Originally published in (614) Magazine’s digital daily, 614NOW
Summer camp is a rite of passage wrapped in revelry, rivalry, and romance — but rarely murder. So when Thurber House (humorist James Thurber’s former home turned local literary center) rushed to push their summer camps online this year, they feared some of the creative connectivity might be lost among aspiring young writers.
Hoping for a hook, camp counselors Justin Martin and Frankie Diederich decided to challenge campers with a genre they’d never tackled before: writing an original soap opera. Entirely on a whim, Martin took to Twitter to see if anyone happened to have a connection to the industry.
“I genuinely didn’t expect it to go anywhere, I didn’t even tag anyone. But an hour later I had half the cast of Days of Our Lives,” recalled Martin, whose disbelief still lingers. It was a plot twist even campers didn’t see coming. “California’s stay-home order was so uncertain, we never knew when everyone might go back to work. Even when we told writers and their parents the night before the performances, some of them didn’t believe us.”
Though daytime television isn’t an obvious obsession for middle school students, nearly every novel of young adult fiction is essentially a soap opera. And Days of Our Lives is set in the fictional Midwest city of Salem — folksy yet sophisticated, and never short on scandal, not unlike Columbus, Ohio. It’s a short stretch that only seems non sequitur.
“Everyone started with a blank page, but by the end of the week, Frankie and I had helped them create a complete screenplay. But the cast was still a shock,” Martin explained. “Kids admire anyone who has made a career out of doing something they love, and these actors and actresses were so enthusiastic, flexible, and generous. They were every bit as into it as the campers.”
It was actress Martha Madison who happened to see a retweet of Martin’s request and matter-of-factly replied, “Can I bring some friends?” She soon roped in more than a dozen of her costars, all equally eager to give a bunch of adolescent screenwriters the performance they deserved despite a pandemic.
“I’m a big believer in fate. It was an easy ask, everyone said yes,” revealed Madison, better known to many as Belle Black. Her character’s parents John and Marlena have been synonymous with Days of Our Lives for decades. “There was so much character development, and they all had love and murder in the plot. They were real soap operas.”
Like many nonprofits struggling to adapt, the shift to online programming has actually expanded the reach of Thurber House. Much like parents working remotely, kids from across Ohio, and from New York to California, also received insightful lessons in craft and collaboration from screenwriter Amanda Beall, whose credits include The Young and the Restless, All My Children, and General Hospital.
“If you’re a creative person, none of that goes away just because you’re stuck at home. You can still share your experience with anyone anywhere,” Madison noted. “I was very impressed with the writing. I’d love to work again with any one of these kids someday.” ▩
For more on Thurber House and upcoming events and programs, visit thurberhouse.org
Originally published in the July 2020 issue of (614) Magazine
Coworking is collaborative by design, the intersection of independence and interdependence. In many ways, it became the clever alternative to corporate cubicles or home offices, offering the advantages of both without the overhead or isolation.
But like every industry built around bringing people together, the climb now seems more steep for businesses based on communal space when the world and the way we work still seems so far apart. COhatch, among the first such endeavors in Central Ohio, is focused on the future of work, and the ways in which coworking won’t simply facilitate a return to so-called normal, but may become the new standard.
“COhatch was built by small business owners. We’re not this large company that sits back and just looks at spreadsheets asking each other how to optimize,” explained CEO Matt Davis, who remains reluctant when it comes to the “coworking” moniker, considering their larger mission beyond shared square footage. “We were also a group of friends trying to find a better way for our customers to live a balanced life.”
Anyone who has longingly hoped for years to work from home has probably had some buyers remorse in the past few months. That looming pile of laundry and sink full of dishes are the silent distractions companies have always feared would undermine productively. Now even skeptical remote workers are growing sympathetic to such concerns as the lines that define work-life balance become more blurred.
“We pride ourselves in being able to relate with small business owners. We built the kind of environment that allows us to thrive and get the most out of our abilities,” he noted. “So that’s why we’ve spent a lot of time trying to build spaces in the heart of communities where people live. If you live in Dublin, you may want to work in Dublin, not downtown.”
Dublin isn’t an arbitrary example. COhatch has quickly grown to five offices in Central Ohio, with Easton and Dublin among their latest, a new location near Dayton, and expansion into Cleveland, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis already underway. But these also aren’t cookie-cutter concepts. Their original Worthington locations were once a library and a hardware store, and the Polaris space is a former pub. “The Market” in Springfield is the reimagination of a century-old public market now featuring fresh produce, a shared kitchen, and local eateries as well as open and private office space. COhatch doesn’t cover up their character. They embrace it, incorporating it into the brand.
“We’re launching a whole new marketplace where members can sell goods and services. You can advertise or fund your startup. Everyone loves the whole buy local movement, but no one ever really says support your local freelancer,” Davis explained. “So we want to try to get back to smaller communities and build tools to make small businesses more visible and relevant. I actually don’t like being called a coworking space because we’re so much more. Nothing is really out of scope for us.”
Ongoing costs and loss of corporate culture are also serious concerns among even established businesses, once flush now facing an uncertain recovery. Reducing expense through an innovative approach to space was already an advantage COhatch had in its favor, now with newfound value among traditional enterprises of every size.
“We introduced our ‘No Small Business Left Behind’ campaign with a 75 percent discount for the first month, 50 percent the second month, and a 25 percent discount the third month. We also have a 50 percent reduced cost guarantee for large companies,” he explained. “It’s not going to be a 20,000 square-foot dedicated office space. It could be two private meeting spaces on each side of town with a creative lab and 35 coworking passes. But if you’re willing to rethink how you want to work, we’re willing to create something that fits.”
Supporting philanthropic efforts remains a crucial part of their own culture, more so with the current crisis pushing donations to unprecedented lows for many charitable organizations. Dozens of nonprofits also call COhatch home, leveraging evening meeting space and their network of members.There’s also a remodeled, vintage Airstream already used by local charities for mobile legal clinics, résumé writing workshops, even free haircuts for those in need.
“We’re trying to help businesses and nonprofits rebuild together. We need people doing good things, and we can’t let them fail,” Davis explained. “I’m blown away by how many of our members are active in philanthropy. Our nonprofit scholarships are probably one the most rewarding things we have done. It helps us extend our mission of a balanced life into the communities where we work.” ▩
For more on memberships, amenities, and locations, visit cohatch.com
Originally published in the February 2020 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Rebecca Tien
Aslyne Rodriguez is pitch perfect, though not necessarily in any sort of musical sense. Her passion for transportation innovation demands immediate attention in any room, and by the time she’s done making the case for bringing equity to employment through a tiny fleet of commuter buses, folks often find themselves singing the same tune.
