexible Flyer and Other Great Sleds” (Schiffer Publishing, 1997).

Because farm equipment was a seasonal business, Allen searched for a way to keep his factory busy with a product that could be manufactured in the summer and sold in the winter. He turned to an unusual source for ideas: the dictionary. Allen got all the way down to the letter “s” before he found his inspiration.

The word “sled.”

After testing designs on “coasting” hills in New Jersey, New York and Vermont, he decided to replace traditional wooden runners with flexible steel, creating the steerable sled that became known as the Flexible Flyer.

It was not an instantaneous hit, Palicia wrote. Like sledding itself, you have to climb the hill before you can enjoy the ride. Allen stuck with it. His break came in 1900 when Wanamaker’s Department Store in Philadelphia and Macy’s in New York agreed to stock the Flexible Flyer for Christmas.

Allen’s sled was off to the races with great model names like Airline Chief, Firefly Special, Yankee Clipper (“New as Tomorrow -- Fleet as the Wind”) and the Flexy Racer with wheels.

By 1915, he was selling up to 2,000 a day and the steerable sled’s status as an American icon was secure. Richard Byrd took Flexible Flyers along on his 1928 expedition to the South Pole. The sled even played an important cameo part in the 1947 Christmas classic, “Miracle on 34th Street.”

In 1968, the Allen family sold its company to Los Angeles-based Leisure Group Inc., which also acquired an Ohio-based swing set maker, Blazon. A year later, Leisure Group began building Flexible Flyer sleds in Medina at a plant on Lake Road.

That’s where Wadsworth’s Joyce Anderson got a job as a single mom with two young kids. At 66, she still has an eye for sleds.

“I could look at a sled today and tell you whether it’s a good one or not,” she said.

It’s all in the rivets. They had to be true and strong to hold the sled together, Anderson said. Then she’d look at the handlebar. If it moved smoothly for good steering, then it was a good sled.

Anderson worked in the metal shop, where oily steel straps were formed into sled runners. The metal got hot when it ran through the bender, she recalled. Anderson got a good burn once when she rested an arm on a machine where some of the runners had been sitting.

She liked operating the metal presses, but the wood shop, where the other components of the sleds were assembled, was another story.

“I couldn’t work the nailer to save my life,” she said with a laugh. “I’d crack the boards and everything.”

It was a good place to work, Anderson said. It was mostly women who ran the presses. Men set the dies on the machines and worked in the warehouse.

A 1969 photograph on file with the Ohio Historical Society shows five women with different styles of Flexible Flyer sleds outside the Leisure Group building.

“We were busy,” said Anderson. “We had to make sleds for the whole country.”

But, tough sledding was ahead. One day, Anderson and other employees arrived at work to find they no longer had jobs. Deeply in debt and facing bankruptcy, the company closed its Medina factory and consolidated in Mississippi.

In Joan Palicia’s history of the Flexible Flyer, then-company president C. Garland Dempsey attributed a decline in sales to the demand for less-expensive plastic sledding gear.

Though its tenure in Medina was relatively short, Samuel Allen’s Flexible Flyer is alive and well today, still coursing down hills and through the memories of anyone who ever piled on with siblings and friends and steered down a snowy slope.

When she worked at the factory, Anderson gave a Medina-made Flexible Flyer to her son, Thad. He may be grown, but he has no plans to get rid of it. It’s a family keepsake.

“He says, ‘I can’t get rid of that ... My mom made those!” Anderson said.

If you have Flexible Flyer memories – or other epic sledding stories, for that matter – send them my way. Perhaps they’ll be included in a future column.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Sweet stuff

2010-02-02T05:34:00.000-08:00

The February issue of Ohio Magazine features a column I wrote on my favorite early spring ritual: making maple syrup.

The sun is arriving just a bit earlier in the morning and staying around a little later in the afternoon, signaling that winter is beginning to loosen its grip. Maple sugaring season soon will be here.

Bending iron

2010-01-29T08:45:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Jan. 26 edition of The Medina Gazette.

SEVILLE -- It may be cold outside, but where Kim Thomas works, the temperature is 1,800 degrees.

Thomas is a blacksmith. He spends his days at his coal-fired forge bending hot iron to his will – and imagination. With his long beard, twinkling eyes, leather work apron and easy manner, he looks like he just stepped out of the 19th century to say hello.

His work has been featured in Early American Life magazine, among others, and all over Northeast Ohio.

When a bus accidentally bumps into the wrought iron gates at Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens in Akron, and you need a blacksmith to come fix them, Thomas gets the call. When outdoor railings on the Akron Art Museum’s historic building need restoration after years of punishment from rain, salt and rust, Thomas gets the call.

With a little TLC from the blacksmith’s hammer – and perhaps a missing part recreated in his forge – the historic pieces are as good as new. Or as good as old. Maintaining the integrity of the original is what’s important.

“Being a restorer is like being a doctor in some respects,” Thomas said. “First, do no harm.”

An accomplished knife and tool maker, Thomas also produces lamps, candleholders, highly detailed door hardware, and cookware. Some are commissioned works, others are available for sale at local antique shops or on the Web.

In addition to repairing the gates at Stan Hywet, Thomas recreated decorative ironwork for a well head behind the mansion – working with only an old photograph as a guide.

Thomas, 53, was born in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, into a family with steel in its blood. His father, Gerald, worked as a draftsman and engineer for Bethlehem Steel, following his job to Buffalo and then to Northeast Ohio in the 1960s, where the family settled in Valley City.

When the other boys in the Thomas neighborhood were playing childhood games with pretend tommy guns, his choice was a toy flintlock rifle.

“I told them, ‘I’m going to build one of these someday,’ ” Thomas recalled.

He was true to his word. He made a pilgrimage to the Log Cabin Shop in Harrisville Township, bought a kit, and built his first muzzleloader when he was 12. Thomas visited a gunsmith and saw a forge where gun parts were made. From that moment, he was hooked on blacksmithing.

“That gave me the beginning of what I wanted to do,” he said. “I was determined I was going to grow up to be a rifle maker.”

As a boy, Thomas helped look after his family’s horses and worked on neighboring farms – a nice way of saying he shoveled a lot of manure. He remembers the man who came to shoe the horses.

“When the blacksmith came, he was the only guy dirtier than me,” Thomas said with a laugh. “So I could relate to him.”

Back in the day, the blacksmith would have been one of the most important – maybe the most important – craftsman in the community. He not only made horseshoes, but forged tools, repaired plows, and supplied a myriad of household needs.

And, Thomas said, the blacksmith was the source of one of the most critical goods of all in an isolated, fast-growing pioneer community: nails. In fact, if you were a blacksmith’s apprentice, you were expected to spend every spare moment cranking them out, he added.

Blacksmithing was such a necessity, many farmers had their own shops and learned the art themselves. Even today, Thomas said, you sometimes spot an old farm building with a massive chimney that may have been home to a forge. There’s a self-sufficiency about blacksmithing that sets it apart from other trades.

“Among all the craftsmen, only the blacksmith can make his own tools,” he said.

Thomas spends a lot of time sharing his timeless craft with others. He’s led workshops and demonstrations at the Log Cabin Shop and all over the country. He holds classes at Touchstone – a residential craft school in Pennsylvania – and hosts popular open houses. The last one in January packed two dozen visitors into his small backyard shop. Thomas and his wife, who goes by Red, will celebrate 34 years of marriage in April. They have three children.

His workshop includes a 1927 Little Giant Power Hammer, which saves some wear and tear on the blacksmith’s shoulder. It has a 25-pound head, driven by heavy-duty gearing and an electric motor, that hammers up and down like a piston.

Thomas salvages metal – especially wrought iron – wherever he can. Most of us think of wrought iron as a style of metalwork, but actually it’s a specific type of metal. It’s considered outdated by industry and isn’t produced anymore. So, he’s always on the lookout, since he uses it to restore old wrought iron pieces. It resists corrosion and it’s easy to work with.

“It forges like butter,” he said.

Some of his customers request a little rusty patina on the pieces he makes for them, so Thomas will leave the finished product out to weather in the rain a while. In the long run, moisture is the enemy of steel and eventually takes its toll on the historic pieces he’s called on to restore.

But, if it’s given a little paint and care, a good blacksmith knows the work of his hammer will echo through the centuries.

“We make things that are forever,” Thomas said.

On the Web: www.thomasironworks.com.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Bully for you, TR

2010-01-25T18:29:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Jan. 19 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Lately, I seem to have TR on the brain.

It’s not like water on the knee, or “Georgia on my Mind.” I mean Theodore Roosevelt. I’ve been thinking about him a lot these days.

I recently finished Douglas Brinkley’s new biography of the 26th president, “The Wilderness Warrior: Theodore Roosevelt and the Crusade for America” (Harper Collins, 2009). Clocking in at more than 900 pages, reading “Wilderness Warrior” requires a longer commitment than the average celebrity marriage.

I knew a few basic facts of Roosevelt’s life: progressive trust-buster, heroic Rough Rider, inspiration for the teddy bear. Those are the familiar stories. “Wilderness Warrior” focuses on the naturalist-president’s often overlooked legacy as a conservationist.

Brinkley sometimes wanders like a child in a toy store, bouncing excitedly from one story to the next, wanting to throw everything he finds into the cart. His book is a virtual encyclopedia and often reads like one, lacking the craftsmanship of historians like Stephen Ambrose and David McCullough. Still, it’s an important and inspiring work that explores the deep roots of Roosevelt’s love of nature.

In the seven years and 69 days of his presidency, TR successfully led efforts to preserve 234 million acres of wilderness. This includes some of the most beloved places in the American landscape: Devil’s Tower, the Grand Canyon, the Petrified Forest, Mount Olympus, Alaska’s Tongass National Forest, and California’s giant redwoods.

Just as important are the wild places that are not household names: critical habitats in Florida, Alaska, and along the West Coast. Roosevelt worked to save them from hunting and development, too, establishing the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to protect these lands and animals with rangers and biologists.

In all this, Roosevelt faced down the titans of the Gilded Age – railroad tycoons, timber companies, mine owners – who wanted to cash in on these natural resources. They grumbled that it was not the federal government’s place to take land out of private circulation.

But to Roosevelt, these were sacred places, historically and spiritually. Protecting them was the responsible thing to do.

“We regard Attic temples and Roman triumphal arches and Gothic cathedrals as of priceless value,” wrote Roosevelt. “But we are, as a whole, still in that low state of civilization where we do not understand that it is also vandalism wantonly to destroy or to permit the destruction of what is beautiful in nature, whether it be a cliff, a forest, or a species of mammal or bird. Here in the United States we turn our rivers and streams into sewers and dumping-grounds, we pollute the air, we destroy forests, and exterminate fishes, birds, and mammals – not to speak of vulgarizing charming landscapes with hideous advertisements.”

And that was written in 1913.

What would he think of the Cuyahoga River catching fire? Drilling for oil in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge? Mountaintop removal mining in Appalachia? Stuffing nuclear waste into caves? Pumping carbon emissions into the ground? Safe to say, he would be appalled.

There were a few things about TR I didn’t like very much. Roosevelt advocated massive water diversion projects that allowed big, thirsty cities to spring up in the Arizona desert, where no city should be.

He wanted to save the buffalo in part because he was a trophy hunter. He lusted to bag one in the wild even as herds waned on the Great Plains. None other than Mark Twain, a contemporary and sometimes friend, called Roosevelt out on his penchant for shooting the endangered wild creatures he sought to save.

TR’s family money gave him many privileges, but it also gave him political independence to do what he believed was right – often protecting land by executive order and rough riding over Congress when preservation efforts got bogged down by special interests.

Today, when partisanship and gridlock and Wall Street seem to rule the day in Washington, it’s breathtaking to consider all the Wilderness Warrior was able to accomplish – not to enrich himself or his peers, but for you and me.

My kids are getting old enough to travel and experience America’s national parks and preserves. I’ve never visited one myself and our family is looking forward to discovering them together. According to the 26th president, it’s our birthright.

When development interests complained the Grand Canyon and other landmarks should belong to the people and be used for the greatest good, Roosevelt responded: You’re right. Not only does the land belong to people alive today, he argued, but to the untold numbers within the womb of time. Conservation is the greatest good.

“Our duty to the whole, including the unborn generations, bids us to restrain an unprincipled present-day minority from wasting the heritage of these unborn generations,” he wrote in 1916’s “A Book-Lover’s Holidays in the Open.”

“The movement for the conservation of wild life and the larger movement for the conservation of all our natural resources are essentially democratic in spirit, purpose, and method.”

Thanks, TR. Bully for you.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Snow day fever

2010-01-20T11:55:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Jan. 12 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Snow Day Fever has been running high at our house.

Our fourth-grader came through the door the other night after her violin lesson, a freshly picked icicle in her hot little hand.

“I’ve got to get to the bathroom!” she said with some urgency.

She sloughed off her coat, carefully transferring the delicate prize from one hand to the other, and ran for the toilet, holding the icicle like it was the Olympic torch.

Seconds later, I heard a flush.

The girl emerged with a satisfied look on her face, as if her quick thinking had just single-handedly saved all kid-kind from the cold clutches of pre-algebra.

The icicle trick was a slight variation on the old ritual of flushing ice cubes down the toilet in the hope it will bring on a Snow Day. It’s a sacrificial offering to the snow gods to woo them into pouring down so much frozen precipitation that schools will be forced to cancel classes the next day.

Other spells known to cause Snow Days include sleeping with a spoon under your pillow, wearing pajamas inside-out and backwards, running in circles around the table, and dropping hints to Mother Nature by tossing ice cubes into the yard.

My daughter’s method was more organic – utilizing a naturally occurring icicle instead of a machine-made cube from the freezer. I liked her thinking, but apparently the snow gods did not get the message. School went on as planned the next day.

Snow needs some help now and then, a little encouragement, especially from kids, because it gets such bad press from adults. Grown-ups call it all sorts of terrible names.

It’s a popular myth that Eskimo peoples have hundreds of words for snow. They only have a few. Actually, it’s English that has lots of ways to say it.

A professor at the University of Calgary has tallied 120 terms for ice and snow. They include “pipkrake” (needle-like bits of ice that grow out of groundwater in loose soil) and “graupel” (snowflakes that become rounded pellets) and “Slurpee” (delicious mix of sugar and ice crystals).

And he didn’t even include all the ones preceded by swear words.

It never ceases to amaze me how people who have spent their entire lives in Northeast Ohio evidently are taken by surprise every winter when it snows – and no one is more surprised than TV news anchors, who broadcast weather reports as breathlessly as if they were covering an alien invasion.

