I sat along the shoreline late last evening and as I watched the waves of a passing pontoon lap over the tiny pebbles on our beach, I could almost feel the summer draining away.

On the wind, the sound of cicadas and crickets could tell me the truth. The leaves on the trees are beginning to tell it too. Something about the smell of the air is giving it all away. This thought crept into my mind about a week and a half ago as I sat in a lawn chair at the lake…this summer is fading fast.

There’s also the knowing that the kids will be going back to school on Wednesday. I know that our remaining quiet weekday afternoons at the lake will now be counted on one hand – a clear indication the endless days are behind us now…a finite number of perfect days remain.

It’s sad really and I know I’ll mourn this summer’s passing. This was the first summer where the kids were both old enough to do almost anything they wanted at the lake. It was the first summer I could tell them to go collect the necessary items: swimsuits, towels, etc., and they could do it as experts. Every visit was highly anticipated and at the end of every day there, there was whining when the announcement was made it was time to leave. I don’t think a single visit ended with all participants willing to go home without some argument…myself included.

I think part of what I’m going to miss is the fact that this summer seemed so long to wait for it to get here in the first place. I yearned for it. Last winter went on for what seemed like twice as long as necessary. I spent most of February and March dreaming about how great a hot day at the beach would be. I could visualize the sand, the waves, the smell of the water, the scent of the campfire on a warm evening and the feeling of satisfaction at having prepared a great barbecue dinner for guests.

I’m probably going to be very stingy with the remaining summer weekends we have left, balancing the necessity of doing various tasks with the need to be there. I was tempted to stay out there tonight, but there’s the minor problem of not being able to upload fresh news to Talk of the Town from there. This is a temporary issue as I plan to address it next year with some kind of wireless internet option. This year, I felt like there needed to be some separation – a place where there wasn’t work to do, a place only meant for relaxing, socializing, reading and a whole lot of nothing serious. Next year, the ability to update the site while digging my toes in the sand might be more appealing.

As I see it now, I have until about mid-October to continue enjoying going up to the lake. We won’t be swimming through that time, but we can easily continue to enjoy boat rides, campfires and relaxing. After that, it will be too cold to stay long, though I’ll make time to go there even in mid-winter just to see how the different seasons look from that vantage point…like I always do. It’s not uncommon to drive up there on a very cold day, sit in the car with a warm cup of coffee and look out over the frozen water, just to see it, just to have been there for awhile. Something about being there, even when its cold, is comfortable…but it is more comfortable when the temperature is high, I’m sitting in the shade of a hundred year-old Oak tree, drinking a tall glass of something cold – hearing the laughter of my children playing with others nearby. After all, these precious summers at the lake are the whole reason we ever got “the lake” to begin with…its only a shame that summers, like childhood, pass by so quickly.

But, what we’re talking about is essentially a woman who has turned herself into a man, complete with a moustache, and who still wanted to enjoy one of the elemental things that defines a woman. That in itself is probably the basis of an interesting psychological discussion, yet to continue to talk about the pregnant man having given birth is inaccurate because the entire event was made possible due to the existing female mechanics still in place from his/her birth.

It really would be exciting for numerous reasons were it really, truly a pregnant man. Can you imagine that?

First of all, when they’re sick, men can be babies. I can’t even imagine most men I know dealing with the rigors of morning sickness. The nausea and inability to cope with smells would be too much for them. It would be the beginning of nine months that his wife would WISH she were the pregnant one.

Then, there are maternity clothes. There’s always an abundance of medium and small maternity clothes in the stores – off the rack would not work (not to mention even a pregnant man would not be caught in a pink ‘baby on board’ t-shirt). So, in the same way designer Liz Lange came out with a line of fashionable maternity clothing for Target, some menswear designer would have to do the same. There would be nice wool trousers with stretchy panels in the front and coordinating button down shirts. Maybe extra long ties to go over the belly? Maternity wear has changed a lot in recent years – going from merely tenting the bump to more form-fitting looks that showcase it. My guess is that men would probably prefer the tented look. They’d just wear tennis shoes the whole time, but in a bigger size to accommodate the swollen feet.

As the pregnancy progressed and the discomfort grew, he would become more and more irritated all the time. It would be the biggest deal that ever was, as though there had never been another pregnancy before. No woman’s pregnancy could in any way compare to his experience! Every discussion would involve his discomfort and awareness of all of the weird things that happen to your body when you’re pregnant. Instead of just dealing, he’d be talking about it and whining…a lot. He’d be ready to deliver around 7 months and the remaining two months would be pure hell.