But when she was handed the microphone at a gathering of stakeholders at Rev1 Ventures discussing the city’s ongoing efforts to increase economic inclusion, the set list suddenly changed. Instead of delivering her polished pitch on urban mobility to a capacity crowd, she was overcome by her own unlikely origin story. She reflected on her grandparents’ journey from Puerto Rico with only an elementary education, and welled up as she revealed her grandmother’s dream of opening a cake shop that never came to be. Raised near Youngstown, her parents both worked for the local school district—her mother a guidance counselor, her father a school bus mechanic. It was an early epiphany, realizing the parents of the kids who rode those same buses to school everyday often struggled to get to work themselves, that would become the inspiration and driving force behind EmpowerBus.
“That was a raw moment. Something came over me and I needed to tell that story,” confessed Rodriguez, founder of EmpowerBus. “There are communities with the desire to be entrepreneurs but they don’t have the pathway. Not everyone can do a friends and family round of fundraising for their startup. I’m only one generation removed from coming here with limited education and not knowing the language.”
What started with a single 25-passenger bus that shuttled employees from the Morse Road corridor to New Albany has in two years pivoted to a more nimble 14-passenger model with routes throughout Central Ohio, including the addition just last month of an autonomous shuttle service in the underserved neighborhood of Linden as part of the Smart Columbus initiative. It wasn’t a contract she pursued, but one that found her based on a reputation of earnest intentions in a community that can prove short on trust after decades of disappointment.
“We have been loved by the community in a way most companies aren’t. But we’re still very careful about how we use the term ‘social enterprise.’ People think, ‘Oh, you’re a nonprofit and you do good work.’ ‘No, we’re a for-profit business that wants to do good work,’” she explained. “In some circles of Columbus, social enterprises are still misunderstood. We want to grow our business, and take care of our people. It’s how we expand to serve more communities.”
Like most midsize cities, Columbus wasn’t created for cars, but evolved to rely on them almost exclusively. Half a century of urban flight only amplified our cultural dependency on single-occupancy vehicles. Recent years have seen an overdue disruption in transportation, from Uber and Lyft to scooters and self-driving vehicles. But depending on any of those to get to work, an internship, or a doctor’s appointment reliably is dicey at best and undeniably cost prohibitive. For those of more modest means, the transportation revolution is still leaving them behind, and the face of who is left out is changing.
“Everyday in America, 10,000 adults turn 65 years old. They all don’t need shared transportation, but they may be taking care of aging parents who do — and they could soon too, or may just want to opt-out of driving,” she explained. “They call it the ‘Silver Tsunami’. But people are also moving back into cities, they want walkability and maybe don’t want to have or need a car.”
The dynamics of demographics are changing all around. A relatively recent return to city centers has actually reduced the pool of potential employees for companies with warehouses beyond suburbia. Bus routes tend to cover the hours and destinations of those heading into downtown, not out of it. It’s a gap EmpowerBus closes, often cutting travel times by municipal buses in half with fewer stops, and with routes and a scope that have both expanded to bring employees in rural Licking county closer to Columbus, as well as transport employees from the Southeast side to destinations in Delaware.
“How do we get people to a job that helps them advance their lives? Workforce is still a central conversation for us,” Rodriguez noted. “Maybe they are working a job they can walk to that pays them $10 an hour, but maybe with transportation they can get to a job that pays $17 an hour with benefits and a 401k? That’s a big deal, it changes their lives.”
Mobility means more than just transportation, and Rodriguez is the first to admit her ambitions are audacious. Recent partnerships with Spectrum and Accenture will introduce an educational component to EmpowerBus during the ride with tablets as teaching tools. Second-chance employment for those exiting incarceration combined with low unemployment create a catalyst for hiring that wouldn’t happen without access to locations that are desperate for workers, but often in areas where they are in short supply.
“Smart Columbus prompted a broader conversation about workforce transportation. A lot of companies created ‘mobility ambassadors’ to discuss opportunities they wouldn’t have considered otherwise,” she revealed. “We’re also a logistics hub with a lot of manufacturing and distribution that happens here, and the market is tight. Employers are more open now to second-chance employment than they have been in the past. But how do those potential employees get to a job that allows them to restart?”
As with any startup, the future is where the rubber hits the road. Helping prospective employers identify “opportunity zones” based on their current workforce, or simply reducing the demand and cost for employee parking, illustrate the balance of creative and comprehensive solutions the company can offer — more than just in Columbus. Invitations to expand to cities elsewhere in Ohio, as well as surrounding states, show just how far and wide word has spread about EmpowerBus, its founder, and her dream. Aslyne Rodriguez moves people.
“The next step for EmpowerBus is to fulfill everything we set out to do and see what that looks like at scale. Our goal is to deliver upward mobility for all by providing dignified, reliable, on-time transportation to work, education, and healthcare,” she explained. “Expanding into another city and just scraping by isn’t a strategy. We’re a startup that has bootstrapped it so far, and we have to decide if we’re going to go big or grow incrementally. But for now, we’re investing in our people and processes, so when the time comes to scale up, we’ll be ready.” ▩
For more information on EmpowerBus, visit empowerbus.com
Originally published in the November 2019 issue of (614) Magazine
Big things have small beginnings, sometimes just a spoonful.
Columbus SOUP started as a simple concept, borrowed as great ideas often are. Audiences come together to share bowls of soup from local restaurants, listen to pitches from a collection of community advocates, everyone votes with their signature green spoons for the project they want to fund, and the ones with the most votes receive a small grant. Imagine Kickstarter with a supper club spin meets Shark Tank for social change.
“It really struck a chord with me, as something we could pull off, and that would really resonate with the Columbus community,” explained Liz Martin, executive director of Columbus SOUP. “Our city is really receptive to people with a passion for new ideas.”
Introduced through a friend to earlier efforts in Illinois and Michigan, Martin connected a cadre of folks involved in various local community-building efforts over tea on a cold winter’s day to see whether there were enough combined skills and bandwidth to launch a similar SOUP in Central Ohio. Six months later, on June 9, 2013, Columbus SOUP hosted its first event, amid more than a little uncertainty.
