Notes from my Knapsack 1-2-20

Notes from my Knapsack 1-2-20

Jeff Gill

 

Tied up in knots

___

 

One challenge in growing up today is knowing when you have.

 

As the oldest in my family, I think back to the important step it meant when Mom let me put down a regular fork for one of my younger siblings instead of the salad fork that "little kids" used.

 

Older folk than I talk about getting long pants or other now past rituals of maturity. One that I share with earlier generations, which now is starting to make a divide between me and my younger cohorts, is the masculine act of tying a tie.

 

In younger days, I had the classic clip-on tie, bow or straight down type. But you knew you were on the direct route to manhood when you learned how to tie a tie, and it was your road to walk on your own when you tied it yourself.

 

Now I have about thirty ties in my closet, and rarely wear them. The holiday season gets out the six or seven I have that are Christmas themed, and there's a couple of Halloween and patriotic and religious ones each, plus a Chicago Cubs tie I had to get in the year of their World series victory. But more and more, ties are an anomaly, an aberration where they were once an expectation.

 

I'm a Christian preacher, yet even in church I'm often the only one in worship with a tie on, and truth be told I have a fair number of Sundays when I don't even wear one to preach – something I could not have imagined 30 years ago. I still feel a bit obligated to put one on for funerals and weddings, even when I'm not the officiant, but it's not unusual for even the groom to be open collar.

 

College presidents and captains of industry are eschewing neckwear; putting on a tie is a statement of sorts, but darned if I know what it is. I know bow ties are a Gordon Gee thing, and wearing one seems to suggest a certain sort of intellectualism, or at least idiosyncrasy. But I have to say on those occasions when I put on a hand-tied (not clip-on) bow tie, there's a certain awe, or perhaps just bewilderment, as other men ask "did you tie that yourself?" Knowing how to tie a necktie knot is an esoteric skill up there with rebuilding carburetors or sharpening an axe.

 

And I've found myself tying a great many ties at weddings for the groomsmen in the last decade. It's no longer a rite of passage for young men, and even fathers often aren't themselves up to speed with the whole Windsor, Four-in-hand, adjustable knot concept, so they can't teach it to sons.

Somewhere I heard that the necktie craze began with Croatian mercenaries having a certain flair for how they tied their scarves, marching into Paris, and these Croatians from Croatia by some linguistic devolution became "cravats." Could be, and I'd hate to look it up to disprove it. A fascinating book my fashion design professor sister told me about, "Sex and Suits," explained how the modern dress suit got its medieval start as foundational garb underneath a suit of armor. So why not a Croatian scarf giving birth to my Italian silk tie?

 

As you prepare for work, or play, or going to church, or costuming for an occasion, men just need to remember one thing: don't complain to women about having to tie a tie. Seriously, just don't.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he still wears ties, but not as often as he used to. Tell him about fashions you're glad or sad to see go out of style at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 12-28-19

Faith Works 12-28-19

Jeff Gill

 

The Package – a story

___

 

[This is a piece of fiction, fourth of four parts, for the Christmas season]

 

On the way into his town's only shoe repair shop, Jerry reflected on all the twists and turns that had taken him to this place.

 

He had gotten a package on his front porch, nicely wrapped in Christmas paper, which after some hesitation he'd opened up, to find a box re-used from another address, which he visited in hopes of clearing up the mystery of the gift.

 

The lady in a wheelchair there had confirmed that the box inside the wrapping paper was something she'd discarded, and together they'd opened it up to find a used but well repaired pair of boots. They enjoyed their conversation over the puzzle, talked about their personal history a bit, and agreed to meet again; Jerry had also agreed to deliver a load of boxes she had waiting on her porch to the Salvation Army, filling in for a church friend whose vehicle had broken down.

