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Posts Tagged ‘family’

Replace the Word Re—d with Respect

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2013| Leave a Comment »

The sad truth is that most evil is done by people who never make up their minds to be either good or evil. (Hannah Arendt)

Computers fascinate my granddaughter Ella. She knows how to maneuver the icons on her Samsung Galaxy tablet, and her small fingers move with alarming speed from screen to screen. Sure, her tripled chromosome adds learning challenges. However, since she creates an atmosphere of joy wherever she goes, her efforts spread courage, too.

If Ella can work harder to reach a goal, so can I.

Since I have experienced the wonder and beauty of a child with Down syndrome, I wince when someone uses the R-word, that taunt that ends in a d. It is not used by the medical community, only by the unthinking. (By the way, Ella is a child with Down syndrome, not a Down syndrome child; the difference may appear subtle, but it isn’t. She is first a person, and second, she is a child who has a challenge to overcome. Also,  the word syndrome is not capitalized unless it is part of a title, such as the Down Syndrome Association where the emphasis is on an organization, not a person.)

Grammar, however, is secondary. An understanding of people is what matters.

Today is the day to pledge to end the r-word:   http://www.r-word.org/

Many folk who have handicaps have more determination than college graduates. Actually, with help from the caring, some people with special needs have earned college diplomas.

So, today, right now, replace that put-down word with respect. It goes a lot further and delivers a lot more truth.

r words

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THE BIG PICTURE AND PINT-SIZED PERSPECTIVE

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on March 1, 2013| 1 Comment »

Act as if what you do makes a difference. It does. (William James)

Five-year-old Rebecca knows the days of the week now, and she knows I pick her up from preschool whenever I can on Wednesdays. However, the message didn’t get through the system today, and the kids lined onto the buses a minute or two earlier than usual. Since the parents and grandparents have to wait outside, this freeze-cat grandmother waited in the car until the last minute.

Rebe sees me from her bus. She had already told the bus driver, “Grandma could be coming.” All turns out well. I am known at the school and my appearance is part of an established routine. However, I am glad the confusion happened because it is concrete evidence of how important I am to this little girl. She told all her friends, including her favorite bus driver, she was spending the day with Grandma.

Rebe grins. Fun time begins. A stop at the grocery that should take five minutes requires twenty because Rebe sits in a car cart, her taxi, and we stop in the wider sections of the store to pick up and drop off imaginary passengers.

When I bring her home she becomes the mother and I am the child, always an interesting scenario.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she says as she pats her cousin’s cloth doll, positioned under her shirt. “Today.” The delivery, of course, is simple. She pulls the infant out from under her shirt. No hospital admission. No paperwork. No bed necessary, really.

“So what is the baby’s name?” I ask.

“She doesn’t have one yet. She was just born.”

At least we know the baby is a girl. “Oh, well then how about Emily, Grace, or Mary?”

Rebe looks at me with complete seriousness: “Hadalittlelamb.”

“The baby’s name is Hadalittlelamb?”

“Yes.”

Do not laugh. Smiling is okay. But the full-blown guffaw is forbidden. “Okay.”

“We can go home now.” All life is shortened and edited in Rebe’s imaginary world. I don’t always know where we are in it, however.

“I’ll go get the baby’s car seat. Okay, Mom?”

Apparently I made the right choice. It’s hard to tell with a child’s fluctuating imagination. But Rebe forgives me for not reading her mind in the world of pretend. After all I’m pretty rusty at it.

I do know that there will be Wednesdays when I won’t be able to be at school for a variety of reasons, so she will have to ride the bus to her babysitter’s house. My little girl will need to know—in advance.

Yet, somehow, I feel like I will be missing something on those days, too. We’ll catch up on the next week. She won’t be little forever, and my wrinkles deepen just a little bit more every day. May I savor every precious moment.

pic from What Makes My Heart Sing

from What Makes My Heart Sing

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A Positive Look at a Dirty Dust Cloth

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2013| Leave a Comment »

All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us. (J.R.R. Tolkien)

Cleaning and organization have never been my forte, but since my house has never learned to clean itself, the job falls on me. I suspect that if I ever learned how to direct that magical act, I could earn big bucks. It’s not going to happen. My budget doesn’t include paying for a housekeeper.