“We thought if 35 people showed up, it would be a success. We reached out to people we thought might be interested and received six applications,” she recalled. “All of them were invited to pitch, and we packed the house with more than 100 people at Brothers Drake.”
The idea undeniably resonated and grew to nearly two dozen events in the years that followed—and nearly $60k in grants so far. But it also offered the invaluable experience of distilling an idea down to its essence, then selling it to an audience of strangers with a succinct and inspiring pitch.
“The heart of SOUP nationwide is to fund projects that may not be eligible for traditional funding. These micro-grants give people exactly what they need to achieve something small, yet impactful, in their communities,” Martin explained. “Most of us grew up in an age of giant checks where it seemed like only the wealthy could be philanthropic. SOUP brings philanthropy down to a level where anyone can make a difference.”
Themes quickly became a concept unique to Columbus SOUP. Chicago’s version was created to support arts and culture, while Detroit’s was adapted to serve social justice. Columbus SOUP is both, yet neither, providing access and an audience to a variety of community-led projects that don’t always fit easily into obvious boxes.
Also there since the start is Bryant Miller, director of Columbus SOUP, and among the first folks Martin recruited to the cause. His infectious enthusiasm and knack for putting everyone at ease was also the perfect match as event host, welcoming new and familiar faces, ensuring presentations run smoothly, and sharing the results of voting in a way that recognizes everyone’s efforts—not just those who receive funding at the end of the evening.
“The magic of Columbus SOUP is that it’s very different than any similar organization because we allowed it to morph into what Columbus needs. We just tend to say yes to a lot of things,” Miller revealed. “When we were at the Idea Foundry a couple of years ago, there were some folks who had never been to one before who asked us afterward if we could help them host an event for teenagers, and we said, ‘YES!’ It was an event that reached an audience we hadn’t before. SOUP is about saying yes, giving people a chance, and not trying to put everything in the same box.”
Crowdfunding and collective philanthropy only seem like a novel idea inspired by the internet. But the notion of ordinary folks doing extraordinary things with a humble investment is hardly new. Back in 1938, the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis was still a small and obscure organization that needed a boost, even in the midst of a polio epidemic. That’s when radio and film comedian Eddie Cantor asked Americans from all walks to send 10 cents to the organization’s founder, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. The response was unprecedented, with tens of thousands of letters pouring into the White House the week of FDR’s birthday—just as Cantor requested when he coined the phrase, the “March of Dimes”.
The indelible idea stuck, eventually becoming the name of the organization now focused on providing a healthy start for new mothers and their infants. That sounds like a tall order, but so too was curing polio with pocket change.
Without hyperbole, Columbus SOUP is not so different, offering a solid start to ambitious initiatives with a donation many of us have in our wallets, pooled together to achieve something no one could do alone. SOUP has likewise accomplished its original goal to inspire grassroots ideas and small-scale investment, which is why the next Columbus SOUP will be the last, putting a proverbial lid on the concept and making room for what’s next.
“It’s easy to get hung up on the idea, and many do, that organizations need to go on forever to be significant, and I just don’t believe it. I tend to think of it like a story. What story did we set out to tell? We wanted to share philanthropy in a completely different way,” Miller explained. “We loved the concept behind micro-grants, because they create the opportunity to be the very first group of people to believe in an idea. We feel really good about what we’ve achieved and have accomplished everything we wanted to do. That’s our story.
Everyone has watched a television series or film franchise that effectively ended long before it was over. Columbus SOUP didn’t want to make that mistake by presuming everything worthwhile extends indefinitely. But they’re really only half right. If every event was like a pebble thrown into a pond, the ripples continue to make waves that grow, intersect, and change shape long after the stones were cast. Quantifying the lasting impact six years of SOUPs have had on Columbus is impossible, because the ripples just keep going.
“I think about how distraught everyone was when Independents’ Day ended. All of that energy didn’t go away, now it just goes somewhere else,” he noted. “When you look at all of the new events and festivals inspired by Independents Day that only started after it ended, you can still see the impact.”
The final event, billed as “SOUP’s Last Hurrah” was originally set for November. But an accidental scheduling snafu afforded the opportunity to extend the application deadline, ensuring everyone from presenters to donors won’t miss their chance to celebrate, say goodbye, and raise their spoons one last time.
“We decided the final Columbus SOUP should end how it started, without a theme. We’ve had projects reach out to us that never quite fit into one of our recurring events or common categories,“ Martin explained. “It’s a chance for all of those ideas to finally be heard. This will be the last Columbus SOUP, but it’s still the beginning of something new.” ▩
For details on Columbus SOUP’s final event, or to apply to pitch your idea, visit columbussoup.org
Originally published in the October 2019 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Brian Kaiser
Stacie Skinner doesn’t look like a superhero, but to parents whose kids have food allergies, she’s only missing a mask and a cape. With a secret identity as astute as Bruce Banner and mild-mannered as Peter Parker, her background in retail planning and food industry R&D revealed a hidden superpower.
No one was making really good gluten-free waffles. (Well, she was, but no one knew it yet.)
“I wanted to have my own business, and I knew it would be gluten-free, to accommodate some of the allergies that affected my family,” Skinner explained, whose own childhood memories of cooking with her mother in Lopaus Point, Maine inspired more than just the name of her company. “I thought local farmers markets would be a great place to try out my recipes. But when I started, it was mostly cookies and breads.”
Families with food allergies have to travel a little differently than those who don’t. You can’t just eat anywhere along the way. This writer also happens to have two kids who have issues with both wheat and milk. Before the proliferation of gluten-free and dairy-free options at the average grocery or restaurant, we had to bring all of our food with us. We didn’t simply pack for the weekend. We had to pack like we were going to the Moon.
Skinner’s breakfast staple epiphany similarly came during a family vacation, staying in a hotel room with a kitchen, as many food allergy families often do. Even if you plan to prepare most meals yourself, you can’t pack everything—particularly a waffle iron.
“I bought a box of frozen gluten-free waffles for my son to have while we were there. But when he made them, he held them up to the light and they were so thin, he could see through them,” she recalled. “Then when he ate one, he said they were “disgusting” and asked, ‘Why don’t you sell your waffles?’”
Every superhero has an origin, and it doesn’t have to be as dramatic as gamma rays or a radioactive spider. Skinner followed her son’s suggestion and decided to try selling her waffles at the farmers market, which for aspiring food entrepreneurs is often their first and most effective focus group.
