Autumn Calvert

Blog

  • Check the Backseat

    Check the Backseat

    My grandfather playing guitar on his 90th birthday

     

    My paternal grandfather was one of the most well-rounded people I’ve known. He was charming, witty, well read, smart, talented, and, my favorite, funny. He was not stingy with his smile. It was one of those smiles encompassing the entirety of his face. It illuminated a room.

    He loved a good joke or story. Even if his story was not particularly funny to anyone else, everyone would laugh at him laughing at his own joke. He was the cutest, sweetest person. I adored him…and still do.

    I could write a book about the exceptional person he was, but, today, I am focusing on one of his stories that always had me in stitches. I hope I do it justice.

    CHECK THE BACKSEAT

    My PawPaw was a talented musician. Though he could play several instruments, he was best known as a bass player. Over his lifetime, he played bass in many gospel groups. This particular story revolves around a gig he played with a gospel quartet at a country church.

    If you are not from “around these parts,” Alabama country churches are a breed of their own. Most times, there are less than 20 attendees per service…except when the gospel group came to town.

    The pews would be filled, and folks would line the walls. Everyone from the county would show up to be entertained.  The church would be well cleaned, there was enough food to feed a small army, and everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. It was a party!

    It was at one of these events when my grandfather was put in a precarious situation.

    The quartet had sung their first set and took a break. My grandfather, as he would often do, stayed on stage with his bass. He knew it would only be a 10 minute break. Plus, the man LOVED the stage. To this day, I believe his true home was on a stage.

    During this break, the pastor asked the congregants for a  “love offering.” This offering was taken up to pay the gospel group. To fill up the silence, the pastor invited one of the locals to sing a “special.” Paw Paw sat on stage and watched as a middle-aged, stocky built, finely dressed lady move towards the stage in a self-assured and proper sashay.

    Paw Paw wondered why those sitting in the pews and standing around were snickering.  He had never seen a pastor invite the lesser of the local singers up for the break. She had to, at least, be a half-way decent singer.

    She made her way up the short set of stairs and smiled at my grandfather. He smiled back. She turned to move towards the podium. It was then my grandfather knew why all of those in the church were snickering.

    Her dress was caught, by the bottom hem, in the top of her girdle. A majority of her back end was unveiled.

    At this point, everyone in the church knew my grandfather, sitting behind this singer, had a bird’s eye view of the whole situation. They must have been wondering how he would handle his new vantage point.

    A song, on average, lasts about 3 to 3 and a half minutes, and, for this 3 to 3 and a half minutes, my grandfather sat behind this lady looking at her behind.

    How difficult it must have been for him to retain composure!

    My Paw Paw said it took all the strength he could conjure to not reach up and pull the lady’s dress out of the top of her girdle. I wish he had. It would have made the story so much better. 

    Instead, Paw Paw sat there with his eyes trying desperately to avoid contact with the backside of this stranger. He had no help from the audience. He had to avoid them as well. They were too busy trying to keep a measure of self-control. They must have had to work tirelessly not to look up at my Paw Paw. I bet the pews were shaking with folks painfully swallowing laugher.

    This had to be the only time in my grandfather’s life when the stage was exactly where he did not want to be. He said he picked at his fingernails, stared at his bass guitar, looked at his shoes, and, occasionally, glanced up to see if his reality was as he remembered.

    “Yep. The curtain was still pulled back. Time to pick my fingernails, stare at the guitar, look at my shoes, and keep it together.”

    Once the song was over, the lady pridefully made her way back to her seat. For the rest of the gig, my grandfather had to look out at the audience and see the eyes of this lady who still had no clue she had essentially mooned my grandfather for, at least, 3 minutes of his life…in church.

    Bless her heart…and his.

    My grandfather, the humorist he was, took this story and created the following joke:

    The other day, a man asked me why I had 2 black eyes. I told him I got them in church.

    He said, “You got them in church? What did you do?”

    I told him that as I was sitting in the church pew, awaiting the service to start, a lady walked past me with the bottom hem of her skirt securely folded inside the top of her girdle, exposing her rear end.  So, being the gentleman I am, I reached up and pulled it out. She turned around and slapped me.