Therefore, since there were five kids playing in my tiny abode yesterday, I may as well roll up my sleeves, get to work and put toys back on shelves, clean up spills, and remove multiple fingerprints from the computer, walls, and table tops.

At one time I resented the time housework stole from my creative work. Then I learned to tidy up my spiritual life as I wiped down floors and removed Cheerios from the couch cushions. The ordinary actions of home maintenance remind me of the people who bring the most gratitude.

Sure our refrigerator is old and rusty. However, it has held countless drawings presented with love by some incredible grandchildren. It’s something of a grandmother’s unframed Louvre. No, the artwork doesn’t resemble anything painted by Monet, but the pieces were given with enough enthusiasm to warrant wiping off the ranch dressing smeared around the borders—even if those marks were made by the artist.

Cleaning is a time for me to recall what I have versus what I don’t. Oh, that doesn’t mean stray thoughts don’t sneak through, those negative notions that can ruin a moment like a fly dropping into a bowl of soup. But those interruptions don’t need to snowball.

Okay, dust cloth. Let’s get to work. And thanks, my dear husband. I am sure other wives will agree: There are few visions more beautiful than a husband on his hands and knees scrubbing a rug. Love you, sweetheart!

this place was clean . . .

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Ageless Enthusiasm

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013| Leave a Comment »

We are always the same age inside. (Gertrude Stein)

My maternal grandmother was a consummate seamstress. If she could imagine it, she could sew it. When she was a young woman she took a notebook to store windows, made crude sketches, and then went home and recreated what she saw—tailored to size for select customers.

Once she made a dress with a spider-webbed skirt. I never saw it since she had constructed it long before I was born. It remains part of the legend of Grandma. No one ever mentioned how much she earned; I got the clear impression her work was severely under-priced.

I decided to become a fashion designer when I was in middle grade school, probably because of the stories I heard about Grandma. I loved to draw. I made detailed descriptions of the front and back of dresses. Since I wasn’t keen on cleaning up after myself, I left my work and crayons lying around for Grandma to pick up.

Instead of complaining, Grandma made one of my imagined designs for me: a teal sleeveless dress with V-neck and V-back with a long fabric bow that reached almost to the hem line, a cinched waist, and billowing skirt. My grandmother always made clothes for me that were a tad too big, a result of Depression-era thinking. Clothing needed to last—for as long as possible. Hard times could appear again, by her way of thinking. She knew what it was like to have no food in the house. She remembered an occasion when her cupboard had been bare until her brother stopped by with a bushel of green beans. So, my custom-made dress was mad to last a loooong time.

Perhaps that fear that those few dollars she spent on cloth may never be replaced made her gift even more precious. Nevertheless, I recall how excited I was when I saw her creation, the shine in Grandma’s blue eyes—her payment, a granddaughter’s enthusiastic thank-you. I felt an appreciation of my ability to be creative, too. I could put down an idea on paper, then watch it develop, step into real life.

Enthusiasm comes naturally to a child who knows she is loved. That love doesn’t have to be perfect, just available, from some steady source. Grandma’s quiet presence and steady needle were always there.

I may never know what gifts I leave to my grandchildren. I can only guess. When I picked up Rebecca from pre-school last week she told me she had a surprise and couldn’t wait to show me: a picture of mittens, one colored yellow and the other blue. The text read: “If my grandma made me mittens . . .” I gathered that she was stating that whatever I give my girls, it wouldn’t be traditional. So far they each have a song and  a poem. Rebe envisions mittens in mismatched colors.

As long as joy is included in some form, it doesn’t matter how it arrives, colored in yellow, blue, plaid or indigo.

“What should we play now?” I asked her, eye to eye. After all, we were the same age at that moment, both children in spirit, eager to share our enthusiasm for one another.

“House,” she answered. Always the same answer, never the same game.

growing old optional

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Feeding the Inner Wolf

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on January 26, 2013| 2 Comments »

I have learned silence from the talkative, toleration from the intolerant, and kindness from the unkind; yet strange, I am ungrateful to these teachers. (Kahlil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist 1883-1931) 

I am aware of choice, a precious gift. When the beautiful appears I want to savor and celebrate it. Every moment can’t be mountain-top glorious. If it were, the wonderful would turn into take-it-for-granted.