“My other baked goods were selling well, but they weren’t as unique. There were plenty of gluten-free products on the market that were sweet, but not necessarily wholesome,” she noted. “So I decided to let everything else go to focus exclusively on the waffles.”
Ketchup wasn’t Henry Heinz’s first foray into condiments either. His humble start was actually selling horseradish. But something simple and sweet soon proved more popular and profitable.
“I knew the waffles would be a meal component, and hopefully a snack. I felt like they needed to be made with better ingredients that were nutrient dense,” Skinner revealed. “A lot of gluten-free products are simple starches, sugar, and something to bind them together. I wanted these to be more.”
Soon Banana Flax led to additional flavors, like Wild Blueberry, Chocolate Chip, and yes, Pumpkin Spice. A vegan version is among the most frequent requests, and already in the works. Free from most major allergens, raving fans and demand quickly grew beyond just gluten-free customers and local groceries.
“Retailers are used to products that have a crazy shelf life—like two years for some frozen foods. I don’t understand why anyone would have six delicious waffles in their freezer for two years,” she chided. “It’s why partnerships became essential, and I was lucky to have a supportive, local community of fellow makers to guide me.”
That’s when the collaborative culture that binds Columbus became baked into Lopaus Point. Instead of the cutthroat culture common between competitors in most cities, Skinner actually found mentorship among established gluten-free businesses, offering advice and insights on how to grow smarter, not faster. Bake Me Happy, which has their own gluten-free bakery, even sells her waffles. How’s that for an endorsement?
“Just because you’re avoiding an allergen, it doesn’t mean there’s a compromise in your tastes,” she explained. “We think this is the product people deserve, and small makers help create these new markets and can often right the wrongs of big companies whose early attempts fall short.”
Starting a specialty food company in Columbus also happened to be its own happy accident. Skinner’s earlier career brought her from Boston. But after meeting her future husband here and time spent away from Central Ohio, it wasn’t our test market credibility that convinced them to return. It just felt like home.
“Our kids were getting old enough and almost ready to start school, so we moved back to Columbus. It was the only place we both had in common, even though we had no family ties here,” she recalled. “We loved it so much and knew it was where we wanted to raise a family.”
Still very much a local brand, Lopaus Point recently launched a mail-order option for folks beyond the Midwest and East Coast reach of their grocery distribution. Skinner discovered many of her customers not only order for themselves, but as gifts—for someone who may have just been diagnosed with an allergy to college students who still struggle with dining hall fare. There’s even a subscription program. Automatically getting a big box of waffles in the mail every month might be the best thing since Netflix.
Staffing also sets Lopaus Point apart. Their first kitchen was a shared space that worked with Franklin County to provide opportunities for adults with developmental disabilities that too often limit employment options. Now nearly a quarter of her staff have similar challenges, working in roles from preparation to packaging. It was the final ingredient Skinner realized she was missing.
“I knew my company had to be bigger than just a product, and our special needs staff are an integral part of our entire operation,” she explained. “We’re not just serving customers whose dietary needs are often overlooked. It’s also about providing opportunities for people in our community whose potential is overlooked as well. At Lopaus Point, we want everyone to feel included.” ▩
Lopaus Point waffles are available at retailers throughout Central Ohio. For locations and online orders nationwide, visit lopauspoint.com
Originally published in the August 2019 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Kyle Asperger
The unexpected closing of the Grass Skirt Tiki Room later this month isn’t the first time local tiki fans have been broken-hearted.
When the Kahiki sadly shuttered its doors nearly two decades
ago, it wasn’t just the end of an era in Columbus. It was the largest
restaurant of its kind in the country, and nothing matching its quirky
architectural grandeur has been seen since.
Faithful fans still seek coveted collectables, scouring
thrift stores and flea markets for rare finds. But there’s also a secret sect
of tiki enthusiasts hiding in plain sight, quietly curating vintage kitsch
while anonymously funding worthy causes from coast to coast. They call themselves
the Fraternal Order of Moai and even their members remain a mystery.
“When the Kahiki finally closed, many of us were in shock that it was actually gone. But for me, something kind of snapped,” confessed Matt “Kuku Ahu” Thatcher, one of the founders of the obscure order who prefers to go by his Moai moniker. “People wanted to hold onto a piece of the Kahiki by building their own basement tiki bars. But there were three of us who were less interested in finding the artifacts than the people who shared this same strange obsession.”
Nostalgia
often comes at a premium price. One of those old Kahiki menus on eBay will set
you back more than any entrée did back in the day, and a matchbook might cost
you more than a carton of smokes. Even a ceramic tiki tumbler is more expensive
than any drink it ever held. For committed collectors, these aren’t just
treasures and trinkets. They’re art from a bygone age.
“We
thought there might be a dozen of us, enough to get together for backyard
luaus,” he chided. “I joked that maybe we should make it a real club with
fezzes, like the Shriners. It sounded crazy, but the idea stuck.”
Before
Facebook, there wasn’t a turnkey solution to easily locate a group of
like-minded strangers. It was an internet scavenger hunt for people who didn’t
know they were lost. So Ahu created an online forum and invited a few fellow
fanatics, hoping to pull together enough folks to preserve the past before it
faded away.
“We
didn’t expect so many to immediately gravitate to the group. We set out to
create something local, but we started getting interest from Dayton — then
Wisconsin,” Ahu recalled. “There were already several online tiki forums. But
we weren’t trying to become another group of experts, though we are a bunch of
hardcore tiki aficionados. Our goal was always to build an order.”
The
Fraternal Order of Moai is organized much like independent islands scattered
across the vast Pacific, each with unique customs and rituals rooted in a
common ancient culture. Individual groups each choose a cause or charity at the
local level, but the Moai still operate as a
self-described “pirate democracy” with elections and major decisions all coming
down to a vote among the entire membership.
What seemed silly at the time has become something of a
movement with ten chapters nationwide and at-large members worldwide. Some
chapters were started by folks with Columbus ties. Others emerged
independently, inspired by the capital city’s quiet tiki revival.
“Our group is secretive and selective, but our events are
open to everyone,” Ahu explained. “People who come regularly, regardless of
whether they’re members or not, become family we look forward to seeing just as
much as we do each other.”
Their enigmatic membership is more than a secret handshake.
“Tourist” is the tongue-in-cheek terminology for active attendees who are still
outside the order. Those who think they’re worthy must earn the support of
existing Moai and pass a series of challenges, which are also secret. Akin to
the Shriners, the Moose Lodge, and similar animal orders, questions of
character are answered through a process outlined on their website, coyly
branded the “Port of the Initiate”.
