Pursuing a Dream Deferrred

I’m not a jealous person by nature—it’s just not part of my make-up, I’m happy to say. But when I took my daughter to visit Emerson College last week and listened to a young woman on the student panel talk about how fortunate she was to be able to pursue her BFA in writing there, I will admit, the green-eyed monster reared its head for a little while.

If only I had chosen to go to school for writing, where might I be now?

Next week I will be forty-nine years old. I have been writing seriously for only a few years. I have completed two novels, both currently in revision, several picture books, still tentatively being sent out to publishers, and I’ve had a few poems published, but haven’t really pursued that aspect of my writing. And I took no writing classes in all my years of college, way back when. I didn't believe in my ability to tell a story that other people would want to hear. I kept my dream tucked away inside my heart.

So, as I sat and listened to the young woman at Emerson enthusiastically describing her passion for her major, those two ugly words kept popping into my head. If only. . . if only. . . if only. . .

Which finally woke me up to my own reality.

I have lived a full and varied life. I have traveled, had a family, lived on an island, run a marathon, learned to sing. I’ve seen otters slipping through the woods from pond to pond. I have seen how many of my friends’ and loved ones’ real life stories have ended. I’ve known and loved children who have left this world too soon.

And I realize that coming into the world of writers in mid-life is not so terrible a thing, after all.

Because when I write now, I bring to the table the fullness of my life. It is a life I love, despite the challenges. Or, perhaps, because of the challenges. Because where would we be without those challenges? How would we grow? How would we appreciate how good life can be without understanding, also, how hard it can be?

Becoming a serious writer can happen at any age. Although I didn't take writing classes in college, I have been devouring books on the craft of writing, reading and studying the works of authors in and outside my genre, attending workshops and conferences. . . and writing and revising, writing and revising ad infinitum.

And I love it.

I have things to say in my writing that I couldn’t have said in my teens, or my twenties. Heck, not even in my thirties. I know things about myself that I couldn’t have guessed at twenty years ago. And I think that informs my writing in a way that no books on craft of workshops could ever do.

So the green-eyed monster has slipped away as I realize that I have been training as a writer all my life. I am happy for those who know at a younger age that this is their dream. The world is a better place because of these young artists, pursuing their craft and maturing into it. But as I head to the New England SCBWI writing conference today, excited about the many different sessions on craft and publishing I've signed up for, and ready to apply what I learn to my work as a writer, I realize how very lucky I am to be pursuing my own dream deferred. Because this is a dream which has grown richer with age. And I am ready to savor every last bit of it.

Acorns, Bunkers, and Inspiration

Like a squirrel whose forgotten acorns sprout and become trees, I once tucked an idea away in the depths of my twenty-three-year-old mind, only to discover that it had grown into an oak while I wasn’t watching.

The idea dropped in my lap about twenty-five years ago, during my first year as a teacher out on Fishers Island. One of my students decided to take me exploring.  We crossed over the old Fort Wright parade grounds, encountering the skeletal remains of rabbits, raccoons, and possibly even sheep, heading through the grass and brush to a small hill in the relatively flat landscape.  Vines grew over scrap metal and old, rusted out cars. 

“You’re gonna love this,” Kevin said to me, looking back over his shoulder with a grin.  And was he ever right!

It was the remains of the enormous gun pits and bunkers of the hundred-year-old Fort Wright.  Small lime stalactites clung to dank corridor ceilings, leached from the cement by a century of rainwater.  Crumbled stairways led down to dark rooms filled with damp leaves and dirt.  Steel ladders led from level to level, with no rails around the openings in the floors and ceilings—just gaping holes. 

It was like a visit to another time and place.  And it got me thinking.

Wouldn’t this be an amazing setting for a children’s book?

I loved it.  I was mesmerized by it.  I visited it many times during my years on the island, and each time I felt transported from the everyday world to another place altogether.  And each time I said to myself:  this would be a great setting for a story.

I messed around with the idea a little, but I wasn’t really serious about my writing back then.  I was just playing around.  And then life got busy, and I had two kids, and we moved off of Fishers and got even busier.