When I was growing up in rural Central Ohio, the three network TV stations we got were all out of Columbus. Our little country school district often got lost in the jumble of names scrolling across the television screen. The best bet was the local radio station out of Mount Vernon and we huddled up to the stereo to listen as the announcer ran through the list of closings.

We seemed to have more Snow Days back then, in part because there were fewer plow trucks. When you lived on a back road, they got to you when they could get to you, which usually wasn’t too long. But in the meantime, you just stayed home.

With high-tech forecasting and fleets of salt trucks on the side of school superintendents, kids today need to invoke a little magic to bring on a Snow Day break.

My daughter took full responsibility for the failure of her first Snow Day incantation. But she knew where she went wrong.

“I didn’t wear my pajamas inside out and I didn’t sing a special song and do a special dance,” she said.

A couple of nights later, I heard whooping and stomping from the bathroom when she was getting ready for bed. It was followed by several ker-plops and a flush.

“Are you OK in there?” I asked through the closed door.

“Fine!” she said.

And this time, the snow gods were pleased.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

All right ...God bless you

2010-01-06T18:20:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Dec. 29 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Writer E.B. White once told the story of walking into his office at the New Yorker to find a note in his typewriter from the magazine’s founder and editor, Harold Ross.

Ross was talented, but demanding and famously temperamental. Another of the New Yorker’s iconic writers, Ohioan James Thurber, said the magazine’s power was generated by the friction between “Ross Positive and Ross Negative.”

This day, something in the New Yorker had pleased him. Ross left these six words scrolled up on White’s typewriter: “I am encouraged to go on.”

I find myself thinking about those words as 2009 draws to a close. As always, there was friction between the positive and the negative to power the news, but I can list a number of things that make me encouraged to go on.

There has been progress in health care reform. A compromise between the U.S. House and Senate still must be reached, and every American has his or her idea of what should or should not be on the table. However, we have seen movement on an issue taken up by Republican and Democratic presidents alike since the days of Harry Truman. If the health care overhaul stands up to those who put profits ahead of people when it comes to medicine, I am encouraged to go on.

I got two rooms made over (mostly) this year in our old house, which is twice what I usually am able to accomplish. This fall, I finally had the right combination of time and weather to relocate two lilac bushes away from the house and will be able to do some landscaping this spring. I am encouraged to go on.

Balloon Boy’s parents are going to jail. There is some justice in the world. I am encouraged to go on.

My 10-year-old pickup, while showing its age in other ways, still starts and runs like a champ, thanks to my mechanics. No cash for this clunker, thank you very much. I am encouraged to go on driving it.

In September, I spent a day with the Ohio State School for the Blind’s marching band for a story that appears in this week’s American Profile magazine, which you’ll find in The Gazette. Each of the band’s musicians is blind – as is its musical director, Dan Kelley. Yet, with the help of sighted assistants and co-director Carol Agler, they perform football halftime shows and will march in the 2010 Rose Parade. After spending time with these remarkable people, I am encouraged to go on.

Despite a cool, wet growing season, our garden had a good year. There’s sweet corn and green beans in the freezer, squash and sweet potatoes in the cellar, and jars of homegrown popcorn to enjoy on cold winter nights. As the seed catalogs begin to arrive in my mailbox, I am encouraged to go on.

While others retire to golf courses and warmer climes, every day I see people in their 70s and 80s giving their time and talents to their churches and communities. They’re my heroes. I am encouraged to go on.

I still have my hair, albeit a little more gray, and I can still do everything I could do when I was 17. It just takes me twice as long to recover from it. I am encouraged to go on.

This year, I have seen friends who lost their jobs get new jobs. I’ve seen local non-profit organizations soldier on after losing funding to government budget cuts. Churches and charitable groups somehow have risen to the challenge of serving increased numbers of people in need. I am encouraged to go on.

My wife and I have jobs and our family is in good health. Our kids have caring teachers in good public schools. For the most part, I still understand their homework enough to help with it. I am encouraged to go on.

It’s cool to be green, cool to have a savings account, cool to be frugal. I know for many people this will last only as long as the recession does, but I am encouraged to go on doing it.

The U.S. government is focusing greater attention and resources on Afghanistan and Pakistan, where they should have been directed in the first place, instead of Iraq. It’s a chance to rebuild momentum toward bringing the originators of the Sept. 11, 2001, terror attacks to justice. I am encouraged to go on.

There are still plenty of us who see beauty and value in the printed pages of books and newspapers and magazines. Thanks to all the thoughtful readers out there, I am encouraged to go on.

E.B. White told one other story on his old boss. When Harold Ross ended a meeting – and it didn’t matter if it was calm or contentious – he always used the same words.

“All right,” Ross would say, with a wave of his hand. “God bless you.” If you were in his office, that was the unmistakable cue it was time to take your leave.

I think that’s a good benediction as we take our leave of 2009 – and look forward to the New Year.

All right.

God bless you.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Living nativity

2010-01-01T07:24:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Dec. 23 edition of The Medina Gazette.

SEVILLE -- Temperatures hovered just below freezing and electric stars illuminated the December night, as members of New Hope Christian Church took their places in a living nativity along a downtown sidewalk. The sweet-smelling straw in the stable was dusted with fresh snow, like powdered sugar on Christmas cookies.

Ask her how long she’s played the part of Mary, and 86-year-old Mary Holloway has a ready answer.

“All my life,” she said, seated on a bale of straw and bundled against the cold with a scarf and several layers of clothes under her costume.

That’s the secret to keeping warm: Clothing. Lots of it.

“You just layer it on until you can’t walk,” Holloway said with a twinkle.

Hot chocolate helps, too, said evangelist Ermal Allen, appropriately dressed as a shepherd. When participants need a break from the winter chill during the three-hour presentation, they can go inside the Seville Inn, where the New Hope congregation meets, to warm up with a cup of coffee or hot soup.

“We don’t let anybody get uncomfortably cold,” he said.

And yes, there’s plenty of room for them in the Inn. The living nativity is a way to bring the message of Christmas outside the building’s walls for all to see along West Main Street, which runs just a few feet away from the nativity.

“In a time when the holidays are so commercial, it’s nice to be able to remind people what it’s all about,” said Richard Meade, portraying one of the Wise Men.

Joining Meade, Holloway and Allen in the stable were Wise Man Terry Walters, angel Linda Walters, and James Dorn portraying Joseph. In the manger, a baby doll represented baby Jesus.

“No crying he makes,” said Allen, quoting a line from the hymn “Away in a Manger.”

A little humor helps keep participants warm, too.

Once, someone looked down and noticed a drill in the manger with the baby Jesus. Apparently it had been left there in the straw after church members assembled the stable.

“I said: ‘Well, you can tell this kid was born into a carpenter’s family!’ ” recalled Allen.

This marks the fifth year the non-denominational church has presented the living nativity, which had been a Christmas tradition at previous churches Allen and his wife Eva served. So, they decided to organize one when they came to Seville. This year’s live nativity was scheduled for 6-9 p.m., Dec. 19-23.

“Our primary goal is simply to honor the birth of Christ,” Allen said.

And passersby respond. Motorists often slow down to look and wave or beep their horns. A woman in an SUV rolled down her window.

“Merry Christmas!” she shouted.

Some do double-takes, Allen said. You can see them mouth the words: “They’re real!”

Then you can almost hear someone else in the car saying, “Nah, they can’t be real,” he added with a laugh. “They wouldn’t stand out in the cold like that!”

A few get out of their cars and walk up to the nativity scene. It’s fun to see little children point out to their parents who’s who in the Christmas story, said Allen. One boy, about 12 years old, visited the nativity, then returned with some money he had earned. He asked the church to give it to a needy family.

“We said we’d be glad to do that,” recalled Allen.

On this night, Seville resident Cheryl Wallon and daughters Sarah, 12, and Savannah, 9, stopped to view the nativity. It’s become something of a family tradition, they said.

“That’s what Christmas is all about,” Wallon said, nodding toward the manger scene. “I give them a lot of credit for being out here in the cold.”

When it comes to gifts, the givers are often receivers, too. There are times when the conversation in the stable grows quiet and there’s a lull in the traffic. Being part of the nativity scene in the silent night offers an opportunity for prayer and contemplation during an otherwise busy season. It’s a good feeling, said Holloway.

“I think I feel closer to the meaning of Christmas,” she said.

On the Web: For information on New Hope Christian Church and its living nativity, visit www.NewHope05.org.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

A Charlie Brown Christmas to all

2010-01-01T07:21:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Dec. 22 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Whenever someone reads the Christmas story from the Gospel of Luke aloud, I always hear the words in the sweet, lisping voice of Linus from “A Charlie Brown Christmas.”

In the days before VCRs and DVD players, kids of my generation had one shot a year to catch “A Charlie Brown Christmas” on TV. We looked forward to its annual broadcast almost as much as we looked forward to Christmas itself.

I’m glad the show was made when it was in 1965. It’s hard to imagine it ever would get the green light on network TV today. It's a minor miracle the special was made at all.

In 1963, producer Lee Mendelson made a documentary on Charles Schulz, whose daily “Peanuts” cartoons featuring Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Linus, Lucy and all the gang had become one of the world’s best-loved comic strips since its 1950 debut.

In 1965, Coca-Cola was looking to sponsor a TV Christmas special. An advertising agent contacted Mendelson and asked if he and Schulz would consider creating a show based on “Peanuts.”

Without hesitation – or talking to Schulz – Mendelson said: “Of course!”

That was a Wednesday. Coca-Cola executives wanted an outline by the following Monday. Mendelson gathered his courage and telephoned the cartoonist. He related their conversation in a 2000 book, “A Charlie Brown Christmas: The Making of a Tradition.”

“I think I may have just sold a Charlie Brown Christmas show,” he told Schulz.

“And what show might that be?” asked the “Peanuts” creator.

“The one you need to make an outline for tomorrow,” said Mendelson.

Schulz didn’t miss a beat.

“OK,” he said.

Hey, when you do a daily comic strip, five days must seem like all the time in the world. In fact, Schulz laid out the whole outline the next day.

Coca-Cola loved it and gave Mendelson a scant six months to pull a 30-minute animated TV special from thin air. As it took shape, Schulz’s original vision for the show remained ironclad – a vision that bucked Hollywood convention.

There would be no laugh track. Schulz wanted the show to feel more natural. It would combine traditional carols with jazz – plus a little Beethoven on Schroeder’s toy piano. The show would be a statement against the commercialization of the holiday.

It would feature the voices of real children – including kids who had never acted before -- not adult actors playing children. In fact, there are no adult voices in the show at all. The “wah-wah … wuh … wah-wah” of the teacher’s voice was played on a trombone.

The star would be a depressed, alienated little boy. Charlie Brown is on the outside of Christmas looking in. “Instead of feeling happy, I feel sort of let down,” he says to Lucy at her Psychiatric Help stand.

As if all that wasn’t risky enough, Schulz insisted the program tell the Nativity story, straight from the Bible.

“If we don’t do it,” he asked, “who else can?”

Animator and director Bill Melendez oversaw production. Pianist Vince Guaraldi composed the memorable soundtrack. They finished one week before the show’s scheduled Dec. 9, 1965, air date. Mendelson anxiously flew to New York to screen “A Charlie Brown Christmas” for CBS executives.

And they hated it.

CBS told Mendelson the show was flat and “a little slow.” It was too late to do anything about this one, but executives assured Mendelson there would be no more “Peanuts” specials.

A week later, Americans proved them wrong when half the televisions in the country tuned in to see the critically acclaimed show. The rest is history. In almost every poll of favorite Christmas films and TV specials, “A Charlie Brown Christmas” ranks No. 1.

Why?

As Schulz himself said, there will always be a place for innocence. Charlie Brown is searching for something pure in the midst of the unfulfilling consumerism of Christmas. Aren’t we all?

We promise ourselves every year we won’t do it, but we do. We take on the social commitments, shopping, baking and decorating – all the things that instill in us a sense of chronic panic from Thanksgiving to New Year’s, instead of the feeling of hope and contentment we long for.

“Isn’t there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?” Charlie Brown cries.

That’s when Linus recites the Christmas story. “Glory to God in the highest,” he says, “and on Earth, peace, goodwill toward men. That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Charlie Brown never did kick that football -- some quests go on and on – but in his own way, he did discover the authenticity he was looking for. We may be dreaming of a white Christmas, but we’re all looking for the peace and goodwill of a Brown Christmas.

Schulz -- who passed away in 2000 on the eve of the publication of the last “Peanuts” comic strip – insisted “A Charlie Brown Christmas” be something authentic in the midst of all the shiny distractions. His namesake’s search for something real is a model for us. If only we had the courage of a self-doubting, bald-headed little boy to go out and find it.

Here’s wising us all a Charlie Brown Christmas.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

This week's cover story in American Profile

2009-12-27T16:43:00.000-08:00

This week's edition of American Profile features a story I wrote on the Ohio State School for the Blind's marching band. Each of the band’s musicians is blind – as is its musical director, Dan Kelley. Yet, with the help of sighted marching assistants and co-director Carol Agler, they perform football halftime shows and will march in the 2010 Rose Parade.

American Profile is is distributed by newspapers around the country and has a circulation of 10 million.

The "Far Side" of climate change

2009-12-27T16:41:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Dec. 15 edition of The Medina Gazette.

My view of climate change is a “Far Side” cartoon by Gary Larson.

In the cartoon, two bears wearing hardhats have run a big wastewater pipe from a woods into the window of a nearby house, where it’s spewing its contents into a man’s living room. The homeowner stands there with his hands on his hips, regarding the sewage flowing into his house with a mix of confusion and annoyance.

The cartoon is titled: “Animal Waste Management.”

Larson’s “Far Side” cartoons have a gift for holding up a mirror to everyday life – showing us a picture of ourselves, but in reverse image. He takes something as mundane as the sewer pipes that poke out from your house and mine, and reverses the flow. What if nature did engineering the way we do engineering? Of course, the cartoon isn’t about bears. It’s about us. It makes a point about human nature with shameful hilarity.

The two-week-long United Nations Climate Change Conference is underway in Denmark. There’s been plenty of news reporting on it – garnished with requisite amounts of support and outrage from commentators. It’s not hard to find a Web site or talk show that reinforces what you are inclined to believe about climate change: A.) That it’s a myth, or B.) That it’s a present and future danger.

For many, the choice depends on personal politics, which are as hard-wired into our beings as our preference for Coke or Pepsi. Individual tastes are difficult to change. Me, I like Dr. Pepper.

