tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68204760086006862132024-02-21T07:26:02.184-05:00Cliffy's Mom's BlogBy the shores of Gitchee Gumee by the shining Big-Sea-Water, came a little red horse! ...Or something like that. Clifford is the star of, "Clifford of Drummond Island" and other true stories. Clifford visits libraries, schools and assisted living centers. He has traveled all over the Eastern United States. Stay tuned for our next adventure! Meanwhile, enjoy the paintings and drawings regularly created by Cliffy's "mom", artist and author Nancy J. Bailey.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.comBlogger398125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-10965568799410804112015-02-20T11:11:00.000-05:002015-02-20T11:12:28.741-05:00Women Over 30, Step Aside, Please….<div class="entry-title">
<span style="font-size: small;">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.</span></div>
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So my little sis Amanda, who is now 44, has just burst upon the literary world with her first book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1424276608&sr=1-1&keywords=the+north+side+of+down" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>, 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.<br />
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<a href="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/ec10a-amandame.jpg"><img alt="ec10a-amandame" class=" size-medium wp-image-222 aligncenter" height="300" originalh="300" originalw="224" scale="1.5" src-orig="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/ec10a-amandame.jpg?w=224&h=300" src="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/ec10a-amandame.jpg?w=336&h=452" width="224" /></a><br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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<a href="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/7daf6-img_0786copy2a.jpg"><img alt="7daf6-img_0786copy2a" class=" wp-image-832 aligncenter" height="280" originalh="280" originalw="373" scale="1.5" src-orig="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/7daf6-img_0786copy2a.jpg?w=373&h=280" src="https://nancyjbailey.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/7daf6-img_0786copy2a.jpg?w=560&h=420" width="373" /></a><br />
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Whomever made the rule that a woman’s life ends at 30 needs to take another look. We’re just getting started.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-1302570661992484922015-02-16T00:56:00.001-05:002015-02-16T01:11:22.120-05:00The Painted Smile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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I think of some lyrics to a John Denver song. </div>
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"There are those who would deal in the darkness of life, </div>
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There are those who would tear down the sun.</div>
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And most men are ruthless, but some will still weep</div>
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When the gifts we were given are gone."</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-25412640257931491922015-02-06T12:57:00.003-05:002015-02-06T12:57:58.723-05:00Babies With Down SyndromeI'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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Combine this with the notorious batch of postpartum hormones and, well. Eek. <br />
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Therefore I have empathy for the mother in the<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Lifestyle/dad-refuses-give-newborn-son-syndrome/story?id=28756025" target="_blank"> scenario broadcast today</a> 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.<br />
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I could see my dad stepping up to the plate the same way. As explained in our story, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN,</a> 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.<br />
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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:<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em>I thought of Dad’s announcement to
us all, on that day, forty years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Your new little sister is a Mongoloid.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em> His tone was somber and he watched
us carefully for a reaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had sat
us all down, all seven of us, so that we could understand the depth of this new
development.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We lined up with our
sun-tanned faces serious and all eyes in various shades of blue, widening with
the new unknown responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
baby, Dad explained, was going to show up with slanted eyes and a large,
protruding, pointed tongue. <o:p></o:p></em></span><br />
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</em><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
eight years old, I took this all very seriously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From Dad’s description, the baby sounded like
some sort of freak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But my heart
immediately went out to her.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><em><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
she arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t look like a
freak.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a pink and golden infant