But that little acorn was planted in my brain, lying forgotten in the dark. . . just waiting. . .

Until this fall, when I put aside the young adult novel I’d been revising to write something which would honor my brother. 

And suddenly that seed burst to life, like it had just been waiting for the right conditions to shoot up and throw itself into full leaf.  Here I am!  Your portal to a new world!  Betcha forgot you’d planted me, huh?

I felt like I’d smacked right into the trunk of that tree and fallen back on my rear, looking up in wonder.

Story ideas are like that.  Seeds planted ages ago, from bits of overheard conversation, scraps of family history, old hopes and dreams.  Any of them can sprout at any time—if the conditions are right.  And one of the ways to improve conditions for a writer is to keep a journal.

I’ve kept journals since I was in fifth grade.  I can peek through them and find a whole forest of acorns raining down on me.  So when I had an opportunity to meet with Eileen Robinson, editor of Move books and a former executive editor at Scholastic, I loved her suggestion that I write a journal from Cara’s point of view as I completed my Sepia revision. 

With that in mind, I decided today that Cara needed to write about a visit to Fort Mansfield, at the very end of Napatree Point.  Fort Mansfield was built at the same time as Fort Wright, but much of the fort was washed away by the Hurricane of 1938.  The combination of Fort Wright and Fort Mansfield create the opening images of Sepia.

I walked the mile-long beach out to the point, pushed through the brambles, and climbed onto a gun emplacement.  Well, I got Cara’s fear of falling down all right, I thought as I edged my way over and around the bunkers.  But what a view! 

I’m posting several pics of this morning’s field trip here.  You’ll find some of the gaping holes, the crumbling stairs, and the drop-offs that Cara worries about in these photos.  But I hope that you’ll also find acorns here.  Maybe the vistas remind you of something you’d like to write about, or the overgrowth of vines sparks a different memory.  Maybe it’s a fear, or a dream.  Write it down!  Go out on a field trip of your own!  The more acorns we plant, the bigger our forests grow, full of ideas. . . full of stories.

Seeking Gold

When my brother passed away, we made arrangements for his service with minister Carolyn Patierno, the mother of one of my former students.  After my father and I met with her, Carolyn pulled me aside to ask how I was doing. 

“Okay,” I told her.  “I’m trying to get out for a walk now and then, and it helps.”

Carolyn was glad that I was walking.  “It’s so important to move,” she told me.  She had studied with a professor at seminary who emphasized this as well, because “grief settles in your joints” and movement allows us to circulate it—to process it. 

I loved that analogy.  “Grief settles in your joints.”

I come from a family of “movers.”  My father, who coached cross-country and track for his entire teaching career, took up tennis in his retirement.  He is a formidable opponent, ranking fifth in New England in his age group not long ago.  His younger sister, Ellen, bikes, swims, runs, kick-boxes, and does yoga.  She is in her mid-seventies.  Their brother, John, won the Boston Marathon in 1957, won the Pan American Games marathon in 1959, went to the Olympics twice, and was an icon of the runners’ movement which began in the 1970’s.

I’m overweight and plagued by back, hip, and knee problems.  But I am still compelled to be active—it’s in my blood.  After my sister passed away in March 2001, I ran and sobbed through the spring and summer.  9/11 followed, so I continued to run through the pain and questions.  I have branched out to swimming, biking, and walking, but the need to move (outdoors) is deeply ingrained.

For the past few weeks, I haven’t had much opportunity to get out, however.  I attended the SCBWI (Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) conference in NYC this weekend, and arrived home all fired up to write.  But my schedule since coming home has allowed for nothing but work, meetings, and volunteer-related work—no opportunity for movement or for writing.  Last night I sat down for a few minutes at the computer, and—nothing.  No inspiration.  No thoughts.  I stared at the screen.

My brain was a jumbled mess of nada. What was wrong?

And then I realized—I haven’t been able to get out and really move since Friday in New York, when I took the opportunity to do plenty of walking around the city. 