The most obvious evidence of the Moai’s influence is also
hiding in plain sight, surrounding unsuspecting guests at the Grass Skirt Tiki
Room. When Columbus Food League decided downtown was overdue for a tiny
tropical oasis, the Moai were early and eager to offer their insights and
assistance. Members carved and cast much of the bar’s décor themselves, nearly
every mask and lamp that makes the contemporary tiki bar feel older and more
authentic than its seven-year history otherwise suggests. Ahu even admits he
may have had a hand in developing the cocktail menu. (He’s a modest Moai.)
“Tiki bars that survive and succeed stick to certain
archetypes and avoid mixing metaphors. Those that don’t tend to go under,” Ahu
explained. “There are still a few classic supper clubs for the purists and
Chinese restaurants that subsequently became tiki bars, so-called ‘fortune
cookie tiki’. But the Southern California, flotsam and jetsam, tiki bars with
layers of personality and lots of locals tend to stay around.”
The
most iconic contribution to the Grass Skirt is undeniably the giant concrete
monkey fountain named George, which used to grace the entrance of the Kahiki.
With support from the Moai, and literally a last minute commitment of
additional funds from the bar, George was saved from the same demise as fellow
monuments from the fabled restaurant.
“We
knew if we didn’t get him, he’d either end up in a private collection instead
of the public eye, or rotting in a field,” he noted. Point of fact, the
enormous Easter Island statues ended up essentially abandoned, while a short
search on YouTube reveals the fate of the famous fireplace still sitting
outdoors under a tarp. “After the auction, we went to pick him up at Kahiki
frozen foods and realized they’d actually constructed the building around him.
They offered to cut him into four pieces to remove him, but the auction said
pickup was outside. You wouldn’t let someone cut a Corvette into four pieces if
you were told you could pick it up in the parking lot?”
Somehow
George ended up outside for pickup as promised. The Moai don’t know how he got
there or if walls or windows were removed to do it. It seems even George has
his secrets.
Aside from “Tiki Tuesdays”, the only time local members
really surface publicly is once a year in August for the annual Hula Hop, a
charity event that raises money for Cure CMD, an organization that funds
efforts to treat congenital muscular dystrophy, and serves as an annual call to
prospective members, some of whom aren’t even old enough to remember the authentic
longhouse that used to be off East Broad Street.
“We didn’t think we could pull off an all-day tiki event in Columbus when we started, so it was a ‘Hot Rod Hula Hop’, with classic cars and we brought in all of the decorations to turn a regular bar into a tiki bar,” Ahu explained. “But now with the Grass Skirt, it’s become just the ‘Hula Hop’ with five live bands, vendors, and food trucks. Instead of selling tickets or charging a cover, folks come for free, buy drinks and make donations directly. People know where their money goes.”
The Fraternal Order of Moai, whose exact ranks remain unknown, has funded several studies and drug trials through Cure CMD. But recognition and notoriety were never the goal.
“It was a cockamamie idea that started out as performance art, but it turned into something more,” Ahu admitted. “Now we’re a registered nonprofit and pretty darned legit. Tiki bars are popping up across the country, even in Europe. But in Columbus, even after the Kahiki closed, they never really went away.” ▩
The 2019 Hula Hop is August 10 at the Grass Skirt Tiki Room, 105 N Grant Avenue.
For details on the event and the Fraternal Order of Moai, visit fraternalorderofmoai.org
Originally published in the April 2019 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Brian Kaiser
When Brooke Sousa stepped on stage at the Arnold Classic’s strongwoman competition for the first time in 2016, she’d already beaten the odds. The mother of two from Westerville had dropped 115 pounds and completed her first marathon before pivoting to weightlifting. But she was still an unranked amateur with no expectation of even placing.
Sousa finished dead last in every event. It wasn’t the first time.
“Running was something I’d hated since elementary school. When we’d run the mile, I was always the last kid around the block,” she confessed. “At 10 years old, I was 180 pounds. I was the fat kid who hoped I might someday be famous for my artwork.”
She pursued that passion at the Columbus College of Art and Design, but it was her two young daughters who inspired her unlikely origin story — to get in shape and forge a new path. However, when Sousa joined a local gym, it was her raw strength, not her size, that stood out most among her fitness class.
“The lowest weight I could get down to was 215 pounds. I weighed more than that as a teenager, trying to fit in with what America expects a woman to look like,” Sousa recalled. “But I could lift a 15-pound barbell, so they called me She-Hulk and the name stuck.”
That was six years ago. Last summer, she lifted a little more.
At a competition in Norway this past July, Sousa lifted 285 pounds simultaneously with each hand in the “Hercules Hold,” carried nearly 600 pounds in the “Timber Yoke,” and dragged 17 rolling tons in the “Truck Pull” to win the heavyweight division and the title “World’s Strongest Woman.”
That first Arnold measured a different kind of strength. Sousa’s sacroiliac joint, or SI, had locked up her lower back days before the competition. She knew it was still better for future qualification to compete than withdraw. But she also feared serious injury. It was ultimately the realization that she needed a new coach, and a new approach.
“I spent four months researching coaches to make sure I would be ready for the Arnold 2017. I was undertrained and underprepared,” she lamented. “That’s how I met Matt Wenning. He competed for 25 years and set three world records without ever being injured.”
Wenning’s westside gym in East Franklinton, Ludus Magnus, was the right fit all around. Bearing the same name as ancient Rome’s most prestigious school for gladiators, it offers a modest mix of old school black iron and custom equipment for serious competitors.
“Matt’s created a couple pieces of equipment, like the belt squat machine, that taught me how to use my hips correctly,” noted Sousa. “When I first started here, I could only lift the frame, which is 45 pounds, without knocking my back out. Now I can load it up to almost 800 pounds.”
Bodybuilding and weightlifting are fundamentally different. The former is judged on appearance, the latter on performance. The two are practically as different mechanically as men and women, similar but not the same. And much like women’s hockey and soccer, there are undeniable advantages to a lower center of gravity, where a hip check or swift kick can beat their best male counterparts.
“I’d rather show judges what I can do instead of standing on stage looking pretty,” she laughed. “I actually gained 30 pounds training for my first marathon, and now I run with a 100-pound weighted vest to make myself heavier, to maintain my strength.”