with perfect skin and tiny, plump clenched fists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I fell immediately, violently in love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had never seen a baby more beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I even loved her name:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amanda
Christina Bowman Bailey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This became my baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dressed
her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I changed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I held and talked to her for hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat by the crib and watched her sleep.</em></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><em> Well into her forties by that time, Mom hadn’t wanted
another baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had actually undergone
surgery for a tubal ligation before getting pregnant for Amanda, but the doctor
had tied off a blood vessel instead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was an error that was ripe for a major lawsuit, but my parents never pursued
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><em>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was too young to understand depression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></em></span></div>
</span><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span> </div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">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 <a href="http://themighty.com/2015/01/how-my-sister-went-from-illiterate-to-becoming-a-published-author/" target="_blank">published author</a>!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I like to think so, anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-85248589037782211212015-02-01T15:22:00.005-05:002015-02-01T15:23:56.209-05:00Cats & Dogs in Art, and the Purrfect Bonus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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.</div>
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The black and white kitty in the portrait is my own kitteh, Chuck, captured in his typical upside-down pose.</div>
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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. </div>
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When I ship these commissions, I often try to include a little free gift, especially for my repeat customers. Enter <a href="http://www.wysong.net/" target="_blank">Wysong Pet Food</a>, 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 <a href="http://www.wysong.net/products/dreamtreats-raw-dog-cat-food.php" target="_blank">"Dream Treats"</a> 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.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/uCzoqF5YK_I/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/uCzoqF5YK_I?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Thanks Wysong for your sponsorship -- here's to natural pet foods for a long and healthy life for Pup and Kitteh.</div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-48529505057781236002015-01-27T00:19:00.002-05:002015-01-27T00:22:47.598-05:00A Blog About a Blog About a BookOnce in awhile you just nail it right smack on the ol' noggin. These moments are rare and wonderful and they must be savored.<br />
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Today, that happened for me. It's possible that Jisun Lee is a lot more savvy than I am, and probably better at self-expression, and that might be why it seems to me as so miraculous. But there is perhaps no greater satisfaction than knowing your message has been heard and understood.<br />
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So, okay, in a nutshell: Jisun writes this wonderful blog called, <a href="http://kimchilatkes.com/2015/01/26/the-upside-of-down-by-nancy-and-amanda-bailey/" target="_blank">"Kimche Latkes"</a> about life with four small children, the youngest of whom has Down syndrome. It's not that her life isn't already full and chronically busy, but she also manages to maintain this eloquent, funny and friendly blog in the meantime.<br />
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Before I was aware that she had FOUR children, I approached her about reviewing <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=tmm_pap_title_0" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>. The reason I approached her was because I adored her style and thought she would be jokey enough to appreciate mine. Had I known about the four kids, I may have taken pity on her and gone somewhere else.<br />
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Lucky for me, I landed in the right spot. Jisun not only read my story, but she digested it and came back with some meaningful conversation, some empathic statements, and she really reached out to me. I feel like I've made a new friend.<br />
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Meanwhile, it took her some time to come up with a review. I actually didn't care; I figured she would get to it one day, and even if she didn't, she was so delightful that it would have not mattered.<br />
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Well, the review appeared today: A masterpiece; ten long paragraphs in which she agonized over our story and gave real thought to how it might apply to her own life. "I found the book resonated personally with me at every turn," she wrote. "I know that until I read the book, my main concerns were of the outside world, strangers who may not respect or understand my son, but now I realize that I may be missing something crucial that is right under my nose."<br />