Not only does grief settle in your joints, creativity does, too. 

So today I am going to take myself out for a walk.  It’s the one day this week that I’m not working, although I’m still catching up an a million errands.  But I know that a few miles in the fresh air will get my thoughts flowing. 

And I’m reminded of how the old timers used to pan for gold by allowing running water to wash away the silt which hid those valuable flakes and nuggets of gold.  When I move, the circulating blood somehow manages to float away all of the extraneous thoughts from my mind. 

When we are dealing with loss, some of those extraneous thoughts may be the painful aspects of grief—the memories which focus on the loss itself and the anguish it caused.  What’s left behind for me is the essence of my loved ones’ lives.  The truth of why they lived, rather than why they died. 

When we are talking about creativity, movement acts like an opened sluice, helping to float away the extraneous, the unnecessary, the stuff that gets in the way of what’s important.  It clears away the silt which settles in our brains, and it allows us to see what’s real, what’s important.  Again, it allows us to see the truth.

And truth is what we, as writers, need to work with whenever we write.  Sure, we’re making up stories.  Sure, the work is “fiction.”  But fiction without truth is a hollow thing.  Just as life without truth is merely delusional.

Writers find many ways to improve their creativity.  Some are movers—biking, walking, and running their way through life.  Others are listeners, playing or performing music that suits their needs and tastes.  Some are observers, sketchers, painters.  But all of us are miners, moving through this world and swirling away the silt of everyday life, looking for that bright speck of gold.  Looking for the truth.

Villains as Heroes

Are you a hero?  How about your cat?  What about your grouchy neighbor—the one who gives your kids the evil eye when they’re playing kickball in the back yard?

 

Of course you are.  And so is Fluff-ems.  And mean old Mr. Wilson.  Each of you is the hero of your own story.  You are the protagonist in your own life’s journey.

As I work on my revision of Sepia, I’ve been thinking about the hero of my story, Cara, but I've also been spending a lot of time examining the antagonists and the minor characters in my work.  Although some of them do not play large roles in this particular book, each of them has his/her own story arc—they have their own lives, with their own goals and hopes and dreams.  They are heroes, too, if we follow them through their lives.  They are the most important characters in their own stories.

My writing becomes much stronger when I remember this:  none of these characters exists solely to inhabit my novel.  They are only included because they have a role to play in Sepia—but when they are offstage, they are pursuing their goals as if the spotlight never left them.  This makes them much more vibrant and three-dimensional when they cross paths with my main characters.

I am having the most fun thinking about the antagonists of my story—my villains.  Surely, they don’t see themselves as villains!  They aren’t running around doing evil for evil’s sake.  As a matter of fact, my main villain is pretty sure she is doing a good thing for the world of Sepia—it’s just that she believes the other characters are too ignorant to understand her.  This makes the scenes between Cara and the Magistrina much more interesting to write (and, I hope, to read!)

So, how does this translate to real life?  To my days growing up with Bobby and Jeannette?  Well, when I think about the “villains” in my life, the ones I really wanted to disintegrate with one well-aimed blast of my laser-beam eyes, I realize that those villains were other kids, just like me.  They just happened to be other kids who were staring at my brother or sister. 

Did they think of themselves as “the bad guys?”  I doubt it.  They were just busy living their own lives, suddenly being confronted with the unknown.  They stared at my sibs to examine something they’d never seen before.  Some of them laughed—they had their own set of issues which I might examine in greater depth in another post—but most just stared.  And I hated them for it. 

Now that I have some perspective, I can see that they weren’t evil.  Maybe ignorant.  Maybe rude.  But not evil.  They were the heroes of their own lives, seeking out new information.  I certainly don’t agree that staring was the way to do it, but most children don’t really know any better. 

So the next time I’m confronted with a “villain” in real life, maybe I’ll try to get into their heads the way I explored my characters’ motivations in my novel.  Maybe I’ll try to figure out what their perspective is, and why they might believe that they are right to act the way they do.  Maybe Mr. Wilson the neighbor has a sick grandchild visiting, and he's worried the kickball game will disturb her.  Maybe the cat who just ripped up a new set of curtains was valiantly hunting a mosquito which snuck into the house. 