When it comes to climate change, the only side I’m on is the “Far Side.” We have engineered pipes, smokestacks and garbage trucks to carry our waste away from us because it is unpleasant and unhealthy. We don’t run our sewage pipes into our homes because the bacteria would make us sick.

The emission from a car’s gasoline engine isn’t pumped into the passenger compartment because it’s poisonous. When someone does that on purpose, it’s usually called suicide. Instead, we put it out through a tailpipe at the back of the car. In a symbolic and practical way, we are sending it in the opposite direction from the way we are headed. Out of sight, out of mind.

I don’t need to get very far into science, economics or politics. I only have to look as far as my own house and car to see human engineering at work. If the trees and mountains and rivers and animals and soil and sky were the engineers, and gave me fossil fuel emissions to breathe, wastewater to drink, garbage to bury in my closet, or atomic waste to store in my basement, it wouldn’t be any better for me than it is for them.

Is poison good or bad for us? Easy question, I hope. Poison is bad. So, does it make sense for each of us do what we can – for our own health and for the health of others -- to pipe less of it into the world? Again, the simple answer is yes. While the issue of climate change can be polarizing, that question is not.

There’s a saying: “Think globally, act locally.” Let’s play “Far Side” and reverse that: “Think locally, act globally.” In other words, don’t think about the whole world just yet. That’s overwhelming.

Instead, contemplate what you can do in your everyday life that sends fewer poisons in the world. No need to involve tax dollars, Al Gore or competing opinions. Just combine errands and use less gasoline. Reuse empty bread bags to wrap sandwiches when you pack your lunch. Buy locally grown food.

Just doing the responsible thing for ourselves, controlling what we can control, becomes an act of caring for the planet and makes a difference in small, but measurable ways.

It’s like the familiar story about the man who encounters thousands of dying starfish washed up on a beach. He picks them up one at a time and places them back in the water.

An onlooker says: “That’s a waste of time. Why bother? You'll never get to every starfish. There are too many for you to make a difference.” The man picks up a starfish and returns it to the ocean.

“Made a difference to that one,” he says.

To paraphrase Henry David Thoreau: You can’t kill time without injuring eternity. To me, that means every little thing counts as part of the whole, whether it’s a drop of water, a breath of air, or moment of the day. Each is part of the sacred gift of life. We squander it at the peril of our body, soul and planet.

Climate change doesn’t have to come down to personal politics. It simply comes down to us personally. Parents tell children all the time: It doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing. What matters is that you do the right thing.

One is never too old to take that advice to heart.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

A license to collect

2009-12-23T05:34:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Dec. 15 edition of The Medina Gazette.

HINCKLEY TWP. – More than half a century later, Chuck Gibson still remembers the 1953 license plate on his family’s red Chevy convertible: HH 1053. His only regret is that he didn’t save it.

Me, I can’t remember the number the 10-year-old Ford pick-up truck I drive every day.

Gibson, 73, has had an affinity for cars and numbers his whole life, so it seems only natural he would become a license plate collector.

He got his start in 1958 when the license plate on a ’40s-vintage Dodge sedan sitting in a farm field caught his eye. The year on the plate: 1953.

He stopped and asked if he could have it. The owner said sure. Gibson, a retired market research and product planning manager for General Motors, was hooked.

“That started me on the downhill slope of collecting a lot of metal,” he said.

At one time, Gibson had upwards of 20,000 plates in his collection, but he’s been scaling back, favoring quality over quantity. To those of us who own exactly two plates – the ones on our car – that may seem like a lot. However, there are fellow enthusiasts in the Automobile License Plate Collectors Association – of which Gibson is a member -- who own more than 100,000. Plates can range in value from a few bucks to thousands of dollars.

To collectors like Gibson, license plates are more than identification tags. They are snapshots in time that tell the story of America -- its history, its landscape, and its love of the automobile.

Plates sometimes reflect much larger events happening in the country. For example, in 1943 during World War II, and in 1952 during the Korean War, Ohio issued window stickers instead of plates to conserve metal.

During World War II, a few states tried to save metal by using plates made from a soybean-based pressboard. There was only one problem. You had to be careful not to park your car near a cow.

“They ate the license plates off,” Gibson said.

Other states have departed from the standard galvanized steel to make plates from aluminum and copper. Very early plates were made from leather or wood, using metal house numbers car owners had to pick up at the local hardware store.

Back in the day, cars required hand-cranking to start and the front license plate sometimes covered up the hole where the crank went in. In that case, the first order of business after buying your new license plate was to immediately punch a hole in it. On occasion you can find plates from the ’20s that show where the crank went in, Gibson said. Other plates -- designed to fit on the front of car radiators -- were slotted or screened to permit air to flow through.

There was a time when states issued license plates of all shapes and sizes. Tennessee and Kansas made plates that mirrored the shapes of their states, for example. Today the sizes are a uniform 12- by 6-inches. We can thank automakers for that, who lobbied the federal government in 1955 to create a standard plate size, so auto manufactures could create uniform spots for them on cars. By the next year, most states had adopted the 12- by 6-inch plates.

License plates still offer states a mini billboard to promote tourism or celebrate their heritage. There are plates showcasing Georgia peaches, Louisiana pelicans, Colorado ski slopes, Wyoming bucking broncos and Idaho potatoes. Ohio’s 1938 plate featured a covered wagon commemorating the 150th anniversary of the Northwest Territory.

Many states – including Ohio – use prison labor to make license plates. Some of them are even stamped “prison-made.” In Gibson’s Ohio collection, the plates from 1966-67 look just a little different from others of the era. That’s because Ohio’s plate manufacturing facility at the state prison near Lebanon burned down and the job of making plates had to be temporarily farmed out to other states.

Plates tended to be more colorful in the days when they had simple painted backgrounds. Today, a reflective background is the rule. Ohio’s last real color background was 1973’s green plate that featured the question: “Seat belts fastened?” Through ’73, the Ohio plates in Gibson’s collection are a bouquet of colors: orange, yellow, green, red and blue.

One of the most handsome is a blue and white plate made of porcelain. It’s from 1908 – the first year Ohio officially released license plates. It sports the number “59” and an oval letter “O” with an “H” in the center for “Ohio.”

Other plates of that vintage had a round “O,” Gibson said. The distinctly oval initial makes his plate unique. Only about 100 of the oval “O” plates were made. Evidently, the powers-that-be didn’t like the egg-shaped initial and the plates were shelved.

All the better for collectors.

What makes plates valuable? Scarcity, for one. Vanity plates and low numbers also are highly sought. Plates from some places, like Alaska, which has fewer vehicles on the road than many other states, are naturally harder to come by. Gibson also has a collection of foreign license plates – including a plate No. 1 believed to have once graced the car of the king of Syria.

If only license plates could talk, think of the travel stories they’d tell. For collectors, finding them and learning their stories is what it’s all about.

“The journey is the benefit,” Gibson said.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Dad: The human Advent calendar

2009-12-15T04:19:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Dec. 8 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Different people like to celebrate the holidays in different ways.

Some bake Christmas cookies, attend concerts, or stand in line all night on Black Friday to buy a wide-screen TV.

Me, I like to completely tear apart a room in our house and put it back together to the best of my abilities as an English major. It’s rapidly becoming a holiday tradition.

“I’ve noticed this,” said my longsuffering wife.

I prefer an essential downstairs room – no hallways, bedrooms or closets for me. Those are so minor league. I like the challenge of clearing out a high-traffic area during the busiest time of the year, cramming all the furniture into the rest of the house, sealing off the room with plastic so that it becomes a fatherly Fortress of Solitude, and moving in with power tools.

And the time I do this tends to be about the time my wife wants to have the house clean and decorated for the holidays. I don’t do this to aggravate her on purpose. I do enough things by accident for that. It’s just that when the weather is nice, I prefer to be outdoors.

“The problem is, for you that’s February through November,” my wife observed.

It’s true. The fact is, I am an outside dog. Whether it’s picking green beans, mowing the grass, cutting wood, or cleaning the gutters, I am always game for outdoor work. I am mostly impervious to heat and cold, so it takes fairly miserable weather to force me off the field. You know the old saying about mad dogs and English majors.

Our 9-year-old daughter has inherited this quality from me. She’s always slipping outside after dinner for some “fresh air,” as she says, no matter the weather. I’ll find her in the yard bouncing on the trampoline in a Sponge Bob T-shirt with temperatures hovering just above freezing. As a dad, I am obligated to shout fatherly directives.

“Hey! Put a jacket on!” I say.

“But it’s not cold out!” she answers, not missing a bounce.

It’s hard to argue with her on that. Usually I am wearing shorts when I shout at her to put on warm clothes, which tends to strip away much of my moral authority.

So I’m not ready to tackle indoor projects until, well, the holidays. I’m available at the end of November, into December and January for inside jobs. Come February, I’m out the door for maple syrup season. But the first rainy, cold day in late fall, I come inside, clap my hands together, and look for something to destroy and rebuild.

Last year, it was the dining room. I tore into refinishing the floor a couple of weeks before we were due to host 17 people for Thanksgiving dinner. This year, it’s the living room. I shoved out all the furniture and went to work skimming the old plaster walls with drywall compound and sanding them smooth -- kicking up more dust than a Sarah Palin book signing.

My goal is to have it painted, ready for the Christmas tree, and safe for human habitation sometime before Dec. 25. I’d better, or the next project for this outside dog could be building himself a little house in the preferred surroundings of his back yard.

When it comes to my holiday-season renovation projects, I like to think of myself as a sort of human Advent calendar. I’m counting down the days until Christmas and cultivating a sense of patience and expectation in my family. The white drywall dust on every table top, picture frame and horizontal surface in the house makes it look like all our possessions are covered in a fine layer of new-fallen snow. It’s really rather festive.

When the whole house is embroiled in the chaos of homework, holiday decorating, and moving mountains of laundry, I’m sealed in my cocoon with tools, coffee and loud classic rock. It’s a peaceful, happy place. All is calm, all is bright in the light of halogen work lamps.

My loving family becomes a sort of fuzzy, soundless TV Christmas special that I watch through the plastic sheets covering the doorways. Wait … is that my wife furiously motioning for me to come out? Maybe she’s just waving to say, “Great work, Hon! Love you!”

I always assume the latter. Look on the bright side, I always say.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Column fridge

2009-12-08T17:35:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Dec. 1 edition of The Medina Gazette.

It’s time to make room for the Christmas cookies and clear the last of the pumpkin pie and Thanksgiving turkey out of the old column fridge.

Who cooks for you?

One of the pleasant things about living in a drafty old house is that it’s like camping. All the time.

I was awakened by the call of a barred owl, who evidently was out looking for friendship in our little woods on a recent warm-for-November night. Even with the windows closed, his voice carried into the house as easily as if we were sleeping in a tent.

“Hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo!” he said. “Hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo!”

There’s nothing like the call of a raptor to get your attention – and remind you with a slight chill down the spine that under your large brain and flannel pajamas, you’re basically just a soft, furless mammal. I kept my head buried in my burrow. That is to say, pillow. So did all the mice and the rabbits in the neighborhood, I’ll bet.

Dan Bertsch, the chief naturalist of the Medina County Park District – with whom we have enjoyed many nighttime owl walks in the county parks -- says the call of the barred owl sounds like: “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?”

You should go outside some evening and do your best owl impersonation. They are active this time of year and it’s fun to call out and see if there’s one in the neighborhood that will answer.

You’re probably guaranteed at least one response. At our house, when we call, “Who cooks for you?” some smart aleck always answers: “Mom does!”

OK, that would be me.

Threat to freedom

A recent Letter to the Editor suggested there were two appropriate roles for the federal government: to protect national security and individual freedoms. As health care does not fall into either category, the letter argued, it should be left alone by Congress.

To others of us, it’s clear the cost of health care absolutely is an issue of personal freedom and security.

Every one of us in this country, except for the independently wealthy, is one health disaster away from losing many of the freedoms we hold dear. If you are an average working family, the health care cost of a bad accident or serious illness could take away your ability to own a home, change jobs, get future health care, and live a basic middleclass life.

Why? Because the cost of healthcare has far exceeded the normal rate of inflation. It is unaffordable to taxpayer-funded governments, to small businesses, and to a great many individuals.

We can see where market forces are driving us on this issue … to the edge of a cliff. Unlike other products in the marketplace, like cars or video games, you can’t hope to bring health care prices down by not buying it. Well, you can, but you might die. Your choice. Is that what anti-reform agitators mean by “freedom?”

The promise of America is the right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” The cost of health care is a threat to all three.

Still thankful

Some final “thankful things” came in through the transom after my deadline for last week’s column. They are too wonderful not to share.

I’m thankful for living with less to live with more.

I’m thankful to my dad. Thanks for teaching me the difference between a Phillips and a flathead screwdriver, and how to use a power drill, tire pressure gauge, WD-40, caulk, wrench and hammer. And thanks for teaching me where to put the washer fluid and where to put the oil, and how to meticulously wash a car. And for making me laugh through each lesson.

I’m thankful to my mom. Thank you for hugging me every day, answering late at night, and knowing the precise amount of milk I like in my coffee. For teaching me how to cook and bake from scratch, sew, and fold a fitted sheet. For teaching me by example not only how to be a caring mom, but also daughter, and how to care for others, yet not forget to care for myself. And for loving my kids with every ounce of your being.

Amy
Seville

(Note: In my Nov. 17 column, a reader gave thanks for those who are restoring “the little white house” at the corner of North Broadway and East Union Street in Medina. The following reply is from the home’s owners.)

We are thankful for all of the people who stop and say, “Looking good!” while driving by or take the time to stop and tell us a story about our house. We are thankful for our church family at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, who never once said we were crazy and have supported us in the good times and bad.

Vicki and Ray
Medina

I am thankful I have the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mom to my daughters. The are my greatest blessing and I treasure every day with them.

Chandra
Lodi

I am thankful for:

The person or people who sent a card with gift certificates to local stores after my husband got laid-off from his job;

My husband, who has returned to school at age 50-plus, and who continues to have a sense of purpose and a sense of humor, even without a job;

Learning how to plant garlic and hoping I’ll get a crop this summer; and

Volunteers at the local hospital, who brighten the day for both employees and people who are visiting in more ways than they can know.

Karen
Lafayette Township

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

2009 Northrop Heritage Awards

2009-12-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

On Dec. 2, I was honored to be among three individuals to receive 2009 Northrop Heritage Awards from the Medina County Historical Society.