 

He'd ended up eating at the soup kitchen, making more friends with the cooking crew and had offered to come back next month to help them cook – he'd make more new friends in the last 24 hours, Jerry reflected, than he had in the last fifty years. And then he was about to introduce himself to the cobbler whose tag was still attached to the boots he'd received without any other information.

 

Inside the shop, he did just that, explaining his curiosity about the nearly-new boots that had come to him in such a seasonal but surprising fashion. The cobbler at the counter turned the boots over, looking at the soles and nodding in agreement: "yes, that was my work." And he flipped around the tag, where only a number remained above the missing part below the perforation.

 

"Do you know who had you fix up these boots?" Jerry asked.

"Well, yes," said the cobbler. "I have the records, and I know who, but I'm not sure about telling you. It seems almost, well, unethical."

 

"Oh," replied Jerry. He hadn't considered the possibility that the shoe repair place wouldn't tell him. The trail ended here.

 

"Look," the cobbler said, leaning across the counter. "I don't think I can tell you his name or give you his phone number, but . . . you see him every week."

 

Jerry walked out, holding his boots, and went back home thinking through what he'd learned at the shoe repair place. The package came from someone he saw every week. Not the mail delivery person, that was someone he saw multiple times a week, ditto the paper delivery. He was lucky, he didn't see his doctor every week like some did; he didn't attend church, or hadn't for years, anyhow, but it wasn't a pastor. So who was it? And then it hit him.

 

The next time Jerry took his trash tote out to the curb, he waited until he heard the rumble of diesel around the corner; he stood there with it as the garbage truck came up and the driver swung down out of the cab. His beard was broad and white and bushy, and while his tan coveralls were stained and a bit ragged on the cuffs, he had a bright red stocking cap with a bright fuzzy snowball on the top.

 

"Hey there, Jerry," said the garbage man.

"Hello, um – I don't think I ever learned your name," he answered.

"It's Nick. Good to meet you official, like; don't shake, I'm sticky," replied Nick, offering a fist bump. Jerry bumped him back, then pointed down.

 

"How do you like my boots?"

 

"They look good on you. Hey, I hope you didn't mind; I pick up all kinds of too good to toss stuff and throw it in the cab. You came running out a few weeks ago with your trash late, and your boots looked so ratty I thought, hey, why not. You seem like a nice guy, and they looked like your size. They fit?"

"They do. But those were just my, sort of, slipper boots for shoving my feet into. I have a good pair."

 

"Oh, I'm sure you do," said the garbage guy, having swung the totes into the truck as they talked, and as he was about to jump back into the cab. "If you really can't use 'em, pay it forward, I always say. You never know what good you do by passing your blessings along."

 

As the truck moved on down the street, Jerry thought, no, you never really do, do you?

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him how you've learned about paying it forward at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 12-21-19

Faith Works 12-21-19

Jeff Gill

 

The Package – a story

___

 

[This is a piece of fiction, third of four parts, for the Christmas season]

 

Jerry looked at his rear view mirror at traffic behind him, over the top of a pile of large boxes in the back seat sticking up into his usual field of view.

 

He'd just been at a lady's house, whose address was on a package inside of gift wrapping, and learned what he'd been fairly sure of but had to check: the package that mysteriously showed up on his doorstep wasn't from her. She'd discarded the box, and someone had carefully marked through (but not obscuring entirely) the mailing information before wrapping up . . . a pair of old but nicely reconditioned boots.

 

Later, he was going to the shoe repair shop whose tag was still attached to one boot, but first he was delivering a back seat and trunk full of coats to the Salvation Army. The lady he'd interrupted in her day at home needed a hand with coats from her church she was trying to get there, and Jerry was happy to solve her problem in return for her courtesy. He wasn't sure he would have been so cordial with a stranger on his front porch asking about an old box of his, but they'd talked so long they'd decided to exchange phone numbers and continue the conversation another day.