Then, when the delivery date finally arrived, he’d surely pick the epidural. (I’m not making any judgments there…I picked it too…but I’m not sure most men measure up to the wonder women I know who did it without epidurals). He’d also scream through the process since he wouldn’t have been paying attention during Lamaze class. Oh, and then there’s the minor matter of…shall we say…how that baby is getting out? Surely, they’d recommend a Cesarean, right? They wouldn’t have the patience for the hours of pushing.

He’d insist they also do a full tummy tuck at the same time to immediately return his physique to its pre-pregnancy state before leaving the hospital. The hospital staff would throw a party when the post-partum men left the hospital, weary of the constant bedside calls and ongoing complaints.

If all of this isn’t reason enough that women should just continue doing it themselves, because, as with most things, they do it better, I don’t know what is!

A tremendous thing happened recently that, in a lot of ways, is kind of amazing. The three busy women of the Whitley News Network managed to meet up, albeit it briefly, in the same place at the same time -- in my front yard.

Teresa Smith, above left, is the publisher of the Tribune-News in South Whitley and is offering the citizens of South Whitley and Larwill and online news opportunity in the form of www.southwhitleyonline.com

Smith is an award winning journalist with many year’s experience in local media, including past editorial roles at the Times-Union in Warsaw and the Post & Mail in Columbia City. Many may not know this, but because of her extraordinary work in documenting the stories of World War II veterans, the army vehicle on the Kosciusko County Courthouse lawn is named “Teresa” in her honor.

Viv Sade, above right, is part of a team of professionals who recently launched www.buscovoice.com, bringing enhanced online community news to the citizens of Churubusco.

Sade is also an award winning journalist having garnered awards from the Hoosier State Press Association for her writing. If you haven’t read her columns, they are bright, funny and insightful. For many years, Sade was the editor of the Churubusco News and in addition to her online venture, is also an editor for Kendallville Publishing Company’s Auburn Star.

That is me in the middle on one of my proudest days yet at Talk of the Town – the day I was presented with the Chamber Business of the Month award. Upon finding out about the award, I made sure to invite my Whitley News Network partners to join me for the celebration and was thrilled when both were able to accept my invitation to attend.

I'm really honored to be a part of a team of accomplished women journalists who are working diligently to bring news to their community. I honestly cannot think of better people to be leading these roles in their communities and their communities will benefit greatly from their presence.

While we three communicate frequently via e-mail and phone, getting the three of us in one place at one time was quite a feat given everyone’s busy schedules as we hurriedly work to bring the news of Whitley County quickly, accurately and expansively to the internet. So, I’m glad to have this photo!

He became a part of our family so long ago, no one remembers for sure. Our estimates range from 15-17 years ago, but he wasn’t a new pup then either. An old boy with a lion’s mane and stocky build, he was a mutt and we all loved him. The story goes that a farmer was going to shoot him, but my parents rescued him. Some of our best pets came to us that way.

First, he lived in our old brick farmhouse. A temperamental being, he didn’t enjoy the confines of a house. Indoors, he’d pace nervously, his face seemingly showing the anguish of his internal unrest. He preferred a life of leisure out back where he could smell the fresh air, where he could sleep outside under the stars on an old sleeping bag and enjoy his meals with nature. We went above and beyond to make his outdoor abode as comfortable as possible, completely lining his old dog house with cushioning and a fresh coat of paint. He was a simple guy though, and did a little redecorating once he moved in, spending hours tearing out every piece of the cushioning and piling it out front of his house where he laid on it.

He was spirited too. He had a love/hate relationship with cats and a hate/hate relationship with opossums. More than a time or two, he discovered one of those disgusting things enjoying his food and it quickly became their last meal. He wasn’t vicious about it, but handled it like a duty, something that had to be dealt with. He didn’t mind creatures walking past his home, but anything that ran past jostled something within his demeanor that caused him to run wildly after it, breaking chains and uprooting any dog run that attempted to peg him to the ground. As he aged, these outbursts of energy were fewer and further between.

A fierce looking dog with thick paws and heavy head, his look in no way reflected his personality. Instead, he was kind, loving and gentle to everyone who ventured his way.

