The man looked at me and smiled. "He has cerebral palsy," he said matter-of-factly. "He can't walk."
I was dumbstruck. Then I realized that I had never seen the boy get out of the sled in all the time we'd been on the hill. It had all seemed so happy, so normal, that it never occurred to me that the child might be handicapped.
Although I didn't know the man's name, I told the story in my newspaper column the following week. Either he or
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someone he knew must have recognized him, because shortly afterward, I received this letter:
Dear Mrs. Silverman,
The energy I expended on the hill that day is nothing compared to what my son does every day. To me, he is a true hero, and someday I hope to be half the man he has already become.
Robin L. Silverman
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The Hill
We cannot direct the wind . . . but we can adjust the sails.
Source Unknown
Long past midnight, hours before dawn
I jump up from my bed, pull my longjohns on.
Peeking out the window, the snow has started to fall.
Slipping on my overalls, I race quickly down the hall.
Rushing to the closet, grasping my old wrap,
I throw it over my shoulder, give the button a snap.
Working all ten fingers, through the holes of much-worn mitts,
I stick my feet into the boots that thankfully still fit.
Faster than is possible, I head straight for the door.
Behind me I am dragging a sled from years before.
The wind is loud and howling, snow is blowing all around.
Already what has fallen has covered the ground.
Tramping through the deepness, only my footprints to see,
I head straight for the meadow, the hill is waiting for me.
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A few more steps, I reach my goal, as always in the past
I'll be the first to sled this hill, and I'll be the very last.
Breathing in the cool night air, I witness the year's first snow.
Perhaps this is my favorite spot, in all the sights I know.
Holding tight in a world of silence, I shove off with my feet.
Wind is picking up my hair, snow hits against my teeth.
Traveling faster and faster, I struggle not to tip.
Stretching out my snow-damp legs, I lean from hip to hip.
What a big delight, this morn has given thee.
As all years before have done, when it's just this hill and me.
Now if I do my best to hurry, I can take another run.
The sun will soon be rising, the day will have begun.
But before that can happen, I must be back in bed.
For whatever would the children think . . .
. . . if they knew Grandma used their sled!
Betty J. Reid
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The Halfway Point
Don't look back unless you intend to go that way.
Marc Holm
I glance at my daughter in the rearview mirror. What does Denise think, I wonder, when she looks at the four of ustwo sets of parents, each of a different race? What does she see when she looks at us from the back seat? Does it mean anything to her that her father is white and her stepmother is Chinese-American? In a few moments, she will see her mother, who is Filipino, and her stepfather, who is African-American.
I sense that it doesn't mean nearly as much to her as it would to a social scientist, or maybe even a politician. To her, we are just four adults who are in charge of raising her and making sure she is safe.
The highway between Monterey and Salinas is so familiar. I know every turn, every pothole and how long each red light lasts along the way. I drive it every week. I once looked at my car's odometer several years ago and wondered if our meeting point truly was exactly halfway
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between my ex-wife's house and mine. Am I driving a little more than I should have to?
''Denise," my second wife says, "next week when school is out, I'll bring you to my office and you can help out. I have a big mailing you can do; a lot of envelopes to stuff, okay?"
"Cool! I can't wait."
My wife could say that she needed Denise to help out with nearly anything at her office and Denise's response would be the same. The girl just wants to spend time with her stepmother. They effortlessly took to each other from day one.
"Denise, do you have your karate outfit packed? Mom will bring you to your class next Saturday, and I'll pick you up there."
"It's packed, Dad."
Her duffel bag and backpack are full for her week with her mom and stepfather. One week with one set of parents, the next week with the other. Same school. The schedule is very finely tuned. Same meeting place in the same park for the past five years.
I exit the highway. There they are. I pull alongside their car and we all get out. Denise's mother and I look at each other with more than just a look. We accept each other. We each see someone we didn't know when we were married to each other, although we thought we did. Long gone is the anger and the threats to keep one another from seeing our daughter. We see someone we have forgiven, someone we stopped being vindictive toward and someone we still have a hard time feeling comfortable with. But most importantly, we see someone we have learned to work with for our child's best interest.
