Notes from my Knapsack 1-20-22
Jeff Gill
Something about a bridge
___
My personal and professional bias has long been to emphasize the positive.
One reason is that there seems to be plenty of negativity out there, so I can stand out in what I like to think of as useful ways by looking on the bright side. Annoyingly so, I've been told, but I'm an unrepentant optimist, at least in public persona.
Internally, I can whine and complain with the best of y'all. Seriously, it's not hard, and the fact that it comes so easily is what makes me work at being chipper and upbeat. Curmudgeonly is an easy riff for a columnist, and that's a rut I want to avoid, since it might just become all consuming.
But then I heard or read a few comments about "our beautiful new bridge," and my inner Andy Rooney rose up in high dudgeon.
The bridge over Rt. 16, the Rt. 37 aka Lancaster Road bridge, is wider. It's better, that I wouldn't dispute. We needed more lanes, improved ramps. I'm glad it was built.
But beautiful?
Louis Sullivan said in 1896 "that form ever follows function." This architectural principle boiled down to "form follows function" has a Wikipedia page, and if you look up that page, you find a picture of a building on Newark's courthouse square. Go ahead, look it up.
Modernism and brutalism have their strengths and weaknesses as architectural schools, but one key element they communicate is that if you use glass and steel or concrete, let it show. Don't try to pretend your structure is something it isn't.
The attempts to pretend in pseudo-ornament that the new highway bridge at our village gateway is stonework manages to insult the viewer even as it fools no one. I don't get it, and I fear money was spent to make it look "pretty" when letting it look plain and honest might just wear better over time.
Alligator skin is more what the concrete panels bring to mind, inscribed to "resemble" stones, or a very small child's drawing of a stone wall. The similar panels to our west, on the Rt. 37 & 310 overpasses, are not improved by the mildew stains they tend to nurture and display to passersby.
And along with what the project description said would be "aesthetic harmonization" with nearby overpasses, there's how the name "Granville" was placed. The bridge slopes fairly significantly down from the south to the north, so a word put in alignment with the deck means it views from the road at an angle. To me, it just looks a bit . . . off. There's some humor in that the proclamation "Granville" leans to the right if you're driving west, but to the left heading east, and that might sum up our divided politics in some ways, but it just doesn't quite work for me. I get that if it's to be embossed in the concrete, that's how it had to go, but . . . could we have passed on the concrete, put up a sign on the level, even if we had to repaint or replace it every ten years or so?
So of course the lamps, the "ornamental lamps" on the bridge, are installed perpendicular to the deck, angled as it is. Meaning they aren't perpendicular to gravity, which makes me wonder long term how wise that was. Maybe there's not much metal or bolt strain compared to wind and rain, but again they just look a bit . . . off. Leaning, not in a Pisan sort of way.
In time, I'm sure this all will settle into the landscape as how it's always been, unremarkable and not worth comment. But for now, I felt a need to say this in print: vertical lamps, plain concrete, no fake stone marks, and at most some Ionic capital outlines lightly embossed at the tops of the pillars. Less would be more, along with form a little more closely following function.
What we have is trying to hard to be something it's not, and too late to change it. Which might be a lesson if not a metaphor for our community in its own right.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's no architect but he knows what he likes. Tell him why he's wrong if you like at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, January 10, 2022
Faith Works 1-15-22
Faith Works 1-15-22
Jeff Gill
Stories and memories both near and far
___
Last week I talked about a wonderful community, a welcoming fellowship, of adult children who are working through the challenges of caring for aging, medically frail but insistently independent parents.
When I say independent, I'm tempted to put quotes around the word, and not doing so is part of the dance around dignity that is what so many of us working to support elderly parents know so well about each other. It's a dance around confrontation and pivots around the truth, including the most difficult maneuver of all: how to answer the direct question "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you agree?"
A few folks have counseled candor, a direct "no, you are not." Column lengths don't allow me to outline why that's not an effective strategy, at least in our case (other than to note that someone who's never been wrong in nine decades previously isn't likely to respond warmly to contradiction at 92).
Indirection and misdirection and redirection, though: these are strategies which almost anyone can use. Confrontation with someone whose short term memory is mostly gone is frankly a useless strategy, and I've surprised myself at some of the remarkable statements it turns out I can agree with, facts to the contrary. If a confused and anxious elder wants to insist Daniel D. Tompkins was the Vice President under John Quincy Adams, sometimes you just smile and agree (to you, dear reader, I am forced to note he served under James Monroe; that's right, Kris Kringle was incorrect, make of it what you will).
A much more rewarding approach is to find solid ground and go for a walk there. By which I mean the more distant past. There is an interval, for those who are slowly losing their ability to navigate the recent past, where their memories of the 1930s or 40s or 50s is sharp, detailed, and vivid. Ask whether they took their morning medications (okay, ask ME) and you might get a blank look, but ask what color the old farmhouse on 30th Street was, and you might just get the trim, shutters, stoop, and shed thrown in for good measure.