I might not agree with their approach . . . but maybe if I look at things from their perspective, I’ll understand them enough to find new ways to improve our interactions. 

Although these days, I might be tempted to pull out my laptop and plot out an interesting scene which escalates the confrontation and results in a dramatic and exciting conclusion, completely vindicating our hero, yours truly!  (Isn’t writing wonderfully therapeutic?)

Carry on, friends.  You are all heroes.

Followed by a Moonshadow

Reeds--photo by Fran Prescott

It’s been a rough couple of years.  My mom had her debilitating stroke in November 2009.  In June 2010, Bobby landed in ICU and almost didn’t survive.  Their emergency room visits and stays in intensive care were frequent.  Between the two of them, we have had more life and death crises in two years than I’d experienced in my entire life. 

We got to know the hospital staff pretty well. 

People were kind enough to tell me that they thought I was handling things well—that they didn’t know how I managed to stay positive despite everything that was happening.

My own family, of course, saw me at my worst.  The worry, the sadness, frustration, and despair that I felt—well, my husband and kids came along on this roller coaster ride, too.  So did many of my friends and cousins, who read my e-mails and called or took me out for lunch or a nice, brisk walk.

But, as my last blog post discussed, I learned to navigate the landscape.  We moved to a “new normal.”  And I made a decision about how I wanted to live my life.

In my story, Cara’s move from her known world to Sepia mirrored my own real-life transitions.  

Reeds in sepia--by Fran Prescott

The photos of the reeds are representative of the decision I made about how to live my life, about my change in perspective.   

I loved the original picture that I took—sunlight illuminating the tan reeds, which stand in contrast with the steely blue sky.  But I recently played around with some of the effects on iPhoto, and transformed the picture to a sepia-tone photo, framed in white.  I think I love this pic even more—it brings out the subtle play of light and dark, the texture of the frothy heads of the reeds, the graduated shading of sky and sun.

I think my life is a lot like the second picture now.  I look at things differently these days.  I appreciate the little things—the way the light illuminates the grass on a frosty morning walk, the way a wisp of fog hangs over the road like a ribbon. The way a full moon can cast shadows on a cold winter's night.

I miss Bobby and Jeannette.  Losing them has changed me. I see the world through a different lens now that they are gone.  It doesn’t mean the world isn’t beautiful any more—if anything, I appreciate the life I’ve been given even more now.  It’s precious. Different, but oh, so precious. And fleeting as a moonshadow.

If I ever lose my eyes,

if my colors all run dry,

Yes, if I ever lose my eyes,

oh if—I won’t have to cry

no more.

-- from Moonshadow, by Cat Stevens

Brave New Worlds

In real life, it can take a lifetime to learn a lesson.  We get hit upside the head over and over with the same problems, and we find ourselves faced with our old, familiar hang-ups time and time again, yet it can be years before we even figure out that we’ve got an issue. And there are still an awful lot of lessons that go unrecognized and unlearned when one’s demise rolls around.  That’s why writing fiction is so much fun.  Fiction is different. 

As a writer, I have the chance—no, the obligation—to pick and focus on something that my character needs to learn. Why the obligation?  Because, in a meaningful story, a character must change in some way from the beginning to the end.  How the change happens is part of the magic of imagination.  But the change must come. That’s what makes a story interesting and compelling. It’s what gives a story life.

So, when I began writing Sepia in November, I knew that Cara needed to learn something about being the sister of a disabled older brother.  And I knew that she needed to learn something about letting go.  How did I know this?  I knew it because I had just lost my brother to respiratory failure, and my world had been torn apart.

I set out to help Cara learn how to separate from her brother.  But along the way, I learned some things about myself.  I explored the roots of my fierce protectiveness and need to advocate for my brother (not part of Cara’s story), and my feelings of anguish over facing some of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made as Bobby reached the end of his life.