I get Denise's bag while she, my wife and my ex-wife all make goo-goo ga-ga noises over Denise's half-sister, now almost two years old. I give Denise's bag to her stepfather. We nod and say "Hi." Not too much in common, but a
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certain respect. I respect him for being a good father and stepfather. I am fully aware that this man is in charge of my daughter's safety for exactly half the year, every year.
I finally realize that it takes more of a man to accept that than to be intimidated by it.
"Is she starting to walk yet?" my wife asks Denise's mom, speaking of the baby.
"She kind of bounces from sofa to chair to me, falling the whole way." More laughter.
I walk over, pinch the baby's cheek in an obligatory manner and then stand back and watch, wondering if I should be surprised. Denise's stepfather is African-American. Her stepmother is Chinese-American. Her mother is Filipino and I am white. This doesn't really matter, I say to myself, but I know just how much it truly matters. Four different races. Four different personalities and temperaments. The most that we have in common is that we have a child to raise.
Denise is now kissing her stepmother good-bye. They exchange "I love yous" and "See you next weeks." She comes over to me and kisses me good-bye.
I am extremely proud of my daughter. She's testimony to the resiliency of kids. She knows the schedule by heart. She's always packing a backpack or duffel bag and often forgets things in the other housea book for school, a friend's telephone number or her clarinet. Nobody complains, least of all her. She will get what she needs the next day. One of her four parents will drive the distance to deliver it. I'm reminded of her school play, which we all attended a few weeks earlier. After the curtain call, she came out beaming, eager to see her two sets of parents who all sat at the same table. Suddenly she hesitated, wondering which set she should hug first. A look of relief then shot across her face. She knew that it didn't matter. She would hug the other set precisely a second later.
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They get in their car and we get in ours. As I start the engine, I put my hand on my wife's shoulder and ask her if it's really all that hard. She fully understands what I'm asking.
"No, it isn't," she says, "it isn't at all." She's right, I think. It's not that hard if you know your priorities and know how to love.
We follow them out of the park, and I think of all the children who don't know where one or both of their parents are, who receive, at most, a card once or twice a year. I think of the many ugly custody battles and can't help but wonder what those warring par
ents could find if they just reached a little deeper inside themselves. I think of Denise's friend who slept over a few months ago, who hasn't seen her father in years and doesn't seem to care.
Just before reaching the highway, Denise turns around and waves at us through the back window. She blows us a kiss and we blow one back. She then turns around and talks to her mom and stepfather. I wonder if she'll think of us this coming week, although it doesn't matter, since before we know it, we'll be driving this same road again.
There's so much ahead yet: adolescence, boyfriends, failure, rejection and triumph. There are so many bumps and bruises yet to be had. So many life experiences still to come. I ask myself how long we can keep on making life secure for her. I know it's a redundant question since it's the best it can be, and we can only do our best right now. A step at a time and a day at a time.
As we reach the highway, I put my signal on to turn left towards Monterey, and they put theirs on to turn right towards Salinas. When we have gotten up to speed, I look at my odometer and wonder if it really is halfway. Am I driving more than I should be? I suddenly look back at the road, realizing it doesn't really matter.
Dennis J. Alexander
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I Talk to Me
[EDITORS' NOTE: Phil Colburn is a widow, ninety-nine years old. She writes poetry to keep her mind clear, penning a poem each month for her church newsletter.]
I talk to me a lot these days
about the things I do.
I find that I quite often need
a serious talking-to.
"Get those shoulders back" I say to me,
as I start down the hall.
I get them back and start my trek;
and hope I will not fall.
I say to me, when I awake,
and the pain is really bad,
"Remember many have more pain
than I have ever had."
It really is annoying
not understanding what they say
and I wonder if I answered
in some stupid way.
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Then I tell me to remember
stupid answers are not new.
Sometimes when I still heard well
I made stupid answers too.
I need a reading glass these days
and so I say to me,
"Be very thankful I can read
Many cannot even see."