    The man laughed and said, “Well, that explains the first black eye, but how did you get the second?”

    Well… I figured she wanted it that way, so, being the gentleman I am, I reached up and put it back.

    My Paw Paw was a comedian.

    From the very first time he told the real story, and to this day, if I am in a dress, I check the backseat. I would recommend you do the same.

    If not, just roll with it. Some day, somewhere, someone’s granddaughter might well turn out to be a writer and provide a chuckle to the world.

  • Death and the Empty Chair

    Death and the Empty Chair

    Juneko.

    She was an acquaintance of mine. We were once friends, but time and distance separated us from building our close friendship. Even so, knowing she was on this earth, walking around and smiling, gave me great peace. 

    When she died, the emptiness I felt was curious to me. She was not a part of my everyday life. We barely spoke, except through facebook. But, there I was, crying my eyes out.

    It was then I knew I had to make sense of these feelings. I needed a story to tell. I needed a visual to explain it.

    If you have endured the loss of someone dear to you or someone you barely knew, I hope this story will aid your ability to cope with death and the sorrow of an empty chair.

    THE BANQUET TABLE

    Imagine your life as a banquet table. All of the people you know or have ever known have a place setting.

    You are the host.

    Your banquet hall may look like a royal room with golden chandeliers, exquisite plates and silver. It may look like a long picnic table in the woods. It is your room to create.

    At your table, there is a chair for each of those people you have known. Sitting the closest to you are your most valued of loves: your spouse, child, parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Those sitting further down the table are acquaintances. The one girl you worked with in your 20’s. The guy you knew from church. The lady who always had the peppermint candy…and shared. There are those whom have hurt you sitting at this table, too. The guy or girl who cheated on you, the person who stole your money, the person who was mean to you…everyone you have ever known sits at this table.

    The table is longer than you first thought.

    Some of those sitting at the other end cannot even be seen anymore. They are part of your banquet, and, if you pull out your telescope, you can see them there. You may feel the emotions tied to the memory of this person: good or bad. It doesn’t matter. They sit at your table.

    Each place setting has a tiny card with the name of the person who is to sit in the chair. It will always be there. Though, they may be moved down the table, their chair, and their setting, follow them.

    At my table is a place setting for my Granny and Pawpaw. They no longer sit at my table, but their place setting and name remains. When I gaze upon their empty chair, I remember the joy and the sorrow. These people sat so close to me for so long. I remember their laughter, their shortcomings, their love.

    They have moved on to a bigger and better banquet table. But, somehow, they are still with me. Their absence leaves an empty chair in my life, but the fact they once sat at my table brings me great joy.

    Their empty chair is not empty. It is full of memories.

    No matter how one feels about the afterlife, what we all know for certain is how death affects us in this life. It leaves space…a void.

    Death is unavoidable. We will all have empty chairs at our tables, and, at some point, we will be the empty chair at someone else’s table.

    The experience of loosing Juneko helped me see. I did not know her well, but I was thankful she sat at my table. I was thankful for her life.

    I was also thankful I had a table to share.

    Now, when I look at those chairs filled with those I love most, I embrace the moment. I make more memories. I appreciate the gift of being able to share the meal of life with beautiful people.

    Until their chair is empty, I will smile and be glad they they accepted the invitation to my life. And, when their chair is empty, I will have memories to fill their seats. The image of their presence will not fade as long as I have a banquet to host.

  • Retarded

    Retarded

    retard: a contemptuous term used to refer to a person who is cognitively impaired.  Dictionary.com

    The term “retarded” didn’t appear in the slangy, usually offensive sense until the mid-20th century. Frank Rooney’s 1954 novel “The Courts of Memory” contains an insulting use that should be familiar if not comfortable: “God, you’re simple, Dick. . . . You’ve got an I.Q. about equal to a squirrel’s. You’re retarded, do you hear me?” The Oxford English Dictionary offers an understated way of describing the current radioactivity of “retard,” “retarded,” and “retardation”: Each is “not the preferred term.”