Recipients included long-time historical society volunteer Marlene Jividen and local author and historian Sharon Kraynek.

So often, when I'm writing about local history, I'm drawing on the work, expertise and resources of the historical society and its members. It's humbling to recognize how much I have depended on them over the years.

As part of budget cuts in 2009, the county government eliminated its funding for the historical society, which accounted for 73 percent of the society's budget. You can read my Medina Gazette column on the cuts by clicking here. Its members responded by rolling up their sleeves and working all the harder to find ways to continue the historical society's programming and to keep the John Smart House Museum's storehouse of treasures and knowledge available to the public, local students and researchers. Outgoing board president Brian Feron and many others worked tirelessly to keep the lights on, literally. Hopefully, the county funding will be restored in 2010.

I'm grateful to the Medina County Historical Society for all it does in preserving our local heritage for future generations.

Thankful Things, Part 2

2009-12-01T05:52:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Nov. 24 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Here’s an encore installment of “thankful things” sent in by Gazette readers. Each letter and e-mail was a blessing to read.

I am thankful for my husband. We are blessed to be together for 64 years. We met when he was seriously wounded in the South Pacific. He served for four years and was seriously wounded going out to pick up a soldier who was shot. He received the Purple Heart and Oak Leaf Cluster. He is my hero and I thank God every day for still being together.
MILDRED
Medina

My perpetual thanks go to my grandma, Catherine Vanza, for buying the farm in 1923. This 13-acre plot in Hinckley is providing ongoing memories for -- as of now -- five generations.
JACKIE
Hinckley Township

I'm thankful God chose to let me live long enough to relax in my twin recliner opposite the mate of my youth, to watch TV and eat popcorn at the end of the day.
GARNET
Wadsworth

I’m thankful to be able to look around my house and enjoy the many family pieces handed down to me from my parents, grandparents and beyond.
I’m thankful for the memory of a summer day when God held off a promising storm so we could bring in a good crop of hay.
CAROL
Westfield Township

I’m thankful I created the little wildlife sanctuary we have now. While I can no longer garden, I’m thankful the wildflowers and ferns still come up.
JEAN
Chippewa Lake

At 82 years old, after two knee replacements, I’m so thankful for a beautiful fall and that I can be outside and rake leaves.
I’m thankful for the wonderful neighbors who care and look after me.
SHIRLEY
Seville

I am thankful every day when I stop and remember that my children are healthy. Knowing that gets me through anything.
MICHELLE
Brunswick

I am thankful for my family and friends for all the support they gave me after the death of my husband in August.
I am thankful for the people who really do forgive and forget.
I am thankful for my dog Molly for always being happy to see me.
CAROL
Wadsworth

I am thankful …
... my boss thinks I'm good enough to keep around.
... for my level-headed husband who keeps me from going over to THAT side of crazy.
... for the cow that died so my husband could have a new valve in his heart.
... for the “goodie boxes” my mom always gives me for Christmas because I'm always out of something that just happens to be in that box -- like tissues or toilet paper or dish soap.
... for funky socks. They let me feel cool, while not making me that lady in denial who dresses like a teenager.
... I can be proud of my dad for being a Vietnam vet.
... my brother and his wife have a beautiful daughter so I can buy Barbies for someone.
HEATHER
Gloria Glens

I am thankful for excellent children’s books that capture important truths with a few, well-chosen words, beautiful artwork and an appealing story.
CHRIS
Montville Township

Here are some of the things my fifth-graders at St. Matthew Lutheran Church are thankful for:
My cats
My house
My family
My family and my friends
My room, my sister, my cat, my Guinea pig and the forest in my backyard.
My Sunday school teachers so I can learn about God.
The newspaper, a kitten, pumpkins, friends and family.
JILL
Medina

I’m thankful to The Gazette for running pictures of abandoned animals from so many agencies.
I am grateful for the amazing content of our public library. If not for books on tape, I would die of boredom behind the steering wheel. Listening to a book keeps me alert — and alive. (The cell phone talkers should consider listening instead of yakking.)
I’m thankful for small-business owners, who need a boost in these days of economic distress, government takeover and big-box stores.
I’m thankful for the “unseen” people: church workers and volunteers; our Community Services Center volunteers; township trustees; friends who remember your pantry when they harvest their gardens.
Our Medina County Health Department employees, both in their communication and their services, deserve a thanks and recognition for the good they do.
DOROTHY
Lafayette Township

I am thankful for the beauty and solace of nature which I enjoy daily. I am also grateful for my husband who has introduced me to the wonderful life of camping, hiking and campfires.
LYNN
Medina

I am thankful for our country and the ability to still speak our mind and vote our choice.
DICK
Medina

I am thankful for:
The wall that separates my head, so warm on its pillow, and the storms that will soon be raging outside;
The mute button on my TV;
The privilege of pastoring an amazing, servant-hearted church for 31 years;
The comic strips in the newspaper.
DON
Brunswick

I am thankful for being able to go through this crazy, beautiful life with the love of my life!
KAREN
Brunswick

I am thankful for all the caregivers at the Alzheimer’s care centers and drug-abuse centers.
I am thankful I don't have to take my teeth out at night.
I am thankful I can walk up and down stairs without pain or assistance.
I am thankful I can eat anything.
I am thankful for my husband's love and caring for my mother, thanks to the upbringing he had from his sisters.
KATHY
Seville

I am thankful for modern technology that provides me with adaptors for my computer. Since I am physically disabled, the adaptors let me read the newspaper and Internet. Since my sight and hearing are not very good, one of the adaptors reads out loud for me. I’m also thankful to the Society for the Blind, which sends me books on tape.
DIANNA
Medina Township

I am thankful for dinner on the table when I have to work late and come home hungry.
I am thankful for my two healthy daughters who get A’s and B’s in school, do their homework and help out around the house.
I am thankful for my wonderful husband who helps out with everything from housework to shopping and laundry, while also being my best friend.
I am thankful for shelter and food and jobs that we have that so many other people need and desperately want.
I am thankful for Friday nights when you know you don't have to get up early on Saturday!
KRISTEN
Seville

Amen. And Happy Thanksgiving.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

December issue of Ohio Magazine

2009-11-22T15:24:00.000-08:00

I wrote two pieces for the December issue of Ohio Magazine. First, there's an essay on winter that accompanies a collection of beautiful seasonal pictures by Ohio landscape photographers. The second piece is a round-up of holiday concerts -- including a list of "Nutcracker" performances around Ohio.

Look for more from me in the January issue. Click here to find Ohio Magazine at a newsstand near you.

Thankful Things, Part 1

2009-11-22T15:20:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Nov. 17 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Ask, and thou shalt receive … e-mail.
Last week, I invited readers to share specific things they are thankful for – and the response has been wonderful.
Many of you truly counted your blessings in heartfelt lists. Forgive me for winnowing them to a representative few, so that all who responded could be included.
Here are some of the thankful things you shared:

I am grateful for the medical science advances that have enabled friends to recover from strokes, heart attacks and cancer.
I am thankful for knowing people who are slow to judge and who understand how to work out their differences.
I am thankful for the multitudes of organizations and individuals who volunteer time to reach out to others who are in difficulty right now.
I am grateful that I no longer have a need to solve algebraic equations.
Joan
Westfield Center

I am so thankful for my little 5-pound Chihuahua’s unconditional love. Mia always knows when I need cheering up and licks my cheek and ferociously wags her tail until I can’t help but feel better.
Lorie
Brunswick Hills Township

I am thankful for my sisters, for without them I wouldn’t have a ride to see our mother as often as I do.
I am thankful for my mom, because she is the ultimate best friend.
I am thankful for Medina County Public Transit, because if it weren’t for the loop bus, I wouldn’t be able to go shopping, to doctor’s appointments or to the library. Keep the loop!
Kathy
Medina

It is hard to find the words that can describe how thankful I am for my caring family. With their help I have been able to stay in my home and at age 82 it would be impossible without them. Thanks, gang.
Jane
Lafayette Township

I am thankful for my husband John, one of the most honest, loyal, caring men I know, and for our daughters, Deanna, Rebecca, Melissa and Joanna. We went through the worst time of our lives losing our daughter and sister and came out stronger. I am thankful for one another and our faith in God, who got us through that trying time and continues to be with us.
Peggy
Montville Township

I’m thankful for:
The neighbors who always make sure my driveway and sidewalk are shoveled in the winter for my family;
The dinners that are provided whenever an emergency or problem happens;
The coaches who always volunteered to pick up and drop off the kids from practices and games;
The replacement of rotting wood on the front of my house. A big project that cost me a burger on the grill;
I could go on and on. There doesn’t seem to be a day where we don’t receive some type of help or support. I have truly been blessed to live in such a caring and helpful community. My family and I are grateful for everything our community and neighborhood have done for us.
Michael
Medina

I am thankful for my husband of 40 years, who was so kind and caring to my parents, as they lived with us for almost two years, prior to their deaths this year.
I am thankful for the off button on the TV or radio remotes, as I happen upon a show that showcases someone who is exhibiting self-righteous indignation, hysterical histrionics, fear- and/or hate-mongering, or gossip.
I am thankful to God for giving talent to others so we can so enjoy good books and all the arts with such joy and gladness of heart.
Connie
Spencer Township

I am thankful for the person who bought and fixed-up the little white house on the corner of North Broadway and East Union Street in Medina. My whole family smiles every time we pass by.
P.S.: We would love to see the inside.
Laura
Montville Township

I am thankful for my husband’s eyes, the love I see in them every day.
I am thankful for my four daughters, giving me happiness every day in their smiles.
Sherry
Seville

I am thankful for quiet, misty mornings when I walk to the barn, open the door, and breathe in the sweet aroma of hay and horses.
I am thankful for a husband who will help with the dishes, without me asking.
I am thankful for unhurried, cold mornings when I can stay in my flannel pajamas a little bit longer, read the paper and drink coffee.
I am thankful for camping trips and the smell of bacon cooking outside.
I am thankful for the anticipated arrival of my first grandchild.
Judy
Brunswick Hills Township

I am grateful for getting to build a new house (we lived for 34 years in a more than 180-year-old house) and building a closet and bathroom next to my bedroom. I am thankful I can work and have the resources to fill that closet with clothes, but also have the common sense to know when to give away the clothes that don’t fit so someone else can use them.
I am thankful I live in a country that still has “In God We Trust” as its motto.
Beth
York Township

I am thankful for my husband Bob who:
Does all the grocery shopping and always brings me cream stick donuts;
Makes special trips out when necessary to make sure I have a good supply of fresh oranges;
Fills the car up with gas;
Goes out early in all kinds of weather to get The Gazette and the mail (and picks up the neighbors’ items, also);
Pays the bills; and
Loves me.
J.K.
Medina

I am thankful for my 16-year-old, 6-foot-4 son’s hug before he caught the 6:30 a.m. bus this morning. He actually walked back into the house to give me one. Wow!
I am thankful I can explore parks like Buckeye Woods, Hubbard Valley, River Styx, Plum Creek, and Whipp’s Ledges.
I am thankful for C.S. Lewis, John Donne, John Keats and William Wordsworth.
I am thankful for Ruth Eaken, the best third-grade teacher any kid could ever have.
I am thankful for my 91-year-old mother-in-law who still plays Scrabble with me.
I am thankful for Lady Grey, jasmine, and peach tea.
I am thankful that forgiveness actually works.
I am thankful for the police and firefighters and sanitary engineers and custodians.
I am thankful for matching socks and good-fitting shoes.
Lynda
Seville

Thanks to all who shared kind words for me and for what I do. It’s a privilege to have this space each week and to be part of readers’ lives.
There’s still time to jot down a few of your Thanksgiving blessings – along with your name and the name of the city, township or village you live in. Remember: Be specific.
Send them to gladden@ohio.net or to John Gladden, c/o The Gazette, 885 W. Liberty St., Medina 44256.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Bookcases for literacy

2009-11-17T15:06:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Nov. 12 edition of The Medina Gazette.

MEDINA -- You can bet oral surgeon John Gasser is pretty darn good with a drill.

And with a table saw.

And with a router.

And with planes, chisels, dovetail saws, and wood carving tools.

On Friday, you can see Gasser’s craftsmanship for yourself – and even put in a bid to own a piece of his handmade furniture – at Project: LEARN’s benefit auction, “A Signature Event,” 6 p.m. Friday at Weymouth Country Club.

Project: LEARN provides free one-on-one tutoring to help individuals 16 and older with basic skills, including reading and writing. In February, the organization put out a call inviting local woodworkers to build and donate bookshelves to be auctioned at its annual fundraiser. In addition to Gasser’s solid-cherry Federal-style bookcase, there will be bookshelves crafted by Gordon Bryant, Ralph Lanz and John Sobotincic.

In a room off his basement workshop, Gasser uncovered his bookcase project – which seems destined to become someone’s family heirloom. It’s a solid 7 feet tall and 3 1/2 feet wide, with four adjustable shelves. Gasser estimated he’s put about 125 hours of work into the bookcase, along with about $900 in materials.

For Gasser, who will be retiring at the end of the year after practicing oral surgery in Medina for 27 years, his passion for woodworking dovetails – so to speak – with his professional life. Both demand precision and an ongoing commitment to developing and improving one’s skills.

“I love to work with my hands,” he said. “Just love to work with my hands.”

It started early for Gasser, 65, who grew up one of nine children on a Wayne County farm. He took industrial arts in high school, worked on the family farm and later in his dad’s construction business. He learned radar repair during his time in the Army.

“I’ve been around tools all my life,” Gasser said.

Inspired by the Army dentists he met, Gasser embarked on a career in dentistry following the service. He and his wife of 45 years, Rita, have three children and six grandchildren.

Remarkably, he turned to serious woodworking only about five years ago. Since then, he’s approached the task of assembling a workshop and honing his skills with an almost surgical focus. Gasser carefully researched tools and began attending woodworking courses in Indiana, Kentucky and Virginia.

He loves the way woodworking demands exactness, yet the material itself is almost endlessly patient with the carpenter. It invites artistry as well as accuracy.

“Wood is just so much fun,” Gasser said. “It’s so forgiving, so repairable.”

In addition to the bookcase for Project: LEARN, Gasser has built a Queen Anne-style miniature highboy with hand-cut dovetail drawers and a carved sunburst detail. He estimates he put 200 hours into that project. Other major pieces include a grandfather clock, in inlaid table, and intricately detailed wooden cars and trucks. One fire truck is made in part from Brazilian bloodwood, which is just as red as it sounds.

