Autumn Calvert

Author: Autumn Calvert

  • Learning to speak in past tense

    Learning to speak in past tense

    Uncle Junior and Charlie

    Within 9 days, they were both gone.

    My Uncle Junior had struggled with his health for a while, but his passing was a surprise.  He passed away on March 14, 2019.

    On March 23, 2019, my stepfather died. He got the flu on February 1st, was put on life support February 7th, and was on life support until he passed.  It was the kind of death we all dread. He suffered greatly until the end.

    These 2 men were patriarchal figures in my life. My uncle lived next door and was like a second father growing up. My stepfather was my other dad since my early 20’s. That is decades worth of love.

    “He is…I mean he WAS a great man.”

    Each time I make this mistake, the knife twists a bit deeper. It’s a reminder of my new truth.

    There is no magic solution to cure the pain in changing “present” speech to “past” speech.

    I noticed family members suffering the same.

    Each time “is” was changed to “was,” I saw brows furrow and eyes tear.

    Then, the foreboding “we will be”. Future tense is gone, too. There is no more “we will be,” or, “we are going to…”.

    It is a road block in time. Everything stops, and you find yourself smashing against the sucker several times a day. You stand back in shock. It is invisible until “was” and “were” become second nature.

    No one wants to speak this way.  These 2 men, who were always there, will no longer be on the list for family gatherings.  I cannot wish things were different. It will not change the truth, and it makes me angry and broken at the same time.

    The price of love is the sorrow of learning to speak in past tense. It is the void that takes years to fill with memories. It is the piece of you that will never be replaced, and it is the heartache of watching the survivors struggle against their new reality.

    I am still learning this new language, and I hate it. I hate my loved ones must learn it. I hate it so much I want to scream out, “NO!  I WILL NOT DO THIS!” 

    Then I remind myself that the cost of loving these 2 men was worth it. They were spectacular people. I respected them.  I loved them.  Their lives added to this world, and I was so lucky they were part of mine.

    Yes. I will learn. Through tears, I will learn.

    They would want us to live in the present and learn to speak “past tense” with poise.  They would encourage us to live and laugh and love. This is how to honor their memory. Though I cannot promise poise will always triumph, I will do my best. So far, my best isn’t honoring them much. But, that’s ok, too.  Some lessons are harder than others and learning to speak in past tense is the hardest of them all.

    May they rest in peace.

  • The Selfless Love of Special Needs Teachers

    The Selfless Love of Special Needs Teachers

     

     

     

    I arrived 15 minutes early.

    The classroom operated in organized chaos. I interrupted the flow.

    “I’m sorry! Did I come too soon?”

    The teacher smiled and said it was ok. I scanned the room for my little boy. There he was. He had been crying. They had just moved to their next station, and I guessed he was none too happy he had to leave his computer reading game.

    Asher’s teacher set the timer. Once it ticked down to 3 minutes, she announced, 

    “3 minutes, everyone! 3 minutes! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” She reminded the students of their new schedule for the day.

    There are only a few students in my son’s class. Each comes with their own set of strengths and challenges. 

    “2 minutes! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” She reminded them of the new schedule for the day.

    I couldn’t take my eyes off of the teacher and aides. Their duties were performed like a choreographed ballet.  Each knew what to do, when to do it, and how to accomplish the task.

    “1 minute until lunch! Remember, our schedule has changed today!” Another reminder.

    “Asher is the line leader today.”

    YES! I visited on line leader day! WHOOP!

    We made our way to the lunchroom, and the teacher’s attention moved from one child to the next with ease. Every problem covered, every tear received a hug, plates checked to ensure each child was eating…she was conducting a circus to look like a harmonizing chorus.

    “I brought him McDonald’s Sweet and Sour sauce,” chimed in an aide. A little boy giggled as he opened his favorite sauce.

    Asher smiled with pride as he showed me he earned 10 “Great jobs” on his lunch token sheet. The teacher gave each at the perfect time.

    “When do you eat?” I asked the teacher. She smiled and said she would eat later. 

    “How is this woman doing this?” I wondered as I watched her gather the motley crew for the journey back to the classroom.

    I visited for 2 hours. I did nothing but hang out with my kid. 

    I am exhausted.

    We do little for our teachers, even less for our special education teachers, but we expect miracles from them. The women in this classroom, with their one life, are committed to helping my son, and the sons and daughters of other parents, have the best education they can give. 

    And this is only one classroom of thousands in America.  

    It is time we acknowledge them with more than our gratitude. It’s time we cough up more cash to the coffers.