    The R-word and the challenging history of words for dummies by Mark Peters, Boston Globe

    The Dirty Word

    When Asher was born, it was a learning curve. I had no idea what it felt like to have my heart beat outside of my body. The thought of anything hurting him made me physically ill. In time, this new reality became second nature. Then, the bad news started rolling in.

    “He has cysts on his brain.”

    “He has a heart problem”

    “He is not meeting goals.”

    It was years of one blow after another.

    In the meantime, I was parenting him like any other child, with the additions of multiple therapy sessions each month and doctors visits all the time.

    It was not long after first learning about my son’s challenges I first heard the word “retarded” spoken in slang.

    This was not my first time hearing the word. It was, however, the first time the word revolted me. I was lava hot mad. I’m surprised I didn’t spontaniously combust on the spot. I was LIVID.  Unfortunately, I’ve heard the word used as an assault towards another more times than I care to remember.

    Dirty Word Begins

    Schools and the medical community are always changing the “label” for special needs children.

    Why?

    Because ignorant and hateful people keep turning these words into slang describing those they feel are less.

    Today, the word “exceptional” has replaced all previous words. The term is accurate despite the fact people will turn this word into something to be laughed at or avoided. At some point, the word will be changed again.

    “Retard” does seem to hang on in slang.

    Cleaning up the Dirty

    Though the word has been used to break the backs of enemies in verbal combat, I would like to take a moment to bring an awareness most may not have considered.

    I propose this:

    If you are not a special needs person, you are retarded.

    You are the one who is slow.

    You are the one missing something.

    In my experience being around special needs children, they are brilliant. Seriously. Some could probably build rockets. Others, they have a niche for enjoying life. There is much diversity in the intellect in special needs children.

    One factor I find the most common is this:

    An ability to see the world in a way we could only dream of.

    It is as if everything is beautiful. It is a vision of another dimension to humanity, and they have little patience for those who cannot see it.

    Jesus called this dimension “the kingdom of God.” Remember, he said time and time again, “the kingdom of God is at hand.” He said it was available right now. The suggestion was we didn’t have to die to experience heaven. Even his patience was tried by those lacking vision.

    Buddha describes this ability as “enlightenment.”

    My kid knows this. He is enlightened to the kingdom of heaven. Most special needs children are. They “see” something we do not. They understand concepts completely out of our reach. (See THIS article for an example)

    Special education teachers, therapists, and doctors will all tell you the same.  Special needs folks are simply amazing.

    My son taught me a lot about myself.

    I am the one who is slow on the uptake.

    I am the one who lets the worries of this world steal my joy.

    I am the one whose mind is in a constant state of chaos.

    I am the one not noticing the sunset, sunrise, and light in people’s hearts.

    I am the one not living in the here and the now.

    I am the one working too hard and breathing too little.

    I am the one slow in seeing the beauty of what this world is…not what it could be.

    I am the one who needs to be more like him.

    I am retarded.

    Yeah…I might be able to talk, walk, write, sing, not worry about my health too much, and so on, but, I am missing out on the greatness of life.  My vision is blurred.

    So, the next time you use this word in a way to harm another in front of me, please understand.

    I know the truth. You are speaking of yourself.

    Only retarded people would be ignorant enough to not see our special needs children for who they are.

    Who are they?

    They are our only hope to knowing truth.

    The Dirty Truth

    I wish people would just stop using any term using my son, and countless other beautiful people, as a description of what not to be or a description of “less than” me. It is ignorance defined.

    Here is the real truth.

    My son, and the sons and daughters of parents who are blessed enough to have a child who is special needs, know something you do not.

    Our children are magical. They hold the keys to joy and knowledge. They are not perfect. However…

    They are not retarded.

    We are.

  • What’s His Name?

    What’s His Name?

    It was a gorgeous day.

    Wind was blowing the tall pines shading the playground. I could hear the laughter and smell the aroma of food from the family reunion being held at a gazebo nearby. I hoped for an invitation to eat their fried chicken, potato salad, and casseroles of all kinds.

    Maybe around 11 years old, a little boy sat on a swing in the mainly deserted playground. With his smart device in hand, he used his feet to swing just a bit as he played his game. He seemed to enjoy the alone space away from the festive reunion, but, there was also a loneliness in his eyes.