He has a separate finishing room off his workshop and a storage area where he keeps a library of wood he buys from local sources, like Lodi Lumber, Swiss Woodcraft in Rittman and Keim Lumber in Charm, Ohio.

Of course, once you’ve got the wood and the tools, there’s no substitute for practice. Gasser said he spends time in his workshop seven days a week.

“There just something incredibly peaceful about being down here, working with my hands,” he said.

On the web: www.projectlearnmedina.org.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Thankful things

2009-11-15T18:43:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Nov. 10 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The devil is in the details, but so are the angels.

Specifics. That’s what we want in a story. Don’t just tell me he kissed you standing on the doorstep at the end of your date. How did he kiss you? A polite peck on the cheek? Or perhaps something more? We need to know these things.

What are you grateful for this Thanksgiving season? Be specific. Say more than: “I’m thankful for my health.” That’s a great thing to be thankful for, but say: “I’m thankful I can still take steps two at a time,” or “I’m thankful I lived long enough to hold my great granddaughter in my arms.”

Thankful for your canine companion? Say: “I’m thankful for my dog because he makes me laugh.”

Got the idea? Send your thankful things to me and we’ll fill a newspaper cornucopia with what we’re grateful for. Goodness knows … with the economy, the violence in the world, the Cleveland Browns …we could all stand to take a few minutes to list reasons to be thankful.

Heck, sometimes it’s the only way to get through the day.

I’m thankful for my wife’s legs, for example. And for the fact that she’s an accountant who has forgotten more about managing money than I will ever learn.

I’m thankful for the way my daughter tucks her hair behind her ears when she’s telling a funny story.

I’m thankful for the way my son runs up the driveway every day when he gets off the school bus, like a colt let loose from the barn.

I’m thankful for my driveway, as a matter of fact. It’s shaped like the letter “S.” The house is 177 years old. Who put in the driveway like that? I wonder every time I walk down to get the mail.

I’m thankful for Jerry Lee Lewis. I love the way he would stand up and kick the piano bench across the stage like a mule. I don’t know. It just makes me happy. I want to do that to my chair some day when I am writing a newspaper column.

I’m grateful for oatmeal with brown sugar.

I grateful for our family tractor, Old Fergie.

I’m grateful for Amish writer David Kline and the way he writes about his Holmes County farm.

I’m thankful when I reach the top of a hill on my bicycle.

I’m more thankful when I’m coasting down the other side.

When the house is quiet and it’s just me, my laptop, a cup of coffee, and a window to stare out of, I am thankful.

I am thankful for our friend Tammey’s Little Cheddar Meatloaf recipe.

I am thankful for my Malone College English professors Dale King and Robert Lair. Every day I sit down to write, I owe something to them.

I am thankful for E.B. White essays, especially “Farewell, My Lovely” about the Model T Ford.

I’m thankful for our church family at Seville United Methodist Church.

I am grateful for the smell of autumn leaves.

I am grateful for the therapeutic qualities of our woodstove on a cold night.

I’m grateful when I crack an egg and I don’t crumble the shell.

I’m grateful when I make something from wood and it actually seems to fit together.

I’m grateful for times when I have the feeling I’ve forgotten something, but it turns out I haven’t.

I am really, really thankful for rhubarb pie, elderberry pie, black raspberry pie and apple pie.

I am thankful for bedtime. No further explanation.

I am thankful for deadlines, or else I’d get nothing done.

I am thankful for the hymn “Lord of the Dance.”

I am thankful for WKSU 89.7 FM’s weekend folk music.

I am grateful for well-kept old barns.

I am thankful for veterans, their families, and the sacrifices they make for us all.

So there’s a start from me. What are you grateful for? Jot down a few of your Thanksgiving blessings – along with your name and the name of the city, township or village you live in -- and I’ll print them in a future column as the holiday draws closer. Remember: Be specific.

E-mail them to gladden@ohio.net or support your local letter carrier by mailing them to John Gladden, c/o The Gazette, 885 W. Liberty St., Medina 44256.

Wait … how could I have forgotten? I’m grateful for you. Thanks for reading.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Small sign, big message

2009-11-14T05:30:00.000-08:00

This story appeared in the Nov. 11 edition of The Medina Gazette.

GUILFORD TWP. – “Thank You Veterans.”

They’re just three little words painted on a homemade sign along Rawiga Road, but they leave a big impression on many who pass by.

Bill Frase and his family live about a mile north of Ohio Western Reserve National Cemetery. When the veterans cemetery first opened, some residents were concerned about the increased traffic it would bring to the still-rural area.

To Frase, 48, living with the extra cars driving by each day seemed a relatively small price to pay, compared with the sacrifices made by American veterans and their families. In 2002, he and his daughter Justine, now 21, decided to put those feelings into words.

“He just said, ‘Let’s make a sign that says: Thank You Veterans,’ ” Justine recalled.

Frase cut a 1- by 4-foot piece of plywood and she hand-lettered the words, coating it with acrylic for protection. After getting permission to tack the sign to a utility pole in front of their house, they put it up, along with a pair of small American flags.

The reaction to the red, white and blue painted sign has been overwhelming, they said.

Passersby honk their horns and wave. Members of the veterans advocacy motorcycle group Rolling Thunder roar by and offer an approving thumbs-up. Four different post commanders from Northeast Ohio veterans organizations have stopped and come to the door.

“They’ll pull in and ring the doorbell,” said Frase, a press operator for Rohrer Corp. in Wadsworth. “They say, ‘Are you the one who put up the sign?’ ”

When he says yes, they thank him. One post commander from Brook Park give Frase a handful of new flags to display with it.

Many veterans are traveling Rawiga Road to their final resting place at Ohio Western Reserve. With some 1,000 U.S. World War II veterans dying each day, Frase said sometimes he’ll be out working in the yard and see four funeral processions go by within an hour.

Grateful notes and letters from families who pass by in the funeral processions come to Frase’s mailbox from all over Ohio. Some of the notes appear on his doorstep, addressed simply: “To a Fellow Patriot.”

Some are anonymous, others are signed. One woman drives from Columbus once a year to visit her husband’s grave and finds the sign to be a comfort when she passes by, Frase said. She mailed the family a flag magnet as a way of saying thanks.

“We still have it on the refrigerator today,” he added.

One day, Justine pulled into the driveway and found a pair of painted wooden American flags left as a gift. She couldn’t wait to bring them inside.

“I said, ‘Look! We got new signs!’ ” Justine said. They now hang on a white fence at the end of the driveway.

On Memorial Day, the cars pass by in the hundreds, Frase said. He obtained permission to install flagpole brackets on utility poles along their stretch of Rawiga Road and line it with U.S. flags for the holiday weekend.

The sign and the American flags are a tribute to all veterans and their families, but for the Frase family, it’s personal, too.

Frase’s father, Ivan, 84, served in the Pacific following the bombing of Pearl Harbor. He was one of eight brothers who all went into the military.

“Half of them were in the Navy and half were in the Army,” Frase said.

Some of them were less than truthful about their ages in order to get in – which says something about the high level of patriotism of the time, he said. It’s something generations today should know about.

“I think all teenagers should have to see ‘Saving Private Ryan’ before graduating,” Frase said.

These men and women were part of The Greatest Generation, he added. The least we can do as Americans is to say: “Thank You Veterans.”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

The something more

2009-11-11T05:28:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the Nov. 3 edition of The Medina Gazette.

When asked why he keeps horses – considering the feed costs, chores and vet bills that come with them -- a friend has a ready reply.

He needs horses, he says, so he can hitch them to a wagon and haul the horse manure out of the barn to spread on the fields.

To me, that pretty well sums up life in the country. There’s a self-fulfilling logic to much of what we do.

Why burn firewood? On weekends, when a lot of guys are inside watching football, I’m out cutting, splitting and stacking wood. Why do it? Why spend the time?

Well, as anyone will tell you, there’s no heat like wood heat. Forced air from a furnace warms your skin and dries your throat, but a cast iron stove radiates heat into your muscles and bones like bathwater. My muscles get tired and sore cutting wood, so I need a good fire in the stove to make them feel better. That’s why I do it.

Besides, if I didn’t cut wood, I’d either have to stop eating so much black raspberry pie, or I’d have to pay to join a gym. I’d rather enjoy the pie and have something more than a bag of sweaty clothes to show for my exercise.

“Just to live in the country is a full-time job,” wrote America’s best essayist, E.B. White. “You don’t have to do anything. The idle pursuit of making a living is pushed to one side, where it belongs, in favor of living itself, a task of such immediacy, variety, beauty, and excitement that one is powerless to resist its wild embrace.”

It doesn’t really matter if you live in a Manhattan apartment or on a Wyoming ranch. Many of us can relate to this philosophy of life.

Why knit sweaters and blankets? Because you get cold while you’re sitting and knitting on a winter evening and you need sweaters and blankets to keep yourself warm.

Why do I eat so much? Because I burn a lot of calories riding my bicycle. Why do I burn calories on my bicycle? Because I eat so much.

Why farm? Because you need the money. Why do you need the money? Because you farm.

Why spend more to drive a pick-up truck instead of a little car? Well, so I can save delivery fees by hauling things myself. Why do I need to save on delivery fees? Because it costs so much to gas-up the truck.

It’s all about lifestyle choices. And something more.

Last week, I was putting the garden to bed for the season. There’s still a patch of lettuce and carrots we’ll enjoy for a few more weeks, but mostly, the garden looked exactly like it did in April: A little island of green surrounded by freshly turned earth, where I had just finished planting winter rye to protect and nourish the soil until spring.

It was like the summer had passed by in a dream. I remembered the sweet corn and tomatoes, peppers, Brussels sprouts, celery, sunflowers, radishes, zucchini, pumpkins, onions and more. But after all the time spent preparing, planting, weeding and picking, it seemed for a moment I was right back where I started.

Why do it? Why have a garden? Because I like fresh food, for one thing. But if I had saved the time and money spent on the garden, couldn’t I simply have bought fresh fruits and vegetables at a farm market? Sure. I suppose.

So why do it? It’s the question every gardener asks the scarecrow when no one else is around.

When I walk down to the cellar and I see our little storehold of sweet potatoes and winter squash, and I know the freezer is filled to the lid with garden produce as well, it makes me feel good. Like we have some resource in the world. Satisfaction. That’s the something more.

Henry David Thoreau said every man looks at his woodpile with a sort of affection. That’s true. It’s the same if you’re looking at a pair of newly knitted wool socks, a pantry filled with canned peaches, a well-written school report, a dining room chair you’ve made, a freshly painted room, a clothesline under full sail, a garden tucked in for a long winter’s nap.

When a world of consumers out there can’t get no satisfaction, we who suffer this delightful addiction to production, know that satisfaction is homemade.

And we are powerless to resist its wild embrace.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

"Last Harvest: A Fable"

2009-11-03T05:40:00.000-08:00

This column appeared in the October 27 edition of The Medina Gazette.

“The first farmer was the first man. All historic nobility rests on the possession and use of land.”
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The farmer was the first man … and he will be the last man.”
-- Liberty Hyde Bailey

Tim Harbinger shut off the big John Deere combine, opened the door, and climbed down the ladder. As he stepped to the ground, the brown stubble of the freshly harvested soybean field crunched under his worn leather work shoes.

A crowd of reporters and photographers moved in from the edge of the field, some running toward him carrying cameras and microphones. TV vans lined up bumper-to-bumper on the township road, their satellite dishes telescoping into the blue October sky.

“Ready?” asked a cameraman.

“Ready,” replied the reporter, her L.L. Bean hat, coat and gloves perfectly arranged as she spoke to the camera.

“We’re here in this soybean field to witness the end of an era,” she said, with carefully construed concern in her voice. “In a county once rich with produce, fields, orchards and livestock, the area’s last farmer has harvested his last crop. Next year, instead of corn or hay, this field could be growing houses or a new shopping mall.

Meanwhile, the first of the reporters had reached the farmer.

“Mr. Harbinger! Mr. Harbinger!” the reporter shouted. “Why do you want to give up farming?”

“Well, I don’t exactly want to give it up … ”

“Is it true you’re selling out?” asked another.

“It has less to do with me and more to do with what’s going on around me – milk prices, land prices, new houses, traffic …”

“How do you feel?” asked a newspaper reporter.

“Sad, I guess.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, it used to be that town was town and farms were farms. Now it’s all mixed up,” Harbinger said. “People move out here to get away from the city, but they bring the city with them – stores, restaurants, everything else. We push out the farms, then ship our food in from hundreds or thousands of miles away. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“You can’t stop progress,” said a TV anchorman. “These projects generate a lot of money for the local economy.”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Harbinger replied. “This field here has been farmed since 1832. It never asked to go to school – it put kids through school. It never needed water or sewer hook-up, never needed the police or fire department to come out. It doesn’t have streets that need patched and snow-plowed. Its taxes paid for those things for other people. It never asked for anything but a little care and nourishment to stay productive.

“You build up a lot of houses and stores on this field, they’ll need more services than their property taxes can pay for. That’s just how it is. And we wonder why the government never seems to have enough money.”

The reporters were strangely quiet for a moment. The air smelled of autumn. Maple trees ringed the field, their orange leaves shining like candles in the glow of the setting sun.

“Are you anti-development?” one asked.

Harbinger lifted his green seed cap and rubbed his head.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “The city and the countryside need each other, that’s all. When one goes away, the other suffers. I figured it out once: An inch of rain on this 120-acre farm makes 3 million gallons of water. It soaks into the ground and into the aquifer below. Do you know how many gallons the county water system uses every day? Three million gallons.

“Put in houses with downspouts, parking lots with storm drains, where does all that rain go? Can’t soak in. What doesn’t fall in the little square patches of lawn gets piped somewhere down the road or downstream.”

Just then, the sound of hammering echoed across the field. Everyone turned to see. A man was pounding a sign into the ground near the road. It read: “Vacant Land for Sale.”

Harbinger shook his head.

“That always gets me: ‘Vacant land.’ As if it’s land with a problem. An empty place begging to be filled. I’ll tell you this: There’s more life in a cubic foot of soil than in a square mile of New York City. Beneficial insects and microbes, not to mention the infinite number of crops it can grow, the people it can feed, the beauty it adds to the landscape. Soil is alive. It only becomes vacant when they pour concrete over it.”

“What’ll you do now?” asked a radio reporter holding out a microphone.

“Well, I’m going to drive these beans to the co-op in the next county and then I’m going home to supper,” Harbinger said. “If you’ll excuse me, I had better get back to work.”