After we moved away from home and my mother got sick, Nemo went to live with my sister and her new husband. In his “retirement years,” he was again offered an opportunity to move inside and declined, preferring to live in the barn. My sister bought him his own igloo (which he tolerated) and the best food money could buy – a considerable upgrade from the “Ole Roy” he enjoyed in his younger years. At the top of her driveway, he was the sentinel, walking proudly out the barn door to assess whoever came to visit. Little roused his interest and he’d meander back inside to his temperature controlled water dish, special dog food and the occasional treat.

Unlike most in his species, he did not appreciate travel and had no affinity for wind in his hair. So, it was good that his last experience in life was not a car ride to the vet to be euthanized. A big dog, he probably far outlived anyone’s expectations and in the way we welcome death for an old friend or loved one who has lived a good, long life, his departure for eternal sleep at his home was a blessing.

Farewell, 'Mo.

In five days, I think the children and I have visited newly opened Splashpad at least three times…maybe four…I’ve lost count at this point. 

My initial impression in watching the children at the Splashpad was that it was similar to the joy I experienced as a child running through a sprinkler in my favorite purple polka dotted swimsuit. Sheer glee as the cold water ran across my skin, shrill chirps as I skipped through the wet grass. My wet hair streaming in tendrils behind me as I hopped to and fro across the fan of water thrusting its way across my grandparents’ lawn.

Indeed it was the same scene (only better, perhaps), years later, as my own children ran wild through a series of water features in the Splashpad this week. Their favorites seemed to be the water cannons, the dumping buckets and the guyser-like spot on the western edge of the Splashpad. My son described the water as “colder than ice water” and truly touching his skin, it is frigid…but that doesn’t stop any of the dozens of children we’ve seen there in the past week from enjoying it. Warmed by their excitement, water temperature is inconsequential.

It is my opinion that every parent needs to bring their child, at least once, to experience what may be one of the greatest things to happen to summertime in Whitley County in years. The wonder of it is that there are no boundaries – for the first time we have something that everyone from tiny, tanned tankini-wearing toddlers to taller-than-me teenagers can appreciate unabashedly in its simple elegance.

I say “elegance” because the movement of the water and the almost choreographed quality of children running, laughing and playing has a distinctly beautiful quality to it. We should be proud of our new Splashpad and grateful to those who made it possible. I certainly am – as are my newly-obsessed household of Splashpadites.

It burns my skin right through my shirt.

One day’s indiscretion...

The next day’s hurt.

--- Jennifer Zartman Romano

But, with busy families, miles between us and…life…we lost track of each other and time just passed.

Although too much time has passed between our phone calls, it was as though we’d just spoken the day before. We traded stories about our families, our jobs and everything that had happened in the past year or so. We picked up right where we left off.

It was a similar experience when I received a phone call from a close friend from high school. We hadn’t spoke in at least 13 years. There was no falling out, no great distance. In fact, the fading out of communication had been very anticlimactic, really, as we both could recall. Somewhere along the way, someone didn’t return a phone call. A week passed and then a month. Soon, it was years. As we spoke, though, it was like we’d just missed a phone call, a minor blip on the screen of a friendship. So much to talk about, so much to say. It’s amazing how much time you can spend on the phone and it is as though the conversation just began. An easy, comfortable exchange of daily minutiae, life stories and things in common.

That’s the beautiful thing about true friendships. Regardless of the span of time or the circumstances that keep you apart, you can pick up the phone and pick up right where you left off. There aren’t a lot of relationships like that in life, but when you find one, it is a treasure.

I’ve made a few friendships in my adult life that are much the same. We might not talk everyday, we might e-mail occasionally or talk in passing, but you leave the conversation feeling the warmth of a deep friendship that won’t fade regardless of the days, weeks or years until you talk again. These friendships are the constant in life and worth more than I can adequately describe with words.

I think my lesson in this is not to be so cavalier with these friendships that transcend time, that outlive seasons. Friendships, even carefree ones that seem bigger than us, do require attention and care. I think I’ll work to be a better friend so that years don’t have to pass before we catch up again.

The further we get into summer, the more possessive I get about summer days and the lake. I’m inclined to keep the schedule as clear as possible figuring we wait all winter (that seems twice as long as summer) to spend sunny days at the lake. It is hard to admit that, but I feel like we have a limited number of, in particular, sunny Saturdays, and should reserve as many as possible for family-filled lake days. That’s what it’s all about. That’s why we even have “the lake.”