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This is exactly the reason for telling our story: To raise awareness of what 'might' happen, right under your nose. It is so gratifying to be heard, to feel as if you might be able to make a difference. Even just a little.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-84750576851273634142015-01-25T17:03:00.000-05:002015-01-25T17:03:11.808-05:00Breakfast Plates, and SlatesMy boyfriend made me this special pancake this morning. He claims it just appeared. <br /> "It's a sign!" I screeched, running for the phone.<br /> "Hurry up!" he yelled. "It's gonna burn!"<br /> Native Americans believed that eating the heart of something would transmit its spirit to you.<br /> I didn't know what it meant to have a Pancake Spirit.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> So I ate it surreptitiously.</span><br />
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He not only provided breakfast, but then went out and cut all these slates for me, and drilled the holes for them to hang from. This is a little bit lighter colored than our last batch. The photo was taken right after I had scrubbed them, and they were still pretty wet. To me, they are delicious to look at -- the grain, the chipped edges, each one like an empty canvas with its own quirks.</div>
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Any day that you feel loved, is a good day.</div>
<span class="text_exposed_show"></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-25582600854297149242015-01-23T00:03:00.000-05:002015-01-23T15:08:00.604-05:00Winter Wolf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Someone posted a photo of a black wolf crossing the ice near my hometown yesterday in Michigan's Eastern Upper Peninsula. It inspired this painting. The canvas is small, only 9x12", so the wolf is done in very tiny detail. Wolves are considered a threat to livestock and house pets, but they mean so many good things for the environment. I've heard them at night, but have never actually seen one this close to home.</div>
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This painting is really all about the sky and the burgeoning snowstorm. The Eastern UP has its own definition of wild beauty, even in the depths of winter. I wanted to show the flat landscape, the cold, the icy shore, the moody sky. </div>
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The camera didn't negotiate with yellow very well -- they are blended better in reality. I may touch it up some more.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-47325329235591773922015-01-21T14:32:00.000-05:002015-01-21T14:52:18.735-05:00Prior Lake Priorities - On BullyingI know everyone likes to see nice and sunny, funny stories about my sister Amanda, who despite (or maybe partially due to) having Down syndrome, has an offbeat, self-deprecating sense of humor and a characteristic bluntness. Her one-liners quickly became a hit when I started publishing them on my FB page.<br />
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For instance: Amanda is obsessed with past relationships. I was married twice; once in a prior lifetime, back in the early eighties. Even now, all these years later, she still occasionally brings that up -- an ancient history that I would just as soon forget. Now Amanda and I both are drifting into *gasp* middle age, complete with the side effects of wrinkled brows and curly blonde chin hairs. But she still loves to ask people about their exes, and to my chagrin, she has extended this inquisition to various men that I've dated. She queried one guy about his ex wife's appearance and he replied, "She's four feet tall and has a beard and a mustache."<br />
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"Oh," Amanda said. "She looks like me."<br />
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Unfortunately, with these light-hearted moments come an occasional darker one. It's especially sad that for us, the darker ones are usually dealt by family members. It was my normal MO to ignore other people's bad behavior, and focus on the positive side of life. But now I am finding that ignoring bad behavior doesn't make it go away. The book I co-authored with Amanda has raised a number of eyebrows, with or without the chin whiskers. <br />
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The bottom line is, bullies don't like being called out. <br />
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Today the trend on Facebook is all about the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iKVQX35yYc8" target="_blank">video</a> of one Bradley Knudson, from Prior Lake Minnesota, whose daughter is the victim of bullying. Mr. Knudson is calling them out by name, in a YouTube video now thankfully going viral. I say, "thankfully" because shedding light on this problem is the best way to solve it. I applaud him.<br />
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People who don't have enough conscience or personal integrity to self-monitor should be stripped of their cloaking devices. My siblings have threatened Amanda, her guardian and me with lawsuits and who knows what else, because we have exposed their bad behavior in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=cm_cr_pr_product_top" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>. We've even lost one of our five-star Amazon reviews, which our reader apparently deleted after the threats went public.<br />