    I heard someone once say teachers were paid too much for what they do. Here is what I have to say about that.

    Let me throw you in a room full of challenging kids at 7:30 a.m. Your job is to educate them per their individualized education plan that you wrote and planned with a team of other professionals and parents, watch their diets (because these children all have different ones), don’t eat until you have a 5 minute lull in the day (if you’re lucky), keep them from hurting themselves or others, communicate with those whom are non-verbal, make sure they go to the potty and change them if there is an accident, remember who needs what for the note home to parents, schedule meetings with parents, listen to parents bark complaints, stay at school until 4:00 p.m. or later to finish the mountains of work not finished because the day was crazy, go to the store to spend your own money for classroom supplies, get home hungry and tired, and wake up the next day to do it all over again. 

    Underpaid, overworked, complaining parents, facility meeting, and more frustrations line the paths of saints. They do this not for praise and rewards but for the children and their future. It is selflessness defined. With every aching back and sleepless night worried about a student, they are bettering life for a human being and for society. 

    Saints, I tell you. They are saints!

    After today, if I have spare change, it is going in my son’s teacher’s account. Do you have a friend or family member who cannot stop bragging on their child’s special needs teacher? If so, take your spare change, or a hefty pile of bills, and go put money in their teacher’s school account.  This money will be used for classroom supplies and educational materials. (The front desk will assist you.) They deserve and need it.

    “Ok, guys! We have 20 seconds! Remember, our schedule is different today.” Asher’s teacher announced again. The faces of the children spoke gratitude and relief. They knew she had their back.

    Then, Asher’s teacher paused. A smile crept onto her face like she was wrapping her arms around the whole room to give it a loving hug. Her body was tired, but her heart was full.

    It was all worth it.

  • Eleonora Stein and the Creative Mind

    Eleonora Stein and the Creative Mind

    Eleonora Stein

    “OH MY GOODNESS!”

    The petite brunette spun on her heels in surprise.

    “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I am just taken aback by how wonderful this is!” I laughed.

    The space was full of color, light, and a refreshing sense of stepping into a world where judgement did not exist.

    She offered me a tour of her remarkable art center. I accepted.

    Shelves full of pencils, paint, crayons, fabric, yarn, ceramics, paper, glue, scissors, and all kinds of creative tools lined one wall.  In the center of the room stood 2 large tables with chairs.

    “These are our workstations.”

    I looked past the large work stations, and studied another wall covered with art made by her students. Mixed textures, colors, and shapes resided in each piece. I studied one piece and thought, “This kid felt every moment of working on this.”

    Chills ran up my arms as she led me to the back area.

    “This is our sensory area.”

    The sensory area allows the students to feel sand, water beads, and other texture intriguing materials. I thought of how much my son would enjoy this area.

    Eleonora then led me to the back door and opened it.

    “Out back, we have this beautiful pond and grass area where we will go to create or just play.”

    A large pond boasted a backdrop of a rolling hill full of trees. I envisioned the class laughing and playing in the grassy area beside the pond.

    When we stepped back inside the art center, I couldn’t help but think, “This lady has a way with magic.”

    EARLY YEARS

    In some ways, Eleonora Stein was born to be an artist. Both her mother and father were art curators in Venezuela.

    “My friends would often ask, ‘Is this your house or a museum?’”

    Eleonora giggled.

    In 2000, when she was 11, Eleonora and her family courageously moved to a new country: America. They landed in Miami to new cultures and a new language.

    “I quickly made friends who spoke the same language, but I knew I had to learn English. Even today, my school friends from Florida are some of my closest friends.”

    Growing up in a house filled with art, parents who are art collectors and had friends who were artists provided a foundation for an understanding of creativity. Instead of toys, her family friends would give her art for special occasions (which she only truly appreciated later in life). But, it was on her 15th birthday when she received a special gift from her parents that changed everything.

    “I got a 35mm camera for my birthday. Dad told me to grab my camera, and we headed off on a photography adventure. That is when my own love for art really began.”

    Eleonora signed up for photography classes in high school. The passion grew. She entered college as a Fine Art major with a concentration in Photography at Florida International University, and graduated in 2011.

    “After college, I spent a year or so working in Art Restoration.”

    During this time, Eleonora’s destiny revealed itself.

    “My 8 year old cousin is a child with special needs. She and I would take walks and make up stories. We spent a lot of time talking and using our minds to create. She was a big part of why I decided to teach.”