Upon returning home, we went up there as a family for a swim. To save time I wore my swimsuit up there, cast the towel immediately on the picnic table and made a bee line for pier. The kids chose the beach and toys and neighbor boys – I had my mind on something else.

After overcoming the initial shock of the temperature (a bit cooler than expected from the recent rainfall), I slipped into the water and made my way out to the newly stationed buoy…at that moment, I realize perfection, my ideal moment in time…an experience I always try very hard to envision in mid-January when the snow is piling up in its white bleakness.

The sun was shining with the ideal balance of temperature and low humidity. To add to it, the wind made the water a little choppy. I stayed out there by myself paddling around for a very long time trying to soak it in. I closed my eyes tightly, kicking the water – trying to absorb the moment so that on a winter’s evening, as I’m walking in a long coat in ankle-deep snow I can recapture a bit of the glory of the best part of a summer day.

When I was in elementary and junior high, it was such a big deal to go to skating parties at Happy Valley. The ages-old building would be bursting with kids and music on a Friday night and we tried very hard not to miss one. From an early age, I remember going there. You’d pay at a little window and walk in to a counter where you’d tell them your shoes size and hand you a pair of old skates. Some kids brought their own. I did until I grew out of them and then I just rented them each time.

I remember the songs you’d always hear in there – “Push It” by Salt N’ Peppa and songs by The Beastie Boys, assorted hair bands (like Whitesnake, Def Leppard, Poison, Warrant, etc.) and songs that I’ll never think of now, but that you didn’t hear on the radio – you only heard them at the skating rink. In the corner, there was a deejay who played…gasp!...records! Indeed, actual vinyl. He would have a book of songs and you could pick them out. I remember spending idle time between “good” songs looking through the books in hope of finding something better. The deejay booth was high up and covered with carpet. You could only see the deejay, I think, if you were skating around or if they climbed out of there….maybe that was because I was short.

Around the room, there were benches and on the benches were different classifications of people. There were little kids you didn’t know, kids your age, a few parents and some older kids – the older kids were interesting to watch. Sometimes they would be omigosh…holding hands…or kissing! I recall one time what would best be described as a swarm of little kids, myself included, was pestering some of these older kids doing whatever interesting things older kids might be doing. In an effort to get us to go away, they told us we wouldn’t understand what they were doing because we hadn’t learned “the facts of life.” Of course instead of getting us to go away, we followed them around all night virtually begging to know what the facts of life were. We followed them to the restroom, around the skating rink, to the snack bar, behind the coat area…still no resolution on the facts of life. I’m still wondering what “the facts of life” might have been. Maybe they didn’t even know…but I bet they wish they’d just ignored us in the first place.

I distinctly remember the taste of the pizza you could get at the skating rink. It wasn’t entirely cooked, as in the crust wasn’t crusty, but after an evening of going around and around the skating rink, it was heavenly. There was candy and pop – things we virtually never had at home and since Mom gave us money, we could buy some if we spent wisely.

There was always such an excitement that would build up from the afternoon at school when you made a mental calculation of who was going to the skating party to getting ready for it and then being dropped off there. Afterward, you were elated and exhausted usually. There was typically some kind of drama over the course of the evening – who was skating with whom or who was “going with” whom. That is a funny phrase actually, now that I think about it. I remember telling my grandfather about “going with” somebody and he gave me a funny look and said, “You’re a kid and you can’t drive – so how are you ‘going’ anywhere?”

For whatever nostalgic reason, I always kept track of whomever I went skating with and wrote the person’s name in tiny letters on the back of the ticket stub they gave you at the door. It was a ritual after the skating party, when I got home, to dig out the stub from my pocket, write a name and date on it, and save it in my jewelry box. I wonder if I still have those? After years of skating parties, there were a quite a few.

It’s funny. I don’t think I ever went to the skating rink after eighth grade. I’d like to go there now, just to see what it is like. Has it changed at all? Does it still smell the same in there? Do kids still have as much fun there as I did way back when?

In recent weeks, I’ve moved from my office overlooking the pond and taken “the show on the road,” so to speak, with the addition of a new laptop. What great possibility this has opened up for me as I am now able to work on stories virtually anywhere. In fact, as I write this, just for fun, I’m sitting in my side yard under a shade tree with a latte and taking advantage of one of the nicest days yet this summer.