With that, he climbed into the green combine. It rumbled to life and the farmer headed down the field and onto the road, where a line of impatient commuters immediately formed behind him.

The reporters shut their notebooks. The cameramen switched off their lights. They all trudged across the field back to their cars and vans.

“You want to grab something to eat on the way back to the station?” one of the reporters asked.

“I’d like to,” replied a cameraman, “but I can’t afford it. Food is just so expensive these days.”

“That's for sure," said the reporter. “I wonder why?”

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Roosting with the buzzards

2009-10-30T04:29:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the October 8 edition of The Medina Gazette.

HINCKLEY TWP. -- The world takes notice every March 15 when the buzzards return to Hinckley, but no one seems to pay attention where the birds set up housekeeping once they arrive.

That would be right on top of Miki Simic’s house.

Every morning and evening, like clockwork, a batch of buzzards comes to roost on the roof of the Bellus Road home she shares with her husband and young two children. The gray house with its pretty flower gardens sits on a hill and catches the morning sun. The birds swoop in from a nearby woods at about 8 a.m. to bask in the warmth and dry their wings. By 10 a.m. or so, they fly off to do what buzzards do.

Around 5 p.m. they come back – apparently to discuss their work day over dinner, judging by the leavings on Simic’s shingles.

“You would not believe the things I’ve found on our roof,” she said. “I’ve found the head of a chicken carcass on our roof. They bring their stuff here to eat.” They sit in the surrounding trees, on the neighbor’s barn, and on the children’s swing set, too.

A group of buzzards is called a “wake” – a somewhat appropriate term, given the service the birds provide in cleaning up dead wildlife. You’ve got your covey of quail in the meadow, your flock of seagulls on the beach, your wake of buzzards dining on a luckless chicken that didn’t quite make it across the road.

Bob Hinkle is chief of outdoor education for the Cleveland Metroparks and the official spotter for Buzzard Day festivities each March at nearby Hinckley Reservation.

While buzzards are not strong fliers, he said, they are majestic gliders, riding currents of warm air called thermals.

At the tips of their wings, they have what are known as primary feathers, which buzzards can spread into different positions, much like we move our fingers. Those delicate adjustments allow the birds to take advantage of the slightest changes in the rising air currents. When the primary feathers are damp with dew, they can stick and make for less efficient gliding, said Hinkle.

Social and opportunistic creatures that they are, when buzzards find a safe, sunny perch, they tend to keep meeting there. The birds’ black wings soak up sun like solar panels, gradually dry out, and then they’re ready to search for the day’s food. It’s a much different lifestyle than the ones led by robins, bluebirds and red-tailed hawks.

“I think in many ways, buzzards are like teenagers,” Hinkle said. “They roost where they want. They keep late hours – in the morning, that is. They sleep in. Other more respectable birds have arisen, and sung their morning songs, and gone out in search of food.”

Buzzards are without vocal cords, so they don’t sing, Hinkle said, and they rely more on their noses than their eyes when it comes finding meals. As migratory birds, they are protected by federal law.

This roosting ritual has taken place year-round in the almost seven years the Simics have owned the house -- although the number of birds declines significantly during the winter, when most fly to warmer climes. In the summer, their population seems to be on the increase.

“From the beginning, they have really multiplied,” Simic said. “They’re doing really well.”

In addition to other buzzard leftovers, the birds leave occasional droppings and all kinds of little white feathers. They have poked out window screens and their feet are wearing out the shingles. There are times when the family has been awakened by the sound of a large buzzard coming in for a landing above them.

“I don’t think people realize how heavy they are,” Simic said. “They land and they go ‘boo-boof.’ ”

By anyone’s definition, the Simics have been amazingly patient when it comes to their houseguests. They’ve pretty much decided this is their family’s home, they like it here, and this is the way it’s going to be, said Simic.

Yet, the toll on the roof and the screens costs money. And then there are all the little tokens the buzzards leave behind.

“Oh,” she said, pointing matter-of-factly at a dry, gray, fuzzy lump on her front sidewalk. “This is some of the stuff they cough up.”

There are times when Simic has looked out a window and been face-to-face with a buzzard, two inches away through the glass.

“They’re not afraid of us,” she said.

The birds don’t seem to faze the kids, either. Each morning, Simic and her children walk down the driveway to wait for the school bus, look back, and there are the buzzards, as always, sitting on the house.

“They think it’s kind of funny,” Simic said.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

The bookshelf

2009-10-26T17:20:00.000-07:00

If I could magically jump into any book to live and work for a while, it would be a book by Eric Sloane. There's no writer - illustrator who better captured the grace and complexity of 19th-century American life. I've read several of his books, but right now I'm enjoying "American Barns and Covered Bridges" (Funk & Wagnalls, 1954), which I found at the annual American Association of University Women book sale in Wooster, Ohio. It's where I stock up (inexpensively) on a lot of my year's reading.

Sloane began his career as an itinerant sign painter -- traveling the countryside, painting on walls and barns, before settling down to studio life to become one of America's great contemporary landscape artists. A collector of vintage farm and woodworking tools, he learned all he could about early American life and architecture and shared that knowledge in more than 30 beautifully illustrated books that touch on everything from building techniques to weather lore. Sloane died in 1985, but his tool collection is housed in a Connecticut museum, which would be worth a visit someday.

If he had been only an artist, or only a historian, his work would have been just as valuable to study and enjoy today. To have been both makes Eric Sloane an American treasure.

Bucky's side of the story

2009-10-22T05:25:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the October 13 edition of The Medina Gazette.

If you saw The Gazette last Wednesday, you may have read the story, “Grocery workers tackle deer on rampage,” about a local deer who paid a visit to a Brunswick store. Afterward, the deer, named Bucky, wrote a letter home to his parents about his experience. His mother asked me to print it in my column, just so readers will have the opportunity to hear the other side of the story.

Deer Mom,

How have you been? I hope you and Dad are doing well back home in the woods. I miss the fall colors and the smell of autumn leaves, but not those guys in the orange hats! Ha!

City life is pretty good. I met a nice girl named Jane Doe. There’s lots of shrubbery to eat and the people are entertaining to watch – especially the politicians. Hunting season and election season appear to be quite similar to me. Every once in a while, I can catch a few campaign commercials on somebody’s wide-screen TV through their living room window. Put the politicians on four legs, add some fur, and it’s pretty much the same as life in the wild. I tried to watch a Cleveland Browns game once, but the orange helmets creeped me out.

I did have a little bit of excitement last week. With winter on the way, I’ve been trying to stock up on food supplies. The humans all appear to be doing the same thing. I’ve noticed them going into a place called a “grocery” and coming back out with lots of food. I haven’t seen any hunters in town, and the people here seem friendly enough, so I figured I’d check it out.

I came in around the back of the building and slipped up to the front of the store, trying not to draw any special attention to myself. I was determined just to act casual, like the people do. When I came up to the door, imagine my surprise when I saw another deer in the glass that looked just like me! I figured if he’s in there, it must be OK. I took a step forward and the door opened, so I walked on in.

The smells were amazing! Fresh baked goods! Tables loaded with fruits and vegetables! And the wine selection! It was incredible. I started toward a display of juicy red apples, when I heard someone shout, “Hey! It’s a deer!”

That’s when all hell broke loose.

People started going berserk all around me. I panicked and tried to run, but the floor was like ice! My hooves slid all over the place. I crashed right into the apples and they spilled everywhere. Pretty soon, the cops were there and they had me surrounded. My heart was racing and I didn’t know what to do.

Then a tranquilizer dart hit me right in the butt. It didn’t hurt, but I began to feel dizzy. Suddenly, it was like I was standing in a sunny apple orchard, the breeze was blowing, and clouds of apple blossoms were fluttering down from the trees and swirling all around me. The people and the shouting seemed far away. I felt all warm and happy inside, but also very tired. So I laid down on the floor among the apples and went to sleep.

Next thing I remember, I woke up in the park. I felt a little woozy, but I got to my feet OK. No damage done – only a Band Aid on my hind end.

The next day, it all hit the papers: “Grocery workers tackle deer on rampage.” I was a little embarrassed by what I had done, but all the guys thought I was a hero. Still, I don’t think I’ll be trying anything like that again real soon. Although, I do know a place across town that sells extra-large parkas. Boy, one of those sure could come in handy this January.

Anyway, that’s all the news. I hope to come home for a visit soon. I’ll bring Jane. I’m anxious for you to meet her. Maybe we can get together after hunting season. Tell Dad to keep his head down! Give everyone my love.

Your son,

Bucky

Messages for Bucky may be sent to John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

The original homecoming queen

2009-10-16T16:40:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the Oct. 6 edition of The Medina Gazette.

SULLIVAN TWP. -- Times change, and the years fly like autumn leaves, but some things stay just the same.

On Oct. 9, Black River High School friends, fans and alumni will gather for the district’s 50th homecoming celebration. Sandy Mullins, who was Black River’s first homecoming queen in 1959, will have the honor of crowning the school’s 2009 queen.

A lot has changed in 50 years, but no matter who the new queen will be, that moment of excitement and anticipation is timeless. Mullins still recalls the wonder of that big night.

Junior and senior students elected the members of the homecoming court and the football players voted for the queen. Mullins said her football-player escort, John Nagy, dropped a gentlemanly hint as they walked arm-in-arm onto the field.

“I can remember John Nagy whispering to me, ‘You better get ready,’ ” said Mullins.

In her mind, the realization of what was about to happen began to take hold, but when her name was announced, she still couldn’t believe it.

“I got teary-eyed,” Mullins said. “I was shocked.”

The game was played in Spencer, where she got a football signed by all the players. Later, wearing a baby-blue formal gown for the homecoming dance in Sullivan, she received the customary kiss from her escort, as well as her crown -- made from golden fall mums.

“That flower crown,” Mullins said. “I’ll always remember that.”

Her father, Herman Moore, was there, but not her mom. The only sadness among the memories of 50 years ago was the absence of her mother, Gail, who passed away that August, only weeks before.

“I was wishing she was there,” Mullins said.

Mullins, 68, is a Spencer native.

“Born and raised,” she said.

She and her husband, Jim, live in Spencer Township and will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary this year. They have two children, four grandchildren, and one great-granddaughter. With many of their crew involved in high school sports, they don’t miss a lot of Black River sporting events.

In 1959, three community schools -- Sullivan, Spencer and Homerville – consolidated as Black River. Although students attended class in their home schools for another year, they were considered part of the same district and joined together for sports, for the homecoming court, and for other school activities.

Those were the days of Elvis, Frankie Avalon, and poodle skirts – which Mullins and her friends were glad to trade for blue jeans when they were finally allowed to wear them to school. Mullins was a cheerleader, but there were no high school sports for girls in those days.

Spencer was – and still is – a quiet town. There was a movie theater in Lodi, but Mullins and most of her friends chose to hang out at a youth center in the town hall that opened after school.

“The girls danced to records and the boys played pool,” Mullins said.

Even though Mullins’ diploma says Spencer High School, where she graduated in a class of 20 students, she’s the original Black River homecoming queen. Inviting her back this year helps bring a sense of continuity and tradition to the celebration, said athletic director and high school dean of students Eric Yetter.

When the district began planning for the 50th homecoming, it was Black River primary principal Pam Oberholtzer who said, “Wouldn’t it be neat if …,” and ventured the idea of inviting Mullins to crown this year’s queen.

The event has blossomed into an entire line-up of community activities in the days leading up to homecoming -- including Powder Puff volleyball on Oct. 7, Powder Puff football on Oct. 8 followed by a bonfire, and of course the big football game versus Brookside High School and the crowning of the 2009 homecoming king and queen on Oct. 9. The public is invited to attend them all.

“We’re all really excited about the 50th,” Yetter said. “The community part is what’s really exciting.”

On Oct. 9, all 1,500 students in the Black River district will gather for a school-wide pep rally at Black River Education Center. Yetter promises a fun time.

“We’re planning 60 minutes worth of stuff in a 50-minute period,” he said.

After the football game that night, there will be an alumni-only sock-hop at the high school. The student homecoming dance is Oct. 10.

And when the first Black River homecoming queen places this year’s crown on the head of the school’s newest homecoming queen, Mullins already has an idea of what she will say.

“I might say congratulations – and tell her to be very proud,” Mullins said.

For information on homecoming events, contact Yetter by e-mail at eyetter@blackriver.k12.oh.us.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Gambling on your neighbor

2009-10-12T05:45:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the October 5 edition of The Medina Gazette.

The economics of gambling are simple: It’s the exchange of money, from one hand to another.

When you go into a casino and throw down part of your paycheck or pension, the odds are it’s going right into the hands of the casino operator.

On those rare occasions you beat the odds, it’s not the casino owner’s money you’re taking home with you. It’s the money your neighbor just lost sitting at the table or slot machine next to you.

So, if you don’t break even, those are your two options: Give money to an already wealthy casino operator in exchange for the excitement of losing it, or take money from your neighbor.

New poverty figures show more and more of us desperately need to keep every dime we’ve got to pay for food, rent and health care.

According to the Census Bureau’s American Community Survey, 13.4 percent of Ohioans were living in poverty in 2008 – up over the previous year and just above the national average. Wait until the numbers for 2009 kick in and likely drive that number higher.

Of America’s top-10 poorest cities, three are in Ohio – Cleveland, Cincinnati and Toledo. No other states had more than one on the list.

Coincidentally, those are three of the four cities – Columbus being the other – where gambling interests want to build casinos, if voters give them the go-ahead by approving Issue 3, a proposed amendment on the Nov. 3 ballot that would change the Ohio Constitution.

The plan’s sponsors – including Cleveland Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert – say the casinos would create 34,000 jobs and generate $651 million in yearly tax revenue. A recent Ohio newspaper poll – commissioned by eight newspapers and conducted by the University of Cincinnati – found 59 percent of registered voters support it.

Ohio voters have defeated proposed expansion of gambling four times since 1990 – including an issue just last November that would have put a casino in Southwest Ohio’s Clinton County. Issue 3 may be tougher to dispatch.

The difference this time, according to the Institute for Policy Research at the University of Cincinnati, is the economy. A majority of those surveyed said gambling would help families and help Ohio’s budget.

There’s a reason it’s called gambling, friends. There are plenty of arguments to the contrary.

If 34,000 jobs materialize, are they permanent, full-time jobs with benefits? How many are temporary? How many would pay a living wage?

If a casino provides lodging, entertainment and food all under one roof, will there be job and economic losses for existing nearby businesses that also offer those services?

What about cash wagering? Will those profits be taxed or will the money disappear under the table?