    Eleonora applied to Columbia University and was accepted into their Master of Arts and Art Education program. After 2 years at Columbia, Eleonora graduated with a head full of knowledge and the enthusiasm to use it.

    “I have had remarkable teachers who have guided me. I am so thankful for the experience!”

    MOVING TO HUNTSVILLE

    Eleonora and her fiance took a leap of faith and moved to Huntsville, Alabama.

    “When I googled anything to do with art in the Huntsville area, Lowe Mill kept popping up. One day, my fiancé and I took the dogs to Monte Sano for a walk, and I mentioned we should go check out this Lowe Mill place. Before I left, I had an application in hand. I had to have a space there. It was incredible!”

    The complicated acceptance process at Lowe Mill was completed, and in 6 weeks, Eleonora had her space.

    “The theme of my thesis at Columbia was ‘How to Open an Art Center in Florida’. I basically wrote my business plan as my thesis. I put it into action in Huntsville.”

    “ARTIS STUDIO” opened at Lowe Mill. During this time, she was employed as the art teacher at a private school.

    Quickly outgrowing her space at Lowe Mill, Eleonora stepped out of her comfort zone, quit her job at the school, and opened a second studio 4 doors down from Kroger on University Drive.

    “The new space opened on May 27, 2017. It was frightening but exciting! I love it here, and I still offer classes at Lowe Mill. It is perfect!”

    THE ARTIS STUDIO METHOD

    Eleonora’s studio is a process based art center. Her main goal as an art teacher is to help children think creatively.

    This process based approach to art opens doors to vivid imaginations. It knocks down the walls of expectations and standardized learning. Instead of performing for an outcome, a child is given the keys to their own creativity.

    “The final product is not necessarily important. The process of creating is the main focus of my workshop. I want my students to be curious about creativity and about exploring.

    Art is not a core subject like math or science. Instead, the practice of art helps children to think outside the box of rules and formulas. Children need the exercise of freedom to express themselves without the fear of failing. When the final product is no longer important, the process becomes pleasurable and natural. The goal of our art education is to foster creativity that will help the adult individual face and resolve problems in a unique personal way. Problem solving becomes creative and amusing when a student is unconcerned about finished work.

    Art is not supposed to put more pressure on a person. It is a release. There is no wrong or right way in this center. There is only creativity.”

    And Eleonora is a wonderful guide.  Her life, expertise, playful personality, and mind for business fills a void in the lives of our children. No longer do they have to watch a movie to experience the whimsical or the magical. They become the creators of fantasy and the future creative problem solvers of the world.

    Artis Studio Website

    A blank space where children can open their imagination and explore materials while working their creativity.

    VISIT

    Artis Studio On Facebook


    Contact Artis Studio

  • Rick Hall’s Dream and My Dream Come True

    Rick Hall’s Dream and My Dream Come True

     

    FAME Studios: Pretending to know what all of those buttons did.

    Today, I learned of the passing of Rick Hall. Rick was the owner of the renowned FAME studio. If there is a classic song you love, there is a strong likelihood Rick Hall had his fingers in the pie.

    In learning this sad information, my mind takes me back to a time of amazing opportunity. Opportunities are strange little buggers. Generally, when it is happening, you have no idea how important the experience is until you are looking back on the event.

    This is true for me.

    FAME STUDIO, HERE I COME!

    Album Cover

    In 2000, I recorded an album at the legendary FAME studio. It was a 10 song country flavored CD featuring David Hood on bass and Walt Aldridge on acoustic guitar, mandolin, and background vocals. A couple of Walt’s songs were on the album as well.

    For those not acquainted with the aforementioned name dropping, let me fill you in on their awesomeness.

    David Hood is a “Muscle Shoals Swamper.” His credits include playing in the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section where he played on albums by Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Clarence Carter, Arthur Conley and Etta James. In 1969, the swampers started the studio Muscle Shoals Sound. For the mouth dropping list of credentials for David, visit this site.

    Then, there is Walt. Here is a link to UNA’s website for more information about Walt. He is an award winning song writer with an impressive list of credentials. This guy is, to this day, one of those folks who bring a warmness to my heart in my memories of our time together in the studio.

    Both, though I was a small town nobody, treated me like a queen. Their belief in my abilities surpassed my expectations.

    And I had no idea the gravity of their musical success or prowess. I’m glad for it. Otherwise, I would have been a coward.

    The rest of the session players were outstanding! It was amazing to watch!