In the past few weeks, life has given me many lessons. However, I am alluding to only two events. The first occurred one afternoon when I was unexpectedly confronted by someone who holds a long-term grudge against me. The second, far more pleasant,  took place as I prepared a family party. The details  of the first situation don’t need to be shared to be understood. Almost every living person faces folk on different wave lengths. This is the only point that matters: Do I allow someone rent-free space in my head or not?

When I think about scenario two, preparing to celebrate four family birthdays, however, I smile. Eight-year-old Kate painted assembly-line style, and told stories about what she drew: hearts, swirls, action. Enthusiasm for each person being honored flowed as she created. Five-year-old Rebe worked quickly with a few wild strokes across the page. She picked out which tablecloth we should use, and then played with Grandpa. Okay, so the afternoon wasn’t newsworthy. It highlighted the beauty of the gift of family. I treasured that, and didn’t waste the moment fussing about something I couldn’t control anyway.

The Cherokee legend of the Two Wolves explains choice well. The following story is taken directly from FIRST PEOPLE, THE LEGENDS: http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TwoWolves-Cherokee.html

An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.

“It is a terrible fight and it is between two wolves. One is evil—he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.” He continued, “The other is good—he is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you—and inside every other person, too.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

I would like to say that I have completely forgotten about the person who harbors resentment against me. I haven’t. I am fortunate enough to have made very, very few enemies in my life. Strange, as I think about it, the great people of the world have fought many adversaries. Hmmn, looks like I may be meek, but I also don’t take many risks. Perhaps I am now in a position of opportunity, not threat. This place may present a new taste for the Good Wolf.

Whenever this person’s name comes into my mind I pray that she receives the same blessings I would want for myself. Then, all I feel is sadness for her and joy for me as the sun shines through the seven child-simple paintings hung along my back window. Seven is the ancient Hebrew symbol for wholeness, creation, good fortune. The Good Wolf symbolizes healthy spiritual choices in life. I think I’ll keep the girls’ art gallery on display a tad longer—as a reminder of greater possibilities.

feed the good wolf Optimism Revolution

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Ella, Made of Spunk and Angel Wings

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2013| Leave a Comment »

There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with. (Harry Crews, novelist and playwright)

Dictionary.com defines a whirling dervish as “a member of a Turkish order of dervishes, or Sufis, whose ritual consists in part of a highly stylized whirling dance.” However, mothers and grandmothers see another wild dance in their two and three-year-old kids on their way to world domination. Very few little folk walk from one place to another. They move with a swift, designed purpose—preferably toward something forbidden.

Yes, I know I’m not allowed in the bathroom alone. However . . . Ella doesn’t talk, but her eyes communicate well, so does the slam of the door. I open it as she signs washing her hands, which really means playing in the water. I tell her she may NOT close the door, and we will play in the water after she listens. Besides, even if I roll up her sleeves, they are going to get wet, soaked if possible. She must expect the warmth of her personality to dry them.

Ella grins. I notice that she really does need her hands washed. I guess the quick wipe after lunch wasn’t sufficient, but I win when it comes to prolonged play at the faucet. She doesn’t fuss as we leave the sink, without extended splashing. Our house may be small, but we have plenty of adventurous nooks for a young child to explore. I smile recalling the long road our little one has traveled.

She was born premature with Down syndrome at three pounds and three ounces. I recall her Giraffe bed. Giraffe is a brand name for a high-tech bed that keeps a critical-care newborn warm. It also makes procedures possible without moving a fragile, tiny body. Ella’s first nutrition was intravenous, by hyperalimentation until a defect known as duodenal atresia, could be corrected.

I was fortunate to be one of her primary caretakers while she was in the hospital. During that time I wrote and recorded a song for her. However, her premature system was unable to absorb simultaneous sounds. The song can still be accessed from the site I used before I began this blog: http://terrypetersen.webs.com/music.htm  (Scroll down to find the lyrics to Ella’s song. It was not possible to access the sound track temporarily. It works now. Don’t know why!)

Ella runs to the refrigerator and pulls off a magnetic letter C. “Kuh, kuh,” she says. Then she grabs an M. “Mmmmm.”

“Very good. And you are mmm good, too.”

Her shirt reveals her belly as she raises her arms for me to pick her up. I see the scar from the feeding tube from her first year. She doesn’t remember her infancy. She wants something mmm good from the refrigerator.

Years ago, if people would have told me I would be happy to be the grandmother of a child with Down syndrome, I would have asked them what color the sky was in their fantasy land.  Now, I know the gifts our little girl brings make wealth look trifling. When I wrote that she was “made of spunk and angel wings,” I had no idea how prophetic my own words would become.