 

Since her church friend's truck had broken down, he was in an ideal position to help out on his way to the cobbler's, but his sedan wasn't a pickup, and what had been two heavy boxes in her hallway were multiple piles and a stack of smaller boxes she'd offered from the garage. Watching traffic over the coats in the back piled high, he changed lanes and turned off to head for the Salvation Army building.

 

A few more turns, and then he drove past the front of the building, parked and hoped he could find some help in unloading. His new friend, the lady whose name was on the box, said her coats were expected, and he should just go in and ask where they should be placed. Seeing a few people heading in a door in the back, he shut the car off and slowly got out, thinking his back was really going to need some helpers to get these coats inside.

 

Jerry walked in the door, and the warmth fogged his glasses, pausing him as he entered. Through the haze, he heard a friendly voice say "you got here just in time, we were starting to shut down the line!" As he wiped clean his lenses, putting his glasses back on Jerry realized it was the soup kitchen door, and the people behind the counter in front of him were setting up a tray of food for him.

 

"Oh, no, I'm not here to eat, I'm delivering coats?"

"Doesn't matter, we're all going to eat, and then we'll all help you: got many?" the cook asked cheerily? Jerry tried to describe what he had as he shuffled sideways along the line, and was swept into a group coming out from behind the counter, each with their own trays, and then scattering out into places around the long tables.

 

The soup was good, and mac and cheese, and he realized he was having trouble telling who was a customer (or guest, it sounded like they were saying about the visitors to the soup kitchen) and which were volunteers. They talked about weather, family, two at one end of the table about hunting and three on Jerry's other side about the Browns.

 

As everyone seemed to finish, the woman who'd greeted him at the door said "Jerry needs some help bringing in donated coats!" and it seemed half the room got up, cleared their trays, and went out into the parking lot to gather in an armload of coats from the back seat and trunk. The job took seconds, and they were done.

 

"Jerry, we serve here every third Sunday evening; come on back any time to eat or to help!" she said, shaking his hand.

"I can make a mean lasagna," he answered and the host loudly shouted "Yes! There's our plan for next month! Give me your number and I'll get ahold of you for shopping to get the ingredients."

 

He was making more friends in a day than he had in the last ten years, Jerry reflected, as he got in his car and finally headed for the shoe repair shop. Now it was late enough it would probably be closed. His errand could wait until tomorrow, but since he was out . . . he thought he'd drive by just in case.

Jerry was really getting curious about those boots now, even though they didn't have much to do with everything that had happened to him. They were just a cause, a trigger, of something much bigger that was changing for him. But he wanted to know about the boots.

 

[to be continued]

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what you think is up with the boots at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

 

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Newark Advocate 2020 for PROUD Magazine

Newark Advocate 2020 for PROUD Magazine

Jeff Gill

 

In 1820, James Monroe was President of the United States, Ethan Allen Brown was governor of Ohio, and Newark was still six years away from being incorporated as a town.

 

Native Americans of the Shawnee and Wyandot tribes still lived in the northern and western parts of the state, often traveling through Licking County, which was itself just twelve years old. Five years earlier the original log courthouse was replaced by a modest two story structure, but Courthouse Square around it was still marked by ponds and bogs, surrounded by mostly log structures barely more ornate than pioneer cabins.

 

And it was in 1820 that "The Newark Advocate" was first published, in a simple sturdy brick building on the square. This intrepid business venture was the brainchild of Benjamin Briggs, a native of Pennsylvania who arrived in Newark's earliest days to make his mark, find a career, and start a newspaper: one that is today the county's oldest continuously operated business.

 

Briggs owned and edited "The Advocate" for thirty-six years, and as a sign of different times and journalistic expectations, he was elected mayor of Newark twice, and was voted at different times to both the Ohio House and Senate, as well as postmaster. His was a vigorous and partisan editorship, advocating for development projects like the Ohio & Erie Canal or the National Road through Licking County, as well as local efforts such as new church buildings and improved streets downtown.