I tell me I should exercise
though I'd rather sit and read
but if I want to keep my strength
what I tell me I must heed.
I can still walk and see and hear
though not as it used to be.
I find it really helps a lot
the times I talk to me.
Phil Colburn
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Obstacle Illusions
We enjoy warmth because we have been cold. We appreciate light because we have been in darkness. By the same token, we can experience joy because we have known sorrow.
David L. Weatherford
Legs. We run, ski, climb mountains and swim without thinking much about them.
My husband Scott had used his legs to win downhill ski scholarships in college and climb to the top of the Grand Tetons in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Then, without warning, during an unseasonably warm April, a tumor was discovered in Scott's spinal cord. We were told death or paralysis could be the end result.
Our childrenChase, Jillian and Haydenranged in age from seven to two. They didn't really understand all the "bad stuff" that was going onbut they were the biggest cheerleaders and the best teachers when Scott found out his life would go on but he was paralyzed from the rib cage down.
Adults sometimes get stuck looking at the things that
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are gone. I would think about the camping trips we'd never take, the mountains Scott would never climb and the fresh powder he'd never ski with his children.
Chase, Jillian and Hayden were too busy with the business of life to get bogged down with what their dad couldn't do. They stood on the pedals of his wheelchair and screamed with delight as he raced them down quiet hospital corridors.
The doctors said to prepare Scott for life in a wheelchair because if he thought he'd walk againand could nothe would be depressed. The kids didn't listen to the doctors; they urged their dad to "try to stand up." I worried that Scott would fall down; the kids laughed with him when he fell and rolled on the grass. I cried but they urged him to "try again."
In the middle of all these changes in our lives, I took a drawing class at a local college. For a week, the instructor told us we couldn't draw things, we could only draw spaces between things. One day as I sat under a giant pine tree drawing the spaces between the branches, I began to see the world as Scott and the kids saw it. I didn't see the branches as obstacles that could stop a wheelchair from traveling across the lawn, I saw all the spaces that would allow wheelchairs, people and even small animals to sneak through. When I wasn't focused on the branchesor the obstacles of lifeI gained a new appreciation for all the spaces. Oddly enough, whether you draw the spaces or the branches, the picture looks pretty much the same; its just how you see it that's different.
When I joined my family in looking for the "spaces," a new world opened up. It wasn't the samesometimes we were frustratedbut it was always rewarding because we were working together. As we tried all these new adventures, Scott began to stand up and then walk with the use of a cane. He still has no feeling in his lower body and
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legs, he can't run or ride a bike, but he enjoys so many new experiences.
We learned you don't need feeling in your legs to fly a kite, play a board game, plant a tree, float in a mountain lake or attend a school program. Legs aren't needed to hug, bandage a cut or talk someone through a bad dream.
Some people see roadblocks; Scott has taught us roadblocks are only detours. Some people see branches; Scott and the kids see wide-open spaces with room enough for all the love and hope a heart can bear.
Heidi Marotz
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My New Set of Wheels
There you stand, and I see you stare
Thinking, poor dear, she's stuck in that chair.
But I'm not sad, I'm very happy because
I haven't forgotten the way it was.
You'd say, "How about a trip to the zoo?
A walk in the park will be good for you."
I was thinking tomorrow, I'll be a wreck,
From my aching feet, to the pain in my neck.
You'd want to go shopping, all over town,
I was thinking but there's no place to sit down.
For you it's a snap, just to go to the store,
But for me the ordeal was more of a chore.
Now I can go wherever I please
I can shop in the mall with newfound ease,
Do all the things that have to be done,
And even go out and have some fun.
So, do you want to know how it really feels,
To be sitting here between these wheels?
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Can you remember back that far,
When you got your very first car?
Well, that's how these wheels feel to me.
They don't hold me down, they set me free.
So, don't think all those pitiful things:
These aren't wheels, I think they're my wings.
Darlene Uggen
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What Should I Fear?
Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.
Marie Curie
I used to live in perpetual fear of losing things I had, or never having the things I hoped to acquire.
Chicken Soup Unsinkable Soul Page 27