Much like the men’s divisions, women’s weightlifting tends to come with injuries, often career ending. Since bouncing back from that first defeat and going pro in 2017, Sousa is now the only competitor of the original ten from that inaugural year still competing at the Arnold. Though she didn’t rank first this time, she sees her weightlifting career as its own marathon.
“You can change the events and change the competitors and it’s anyone’s game. Our scores were all so close,” she explained. “I lifted a personal best in every event and I didn’t push myself into an injury. I’m still winning.”
That doesn’t mean Sousa isn’t pushing herself. In additional to training firefighters and other folk whose safety and ours rely on proper conditioning, she also makes time for an unexpected weightlifting clientele — children with autism.
“When I used to workout at a commercial gym, I noticed a therapist struggling to work with a young girl who had autism. So, I offered to help,” Sousa recalled. “That’s what eventually led last year to The M Foundation.”
Named for two of her earliest and youngest clients, Maddy and Maggie, the nimble nonprofit couples Sousa’s experience and enthusiasm with a support staff trained in serving children with special needs into a novel combination of fitness and focus.
“When I started working with Maddy and Maggie, they didn’t have the balance the ride a bike, or squat without falling over because of weakness in their core,” she said. “I wanted to create a safe, fun environment for kids who often struggle to fit in, just like I did.”
Sousa’s work is more sophisticated than it outwardly appears. Beyond basic fitness training, the resistance and feedback of lifting weights and exercise of specific muscle groups improves overall mobility and body awareness. The social component of group classes also helps students overcome an equally daunting limitation to acceptance.
“Maggie used to struggle to do a single push up, and now her favorite activity in the gym is the bench press,” Sousa explained. “You have no idea how far she’s come to be able to rep out 85 pounds at 15 years old. She’s now to the point where she can help others use the equipment correctly, and has the social skills and self-confidence to do it.”
Sousa’s feats of strength are already becoming legendary. But she knows The M Foundation is as much a part of her legacy, and the attention her physical achievements bring to her other ambition is a record that will last long after the awe and applause fade.
Though the She-Hulk hook started as an aspirational nickname, it’s accidentally become a metaphor for metamorphosis — motivating others to look past appearance and ability to appreciate the true strength within.
“When I’m up on stage competing in front of fans and judges who’ve seen me before, it just pushes me harder,” Sousa said. “They already know I’m strong. But now I’m stronger.” ▩
For more details on Ludus Magnus and The M Foundation, visit wenningstrength.com and themfoundationkids.org
Originally published in the January 2019 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Brian Kaiser
Carter Stewart isn’t your average crimefighter, and he’ll
surely shun the description as much as he defies the stereotype.
Following a career watching broken systems contribute to incarceration, the former US Attorney for the Southern District of Ohio left government service to become a full-time mentor for the social enterprise sector. Riding a borrowed desk at the Columbus Foundation, he’s a one-man Midwest outpost for the Draper Richards Kaplan Foundation, recruited and charged with identifying worthy causes and applying Silicon Valley ingenuity to philanthropy-focused businesses — all to the tune of more than $100 million.
Imagine if instead of investing in capes
and cowls, Bruce Wayne spent a fortune funding innovative approaches to solving
long-standing injustices?
Not exactly cinematic, but far more
effective. And it’s also more fundamental than simply fighting crime; it’s
addressing the underlying circumstances that foster it. The shortage of services,
access, and advocacy are all predictable indicators for both victims and
perpetrators. Equipped with the insights and instincts of a prosecutor weary of
always being on the receiving end of avoidable tragedies, Stewart shares his
experience and expertise with fellow do-gooders, guiding them from shaky
startups to scalable success.
We first met a few months back at Roosevelt
Coffeehouse, itself an anchor for the local social enterprise movement. Overdue
for a follow-up cup, we discussed the future of “purpose beyond profits” and
why Columbus is the perfect incubator for ideas that really could change the
world.
A career in criminal
justice isn’t the typical résumé for a social justice champion. You’ve seen the
world through an entirely different lens than most foundations. How has your
work as a US Attorney informed your search for solutions through social
enterprise?
It’s not uncommon to leave law to go into the nonprofit sphere, but it is uncommon to leave prosecution. The only other US Attorney I know who has done it is in Pittsburgh. I actually surveyed colleagues at the DOJ to see if anyone else had done this, and he was the only one. My desire to help is based on what I’ve seen as a prosecutor as much as my childhood experiences growing up in the South, in Atlanta. So many of the people my office prosecuted came from broken systems — school systems that weren’t adequate, housing situations that were poor. So many people in state and local jails suffer from mental health issues, addiction issues. I felt that if we could fix those broken systems, it would reduce the number of people who end up in the criminal justice system.
Social media and
social enterprise seem to have come of age at the same time. There’s not a
mutual dependency, but an undeniably growing parallel between purpose and
purchase. What trends in digital connectivity distinguish successful social
enterprises from those that fizzle out?
I can’t say there’s one pattern, but there is recognition of the importance of social media, especially for start-up organizations that don’t have a big budget and want to spread the word as far and wide as possible. Everyone we fund has to have a website. It sounds obvious, but they have to have something up and running. But we still have some organizations that are spread more by word of mouth. ROX, Ruling Our Experiences, is an excellent example. It’s a program that teaches girls leadership, entrepreneurship, self-defense, self-awareness. The 20-week program is spread, mostly in-person, by the founder, Dr. Lisa Hinkelman, speaking at conferences to school counselors — who then Google it. It’s the second bite at the apple. They hear from her first, then they learn more online and decide it’s something they want to pursue. But our organizations aren’t limited to the US, and some are dependent on social media to work. We have an organization based in Uganda called BarefootLaw. All of the lawyers are in the capital city of Kampala, but most of the people live in rural areas. So when they have legal issues, they use Facebook messaging to connect to BarefootLaw. It wouldn’t exist without that platform. So it’s a mix. Some rely on it, and for others it’s secondary. But where it’s critical for everyone is funders, who are more likely to research an organization before contacting it directly. They don’t want to raise hopes or expectations too early. It’s interwoven and social entrepreneurs recognize that.
There can be friction between
traditional nonprofits and social enterprises serving the same cause. Ideally,
raising awareness creates a larger pie, and everyone gets a bigger slice. How
should social enterprises answer the concern that they’re competing for the
same donors and dollars?