Last week, I wrote stories at a local school, in the Brew Ha and shared the website with a friend while we had a lime shake-up at Kernel Colada’s. I can write stories in my kitchen, on a blanket in my yard, maybe in a park? The possibilities are wonderfully endless. I can’t believe I didn’t get one sooner!

I can now go downtown and write stories while things are happening around me. This is kind of unique if you think about it. In college communication courses, I remember my professors talking about how the internet wasn’t necessarily a social place – that it causes you to withdraw from society. So, with the advent of the laptop and wireless internet which is now widely available (The Brew Ha and Kernel Colada’s to name a few), you can now be social while being unsocial…if that makes any sense?

Another great thing made possible by the laptop and wireless internet is that I can now even more instantly report on what is going on around me. I can download photos while an event is happening and if wireless is available where I am, I can upload to the website at that time too.

When I ordered the computer, I had this magic idea that I'd be writing on my pier overlooking the lake. While this has happened only once so far, I think it could happen more frequently later this summer...I'm going to have a little more free time!

I would be remiss in not thanking my advertisers for making the new laptop possible. Because of you, I will not be able to hopefully accomplish even more with the website. Thank you!

In the scheme of things, it seems like it would be a wise choice for the Democratic Party to find some way of formulating a plan to take both Clinton and Barack Obama to the White House. Both have become tremendously popular, drawing formerly uninterested or disenchanted voters to the polls…with enough excitement and vigor (good or bad) to cause otherwise staunch Republicans to switch parties if even temporarily on Primary Election Day.

In talking this over with several individuals who identify themselves as Democrats or independents, most didn’t think this Obama-Clinton ticket would be a possibility given the tenacity of their ongoing battle for the Democratic nomination. Could they mend fences in time to go against McCain? It seemed like it wouldn’t happen. A month ago, not a chance. Now…maybe.

It would be a smart idea for a lot of reasons – the greatest of which being that the Democratic Party would be taking two wildly popular figures forward for the election, two powerhouses up against a guy who is, basically, the best guy the Republican Party could come up with at this point in time. Is he great? Is he charismatic in the way some have described Obama? Is he a good representative for the common man? Maybe. Maybe not. Interestingly, it seems like more people have a strong feeling, positive or negative, for the two Democratic candidates than they do McCain. McCain is just kind of…there. He’s inert.

Another reason the Democratic Party would be smart to put the two together on a ticket is because, in salvaging the momentum, excitement, drama and all the other descriptive elements of this Primary season, they’d be sure to keep the momentum gained by the party in recent months and not risk alienating any demographic. They could count on all the various classifications of people who identify with one candidate or the other, combine them, and move forward. Based on popular opinion, people seem to love them both. That seems like an unstoppable force moving forward…at least for now.

Who knows what rabbit McCain might pull out of his hat – particularly once it is clear who he’s running against.

It all adds up to a level of excitement that seems to be building and not likely to fade anytime soon.

Following yesterday’s American Legion Memorial Day Parade in downtown Columbia City, we set out about our mission: placing flags on the graves of three Civil War soldiers. Only two of the three are our ancestors and last year we “adopted” a Civil War soldier named Elza Roberts and now will place a flag on his grave as well. I think in the future we need to adopt one more because there was some “disagreement” among the two children about who should have the honor of placing the third flag. After rationalizing that last year Jamee got to place the extra flag, he allowed his sister to have the honor this year.

We will have to place a virtual flag for our closest relative and most recent to die in a war – my great uncle Pfc. Emmett Richard Zartman (shown in the photo at right). His natural skill at riflery and marksmanship put him in a dangerous position and he was selected for the 82^nd Airborne Division’s Company G 325^th Glider Infantry Regiment. Yesterday, in the afternoon, I listened to a recording of a veteran talking about his experience with the glider regiment and it made me quite emotional, knowing just a little more than I did before about what someone in my own family experienced so many years ago.

The veteran recounted that the night before Normandy they were called together for a briefing and told, basically, that their individual lives were expendable – but that the mission played an integral role in making sure the US staked its position there. Hearing him speak, my eyes welled up with tears. He said they were told their main responsibility, regardless of what happened to their equipment or to their lives, was to get the gliders and paratroopers into the designated area at Normandy so that they would be there slightly before the soldiers arrived on the beaches of Normandy.