    My son, Asher, and I played on the little kids playground before making our way over to the big kid playground. On the way over, I noticed Asher looking back towards the swings. He was curious about the little boy with the smart phone.

    Realizing the obstacles on this playground were steep and above his skill level, Asher decided to walk over to the swing next to the boy.

    “What’s his name?” Asher asked me.

    I responded, “I don’t know his name. Ask him!”

    “Jake,” said the little boy.

    Asher signed and asked me if the little boy was playing “birds” (any smart device). I told him he was. Asher watched him play on the phone a while, and then decided to swing. There were few engagements between the 2 boys. Both seemed perfectly happy to simply be present.

    When it was time to go, and Asher turned around and smiled at the little boy. The little boy smiled back.  I smiled and told the little boy to have a good day, and Asher and I headed to my Dad’s truck.

    “What’s his name?” is a common question in my world. Asher is deeply curious about who people are. The conversations are scripted as follows:

    Asher: “What’s his name?”

    Me: “I don’t know his/her name.” (He understands gender differences, but “her” is not easy for him to say.)

    What happens next is dependent on the time we have to continue. If time permits, I will tell him, “I don’t know. Ask!”

    Turning to the new person of interest…

    Asher: “What’s his name?” (“Your” is also a hard word for him to say.)

    He does not care what color someone is, what they are wearing, if they smell or not…nothing. All are vulnerable to the “What’s his name?” game.

    The responses from people are interesting. Some don’t understand what was said, some smile, and others engage the conversation.

    I’ve yet to figure out the formula to the ones who engage this conversation, but goodness is a common thread. It is hard to ignore this cute little boy with big blue eyes and crazy hair.

    I used to think miracles were rare, but, now, I see them everyday. From a middle-aged man smoking a cigarette in front of the gas station to the war torn lady behind the counter at the restaurant, the power of kindness and curiosity breaks through and wins.

    In one question, “What’s his name?”, hearts open and take a deep breath…if only for a moment.  Asher meets people in sad situations and leaves them with a smile. He also reminds them that they have a name and someone cares enough to want to know it.

    Sometimes, all folks really need is a good moment. Sometimes, people just want to know they are not invisible. 

    The little boy in the swing smiled as we walked away. He somehow looked happier. Refreshed. I knew why.

    He played the “What’s his name?” game, and he did not feel alone anymore.

    …………………………………………………………………………………………………..

     

     

  • The Green Swag Lamp

    The Green Swag Lamp

    Garage sales are a big deal. When I was a kid, my mom had me up and at ‘um at 6 a.m. on Saturday mornings. I grabbed my pillow and blanket for backseat napping while she shopped. As I got older, my love of garage sales grew.

    In my early 30’s and single, I used garage sales to find home decor. It was at one garage sale I found a fantastic deal. A green, mid-century swag lamp sitting in a box. How much? 5 bucks.

    I loved that lamp. It cast a beautiful green design light onto the walls. It made me feel good.

    In my late thirties, I had a store with homemade items and garage sale finds. I hung the lamp over the checkout counter. When I decided to sale off the inventory and shut down, I invited a local vintage shop owner in for a first look.

    I made a decision I have regretted since: I sold them the lamp.

    This morning, I woke up with the lamp on my mind. It was my first thought. The regret tumbled around in my gut.

    What is regret? It is the “I wish I had” and the “I wish I hadn’t” thoughts we can’t seem to shake. I have a whole lot of these. We all have a whole lot of these.

    Recently, I have been in a season of ridding myself of the regrets. Why did I….? Why didn’t I…” What on earth was I thinking? How was I so stupid?

    Dealing with regret is a painful process. Why? Because in order to deal with it, you have to fully remember it and the feelings associated. Regrets must be tended to like an injury: put on the medication, limp for a while, and take care of yourself until it heals.

    I have known people who live so completely in regret, they talk about it constantly. It is a stench of death swirling around their lives. These people made me ask myself a question. This question led me to the point I am at today.

    Do I want to live then or now?

    Answering this question is more difficult than I thought.