There is a perspective among some funders that there are too many nonprofits — to solve education, to solve poverty. Instead of creating new ones, we should improve and, perhaps in some cases, combine the ones that we have. There’s a degree of creation exhaustion. I happen to disagree. You need constant creation and rebirth, new ideas cycling in. Traditional nonprofits that have never considered the social enterprise model might feel threatened by that new entity going after the same funding dollars. In an ideal world, the new entity inspires the older entity to change and to grow. I consider the YMCA one of the oldest social enterprises in the country because they have a revenue stream. You pay for membership. So even though most nonprofits haven’t had that revenue stream, social enterprises have been around. It’s just been a small slice. I haven’t heard traditional nonprofits wishing social enterprises would go away as much as how can they be more like them and less dependent on philanthropic capital. And I think social enterprises can learn from nonprofits, their leadership structures and governance models. It’s a dynamic evolution that will hopefully lift everyone up.
Traditional businesses can also feel
threatened by social enterprises. We don’t just vote every four years for
president and every two years for Congress. We vote every day with our wallets.
How do both kinds of businesses build brands that inspire their customers to
become agents of change?
That competition should help businesses recognize the importance of having a second bottom line. Maybe not a social mission, but a mindset of corporate citizenship. That’s what drives people to Roosevelt Coffeehouse. They know when they spend money, the company does good things with it. It’s a brand they feel good supporting. TOMS Shoes is a classic example — you buy one and they give one. Not all tension is bad, and there can be positive creative tension between traditional businesses and social enterprises. Draper Richards Kaplan has someone on staff with whom we connect all of our entrepreneurs, to understand that communications is how you reach people, but branding is more, and an essential part of our process. Some folks come with more savvy than others, but in addition to helping build capacity they’re also building a brand. It’s something you should do in the early stages of your organization, so it becomes ingrained in your DNA.
The Midwest often gets overlooked when
it comes to venture capital, despite our academic credibility, technological
capacity, and desirable test market demographics. What does the Draper Richards Kaplan Foundation see in
Columbus that many still miss?
We’re a particular type of donor. Not all donors look for what we look for, most don’t. Most foundations I know won’t fund an organization unless they’ve been around for four or five years. And they don’t always look for organizations with the potential to scale. They look for organizations that are well-run, already likely to survive, and succeeding in their mission. We look for organizations at an earlier stage, those that have finished a pilot and want to go big. Not just Columbus, but in Cleveland, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Chicago, maybe nationwide. We look for ideas that have the potential to disrupt, to change broken systems, and not many funders share that desire. But in Columbus, there’s a hunger for it. Social enterprise is a buzzword, and they’ve been in Columbus for years before I got here. But 75 percent of funding still goes to the east coast and the west coast, and that’s a huge oversight. People were looking for mechanisms to get national funding to Central Ohio, to build and scale the organizations that are here and those just getting started. There’s a synergy between governments and businesses, nonprofits and social enterprises. It’s an enthusiasm and pride many on the coasts don’t realize is here. I was once one of those people. I lived in New York and California. It was my wife who decided we were moving to Columbus 13 years ago, and I still tell people it’s the best decision I never made. ▩
For more on social enterprises and the Draper Richards Kaplan Foundation, visit drkfoundation.org
Originally published in the August 2018 issue of (614) Magazine
Photo by Collins Laastch
Scott Mulhollen stared at the screen in silent disbelief. With only an hour notice, he’d received a tip on an eBay auction too good to be true. As the clock ticked away with only seconds to spare, he made his first and only bid.
He took a moment to let the win sink in, then he picked up
the phone to confirm it was all really happening. The stranger who
answered seemed somber, then his wife got on the line and was clearly
confused. She didn’t even know her husband was selling it.
“Who is this?” she asked again, to which he politely replied, “I’m Scott, the guy who just bought your DeLorean.”
Graciously offering to back out of the sale, Mulhollen learned the car was the couple’s first purchase together when they were wed in 1982 and had been meticulously maintained ever since. But now retired and downsizing, it was time to move on.
“I didn’t have the heart to tell them what I was going to
do to their car. You never know how someone is going to react,” he
recalled. “So I chose to respect their memories, assuring them I was
going to take care of it as lovingly as they had, that it wasn’t going
to a chop shop or flipper.”
Mulhollen wasn’t kidding. He loves the car, and has his whole life. But he’s no classic car aficionado or broker of automotive ephemera intent on turning a quick buck.
“You rarely find a car this pristine and well preserved, and never at this price,” Mulhollen explained, whose bid was well above the $28,500 he actually paid. “The guy who owned it before me was an electrical engineer and stripped the entire car and rewired it, because DeLoreans were known for sometimes catching on fire. Collectors want everything original, so I was the only bidder.”
That was hardly the end of the upgrades. It’s taken nearly 30 years and a small fortune to realize the vision of his adolescence. But after months of delays and painstaking modifications, Scott Mulhollen is now the owner of a bona fide time machine.
“I remember sitting in the theater as a kid watching Back to the Future and dreaming about someday owning ‘that car,’” he confessed.
Mulhollen now runs his own self-defense school, which often requires connecting with kids who aren’t always easy to reach. A long-time collector of iconic ’80s memorabilia, his office is more of a museum dedicated to his childhood, from Garfield to Ghostbusters. Not just trinkets either — everything from autographed animation cells to a legit proton pack. Even his martial arts background and enthusiasm for teaching grew out of his own experience with bullying. He was an actual Karate Kid who defied more than a few naysayers and turned a calling into a career. “When kids come here, it helps to let them know I was just like them,” he explained. “But there was still that one big dream that remained out of reach.”
For those of a certain age, it’s almost impossible to overstate how beloved Back to the Future is as both a personal and pop cultural milestone. I was an exchange student to Japan in the summer of ’86 and my host brother had a bootleg recording of just the audio from Back to the Future he’d played on his Walkman nearly nonstop for a year before I arrived. It’s essentially how he learned English. We’re still in touch, and can still exchange every line of dialogue even decades later.
“When I was initially considering all of this, I knew it had to be a business to make sense, but one that enabled me to share this passion with others and make a positive impact,” he recalled. “With the right combination of private rentals and charity events, I knew I could make it work.”
It cost nearly twice as much to convert the car as he’d paid for it, and it shows. It looks handmade, which it is and as it should. There’s a delicate balance to creating cinematic replicas. Too stingy and it feels cheap. Too polished and it feels mass-produced. Perhaps only the Batmobile is as indelible down to the most exacting detail. Complete with lighting and sound effects, diodes and doodads, Marty McFly himself couldn’t tell the difference.