    FIRST IMPRESSIONS

    Walking in the studio, I felt my heart fall to my feet. I could see Aretha standing there belting her heart out. It took a minute to regain my balance. The thick fog of true mastery filled up the room in a ghostly haze. I am surprised I didn’t pass flat out. It was a moment of “I want to cry” and “I want to throw up” all at the same time.

    The week was filled up. I was in the studio day and night cutting the album. My voice was tired, my soul was depleted, and my excitement never faded.

    I was prepared. The producer, Jack Denton, and I had worked hours on perfecting the songs for about 4 months. We tried dozens of songs before coming up with the final list.

    When the CD was complete, I was proud. It was amazing.

    A CD release party was set for Hale’s Tavern in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. The owner was, and is, a good friend. He made sure everything was set.

    The diamond in it all was David Hood. He agreed to come to play bass for the gig. How dedicated to the craft is David? The morning of the show, David had a root canal. He drove from Muscle Shoals to Tuscaloosa for the show, and he was in significant pain. I’ll never forget it. I’ll always appreciate it.

    The CD was somewhat successful. There was one reason it didn’t gain more success: I didn’t want it. The strenuous lifestyle of a traveling singer/songwriter was not for me.

    The experience, though. Wow.

    LIVING IN THE SHOALS

    A year or so later, I moved to the shoals to go to UNA. I was able to reconnect with David and Walt. In no way was I in the circle of greatness, but I attended a few parties where I could hob-nob with them again. I also met many other legends like Rick Hall and Bobby Whitlock. I spent much time with Bobby. The stories he tells….wow.

    A surprise for me was becoming friends with Jimmy Johnson, the guitarist of the swampers. There was not one hint of snob in this fella. He was genuine with smiles for miles. I never felt small around he nor David or Walt.

    During my time living in the Shoals, I spent much time in Muscle Shoals Sound studio. A guy I knew owned the place. He was an ok dude, but I went there to “feel” the place. I took naps on the couch where the Rolling Stones hung out, knew every inch of the studio, and, maybe this is TMI, but went to the bathroom where “Wild Horses” was written. Yep. Sure did.

    Even though David, Walt, and Jimmy most likely don’t know my name anymore, I know theirs. Moreover, I know their hearts. They have good ones. It’s nice to know legends who exhibit qualities I admire. Fame can’t teach you how to have a good heart, but a good heart can withstand the fame and come out warm and accepting on the other side.

    RICK HALL AND OPPORTUNITY

    The funny thing about opportunities is you don’t know the depths of the experience until it is over. It has been almost 2 decades since I began the journey. Today, I look back in fondness. The memories remind me of the accomplishments of my life thus far. It also teaches me to pay attention to the opportunities of today. Make good memories. Be present. In a decade, I want to look back on this time with the same joy as I do the time I spent in the Shoals.

    The whole thing was pure magic.

    Rick Hall’s passing reminds me of the brevity of life. It is fleeting. What he has taught me is that I want to make a positive mark on this world before my time is over. He certainly did! Right now, I am listening to a station playing music recorded in the Shoals. All of this started with a dream. He made his mark, and in some ways, he will never die.

    To all of those in the Hall family, I send you my sincere condolences. Thank you for sharing him with the rest of the world.

  • Dressing up the Mantle

    Dressing up the Mantle

     

    My mantle is empty. The neighbors lights are gone. The melodramatic daily hum has filled up days. Christmas is over.

    I looked at my mantle: a wasteland of disappointment.

    “Guess I’ll be looking at this blank canvas for another 11 months.”

    Then it hit me…MOM’S MANTLE!

    I pick fun at my mother. Each season or holiday is welcomed with new decorations. Buckets line her storage with spring birds, summer flowers, fall leaves, wintery branches, and every holiday trinket imaginable.

    “Why do you do this, mom? It is so much work! It takes so much time!”

    I ask her the same question at the turning of each season or holiday.

    “I don’t know,” she replies, “I just like it.”

    My giggles are laden with “what a waste of time,” and “what a waste of money.”

    The truth is she has tapped into a hidden power. The power to remind us of the hope and thrill of being alive. Like kids do! Her mantle decorations are a glimpse into why life is worth living, and why it is something to celebrate.

    There is nothing hum-drum about a day. It is a new bright and shiny ornament. A rebirth of the mind and body. Mornings laugh with the reunion of the sun on one side of the sky and the moon on the other chatting like old friends. Evenings settle as the moon and sun, again facing, whisper their farewells.