I can’t begin to imagine how terrifying it was to ride in a glider swooping down into enemy territory and then having to fight as soon as you’ve landed. This is interesting because those involved in the glider regiment’s men were both airmen, flying dangerous one-way missions into enemy territory, and then also infantrymen for their ground combat role once they’d landed. I read quite a bit about the glider infantry yesterday and it bothers me enough knowing that the mortality rate for the regiment was already estimated at 70-80% -- but the government felt it was an important enough mission, and regardless of success with similar missions in the past, decided to go forward.

After listening to the veteran’s recording about the glider infantry yesterday, I couldn’t help but think of my great uncle’s face. Dark hair, sharply arched eyebrows and he looked a lot like my brother does today. He fought for his country and though more than 70 years have passed, he is still missed. His life wasn’t merely expendable. He is still remembered even though my grandfather, now in his eighties, is one of the few living people who knew him.

Earlier this year, my grandparents entrusted most of the family photographs to me and in looking through some of them, I’ve found quite a few of Emmett. Quite a few are of him proudly dressed in uniform or before he’d graduated from South Side High School. It’s the “seeing the before” and “knowing the after” that makes these photos hard to look at. These photographs show his personality and hit home, even more, how much of a tragedy it was that he died fighting for his country. When he died on July 3, 1944, he left behind a young wife to carry on without him, parents and a brother who became an only child. A lot of dreams died with Emmett. Were he alive today, with a family of his own, cousins to us, I wonder if life would have been different?

Though much of what we do on Memorial Day involves remembering the dead, it also stands as a reminder, that families are still experiencing the loss of their sons and daughters in war. Memorial Day and everyday should be a day for remembering our veterans, living and dead, for what they’ve given us – freedom and their lives.

Some people have mastered that button, remaining mum on certain subjects or, at a minimum filtering what they really wanted to say with something more appropriate. They are careful not to offend and offer, instead, words of comfort.

Others are seemingly born without that button and say whatever thought pops into their mind – not thinking through the consequences of their words or the impact those words might have on someone else.

Driving down SR 109 Monday, I passed a sign reading, “Mouth Management 101” on the marquee of a local church and it got me thinking about talking and the damage words can do. What might seem like a joke or inconsequential to one person, may not be perceived that way by someone else.

Before I go any further with this, I do want to say that I am human. I have said things I shouldn’t have. I have probably unknowingly offended people with things I have said, but I don’t intentionally set out to hurt people with my words and I hope, in some small way, I can help people with my words. After all, there are a lot of words on this site and I think most of them represent good, positive concepts.

I want to say this, however: there are people we encounter on a frequent basis who both lack that button of decency in their head that prevents them from saying ridiculous things and that hurt people, businesses and organizations with the things they say. Whether this is intentional or not is unclear. Unfortunately, I am relatively certain that the person(s) that should take this message to heart probably either won’t read it or won’t realize I’m talking about them.

We live in a very small community. In a restaurant or other setting, it is not uncommon to overhear conversations. It is also common to hear people chit chat during a meeting or after one. It doesn’t take long, usually, to put two and two together to realize you know who or what is being talked about. This happens frequently. Too often we hear things in this way that we shouldn’t hear. We’re not eavesdropping…they’re saying it and we’re listening whether we want to or not. A lot of what we hear is best left unsaid in the first place.

I have to say this – I just have to: if you don’t know what you’re talking about and if you’re not personally involved in something – do the people, businesses and organizations who are involved a big favor – SHUT YOUR MOUTH. Zip it. Lock it. Throw away the key. You are only harming your own credibility by commenting on something you know absolutely nothing about.

When we contribute to sharing false information, we double the workload of those who are actively working to make our community a better place. Do we really want to burn those people out? Is it really fair of us to work counterproductively against them? Do you really want to be looked at as the person who spreads lies, gossip and negativity? If you don’t, don’t participate. I’m sure we can all find plenty going on within our own lives to talk about and our own work to comment on.

Perhaps spreading negativity is a means of covering one’s own inadequacy – and in case you aren’t aware, that’s pretty transparent to the listener too.

