Women Over 30, Step Aside, Please….

       Yeah, I get the picture. But the Universal Law of Youth and Beauty in our society is changing.  However, maybe someone needs to tell the publishing world.  Compelling stories of women aging way past the deadline are popping their stubborn heads up with more force now than ever.  The current movie marquees say it all.  “Still Alice,” an award-winning tale about dementia with the ever-formidable Julianne Moore, age 54 .  “Cake,” with the eternal girl next door, Jennifer Aniston, 46.  And, God bless her, Meryl Streep, “Into the Woods.”  Meryl Streep is 65.

 

So my little sis Amanda, who is now 44, has just burst upon the literary world with her first book, THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN, a true story she co-authored with me.  A Memoir with Moi.  The story is special not only because Amanda has Down syndrome, but because it is injected throughout with her slapstick, underestimated flair for comic genius.  Despite losing both her parents, and subsequent horrific treatment by some of her siblings, she maintains a dignity that surpasses everyone else in the story, including myself.



We self-published the effort at end November 2014, and have received an overwhelming positive response from readers.  But our venture into mainstream publishing isn’t panning out the way we hoped.  Among the slew of publishers we have contacted, only one responded so far.  They told us that parents of people with disabilities want to read stories about babies, not people in our age group.  Since then, I am hearing from other sources that the publishing world doesn’t generally acknowledge stories about women over 30.

I knew our story would be an important message to families of people with disabilities, and maybe to families in general.  But I never anticipated having to lobby for the cause of the still-useful, still-significant Middle Aged Woman.  Jeesh, folks, really?  Haven’t we evolved father than this?



Whomever made the rule that a woman’s life ends at 30 needs to take another look.  We’re just getting started.

The Painted Smile

I have a forty-year love affair with dolphins.  I am not sure how it started -- I became enamored when I was about 12, long before they were as hip as they are now.  I had dreams about swimming with them; many of the same dreams over and over; their undulating shapes moving around me, silhouetted in the spangled light from above.

In 1986, National Geographic magazine published an article about dolphins which included a graphic aerial shot of a bloodied cove in Japan, where fishermen where murdering hundreds of them.  This was long before the film, "The Cove" exposed the practice. 

 

I've never seen, "The Cove" and I probably won't.  I'm afraid the images would stay with me, like my dreams have.  I've seen a few photos and that's bad enough.  I don't understand this need to murder, even through tradition.  The killing of dolphins is such a bloody, wet, messy business.  Even if I weren't in love, I think if that were my occupation, I would be looking for some other line of work.

 

It's time now for the annual roundup in Taiji, Japan, and every day, families of dolphins are being herded into the cove where they are trapped and slaughtered.  Their bodies are taken away for meat; and a few remaining ones are kept alive to be sold to marine parks.  The captive dolphins are starved and taught to perform tricks in order to earn the nourishment: Dead fish, which is not natural to them.  They have to learn to eat it.  Many of these dolphins do not survive long in captivity.

 

We are surrounded by greed and the disregard for what should be considered sacred.  I have trouble understanding how anyone can bulldoze an ancient forest or stick a knife into the throat of a dolphin -- or a person, for that matter.  Today a video surfaced of a group of terrorists, all wearing masks, marching 21 Egyptians along a shoreline and cutting their heads off.  The sea runs red again today, in various parts of the world.

 

I think of some lyrics to a John Denver song.

"There are those who would deal in the darkness of life,

There are those who would tear down the sun.

And most men are ruthless, but some will still weep

When the gifts we were given are gone."

 

 

 

It's true -- I believe there really exist "those who would tear down the sun".  People destroy themselves as well as those around them.   And those who, "deal in the darkness of life" are best handled by shedding light on them.  The Taiji fishermen don't want to be found out.  They have been practicing their tradition of butchery for generations.  But now that there's a film, things will change for them.  Dolphins are a vastly sympathetic cause and the protests are rampant.  The marine parks will suffer attendance now that the sad source of the public entertainment is known.

 

The crazies in the Middle East -- well, that's another story.  They share videos so the world can see their acts.  But they wear masks.  Their cowardice is blatant.  But they are making so many worldwide enemies now with their indiscriminate hatred and murder that they are becoming a universal target.

 

Sometimes the sadness of the world can be almost overwhelming.  I have been resurrecting dolphins with my art, celebrating them as they should be; colorful, surrounded by family members, and always smiling.  I think, to that end, each of us can make a difference in the world.  Concentrate on what is beautiful and right.  Shun all those who are greedy, toxic and hurtful.  Put forth positive energy.  We must keep our minds on what is good.  Even one small gesture of beauty, generosity, or gratitude can help to change a life.  Then the rest can follow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Babies With Down Syndrome

I've never given birth.  That being said, I can only imagine the anticipation that happens with the growing life forming inside of you; the preparation and the knowledge that life will never, ever be the same.  Standing on the cusp of Motherhood, the most blessed of all titles, the greatest of all bonds, the most revered of human experiences.