    Passing years lie to us. “Yeah…I’ve seen that before,” says our dulled adult heart. Sunrise, sunset, that tree loosing it’s leaves and growing them back…it has all happened before. No big deal. No miracle here, folks! Carry on.

    The low hum of boredom returns.

    Except for mom’s mantle. It winks at us and whispers truth:

    “Don’t be disappointed! There is no such thing as the spirit of Christmas. There is only the spirit of life, joy, and wonder. Christmas just gives us permission to tap into it.

    Don’t forget…there’s wonder right outside your door. Watch as the trees slumber and hold tight to life! See the chilly air and bright colored coats of the children as they play! Isn’t that worth a yippie? And what of spring? WOW! Look at all the flowers and birds and animals stretching their tired winter hardened legs!

    Hop to it, now! You have permission! There is a child inside of you begging to be let loose! Strike up a chorus! It’s time for a party today!”

    Giggling at and judging my mom’s decorating has proven to be a pie in my face. She knew a secret. She tried to tell me, but I was too daft to listen. Though I most likely will not go “all out” like she does, I will count this as a lesson learned.

    Next week, I’m dressing up my mantle. It has much to say but doesn’t have the words. It’s my job to give it words. Life is worth celebrating…so celebrate!

    Thanks, Mom.

  • New Shoes and a Drunk Tornado

    New Shoes and a Drunk Tornado

     

    My son needed new shoes. He didn’t want new shoes. He liked his old ones, but they were too small.

    Miracle League had a bowling day, and I decided we would bowl for an hour and then shoe shop. Children with autism need to know what is happening and what comes next. For 2 days, I told him the plans…over and over… He was well advised.

    Bowling was awesome! We made new friends, and my son even made a strike!

    The game ended, and I, again, told my son the plans. No problem. He was fine. We headed to the mall.

    We always go to the same shoe store. He is accustomed to the environment. It is quiet and well suited to children who overstimulate easily.

    I knew I was in for trouble when he resisted taking off his old shoes to be measured.

    The measurements spoke what I knew to be true. I showed him all of his options, and he said, “NO!” and ran to pick up his old shoes.

    “DIS! DIS!” which means “THIS THIS!” He held up the old shoes. He pointed to the dirt on the bottoms. He liked that dirt. It told the story of the places he had been.

    While taking off my son’s shoes, I had to get on my knees. It was a perfect time to pray. God was busy elsewhere. My boy wanted nothing to do with new shoes.

    The clerk and I tried every trick in the book. Even a couple of customers chimed in.

    Nope.

    “DIS! DIS!”

    “This child will NOT out stubborn me!!” My thoughts were pure stupidity. We were going to another store.

    “OOO! MAMA! It so HIGH!” he said, peering over the rail to the floor below. Between our current position and the other shoe store was a video game of thrilling explosive fire geysers, loud trombones, and circus rides. At least, this is what I imagine it must have been for him.

    By the time we weaved our drunken over-stimulated selves into the shoe store, it was all out spazorama. He ran the isles. I chased him. Brought him back to me. I tried to ask the shoe clerk where the little boy section was, and she ignored me. Maybe it was my own crazed look that shook her from her desire to neglect, but, she didn’t the second time.

    The shoes were in rows up over my head.

    “NO! NO! NO! DIS! DIS!”

    God…seriously? I could use some help here.

    He tore through that store like a tornado on cocaine. As we were walking out, the workers gave me a look. Oh, no you don’t. I saw what those grown women did to the sale isle. This kid knocked over a couple of boxes. Get over yourself.

    Some folks looked at me in judgement, and others in sympathy. I’ll have none of either. Walk a mile in my shoes, and then we will talk. And for you others, I’ll have you know this is the best kid in the world. I don’t need your sympathy. He is having a moment. I made a mistake. Life happens. He is still fantastic.

    I thought better of visiting another store.

    He won the stubborn contest. I lost at parenting.

    Autism, as I try to explain to others, is the world turned up to 11. The “go to” reaction for my kid is all out happy/crazed.

    I know this.

    He felt remorseful. Well, he felt sad he wouldn’t get a “surprise.” Even though I screwed up, I will not reward bad behavior. No need in adding more poor parenting to the stew.

    It is difficult raising a child. In this day and age, parent shaming is all the rage. Listen carefully, to these words:

    MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.

    People screw up. Parents are people. We do our best. It’s all we can do.

    My son still has his old shoes. I have post-tramatic stress. His teacher will be told of the dilemma. Between all of the adults in his life, maybe we can talk this kid into new shoes.

    If not, I’ll be cutting a hole for his toes until we can.