But I have to tell you, whether you've done this sort of supportive caregiving or not, there's a trick or two to this process of entering the past. And for we who are at least a bit younger, it might be where there's more than a bit of spiritual discipline for us to learn and grow from, not just in the historical and genealogical tidbits you'll gain.
For many elderly persons, when an adult child or inquisitive grandchild or interested third party asks about events, say, in 1943, the first response is very likely to be "Oh, that's a long time ago." Or "my, I don't remember much about back then."
This is where you have to trust me. If there's a rationale to why you're asking, if you're a relative or someone with a personal connection to the person you're asking, here's the key. If a question gets you an initial "can't imagine I'd remember something from those days," you need to wait. In silence. Patiently. If you poke and prod and push, you'll likely get the mental heels digging in. But again and again over the years, I've learned that "son, that was a long time ago, can't recall very well" isn't an ending, but a prelude.
You sit with them, calmly, and let the silence sit. And more often then not, you'll start to hear a story. Be patient. Oh, and don't be picky. I've started out trying to learn more about his older brothers, and ended up hearing riveting details about a Navy blimp landing across the street from his house when he was six. You eat what is set before you on the memory buffet. Maybe you get to go back for seconds, or possibly you'll ultimately get back around to the brothers, but you learn to delight in and even be thankful for what you get.
Ask questions, accept the initial hesitation, and just listen. Listen, listen, listen. I've done this with people who can't quite recall the year, their location, even their own name, but a few gentle cues and a starting "that was long ago indeed" and suddenly you're hearing a rich and detailed tale. It may not be the one you thought you were looking for, but it's almost always one worth hearing.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he isn't always sure about his memory, either. Tell him how you've learned to listen at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Stories and memories both near and far
___
Last week I talked about a wonderful community, a welcoming fellowship, of adult children who are working through the challenges of caring for aging, medically frail but insistently independent parents.
When I say independent, I'm tempted to put quotes around the word, and not doing so is part of the dance around dignity that is what so many of us working to support elderly parents know so well about each other. It's a dance around confrontation and pivots around the truth, including the most difficult maneuver of all: how to answer the direct question "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you agree?"
A few folks have counseled candor, a direct "no, you are not." Column lengths don't allow me to outline why that's not an effective strategy, at least in our case (other than to note that someone who's never been wrong in nine decades previously isn't likely to respond warmly to contradiction at 92).
Indirection and misdirection and redirection, though: these are strategies which almost anyone can use. Confrontation with someone whose short term memory is mostly gone is frankly a useless strategy, and I've surprised myself at some of the remarkable statements it turns out I can agree with, facts to the contrary. If a confused and anxious elder wants to insist Daniel D. Tompkins was the Vice President under John Quincy Adams, sometimes you just smile and agree (to you, dear reader, I am forced to note he served under James Monroe; that's right, Kris Kringle was incorrect, make of it what you will).
A much more rewarding approach is to find solid ground and go for a walk there. By which I mean the more distant past. There is an interval, for those who are slowly losing their ability to navigate the recent past, where their memories of the 1930s or 40s or 50s is sharp, detailed, and vivid. Ask whether they took their morning medications (okay, ask ME) and you might get a blank look, but ask what color the old farmhouse on 30th Street was, and you might just get the trim, shutters, stoop, and shed thrown in for good measure.
But I have to tell you, whether you've done this sort of supportive caregiving or not, there's a trick or two to this process of entering the past. And for we who are at least a bit younger, it might be where there's more than a bit of spiritual discipline for us to learn and grow from, not just in the historical and genealogical tidbits you'll gain.
For many elderly persons, when an adult child or inquisitive grandchild or interested third party asks about events, say, in 1943, the first response is very likely to be "Oh, that's a long time ago." Or "my, I don't remember much about back then."
This is where you have to trust me. If there's a rationale to why you're asking, if you're a relative or someone with a personal connection to the person you're asking, here's the key. If a question gets you an initial "can't imagine I'd remember something from those days," you need to wait. In silence. Patiently. If you poke and prod and push, you'll likely get the mental heels digging in. But again and again over the years, I've learned that "son, that was a long time ago, can't recall very well" isn't an ending, but a prelude.
You sit with them, calmly, and let the silence sit. And more often then not, you'll start to hear a story. Be patient. Oh, and don't be picky. I've started out trying to learn more about his older brothers, and ended up hearing riveting details about a Navy blimp landing across the street from his house when he was six. You eat what is set before you on the memory buffet. Maybe you get to go back for seconds, or possibly you'll ultimately get back around to the brothers, but you learn to delight in and even be thankful for what you get.
Ask questions, accept the initial hesitation, and just listen. Listen, listen, listen. I've done this with people who can't quite recall the year, their location, even their own name, but a few gentle cues and a starting "that was long ago indeed" and suddenly you're hearing a rich and detailed tale. It may not be the one you thought you were looking for, but it's almost always one worth hearing.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he isn't always sure about his memory, either. Tell him how you've learned to listen at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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