(Ella in her Harley jacket. Note speed-blur)

Ella in Harley Jacket Dec. 2012

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Pretending to Hide From the Paparazzi

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2013| Leave a Comment »

For a man to achieve all that is demanded of him he must regard himself as greater than he is. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, poet, dramatist, novelist, and philosopher 1749-1832) 

My two older granddaughters love one another. However, sibling rivalry lives, and Grandma needs creative energy to keep the girls from fighting for her undivided attention.

The three of us sit on my bed as Kate and Rebe create a unique pretend-family scenario. They are two-month-old twins who have grown and developed with freakish speed.

I laugh. “You know in the real world you two would be followed night and day. The paparazzi wouldn’t let you make a step without taking a picture of it.”

“I heard that word before on a show,” Kate says, “but I didn’t know what it meant.”

I explain the word paparazzi and the girls chant pa-pa-razz-i, as if power were in the sound and rhythm of the syllables. Even five-year-old Rebe squeals,” The paparazzi are here,” as she hides under the blankets.

We dramatize situations where our impossible infant geniuses walk, talk, draw pictures, and even write a story about being attacked by a lion, then survive. The monster spies appear at every turn. Before long Kate discovers that fame may not be what it is cracked up to be. She wants to play something different.

Rebe says she is going to stay with the game. The paparazzi have captured her. She is going with them to be famous. Run-and-hide hasn’t taught her the flip side of glitz. At her age, time and place haven’t been pinned down yet. Real life and play wear indefinite edges, like one waterway merging into another. Nevertheless, our five-year-old is reaching for something greater than herself.

As the mood settles Kate decides to write more of the story about the girl, named Kate, who survives a wild animal attack. Maybe she understands metaphor more than I realize, and she’s playing the same game with different characters.

Learning comes in bits and pieces.

enjoy little things words of wisdom

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Story and Time, Seen through the Eyes of a Child

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on January 3, 2013| 2 Comments »

Remember the quiet wonders. The world has more need of them than it has for warriors. (Charles de Lint)

My two other grandchildren are on their way to the Y with Grandpa. Our middle granddaughter isn’t feeling well today. She is staying home with me. When I ask five-year-old Rebe what she wants to do during Grandma-Rebe time, I already know the answer: “Let’s play house.”

Rebe is Mommy, and I am Daughter, no other name necessary.

“It’s time for school, Daughter. But first I have to wrap you in toilet paper.”

Okay. I expect confusion sometime during this experience, but not generally within the first few seconds.

“Uh, did you say . . . ?”

“Toilet paper. It’s Halloween, and you are going to be a zombie.”

“Oh.” That sounds more like a mummy. But, at least we’re back on the same page, and Rebe doesn’t request an actual wrapping. It all happens magically, as if the decision alone makes it happen.

We climb into the “car,” which is actually our rocking chair as a front seat and the couch as the back. I’m buckled into my imaginary car seat. “And tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” Rebe says, appearing pleased to tell me the news.

Wow! Time flies quickly enough in the adult world. In pretend existence the speed of light seems slow.

I expect our little girl to forget the sequence of her plan, but in a few minutes she stops at my crib set and steps out of character. “Grandma, can I move these to the living room?”

I want to say, no. After all, the set was a gift from my parents. The figures are large and breakable. But, Rebe needs to know she can handle the situation, that she doesn’t have to be afraid. She is capable.

“Carry one piece at a time, doll baby. And use both hands. Then, tell me a story about what you are doing.”

She follows directions. However, her voice is so soft and gentle that I don’t hear many of her words. I do catch a sweet, innocent reverence.

Finally, after she has placed the infant in the manger in the center of her scene, she crosses her hands over her chest. “You can be in my heart now,” she says to the figure on the floor.