I wasn’t particularly worried then. I felt a sense of optimism having grown up in some of the best economic times we’ve seen in some time. Sure, within my own family, we experienced some bleak times. For much of junior high and high school, we did not have health insurance in our family. Dad worked for the defense industry and as they faced cuts, he lost his job. As a single income household, with Mom staying home to care for us kids, that was a heavy blow to the household finances. As a kid, I was too aware of how financially strapped we were and it was a weight that rarely left my awareness. I knew how stressed my Mom was attempting to balance the household budget and provide for a family of five. As I got older, though, I became more in control of my personal finances and largely, my coming of age was during a great time in our economy.

A lot has changed, however. In a short period of time today, the gravity of our situation as a community became apparent to me. As I’ve heard others say locally, “People are hurting.”

On Sunday, we drove up to the lake to pick up our lawn chairs enroute to an afternoon event outdoors with extended family. We passed by the home of a neighbor whose house will be foreclosed, we’re told, in a matter of days. Their livelihood was tied to the building trade – and we’ve seen where that has gone. Lately, this has become a fairly common story as foreclosures are happening constantly. But, where do you go when you lose your home? when you don’t have a job to get another one? when your credit is damaged? when you can’t get a job because there aren’t many good jobs to be had? It’s a vicious circle.

Those thoughts were on my mind for a good part of the trip as we continued on to our family reunion at Sylvan Lake in Noble County. Earlier in the week, when discussing the get-together with a cousin in Columbia City, she remarked that because of gas prices, she just couldn’t justify driving from Columbia City and Rome City when she needed to buy food for herself and small child. “I have to make the choice between gas and groceries,” she said. Driving northward for a family reunion, unfortunately, was something she could not afford. Unfortunately, her choice was the wisest decision she could make in the matter.

As we drove along US 33, we passed by Johnson’s Farm. As a child, we went there in the winter to select a fresh Christmas tree and on hot summer days, we would go there to pick berries. I remember eating more berries than I actually picked. I had been looking forward to taking my own children there for the first time this summer to pick berries now that I feel they’re old enough for that sort of activity. Sadly, my hopes were dashed when I read a large, plain, painted sign that read they had closed due to high gas prices and the cost of labor. How disappointing that such a longstanding tradition, a local family business has been forced to shut their doors because of such bleak economic times?

On the way, we passed through Merriam where I saw an elderly man with a heavily lined face, white hair and soiled clothes standing near a puddle with a sign that read, “Will work for food.” I looked at him and my heart ached. I didn’t know the man or his circumstances, but to think of a person standing on the side of a highway in the small village of Merriam, hoping for a meal was too much to see. He could have been anyone’s father or grandfather standing their along the side of the road. It is even sadder that because of the times we live in, how strangers can be dangerous, we didn’t stop. I don’t know if I should feel better that later, when we passed by that spot on the way home, the man wasn’t standing there anymore. It is my hope that someone in a position to help this man was able to do so.

Whenever I see and hear so many related things in a short period of time, such as I did Sunday, I take it as a sign from God. I’m not sure what he’s telling me at this point and I don’t know what I should do. I just have to keep listening and hoping He’ll point me in the right direction. Maybe the answer is that while our economic situation is not likely to improve in the immediate future, while gas is going to continue to get more and more expensive, maybe the best thing we can do is pull together as a community.

My grandmother grew up in Scotland during World War II. They were constantly bombed, rationed and had very, very little. Her mother, Sarah, a single mother of three children, also cared for an ailing sister and several other elderly extended family members in what would amount to a very small apartment. She worked odd jobs – laundering clothes, cleaning and working in a café – and provided the only income for her large household. Despite not having much of anything, she managed to provide meals for her even more impoverished neighbors. I’m told she made the most wonderful soups from nothing more than bones from the butcher shop nearby. The shopkeepers knew of her giving heart and would try to help her in her endeavors when they could, giving her a little bit more than they had to. She welcomed starving soldiers into her home and fed them, saying if her boy were wandering through a far off village, she hoped he would be fed. She gave and she gave, though she had what seemed like nothing.

I believe that what Sarah did could be an example to how we should strive to live during these difficult times. We can’t fix the economy by ourselves, but we can support our neighbors. We can buy our food from local farms and businesses, we can share rides to conserve gas and we can make do with less. We have to work hard to look beyond our own duress to find ways to help our neighbors, as Sarah did. But, I think it is this that will bring us optimism in dark times and make the road ahead that much easier to walk…for we will not walk it alone.