I realized that my perspective as Bobby’s sister was significantly different from anyone else’s, even my father’s.  I knew Bobby as an equal.  We grew up together.  We hugged each other in fear or for comfort.  We laughed together.  We knew to clear out of the house or to lay low when thunderclouds appeared in our parents’ eyes.  We knew how to keep our little sister happy.  We were a team, and we were there for each other in ways that our parents could not be.  Our relationship was different from that of parent and child.  We were companions.  We were siblings.

And I learned that my identity was very much wrapped up in being Bobby’s sister.  I hadn’t thought of it that way before.  I knew that I was who I was because of my brother and sister, among other things.  But I did not realize the extent of my identification with Bobby. Losing Bobby changed the landscape of my heart.

And so I followed a parallel journey to Cara’s as she navigated the new world of Sepia.  I have been crossing through a new land, as well.  And, though our stories end differently, they have this in common:  we still have a long way to go.  But I think, like Cara, that I am learning my way. And we are both ready now to face the changes as they come.

Drag racing, of course

“On your mark. . . get set. . . GO!”

Two at a time we’d race down the hallway, using our arms for locomotion, dragging our legs behind us.  I never remember who won; I just remember the fun of the competition.  Bobby, Jeannette, and me, Dana and David and Janine—just a little gang of neighborhood kids thinking up games for a rainy day.

Pretty clever to think of only using our arms, right?

Kind of.  Actually, it was our way of including my little sister, Jeannette, who had been born with both her hips displaced and never had the strength to crawl on hands and knees like the rest of us.  Did we think we were practicing “inclusion” back then? 

Of course not.  We wanted to race.  And since we couldn’t all walk, we thought we’d crawl.  And since we couldn’t all crawl, well, why not drag?

Besides, the point of the whole thing was to have fun, and I can still remember Jeannette collapsing in a fit of giggles back in the living room, and Bobby squealing with delight.  Mom would serve up fresh-baked cookies and milk when we were done, and no one cared if Jeannette needed a bib and an extra washcloth to get through her snack.

It was natural to include Bobby and Jeannette in everything we did.  Certainly the grown-ups expected that we’d play together—so why wouldn’t we?  It wasn’t until I was in second grade that I realized there were other people who actually felt sorry for us. 

Even as a seven-year-old, I didn’t want anyone’s pity.

My two best friends in the neighborhood didn’t pity us—they just took everything in stride and we adapted to Bobby and Jeannette’s needs.  We didn’t do all our activities with Bobby and Jeannette—but we did most things with them.  They were our friends, too.

And that, to me, illustrates the beauty of early inclusion programs for children with (and without!) special needs. 

How natural, how normal, to take our peers’ differences in stride when we are young.  You can’t talk to me?  Let’s make silly faces.  You can’t walk?  Let’s play tickle games.  You can’t crawl?  Let’s have a drag race.

Kids are inventive.  And if the grownups around them expect everyone to be included and treat every child with respect, then the kids around them will follow suit.  And when they realize at a young age that everyone is different, but everyone is a person, then it’s not unnatural for them to find ways to relate to people who are differently-abled as they grow older.  And isn’t that something we could all benefit from in the world today?  A little tolerance.  A little respect.  And maybe a friendly drag-race or two.

Hallelujah

“I won’t let you fade from no minds. . .” goes the Gin Wigmore song that my daughter is singing.  The song, “Hallelujah,” is about the death of Wigmore’s father, and it is one of the most beautiful songs about loss and the celebration of a life that I have ever heard.

It touches me deeply, on a very personal level.  I don’t want my brother’s life to fade from the world, forgotten.  Both of my siblings had lives which deserve to be celebrated and remembered, no matter what their appearances may have suggested to others. I write to honor them, although my stories are not about Bobby and Jeannette.  My stories evolved from a life lived in their company. 

At Bobby’s funeral, our celebrant, Carolyn Patierno (minister of All Souls Unitarian Church in New London), spoke of the impact each life has on us, even the life of a child who lives for only a few hours.  We are different because of the lives that have touched us; we are changed by the simple existence of others.