Imagine then, being presented with a child who has Down syndrome, whose disability isn't even masked beneath the bloom and the powdery-sweet smell of New Baby; whose difference is obvious at the first glimpse of the eyes.

Then, all the prenatal preparation is suddenly shifted into -- now what?  What will happen?  How will the baby learn?  Will he/she be able to learn?  And the knowing that your role is parent is, indeed, a permanent role.  Forever the parent, to someone who will be forever, in many ways, a child.

Combine this with the notorious batch of postpartum hormones and, well.  Eek. 

Therefore I have empathy for the mother in the scenario broadcast today by ABC news:  Samuel Forrest's wife bears a child, named Leo, who is diagnosed with Down syndrome.  The mother threatens divorce if Samuel keeps the baby.  Samuel wants to keep Leo, and his wife follows through with her ultimatum and leaves them.

I could see my dad stepping up to the plate the same way.  As explained in our story, THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN, my mother didn't want another child.  She'd already borne eight, and lost one.  She was done.  She went through the steps it takes to ensure that this would never happen. She had her tubes tied.

But it happened.  Amanda came along anyway.  And in what amounts to a tremendous double whammy for Mom, Amanda was born with Down syndrome.  I remember how serious the situation was.  As I described in our book:

I thought of Dad’s announcement to us all, on that day, forty years before.  “Your new little sister is a Mongoloid.” 

              His tone was somber and he watched us carefully for a reaction.  He had sat us all down, all seven of us, so that we could understand the depth of this new development.  We lined up with our sun-tanned faces serious and all eyes in various shades of blue, widening with the new unknown responsibility.  The baby, Dad explained, was going to show up with slanted eyes and a large, protruding, pointed tongue.

                At eight years old, I took this all very seriously.  From Dad’s description, the baby sounded like some sort of freak.  But my heart immediately went out to her.

                Then she arrived.  She didn’t look like a freak.  She was a pink and golden infant with perfect skin and tiny, plump clenched fists.  It had been five years since we’d had a baby in the house, and when this one opened her eyes, I saw they were navy blue, so dark that the pupils were indiscernible.  I fell immediately, violently in love.  I had never seen a baby more beautiful.  I even loved her name:  Amanda Christina Bowman Bailey.  Maybe it was my age, or perhaps it was the fact that she was different from other babies, but my tender mothering instinct kicked in.  This became my baby.  I dressed her.  I fed her.  I changed her.  I held and talked to her for hours.  I sat by the crib and watched her sleep.

                 Well into her forties by that time, Mom hadn’t wanted another baby.  She had actually undergone surgery for a tubal ligation before getting pregnant for Amanda, but the doctor had tied off a blood vessel instead.  It was an error that was ripe for a major lawsuit, but my parents never pursued it. 

                I was too young to understand depression.  I just knew that Mom was sleeping an inordinate amount of the time, which gave me the freedom – as well as the responsibility - to mother the baby. 

 

So I did.  I changed her diapers, worked with her on speech, played games with her.  There was no way to anticipate the uproarious, witty, outrageous and funny character this baby would eventually become.  But she was a sweet baby with a ready smile and she hardly ever cried.  And today, Amanda is inspiring the masses as a published author!

I have a notion that if Mom had had any idea of the wondrous, illuminating gift that was bestowed upon us that day, she might have felt a little better about the whole thing.

I like to think so, anyway.

Cats & Dogs in Art, and the Purrfect Bonus

Paintings on slate take on a life of their own, partly due to the chinks and cracks and chips in the stone itself.  It lends itself to all kinds of creative idiosyncrasies in each piece.  Here are some cat paintings I did recently. With the tabby cat you can't probably tell from the pic, but the foot projecting forward is utilizing a corner chip for a 3-D effect.  The slates are so nice to handle.  These ones are "wearable art," being just about three inches high.

 

The black and white kitty in the portrait is my own kitteh, Chuck, captured in his typical upside-down pose.

 

 

 

 

These mini pieces are getting popular.  Below is a commissioned portrait of, "Prada," a corgi who lives in Colorado.  The ink pen is included for size reference.  1.5x3" is a pretty darn small surface to work on!  But they make beautiful pendants. 



 

 

    When I ship these commissions, I often try to include a little free gift, especially for my repeat customers.  Enter Wysong Pet Food, a Michigan-based company with all-natural products.  They sent me some samples to include with my commissions; small packs of biscuits for dogs like Prada, and even better, some "Dream Treats" for cats.  Each treat is a medallion of compressed chicken.  I tried one out on Chuck, and he went crazy for it!  I was able to break it up and get a few tricks out of him.

 

 

 

     Thanks Wysong for your sponsorship -- here's to natural pet foods for a long and healthy life for Pup and Kitteh.