Is Issue 3 actually a backdoor tax? In other words, how much will the casinos cost taxpayers in roads and utilities, police and fire protection, and social services to help gambling addicts and their families?

According to a congressional study, 80 percent of gambling revenue comes from people making less than $45,000 per year. That figure includes the poor and a good chunk of the middle class – the folks who can least afford to gamble with their lives and families, especially in a recession. Research bears up the simple logic that the closer the casino is to the gambler, the higher the potential for addiction.

Ohioans have plenty of experience facing down proposals to expand gambling. Their resolve will be put to the test over the next few weeks as gambling interests and their friends in government offer the false promise of easy money for the state’s hurting economy.

If you say you can afford to spend money and crave the excitement that comes with throwing it down in anticipation of a big return, instead of gambling your money away, give it to your local food bank or free health clinic.

That's no gamble. It offers a sure and satisfying return on your investment – one that might actually help your neighbors instead of hurting them.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

The bookshelf

2009-10-09T15:30:00.000-07:00

Reading time is precious -- usually a few minutes in the evenings by the wood stove before bed, or in the car when I'm waiting for the kids to finish piano lessons or soccer practice. I never mind driving the kids to their activities, because it gives me permission to relax and read -- which is hard to do at home, where work always seems to be calling.

Right now I'm enjoying David Kline's "Scratching the Woodchuck: Nature on an Amish Farm," (The University of Georgia Press, 1997). Reading this thoughtful collection of essays is like being invited for an after-dinner walk through the woods and fields with a favorite uncle -- one wise in the ways of nature, of people, and all the ways in which the two are so intimately connected. Kline, who has lived for more than 50 years on his family's farm near Fredericksburg, Ohio, is also the author of "Great Possessions: An Amish Farmer's Journal."

I've read a lot of nature writers. Some have the knowledge, but come across as smarter-than-thou. Others have all the warmth, but none of the insight. David Kline is that rare writer who has both stories worth telling and the gift for making them sparkle with tenderness, delight and good humor.

Root returns to its roots

2009-10-06T07:38:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the Sept. 26 edition of The Medina Gazette.

MEDINA -- The technology of candle manufacturing has changed dramatically over the years, but Amos Ives Root would still recognize what is perhaps the industry’s the most important tool of all.

And it’s as plain as the nose on your face.

When the breeze is right, just about everyone in town gets a free sample of whatever fragrance happens to be brewing that day at Root Candles on the city’s west side. It’s like catching a delicious whiff of the soup de jour outside a restaurant door. It makes you curious: What is that wonderful smell?

Root Candles president Brad Root gets that question all the time.

“People say: ‘Can you put up a sign saying what candle you’re making?’ ” Root said with a laugh.

Just try keeping your mind on your work when the factory is producing the company's Chocolateness candle – which smells exactly like it sounds.

"Most people in this plant will say Chocolateness makes them hungry for brownies,” said Root chemist Kaci Wright.

Science tells us it’s the sense of smell that is most connected to memory, able to evoke all sorts of intertwined feelings and experiences. That makes developing candle fragrances both an art and a science. By the time you smell a new candle wafting in the breeze over Medina, there’s a year of planning, testing and tweaking behind it, Wright said.

The science part has to do with chemistry, but the art part has to do with tastes, trends and the complex interplay of smell, color and even product names when it comes to developing a new fragrance.

This summer, Root returned to its roots, so to speak, with a new candle line that uses beeswax. The company has moved away from paraffin to more natural materials like beeswax and soy. Besides being ecologically friendly, the beeswax adds its own fragrance, enhancing whatever candle it’s used in, no matter the candle’s scent.

It’s a subtly sweet smell, hard to describe, but it takes Root back to his earliest memories of the family business, now in its fifth generation. Amos Ives Root, who founded the company in 1869, was his great-great grandfather. Appropriately, the new beeswax candle line is called Legacy.

“Beeswax is still one of my favorite smells,” he said. “I grew up with it.”

Today, most of us light candles not to read or work by, but for the ambiance they create. That fact comes through loud and clear from consumers, Root said.

“The focus groups tell us the most important thing is fragrance,” he said. “And after that, it’s fragrance. And after that, it’s fragrance.”

Container candles hold the most scent, while most dinner candles are unscented so they don’t interfere with the smell of the food. Root also makes pillar candles, votives, bottle lights, diffusers and hand-decorated liturgical candles, among others. The company has about 170 employees between its facilities in Medina and San Antonio, Texas.

Fragrances fall into five categories, Wright said: fruits, florals, edibles (cinnamon and pumpkin, for example), fougere (woodsy scents) and azonics (like sea salts).

Interestingly, there are some natural scents – watermelon, for instance – that just can’t be replicated by chemistry, she added. The most popular fragrance of all, no matter the candle style, is vanilla.

Root consults with suppliers, its sales staff, marketing consultants and customers in developing new scents. When an idea is ready for testing, the company may assemble a panel of 10 to 15 people to evaluate it – but first they have to pass a test, Wright said, to make sure they have a discerning nose.

Panel members take a triangulation test, in which they are presented with three candle tins. Two have the exact same fragrance and the third a similar one. Only those who can pick up on the differences are selected to be on the panel. Women generally have a more acute sense of smell than men, Wright said.

The candle is presented without any labeling or coloring, in a plain container. The name of the candle, and especially its color, can impact the opinion of the fragrance. Even the time of year can play a role. A scent that echoes the smells of autumn may not appeal to testers in the spring.

Once the right blend of scents come together to create a new fragrance, it must be carefully paired with a color that compliments it, said Wright. It doesn’t matter how good a candle looks or smells, if the two senses don’t work together, the candle may not click with consumers.

Candles go back almost to the beginning of human history, and we still look to them today to fill our most basic needs for warmth, light and comfort in homes and churches. The industry is always changing, Root said, which keeps candle making both challenging and interesting.

It’s one business where you take your work home with you, whether you realize it or not. And that’s not a bad thing.

“Sometimes when I go home, my kids say, ‘Dad, you smell like candles,’ ” Root said.

Just like Medina on a breezy day.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Thank goodness for 'public options'

2009-10-06T07:33:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the September 29 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Attention: Sarcasm Zone ahead. Enter at your own risk.

It’s time we put this so-called “public option” to rest once and for all. Government has no place in the lives of its citizens. Am I right or am I right? We need to take government out of the equation and give the private sector the freedom it needs to sort things out.

For example, all these local, state and federal highways cost us scads of money to build and maintain. It’s time to go back to the good old days when many of the improved roads were privately run toll roads. If you live in Brunswick and work in Cleveland, and you want to use a highway to get back and forth, you line up at the toll booth and you pay your money. You want to cross a bridge, you pay the man. Simple. It’s the American way.

And while we’re getting rid of public options, let’s talk for a minute about safety services – the taxpayer-funded fire departments, police departments and emergency medical crews. What is this? Some kind of socialism? If someone in my family gets sick, I’ll jump in the car, stop to pay the bridge and highway tolls, and drive them to the hospital myself, thank you very much.

What ever happened to free enterprise? Why should I be paying for police and fire protection for the whole community? We need to set up a system of private, pay-as-you-go safety services. If there’s a problem in your neighborhood, hire a security service. Simple as that. Garage catches on fire, dial up a for-profit fire department, give them your credit card number, and they’ll be there as soon as they can. You want expedited service, you pay a little extra for the premium response time. You get what you pay for. That’s the way business is done. Everyone understands that.

Will some people suffer? Sure. But this is a democracy. Everyone has an equal shot at the American Dream, right? If you don’t have money or a good job, it’s probably your own fault. It’s not some Nanny Government’s obligation to help you when you’ve fallen on hard times.

Then there are public schools. I thought this was supposed to be a free country? Why make people go to school? What good does that do me? I’ve already got my education. Why should I pay for someone else’s?

I say we close the public schools and universities. If you want your kids to have an education, you can send them to one of the many private schools that no doubt will spring up everywhere. Sure, without the public school option to keep them in check, the tuition will run you many thousands of dollars per year, but think of the couple hundred dollars you’ll save on your property taxes every year when the levies are taken off the books. You can use that money to service the loan you’ll need to get your kid through elementary school. It all works out perfectly.

Same with libraries. You want to borrow a book? Use a computer? Attend story time with your children? You open up your wallet and pay. Hello! We have these things called stores. We have this little concept known as capitalism. Need I remind you America is not a communist country?

Parks, too. You want to have a picnic? Ride your bike? Go see the man in the little ticket booth at the park entrance. He’ll add up what you owe for parking and for use of the playground and the trails, and you’ll be good to go.

We don’t need public options to keep people from taking undue advantage of others. The free market will straighten all that out, just like it’s done when it comes to health care. In fact, if we only cut back government regulations on insurance and pharmaceutical companies, it’ll be just like the financial industry – before the big crash, I mean -- and everyone will make tons of money to pay for their health care. Well, not everyone, but you know what I mean. It’ll trickle down. Trust me.

End of Sarcasm Zone. You are now free to resume use of the public options Americans enjoy and rely on every day.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

New life for an old barn

2009-09-27T19:00:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the Sept. 19 edition of The Medina Gazette.

YORK TWP. – When you’re in the market for a historical barn, there are only so many numbers in the phone book you can call.

So when the York Township Historical Society wanted to add a barn to its campus of historic buildings in Mallet Creek, society trustee Frank Ehrman dialed Fred Hanacek, whose Hinckley Township business specializes in moving and reconstructing old barns.

“I called Fred and I said, ‘Do you have a barn that’s available?’ ” recalled Ehrman.

As a matter of fact, he did.

Hanacek was in the process of disassembling a 19th-century bank barn on what was known as the Pelton farm on Poe Road. With a grant from the Letha E. House Foundation, the historical society was able to acquire and reconstruct the barn as part of the society’s collection of historic buildings on Spellman Street, just off of state Route 57.

After many months of work, the 36- by 50-foot barn is standing tall and proud in a coat of fresh red paint, ready for its dedication at 2 p.m., Sunday, Sept. 20. The public is invited to enjoy refreshments and tour the barn at its new home. Additional support from the Stephenson Foundation and Wal-Mart helped make the project possible.

The barn fits beautifully between two other preserved buildings – a farm granary and a one-room schoolhouse, both moved from locations in the township and restored. The vintage buildings are a way to help people visually connect with local history, to understand where we come from, Ehrman said. The society would like to add a historic house to the collection some day.

The barn gives the organization much-needed space to store and display farm tools and other large items it’s received as donations, including a handsome buggy, a two-wheel cart and a horse-drawn plow – a left-handed plow, no less.

“I look at that plow and I think how much work it did to make a living for a family,” said Ehrman, who grew up farming with horses.

The barn was originally a bank-style barn, with an earthen ramp leading to the second level, allowing wagons to pull inside and unload hay into lofts. The cows were housed below and hay was tossed down through an opening in the floor. The barn was rebuilt more in the Yankee style, all on one level.

Inside, the sun twinkles through thin spaces between the siding, illuminating the interior in a soft, magical light. Many early barns were never meant to be airtight and the gaps let the building “breathe,” Ehrman said.

Intricate post-and-beam joinery – carefully reassembled by Hanacek and his crew – hold together handsome elm, beech and oak timbers. Some still bear the marks of the chisel axes carpenters used to hew them straight and square. Ehrman is hopeful the barn may even be used to host a square dance or two.

Outside, the tall barn is dressed up with white trim, gable windows, lightning rods and the date “1891” laid out in its slate roof. A plaque near the main doors recognizes the support of the Letha E. House Foundation, including a quotation from the late philanthropist, who said of Medina County’s historic barns: “It is so sad to see these barns deteriorate; farm families put their very bones into these barns.”

The buildings are marvels of craftsmanship, as well reminders of how hard our ancestors worked to produce food for their families, Ehrman said. You want to talk about green buildings and green lifestyles? It’s what early farm life was all about, he added. Our predecessors have a lot to teach us.

Yet, we often take barns for granted, and many slowly disappear before our eyes.

“One year, you see some of the tin has come off … the wood gets rotten,” said Ehrman. “When the rain gets to the floor, it’s gone.”

Not this one, however. Its strong bones look to be good for another century, if not two.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Ohio Magazine's October cover story

2009-09-23T08:49:00.000-07:00

The October issue of Ohio Magazine features John's cover story on Ohio's covered bridges. Grab a copy and make plans to spend a beautiful fall day discovering these historic and architectural treasures, which can be found in every corner of the state.

Click here to find Ohio Magazine at a newsstand near you.

Mamarazzi

2009-09-23T08:46:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Sept. 15 edition of The Medina Gazette.

It’s tough being a kid these days, what with the homework … the demanding soccer schedule … the mamarazzi dogging your every move.

When I was a kid, back in the last century, there were hours at a time when parents, grandparents, or whoever was responsible for us as children, had no idea where we were. I mean, they had a general idea: We were outside climbing trees, sledding, riding bikes, building forts, catching tadpoles in the creek, or reading books in the shade.

In other words, we were free to carry out our kid-type business without someone stepping from behind a tree, reeling off 80 frames with a digital camera, as if we were Jennifer Aniston or George Clooney on the beach, then uploading an adorable or possibly embarrassing picture on Facebook for all the world to see.

My kids used to think it was bad to have a dad who wrote for a newspaper. But when I write a column, it’s just between me and you, the reader. The next day that column is lining the bird cage or catching your potato peels. It’s ancient history. Not Facebook. Facebook is global, baby. Facebook is forever. Facebook is powerful. Facebook is all-knowing.

If your college roommate’s cousin had a dog whose previous owner was a neighbor to the mailman who used to deliver to the pastor who officiated at your uncle’s wedding, where the best man was an old army buddy of the barber who cuts the plumber’s hair, Facebook will track down the wife of the plumber’s chimney sweep and suggest that you become “friends” with her sister. A newspaper columnist can’t compete with that kind of networking.

No one is safe from the mamarazzi. A few weeks ago, I was placidly painting the back room, deeply absorbed in an internal debate about who will be the last surviving Beatle.

When you think about it, Paul has lived a successful, almost charmed life, so he has the momentum of good fortune going for him. On the other hand, Ringo is happy-go-lucky, laid back. All he has to do act naturally. Experts say that counts for a lot when it comes to long-term health. You could make a good argument for Ringo, too.

(Hey, when you look at a man and wonder what he is thinking, usually he’s thinking about Something Else, but sometimes it’s about deeper issues.)