    Human beings love to want to be happy, but they love wallowing around in the mud, too. Something triggers all of the adrenaline and endorphins in our mind when we regret. In some ways, it is more comfortable to hang on to our junk than to just let it go. Regret or peace? Peace isn’t nearly as much fun, but it is a whole lot happier.

    After searching for my lamp online, I quickly realized I will not be able to afford one for quite some time. I have to let it go. I don’t want to let it go. I want that moment back so I can make a better decision! This, of course, is a pipe dream. There is no time machine. The past cannot be changed. There is no way back. There is only a way forward.

    As I tackle this regret today, I find myself in a unique position of living now and then. Now, I just need to get rid of the “then” so I can live for now. One day, I’ll find my green swag lamp again. Until then, I’ll just let my soul light the way.

  • Fields Of Lavender

    Fields Of Lavender

    The ground was weary soil. As far as my eyes could see, in every direction, the land belonged to me. It was ugly and in ruins. The cracks in the ground were deep and dehydrated from years of neglect.

    I fell to my knees and wept for these lands. I covered my eyes, and the tears streamed down my hands, arms, legs and onto the ground. I was unaware the tears falling filled in the cracks as I knelt in despair.

    A twinge of hope pricked my heart. It had been so long since hope had been found inside me, I did not know what it was. The shock of this feeling caused me to remove my hands from my eyes. The landscape had changed. It was saturated by my tears. It had taken on the appearance of life.

    Still weary and broken, I reached down and gathered the soil in my hands. It was soft. The wind no longer had control of the motion of the soil. It was heavy with nutrients given by tears of a broken heart.

    My feet and legs grew stronger and lifted me off the ground. All around me, the these lands were ready for planting.

    What would I plant? Would I plant peace? Would peace bring to me the essence of life? Or, maybe I should plant hope? Hope would bring the sense of awe my heart loved to feel. Possibly love would be a good crop? Love did bring hope and peace.

    Carefully thinking through the many options of seedlings in my possession, I picked the one seed I knew would bring all of the beauty back to this land. It would grow peace, hope and love.

    I wrapped the apron around my waist and filled the pockets with seeds.

    With every step, I leaned down, and in the soil, I made a cradle for the precious seeds. As I dropped the seed into the warm and protected space, I named it: my husband, my son, my mother, my father, my step-father, my sisters, my brother, my nephews, my nieces, my friends, my ability to love, my strength…

    The seeds were plentiful, and the name on each was unique. I gave it a fingerprint of thanks.

    This work never ended. I planted daily from morning until night. The work was not grueling, but it did take reminders to myself of how important this harvest would be.

    One day, while I was planting these seeds and naming each one as they settled into their space to grow, I stood. My eyes found the horizon behind me.

    As far as I could see, across the landscape of my land, were fields upon fields of lavender. I was in awe.

    My eyes were the mirror to the greens and the purples as the sun backlit the entire vision. I took off my apron, and walked carefully through the rows of lavender, crushing some of the leaves between my fingers and inhaling the beautiful fragrance of gratitude.

    This was the variety of seed I had decided upon: gratitude. Through gratitude, peace grew, hope bloomed, and love breathed.

    I spun as a child in this field I had planted. My laughter found it’s way through the clouds and into the sky. It reverberated deeply out past the horizon of my limited sight. It fed these plants, as if by some sort of miracle, with joy. I watched them grow before my eyes.

    I looked back to where I had stopped planting. The soil was ready to harbor the seeds. My work was not yet finished. I had an entire life to fill. I walked back over to my apron, lifted it around my waist, and began the good work of planting one seed, naming it, and moving to the next.

    One day, I reached the end of my lands. The planting of seeds was no longer necessary. A new adventure into a new land, already planted, awaited. However, there was an infinite amount of seeds available. I realized a lifetime is not enough time to count every blessing.

    I took off my apron, threw the seeds up into the air, and the wind carried them past the clouds and out of site. They were off to find a new home in another heart. My harvest was plentiful, and my life was full. The life I left behind was fields of lavender, fragrant and dancing in the wind. It was watered with the sorrows of my neglect, and planted by the strength of my hope. Gratefulness filled every inch. I smiled knowing this harvest gave to all who knew me and provided me with what I desired most: a beautiful, wondrous, joyful life.