“When the film’s prop makers were designing the car, they wanted it to look like something Doc Brown could have made in his garage,” he explained. “It took the builder seven months, and even then, he’d have taken another month or two if I let him.”
Once you get past the heavy price tag, the sticker shock gives way to immediate envy. Plenty of people spend as much or more on a midlife crisis car that no one wants to have over for their birthday party or private gathering. You could have just another Tesla, or you could have a time machine and folks will gladly pay you to come hang out for a few hours.
“My goal is three years to pay off the car, a few big gigs and we’ll get there,” he noted. “The car isn’t really an expense; it’s an investment that holds its value. I could sell it tomorrow and still make money on the deal.”
Delays in the conversion pushed the debut until just after Ready Player One’s premiere — which was unfortunate, but not tragic. Summer commitments like Ohio Comic Con and a recent al fresco screening of Back to the Future at the Gateway Film Center were already booked, and events to raise funds for children’s charities and Parkinson’s research were also in the works. But blockbuster blowouts aren’t the only option to get up close and personal with a piece of the past, or the future.
“I have a woman coming down today from Toledo with her husband to see the car, and he has no idea. Those are the reactions that are priceless,” Mulhollen said. “People get emotional, they get overwhelmed. I’ve had people cry before, whether you’re a CEO or the guy who operates the forklift. They may be in their forties, but when they sit in this car, suddenly they’re 10 again. It really is a time machine.” ▩
For scheduled events and private rental details, visit ohiotimemachinerental.com
Originally published in the October 2017 issue of (614) Magazine
Kimberly Rottmayer is going to make you an offer you can’t refuse. The photographer by trade is as snappy as her shutter, fierce as her fervor, and undeniable as her freckles. She’s disarming, yet demanding. “No” is not an answer. If you’re a dog, she may just be your best friend — and luckily, she’s not alone.
Rottmayer is part of a clever clique of vocal volunteers at the Franklin County Dog Shelter and Adoption Center, a role that shouldn’t be as controversial as it has become. It was barely a year ago when a distemper outbreak resulted in the euthanizing of nearly a hundred dogs, a heart-wrenching decision that polarized animal advocates and shelter officials. Procedures and protocols have been thoroughly reviewed and revised since then, but those aren’t the only things that have changed.
“Being a volunteer dog walker at the shelter can be a very positive experience, working to help dogs get adopted. But it can be emotionally trying,” admitted Rottmayer. “You also get to know the dogs that have been there for months that may only get one walk a day.”
For
perspective, imagine living in a cage or kennel and getting only 20
minutes a day to walk, play, and just be a dog? (Even inmates at a
maximum-security prison get an hour in the yard.)
“Over time, you can see the dogs change — become less interactive, less adoptable,” she explained. “After the distemper incident, lots of volunteers quit coming. Those of us who keep coming do it for the dogs. We’re often the only advocates they have.”
Volunteers are tasked with walking dogs to maintain that human connection and mitigate the behaviors that typically come from extended isolation. There’s a class requirement, but students, retirees, flight attendants, and the like who love canines, but maybe don’t have the schedule or time to commit to a dog full-time, fill the ranks.
Then there’s the “Shelter Mafia”.
“It was just a hashtag I came up with to describe the shelter volunteers,” Cindy Renner said modestly. She has been a volunteer for years and witnessed the fall off in dog walkers first-hand. “We have a great group of new and old volunteers who would do anything for our shelter dogs.”
When
she says “anything” she means it. Sometimes the only barrier between a
dog finding a home and never leaving the shelter is a decent photo.
Renner made it her mission to get one particular dog adopted, so she
started taking pictures of him—lots of pictures. Denoted with the
hashtag #dailysam, the series of snapshots revealed the personality of
the pooch in a way a single image couldn’t. It was a hook and a hashtag
that stuck.
“It’s so easy to take a picture with your
phone, so we all started doing it to promote the dogs on our own social
media accounts. Cindy tagged one of hers #sheltermafia and that was it,”
Rottmayer recalled. “Now all of the extra things we do for the dogs
from enrichment to marketing had a name.”
Among the changes made by the shelter is a new intake process, keeping dogs together that come in on the same day to control exposures, and providing preventive vaccinations. But dogs also go through the system faster now. That sounds good, but it inevitably means dogs that aren’t adopted, go to “rescue” status more quickly, making them less likely to be adopted before they’re put down.
That’s when the Shelter Mafia offers its protection, with a hard social media push of photos, short videos, and persuasive pitches on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and in-person to find foster families to buy each dog a little more time, before it runs out.
Despite the mob mentality, no one is set in their ways. There’s no “Godfather” calling all the shots. “New people bring in a new perspective,” noted Renner.
“It’s not all online. During adoption events, we started printing up old school flyers — you know, like bands do — promoting what makes each dog special,” Rottmayer explained. “We’re the ones who know the dogs, their personalities, whether they get along well with other dogs, or are maybe too rambunctious for small children — traits that are hard to see when someone is only looking at a dog in a cage or kennel that may be reactive, shy, or scared.”
Though there is still some conflict, there is also collaboration. All of those canine candids from the Shelter Mafia are now exchanged with the interns who manage the Franklin County Dog Shelter’s own social media presence, so they too can better promote adoptions. The shelter also started sharing posts from its volunteers, which is quite a turnaround following some unflattering hashtags that emerged in the wake of last year’s tragedy.
Metrics aren’t perfect measurements, but in the past five years, the number of dogs that have been euthanized at the shelter has fallen by roughly 75 percent, from 6,275 in 2011 to 1,617 in 2016. More than 10,000 dogs a year still find their way into the shelter. But that number has been trending down as well — and volunteers are an undeniable part of that, even before the Shelter Mafia emerged to employ its strong-arm, social media tactics.
“There’s probably a more scientific name for it, but we call it deterioration. The longer a dog is at the shelter, the less social they become. So we have to become more social,” Rottmayer noted. “You see it happening, but you also see the difference we can make. That’s what keeps us coming back, what gets us up in the morning, even in the snow. Every day, every picture, every post — we know everything we do helps a dog find a home.” ▩
Interested
in adopting a dog, joining the Shelter Mafia, or just taking a walk
once in a while with a four-legged friend? Contact the Franklin County
Dog Shelter and Adoption Center at franklincountydogs.com or
614-525-DOGS.