Anyway, you can see how this Paul vs. Ringo question could completely occupy a person. I did not hear the mamarazzi slip into the room. The next thing I knew, I heard the camera ratcheting away behind me, documenting me in my scruffy painting clothes as I slapped the woodwork with a color that is either Good Colonial Mustard or Bad 1970s Elvis Gold, I am not sure. It depends on the light.

Facebook is a mystery to me -- though I do confess to indulging my journalistic curiosity and sometimes reading the up-to-the-minute Facebook news over my wife’s shoulder. Then I indulge my other major journalistic characteristic, which is to be an annoying smart alec.

Because “news” is a relative term. Most Facebook entries seem to run along the lines of:

“Doing laundry … : ) … Oh, joy!

“Spent the morning skiing down Mt. Everest and now we’re enjoying an ox roast on the beach with the Dalai Lama. Check out the pictures!”

“I just took the quiz: ‘If You Were A Breakfast Cereal, Which Breakfast Cereal Would You Be?’ Guess what? I’m Fruit Loops!”

I like pictures of cute children, but still I can imagine some of these photos coming back to haunt them. I can see many years down the road a prospective employer saying:

“We like your resume, Mr. Johnson, but there’s a small matter of this photo we found on the Internet. It appears to be you at a party, wearing only a diaper, with chocolate smeared all over your face. Can you explain this, Mr. Johnson?”

Mr. Johnson: Well, sir, it was my birthday and …

Employer: Thanks for coming in, Mr. Johnson. We’ll be in touch.

Mr. Johnson: What? I don’t get the job? I was only 1 year old!

Employer: Sorry, but we just can’t take the chance.

Mr. Johnson: Look! It was a Bob the Builder cake! There’s Scoop, there’s Muck, there’s Dizzy!

Employer: Security!

Mr. Johnson: It was the mamarazzi! The mamarazzi!

To be fair, the mamarazzi do capture many of the warm and poignant moments of everyday life. I’ll give them that. Just watch your back. That’s all I’m saying.

I’m grateful for the mamarazzi. Because frankly, I just don’t have the time to shoot all those pictures, what with so many other important issues on my mind.

I really think it’ll be Paul. But it could be Ringo. I don’t know.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

Sweet days of summer

2009-09-20T17:59:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the Sept. 5 edition of The Medina Gazette.

HARRISVILLE TWP. -- You think you have wildlife issues in your sweet corn patch? Multiply them times 100 and you’ve got an idea of what summers are like for Hall Growers at Garden Isle Farm.

If you buy an ear of sweet corn at a local roadside stand and it wasn’t grown on the spot, there’s a good chance it came from the rich, black soil of Dewey Hall’s farm on Garden Isle Road. He plants 100 acres of sweet corn each season -- supplying markets, produce auctions, and Miller Brothers SuperValu in Lodi, with fresh corn picked daily.

A late-spring frost singed the first four plantings this year, ruining about 60 percent of the early crop, but subsequent sowings have fared better. Hall puts in 18 plantings, spaced through the summer, which produce sweet corn into the third week of September.

Along the way, like all farmers, he’s following the weather’s lead and trying to stay ahead of the birds, deer and raccoons that share our taste for the golden summer treat.

“We’re just like backyard gardeners,” said Hall, 55. “We have the same problems they do and combat all the same pests.” Blackbirds are especially troublesome.

“They’ll just peck the end of the ear,” he said. “We lose a lot of corn to birds.”

In 2007, wind and hail took a bite, too. The same August storm that destroyed barns at the Indoe family farm to the north, wreaked havoc at Hall’s, too – knocking down a grain bin, lifting a shed out of the ground, and devastating the corn.

“It flattened about 60 acres of sweet corn for me that year,” he recalled. “We had a beautiful crop until that went through.”

Hall plants eight varieties of sweet corn, since different types do better in different time frames during the season. Beginning at 7 a.m., he harvests between one and two acres each day. The farm uses a specialized mechanical harvester that covers four rows at a time, but with a hand-picked touch.

“It actually rolls the ear off the stalk, like you would with your hand,” Hall said.

Wagons bring the corn to a 100- by 80-foot pole building for washing and sorting. Hall employs 10 to 12 seasonal workers who pack five dozen ears to a bag for pick-up by market sellers.

Before sweet corn, Hall grew up to 350 acres of potatoes per year, but a 1989 fire destroyed their buildings and equipment.

“We were pretty devastated,” he said. “It was our livelihood.”

From the ashes of the fire sprouted sweet corn. It began with Hall’s sons, Jason and Jeremy, peddling it around Lodi from a wagon when they were 11 or 12 years old.

“It just kind of took off,” said Hall, whose family operates its own roadside produce stand on state Route 83.

Today, Jeremy, 28, and Jason, 30, represent the fourth generation of Halls farming the land their great-grandfather came to as a sharecropper in the 1930s.

Garden Isle is one of the most aptly named roads in the county. The muck soil there – up to 130 feet deep in some places, Hall said -- has long been known for its productive vegetable crops. Rich in organic matter, the good soil makes things grow faster and taste better, he added.

The Halls farm 1,600 acres, including field corn, soybeans, pick-your-own pumpkins and, of course, the sweet corn – which makes its way to Hall’s dinner table at least a couple of times per week.

“I like to take it home to be my own quality-control, to know what I’m selling,” he said.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

France's highest honor

2009-09-16T17:39:00.000-07:00

This story appeared in the Aug. 27 edition of The Medina Gazette.

LIVERPOOL TWP. -- The curtain closed long ago on World War II’s European Theater, but France has not forgotten its debt to the American GI’s who helped liberate the country and the continent from German occupation.

That’s what led Steve Jeziorski and nine fellow World War II veterans to the Ohio Statehouse last month, where a member of the French consulate pinned a Knight of the Legion of Honor medal – instituted by Napoleon as the nation’s highest tribute – on their proud chests.

“I teared up,” said Jeziorski, 84.

“They (the French officials) said, ‘Thank you for what you did,’ ” added his wife, Bernice.

Born to Polish immigrants, Jeziorski is the oldest of six children. He grew up in several different Cleveland neighborhoods – including “Goosetown,” a Polish-American community known for the ducks and geese residents raised for food. His father, John, served stateside in the cavalry during World War I.

In 1943 at age 17, Jeziorski joined one of the U.S. Army’s legendary divisions -- the 104th Infantry, known as the Timberwolves -- which served in Holland, France and Germany during some of the war’s most intense fighting.

The 104th was among the Allied forces that drove into the heart of Germany in the closing months of the war. Jeziorski, a truck driver and munitions carrier, served in the battle for Inden and Lucherberg in late 1944.

“When we were in Lucherberg, that was the hottest,” Jeziorski said. He still recalls the sound of German “buzz bombs” – flying explosives outfitted with loud, primitive engines that sounded like motorcycles. More foreboding than the sound of the engine was the silence when it shut off.

“When it stops, then you know it’s coming down,” he said.

Some say the shelling the 104th took there from the Germans was the heaviest ever experienced by U.S. troops. Then it was out of the frying pan and into the fire, as the division fought in the Battle of the Bulge, one of the bloodiest of the war. They lived up to their slogan: “Nothing in hell can stop the Timberwolves.”

After the 104th helped take the city of Cologne in 1945, Jeziorski went into a cathedral there to pray – “to give thanks,” he said.

A fellow soldier hollered into the church that it was time to go. In his haste, Jeziorski left his prayer book in the pew. It was the one he had received at his First Communion in 1934. His name and address – written in Polish -- were on the inside cover.

Four years later, it showed up in Jeziorski’s mailbox. There was no note or return address, just the prayer book with its Polish inscription, “Guardian Angel,” on the front. He has no idea who found it or sent it home to find him.

At the close of the war, Jeziorski served in the occupation forces, helping care for former Allied prisoners and displaced civilians, before shipping home.

Looking back, Jeziorski said the thing about World War II was that its objective was so clear: To preserve the world’s freedom against forces that had other ideas. That’s what he’d like future generations to remember.

Jeziorski suffered frostbite in the freezing marshes of Holland. He was treated by medic Richard Claes, who turned out to be from Shelby, Ohio. Jeziorski, Claes and other area Timberwolves meet in Ashland for breakfast once a month. There is a national reunion, but this may be its last year, Jeziorski said. Nothing in hell can stop a Timberwolf, but time catches up to all of us. Jeziorski is an active member of Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 5563 in Valley City, where he is finishing up his term as adjutant.

After the war, he hired in at the General Motors plant in Brook Park, where he worked for 31 years as a repair machinist.

“If something broke down and you couldn’t buy a part, we made one,” he said. Jeziorski is keeping his creative mechanical skills sharp by restoring a Model A Ford. He also builds model airplanes.

He met his wife, Bernice, through his mother, Lillian. The two families knew each other in the tightly knit Polish-American community because both had boys in the service and often exchanged news.

“My mother said, ‘Why don’t you call this girl,’ ” Jeziorski recalled.

Mom’s intuition was right. They’ve been married 61 years and have five children, 17 grandchildren and 14 great-grandchildren – some of whom got to travel to Columbus to see Jeziorski’s receive his medal.

“The grandkids were just amazed to be there, to see Grandpa get it,” Bernice said.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.

A Conservationist Manifesto

2009-09-13T18:08:00.000-07:00

This column appeared in the Aug. 25 edition of The Medina Gazette.

Just to get my bearings, I looked the words up in a dictionary.

Conservationist: A person who advocates conservation, especially of natural resources.

Manifesto: A public declaration of intention.

Scott Russell Sanders’ new book, “A Conservationist Manifesto” (Indiana University Press, 2009) is a declaration of a man’s intent to live a life that honors life, rather than one based on unsustainable and unsatisfying consumption. In this collection of stories and essays, he shows us the beauty and the sensibility of the path he’s chosen.

Sanders is as inconspicuous as an author of 20 books could be. A professor of English at Indiana University and a Northeast Ohio native, he’s earned critical acclaim for his fiction and nonfiction, which has included the story collection “Wilderness Plots” and memoir “A Private History of Awe.” Among other prizes, he has received the 2009 Mark Twain Award for his work.

Equal parts commentary and fine nature writing, “A Conservationist Manifesto” takes a different view than former Vice President Dick Cheney, who in 2001 called conservation a sign of personal virtue, but not a sound basis for American energy policy.

That statement was not only belittling -- putting conservation on the same level as making one’s bed in the morning – it was wrong.

Conservation has a decided impact, as we saw last summer when gas prices topped $4 per gallon. Motorists drove less and prices went down.

In the little town where I live, a new weekly farm market is thriving, as people see and taste the benefits of eating locally, instead of buying produce trucked from afar. This is happening all over America.

The federal government’s Cash for Clunkers program has car owners trading in bigger, older vehicles for more efficient models, providing a benefit to the environment and auto industry at the same time.

Much of this discipline is unintentional -- a byproduct of the withered economy. Yet, it is a teachable moment, when our hearts and our pocketbooks may be open to the ideas Sanders has to share.

America has 5 percent of the world’s population, yet consumes 25 percent of the planet’s nonrenewable resources and generates 25 percent of greenhouse gas emissions.

There is something not only morally suspect about our “Grab, Gulp and Go” culture -- to quote an ad slogan -- it is an unhappy way to live. Despite our penchant for toys and luxuries – from Hummers to iPods to McMansions -- America’s consumption binge has led to more discontent than ever, measured in our rates of divorce, addiction and incarceration, not to mention the widening gulf between the haves and have-nots.

“What is being sold to us as the ‘American way of life’ is mostly a cheat and a lie,” Sanders writes. “It is an infantile dream of endless consumption, endless novelty, and endless play. It is bad for us and bad for the earth …

“We need a dream worthy of grown-ups,” he continues, “one that values simplicity over novelty, conservation over consumption, harmony over competition, community over ego.”

Drawing on the biblical image of Noah’s Ark, Sanders calls for a new generation of “arks” -- inventions and collaborations that preserve the wisdom necessary for meeting our needs without despoiling the planet.

Where we live, the Medina County Park District is an ark. The Medina Summit Land Conservancy, the Medina Raptor Center, farm markets, your back yard garden, all are arks. We need more. And we need to recognize the whole planet, ultimately, is our ark.

Sanders re-examines roots of words that have been worn out, if not hijacked by the consumption culture -- such as “wealth,” “economy” and the oxymoron “sustainable growth.”

“The sprawl of cities over the countryside and the spread of bellies over belts teach us that, beyond a certain point, expansion leads to misery, if not disaster,” says Sanders. “Nothing in nature expands forever … The model that nature provides is not one of perpetual growth, as in a capitalist economy, but of perpetual re-growth.”

He asks: What if we replaced the familiar and benign word “consumer” with “devourer?” As in the Devourer Price Index, the Office of Devourer Affairs, the magazine Devourer Reports? Does that put our lifestyle in a different light?

In Amish and Iroquois traditions, decisions are preceded by a discussion of how a proposed action would impact the community and the future. What if we did that before we filled our car at the gas pump? Before we built a new house? Bought a bottle of water?

Sanders takes us along on his journey to find the “original Indiana” – surviving remnants of the ancient forest, prairie and wetlands that once covered the state. He calls wilderness a “Sabbath for the land.”

“Honoring the Sabbath means to leave a portion of time unexploited, to relinquish for a spell our moneymaking, our striving, our designs … both wilderness and Sabbath teach us humility and restraint,” he says.

The way of humility and restraint is not easy. Compared to consumerism, the simple life requires greater effort, courage, fidelity and imagination, he adds.

Sanders shares some the decisions he and his wife, Ruth, have made over their 40-year marriage, in an effort to maintain a simpler lifestyle.

They live in the same 1,250-square-foot Bloomington home they bought as newlyweds, resisting the temptation of trendier addresses. After all, the house is paid for, they can walk to work, and they value their relationships with their neighbors. Working around the 1920s-vintage house and climbing its steps as long as they are able is better than paying for artificial exercise in a gym.

They’ve replaced most of the lawn with native plants and made the house as energy efficient as possible. They buy food from local farm markets, supplemented by their own garden, and they don’t buy bottled water. By recycling, they generate only one can of trash every six to eight weeks.

These steps toward a more intentional approach to life and consumption have reduced their carbon footprint on the planet to half the American average.

Like Henry David Thoreau’s sojourn in the Walden woods, like Scott Russell Sanders, we need to launch our own experiments in simplicity on our own little ponds. They may just ripple in wider circles to have an influence on others and on the Earth long after we are gone.

“A Conservationist Manifesto” offers plans for arks of all shapes and sizes. It’s time to start building.

Contact John Gladden at gladden@ohio.net.