Gin Wigmore speaks specifically of her father, and yet her song speaks to all of us who have known loss, and to all who love someone deeply and don’t want to lose them.

I write specifically of my brother and sister in these blogs, yet I hope to speak to anyone who has loved someone deeply.  In my stories, I write of the love that is shared between typical and disabled siblings. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to love and be loved by Bobby and Jeannette.  Love is an incredible gift.

Loss is never easy.  But it is a thread that ties us all and binds us in community with one another.  We understand each other, because we understand what it means to love deeply.  We know how hard it is to let go.  We don’t want to think about it. But facing loss can free us to let the people who are still in our lives know how much we love them. 

Tell them now.  

Sepia Sunset           photo by F. Prescott

“Hallelujah for these eyes. . . for the touch of skin to skin. . . for this mind which keeps our souls combined. . . for this life. . . Hallelujah, to be a part of your life. . .”

excerpts from Hallelujah by Gin Wigmore

More alike than different

My business cards came in today.  Yup, I’m getting mighty serious about the whole writing/publishing thing, and that means I need to have cards on hand for writing conferences.  Now that I’m going great guns with my revision of Sepia, and I’ve got several picture books ready for submission, it’s time to start paying attention to the business end of things.

Designing the card was interesting.  Not in terms of creativity (good templates took care of that problem!), but in terms of purpose.  I don’t have a lot of info on the front, but on the back I’ve got the quote from my blog title about being glad the thorn bush has roses, along with the words “thoughts on growing up with special needs siblings” above the blog address.

I felt a little funny about it, just the way I felt when I started this blog.  After all, this was my life I was talking about.  My family. 

Aside from the whole privacy thing, I wondered, “who would want to know about my experiences with Bobby and Jeannette?”  They were unique experiences—no one else would have had the same family dynamics, the same disabilities, the same birth order, etc., etc.  Why was any of this relevant to anyone else in the world?

But something I told my fifth and sixth grade students many years ago as they crafted their first major stories came back to me—practically smacked me upside the head.  “Every story is relevant if someone else can relate to the emotions your characters are feeling.  Something that happened to you can affect other people in ways you might not expect.” The experiences are unique.  The emotions are universal.

How else could we be moved by the tale of an orphaned wizard named Harry, or a six-year-old Southern girl named Scout, or an old fisherman named Santiago?

We don’t have to be wizards (or even orphans) to understand the joy Harry felt when he realized that he finally belonged somewhere.  We can ponder justice and prejudice, old age and the need for dignity and pride without battling giant marlins or being present at the trial of an innocent man.  We can feel fear and grief and pride.

So perhaps someone will relate to some of my real-life experiences with Bobby and Jeannette--growing up with love and loss, worry and guilt, joy and laughter.  And perhaps a door will open that didn't exist before. Because the disabled and their families may have their challenges, but we are more similar to the rest of the world than we are different.   

Welcome to our world.

Frances, neighbor Dana, Jeannette, and Bobby circa 1970

Meet Pretzel--I mean, Perry

This is our other cat, Perry.  (See my December blog post "Smudgy the Muse" for the first cat picture on this site--his brother, Smudge.)  Perry's the crazy one of the pair.  But he's also the model for a character in a couple of picture books that I'm working on--Pretzel, the cat.  Pretzel's got personality.  Perry thinks he's people.  It's not too hard to get into his head. . . or Pretzel's.  Can't you just see it in his eyes?

A Happy Childhood

When the doctor at Yale looked over our old photographs last year, searching for clues to Bobby’s and Jeannette’s disabilities, he smiled.  “A happy childhood,” he said.

And it was true.  In an era when babies like Bobby and Jeannette were routinely institutionalized, my family was rare.  My parents chose to keep my siblings at home.  “Think of your other child,” the doctors appealed to them.  “Think of what it will do to her, growing up with such a burden.”  

My parents thought of me.  They thought of Bobby, and of Jeannette.  And they made a decision that changed our lives.  And for that, I will be eternally grateful. 