I smile—at Rebe my granddaughter, at Mommy, my pretending partner. They both need a tissue. But then again, right now maybe I do, too.

the world as it should be

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Memory, Family, and Song

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on December 29, 2012| 1 Comment »

In every conceivable manner, the family is link to our past, bridge to our future. (Alex Haley)

The Statt Family Songfest—this celebration extends far beyond the dictionary definition where an informal group gathers to sing. This musical family and friends meet on an evening after Christmas to  enjoy every verse of thirty-plus Christmas carols. Some of the children play downstairs; the older children join the singing, and the babies dance, recognizing celebration with the innate sense infants enjoy. Harmony seeps into the walls and defies the weather. So what if there is a winter storm warning for tonight. If fear talk is going on, I don’t hear it. Instead piano, voice, and even the clear bell-like tones of a glockenspiel take over the living and dining rooms. Breaks occur either for food and drink or a rousing rendition of Ein Prosit.

I watch as toddlers shake bells or lift their arms touchdown style, a pre-verbal form of hallelujah.

The artificial atmosphere at most parties bore me. I don’t drink alcohol, and while there may be a benefit to discussing the pros and cons of political situations, this kind of talk tends to turn into an “I’m right and you’re wrong” match. The Songfest is different. Music is a powerful spiritual vehicle that unites people.

This year I feel especially blessed. I didn’t have to drive. I can relax and let my friends, Dick and Marie, decide when the snow has become a foe instead of a nuisance. Moreover, I don’t need to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow. Time isn’t an issue. I can stay until the last note of the last song.

That final song, an a cappella version of “Holy God, We Praise Thy Name,” hits me in a way I didn’t expect. It was my grandfather’s favorite hymn. He was a mild man, quick with a smile. I inherited my lack of height from him. As the song swells I drop back into time. I’m five-years-old and I hear my grandfather’s gentle voice suddenly boom out. He stands, back straight, hands on the pew in front of him. He doesn’t need a book for the words. I stop squirming for a change and lay my hand next to his. He grabs my fingers and gives them a soft squeeze without missing a beat.

In the present time I miss more than one beat, however. I feel my grandfather’s presence in the room. I am also aware of Avita, the mother of our host. “She was a great woman,” one of her grandchildren told me earlier, when I complimented the family. “She taught us how to be like her.”

And I think about learning, not what comes from books, but what comes from being true to who you are. I fight to keep my voice from cracking. “Holy, holy, holy, Lord.”

One corner of Songfest (I’m on the far left in the pink sweater.) photo by Kathy Statt

songfest 2012

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Christmas Gifts in Size Extra-Small

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on December 26, 2012| Leave a Comment »

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. . .There are seven million. (Walt Streightiff)

I am four years old again. The year doesn’t matter because it didn’t then—I am eternally young. Santa delivers toys. The world reaches no farther than Grandma and Grandpa’s house a mile away. Television hasn’t appeared in our household yet, and the power of the commercial hasn’t been developed either, so I don’t ask for much: a doll, definitely, maybe some new crayons and paper. Coloring books limit my creativity, but fresh clean paper opens possibilities.

However, this year Santa brings the gift that fits me perfectly: a table that is just my size and chairs that I can sit in without dangling my feet. How did he know I would cherish this moment? I sit at my special table and watch the lights on the tree reflect the ornaments. In our house Santa decorated that, too—all while we visited our grandparents’ house and waited for Dad to arrive with the notice. You can come home now: Santa has left for the next neighborhood.

Years later, I learned that S&H Green Stamps made my table possible. Mom and Dad, not elves and reindeer guiding a sleigh, worked to make our Christmases possible. Perhaps I was a strange kid, but I stood in awe as Mom washed dishes and I asked, “You mean, all this time you and Dad have been giving us all this great stuff and giving Santa the credit?”

Mom showed no affect. Even then I thought that was peculiar. At age seven I didn’t know how much it had cost them to give. My father didn’t make a semi-decent salary until I hit middle grades. Somehow Mom managed to make meals for a husband and four kids out of almost nothing. A few pieces of chicken became a delicious soup; flour, sugar, yeast developed into breads suitable for a king’s table.

Now, as an adult, I realize that children don’t see with adult eyes. Nevertheless, their vision is valid, even sacred. Our little Ella smiles at a doll house inside a decorative bag on Christmas Day. Her speech is limited, so I can only guess what she thinks. The house is just her size, with little people who can follow her imagination into places only she understands.

What she doesn’t know is that the doll house was bought second-hand, in perfect condition, but nevertheless used. That way her grandmother could purchase other gifts too. Oh well, there’s a saying that goes back to eastern origin that expresses my motivation: “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” And I am grateful for that tree.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

photo taken by Ella’s Aunt Sarah on December 25, 2012

doll house inside Dec. 2012

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