 

In the early 1800s down through the first part of the 1900s, newspapers were almost without exception partisan, and "The Advocate" was a Democratic Party paper. Through the decades, other party and constituency publications flourished – at one point Newark had over twenty newspapers with names like "The Rasp" or "The Constitutionalist" or "The Reveille and Woolgrower"  – but after World War I the rise of a more dispassionate journalistic ethic led to a bipartisan "Advocate" overshadowing the other party-oriented papers, like the "Newark North American" or "Newark Express."

 

"The Advocate" has outlived its competition in most cases by outworking it: the paper was the first in the county to go from monthly to weekly to daily, and has been a daily for a majority of its publication history. An early adopter of electronic media tools, the news now arrives by email and on browser windows as much as it does on doorsteps or in driveways. Social media and online reading make the entire news environment a constant, never-ending opportunity for readers to connect and advertisers to reach audiences, even as the Advocate's ongoing record of events becomes a public resource in its own right.

 

"The value of having the paper in the area for so many years to the Licking County Library Veterans project is priceless," says Doug Stout, the library's project coordinator. "Through the years many service records, letters and names have been lost to family members and the community. The Advocate archives are one source we use daily for this information. If the Advocate hadn't been around this long, I'd say 40 percent of the information we have wouldn't exist."

 

Advertising along with subscriptions has been the heart of the "Advocate" business model since Briggs' days as editor and owner. After many decades of private ownership, the formation of the Advocate Printing Company saw the business into the Twentieth Century, and "The Newark Advocate" is now part of the USA Today Network. Whether in the print product or the online version, newspaper ads are still a major part of each page, and looking back through the two hundred years of history you learn almost as much from those ads as you do the articles about who we are as a county.

 

The first hundred years you see many advertisements for horses and carriages and the equipment and services that go with them; in the second hundred years, cars and trucks are well represented in the ad sections, while you have trouble finding a livery stable. Through the 1800s, clothiers and haberdashers and milliners are common in the corners of each page promoting their wares; today, banner ads online and sidebars are focused on very different retail angles, from electronics to home delivered groceries.

 

But in the editorial content itself, you hear the spirit of each era speaking both to their subscribers, and also as that "first rough draft of history" credited to journalism. Sometimes that voice is cracked and flawed – The Advocate sadly did not endorse Abraham Lincoln in either 1860 or in 1864 – but you can also hear calls for justice in the 1960s through Op-Eds, and editorial invitations to renewal and re-invigoration as Newark has navigated the end of one industrial era and the beginnings of our information age.

 

Benjamin Briggs, the first editor (and reporter, and circulation manager, and advertising executive, and pressman), was said in Hill's 1881 "History of Licking County" to have been "a clear, forcible writer, much given to the use of strong Saxon words that vigorously expressed his ideas, and he never wrote without having ideas to convey. . . When he chose to be vituperative he generally succeeded." But he was also "identified with every project that tended to the advancement and welfare of the place and its people," and left for Washington an honored representative of Licking County's interests. Today's editor, Benjamin Lanka, wouldn't expect to run for political office while still holding a position of journalistic trust, but he and his staff still honor clear and concrete writing, condemnation when called for, and praise whenever possible. With a volunteer community Editorial Board, "The Newark Advocate" still has strong words and straightforward suggestions about what can improve and enhance the everyday lives of people around today's Courthouse Square and across the county.

 

"Despite the numerous changes in our industry, the staff of The Advocate remains solely focused on telling the stories that matter to Newark and Licking County," says Lanka. "It's easy to say we don't do things like we used to, and that is true. Technology has dramatically changed people's media consumption habits. But what remains true is that we will always be curious about what is going with our local government, with our high school sports teams or with our neighbors. Our mission for our past and our future is to tell those stories the best we can to give people a sense of the community in which they live."

 

From the Briggs era to the present day, you can't help but notice how the interests of "The Advocate" have always "tended to the advancement and welfare of the place and its people."