Bobby and me, circa 1972

Rewind

Two summers ago, when my dad and I were cleaning out his house in the wake of my mother’s stroke, I came across some old cassette tapes.  I turned them over in my hand, remembering the tape recorder my parents had given me the Christmas I was seven.  Black and silver, it had a little round red button the size of a pencil eraser that you pushed to record whatever you wanted.  My brother and sister and I were entranced by it.

It came in handy a few years later, when my sister was about eight or nine.  She’d been going to school for only a few years—it was in the days before Public Law 94-142 had come into play, the “Education for all Handicapped Children Act.”  My parents had gone to conferences with her teachers, had talked to them about what kinds of activities she enjoyed doing at home, the self-help skills that she possessed. . . but one of the most important conferences that ever happened was in our public grocery store, and I was present. 

My mom had the three of us kids with her, as usual, and we were keeping up a running commentary on which groceries we liked, which ones we wanted to put into the cart, and which ones we’d seen in the commercials.  I’m pretty sure “Cookie Quisp” and “Count Chocula” were among the cereals we tried to sneak into the cart.

Jeannette chirped along merrily, asking simple questions and requesting the kind of silliness that Bobby and I would happily supply.  When we got to the check-out line, however, we all fell silent.  One of the teachers from Bobby and Jeannette’s special needs program approached us, and we knew that it was not our place to talk in front of the grown-ups.

The teacher (Mrs. Johnson, I think) greeted us warmly, then turned to my mother with a confession.  “I’ve been trailing you for the entire time you’ve been in the store.”  Apparently, she stayed one aisle behind us, listening intently to our silly conversation.  And why would a teacher do such a thing? we wondered.

Because none of the special ed. teachers had ever heard Jeannette speak, in the entire time she’d been going to school. 

My sister was a selective mute.

The teachers had humored my parents when they described how much Jeannette talked at home, believing that it was either wishful thinking on their part, or that we were so attuned to her physical gestures that we believed she could speak when she couldn’t.

So Mrs. Johnson’s astonishment in the grocery store was a telling moment for all of us. 

I offered to give Mrs. Johnson some of the tapes that I’d made of the three of us talking together.  The teachers were thrilled, and requested more tapes.  We began recording on a regular basis—and it was always a fun time.  I sang, read to, and cajoled Jeannette into talking away on those tapes, with Bobby chiming in encouragement.

So when I found the cassette tapes in the basement, a flood of memories came back.  I wondered what kind of treasures I’d preserved on these tapes, and when I got back to my house, I dug out a little cassette deck that I used when doing running records with my students, and I put in a new set of batteries.

I carefully rewound the first tape, and pushed play.  “C’mon, Barney, let’s get out of here,” suggested a familiar voice.  Not one of the voices I’d hoped to hear, though.  No, this was the voice of Fred Flintstone.

I had a vision of myself as a child, placing the tape recorder on a shelf next to our old black and white TV.  Saturday morning cartoons weren’t just for Saturday mornings any more, I had thought.

I pushed “fast forward”, then turned the tape over.  Barney Rubble, Yogi Bear, and Captain Kangaroo spoke over the hiss.  I put in the next tape.  And the third.  More of the same.

I put the tapes away, grinning ruefully.  These three tapes had survived close to 40 years without being destroyed.  And what good did they contain?  Not much.  Certainly what I treasured at the age of 47 was quite different from what I valued four decades ago.

How I had hoped to hear my sister speak again, to hear my brother laugh.

But then again, maybe we always take for granted the things that we live with each day.  The people we fuss with and ask to pass the salt and trip over as we rush for the door.  Maybe the treasure in the cassette tapes that I found was not in their contents.

Maybe it was in the message.

I took the tapes back out of the drawer and tossed them in the garbage.  I wouldn’t need to play them again to remember that I should treasure the moments I still had with my family and friends.  That message was recorded on my heart, and even time couldn’t erase it.

Happy New Year, friends.  May you treasure and hold your loved ones close each day.  There’s no “rewind” button on life.