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The funny thing is, in reading these reviews, one sees that they don't focus on the bad behavior of siblings. They focus on Amanda's strength, her inherent wisdom, her bravery. This tells me that our message is ringing true loud and clear: Get your affairs in order. Be kind. Stay strong. Follow the love. No matter who you are, what your disability, age, color, gender, chromosome or DNA, you have a voice. Don't let anyone force you into silence.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-22620734681764525952015-01-21T11:29:00.000-05:002015-01-21T11:29:28.997-05:00Horse and Sleight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am eagerly anticipating the arrival of more slates! Just last year I started doing more slate paintings and am going full throttle now. One of the challenges lies in the inherent grain of the slate. This has been especially interesting when painting on the smaller pieces. I have enjoyed solving each one as it comes. Especially apparent in this group is the elephant, where you will see the chips along the edges, which worked nicely into the top of his head, and in his ear on the left side, and the tusk on the left, which has turned out to be a broken tusk. Each piece of slate has its own personality, and sometimes I set one aside until inspiration strikes. Right now, I am slate-less. Ready for more.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elephant, 6x8"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bluebird Bath, about 4x4"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiucBTTCbwGFp-GqUgs7VceGvXuFY7YnyGqR7UUJ9PtyixBoxVnm3_mBfKPRgSInupgiqeqkohqFh8wNAvXqSvECsAHiKwYtEA80NWKe6YOPCKavTejFsEATtbd_WoHp89b5ZPww3Ie5f0B/s1600/sleight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiucBTTCbwGFp-GqUgs7VceGvXuFY7YnyGqR7UUJ9PtyixBoxVnm3_mBfKPRgSInupgiqeqkohqFh8wNAvXqSvECsAHiKwYtEA80NWKe6YOPCKavTejFsEATtbd_WoHp89b5ZPww3Ie5f0B/s1600/sleight.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sleigh Slate, about 6x16"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuMP8tgyCGEu8uR4NF_f7qPgP_m0ANPzo7cDFeuhm1IsI7Oeo1ZjKo9b_TtfgfYDRUReUzvtWuB5kWgigYVWvNvdhb47CLltJX0GmveNDfLVNtoKeTqVsggZvj5z0Iw4_tUeiWyivlUeY/s1600/100_9410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvuMP8tgyCGEu8uR4NF_f7qPgP_m0ANPzo7cDFeuhm1IsI7Oeo1ZjKo9b_TtfgfYDRUReUzvtWuB5kWgigYVWvNvdhb47CLltJX0GmveNDfLVNtoKeTqVsggZvj5z0Iw4_tUeiWyivlUeY/s1600/100_9410.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Horses in Snow, about 8x10"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp6nxhB9lGea3B5NQWW3dC1_oP97EbhaHUISoqY4N5hiTsVBz6uUbtdjz85wQiqsrgbmu09mXfS6fGF1-1WKW933vwcOuSIOxoZYPSe3xZmC6fbZKMvj4yFwbMMVTH9Twc3fxQodA4w_u/s1600/bunnyslate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGp6nxhB9lGea3B5NQWW3dC1_oP97EbhaHUISoqY4N5hiTsVBz6uUbtdjz85wQiqsrgbmu09mXfS6fGF1-1WKW933vwcOuSIOxoZYPSe3xZmC6fbZKMvj4yFwbMMVTH9Twc3fxQodA4w_u/s1600/bunnyslate.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bunny and Trillium, 6x8"</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-4541741417663251422015-01-18T15:50:00.000-05:002015-01-18T15:50:33.132-05:00Evolution of a Dolphin PaintingDespite being a movie buff, I have never seen, "The Cove," and that is by my choice. I think I would find the imagery too disturbing. I've been enamored of dolphins since I was about 12 years old, and had recurring dreams wherein I am swimming with them amid shafts of sunlight that filter down through the water. I admit to romanticizing them somewhat just like everyone else does, although Karen Pryor's operant conditioning training methods have changed my life.<br />
<br />I'm currently recovering from an artistic slump, and what better way to do it than turn to my lifelong inspiration. Here's the progress of my newest painting, in photographs. This is 9x12" acrylic.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWvilDVzNvPpeQpdUgDRK5rMN_NeNgeeRM4FI7kr50NIopzOHEAb6rNmSToJN48YoOmBiQzn9VRaIDAye-AlmCWlw2XlRAdQWHBx8g8N_8rJTCMZqf0P9fHE1PGByj8rlPuAFyVSD2Hsa/s1600/IMG_20150116_192457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWvilDVzNvPpeQpdUgDRK5rMN_NeNgeeRM4FI7kr50NIopzOHEAb6rNmSToJN48YoOmBiQzn9VRaIDAye-AlmCWlw2XlRAdQWHBx8g8N_8rJTCMZqf0P9fHE1PGByj8rlPuAFyVSD2Hsa/s1600/IMG_20150116_192457.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Laying the foundation for the painting; blues and purples.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-QWkh6OzWNLfIyDsZQA1gsfK5KzLtrA070etYAjN5HvjeyNW1JVcgpOo1gDKibDVngG1G8y-iCuVsX1VhaZGgc1TkP6khZplDLSccTiDH8jOg5jdK9AVRG410hJ4NJr_im4hDrAKKjgm/s1600/IMG_20150116_201349.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-QWkh6OzWNLfIyDsZQA1gsfK5KzLtrA070etYAjN5HvjeyNW1JVcgpOo1gDKibDVngG1G8y-iCuVsX1VhaZGgc1TkP6khZplDLSccTiDH8jOg5jdK9AVRG410hJ4NJr_im4hDrAKKjgm/s1600/IMG_20150116_201349.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Adding some darker areas for detail.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBrCCRcHQGq39ukYpJ60nSOmX0J73wmaSOojx9jIncoHHrpbtIzkRX7OwkIXuj3n5hiD-QwFrc8WgPLSDDFskVniolJX2BzXc8R2CBG0QtZWAFjrNpL2qY5Bte0_jTsZS9C5UC2Z-VWWu/s1600/IMG_20150117_102418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfBrCCRcHQGq39ukYpJ60nSOmX0J73wmaSOojx9jIncoHHrpbtIzkRX7OwkIXuj3n5hiD-QwFrc8WgPLSDDFskVniolJX2BzXc8R2CBG0QtZWAFjrNpL2qY5Bte0_jTsZS9C5UC2Z-VWWu/s1600/IMG_20150117_102418.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Now the contrast -- yellows and oranges to brighten the image.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFOAj_QJwzev8-bl28jQ-WrOsJWUdryXR27DBJql6UgpbIPKMWeKlhAK1VwRO6vTnsz88ZlUNEWoD7gjr_MKVCobggZGgYYAY0IUzYxUQ6KUaZKSYm5tdVV97pmraGB3s89YZtA4s33J6/s1600/IMG_20150118_140626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFOAj_QJwzev8-bl28jQ-WrOsJWUdryXR27DBJql6UgpbIPKMWeKlhAK1VwRO6vTnsz88ZlUNEWoD7gjr_MKVCobggZGgYYAY0IUzYxUQ6KUaZKSYm5tdVV97pmraGB3s89YZtA4s33J6/s1600/IMG_20150118_140626.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Final highlights</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-7824280555455021322015-01-09T13:45:00.001-05:002015-01-09T18:40:54.189-05:00For Those Who Try to Shut Me UpIt's a little bit ironic that yesterday, of all days, I got the phone call. The whole world was reeling from the sight of three hooded terrorists, screaming about Muhammed, their spattered gunfire echoing through the streets of Paris. How much nerve does it take to run into an office building and gun down a bunch of artists? I am sure I was not the only one visualizing a "bullseye" on the heads of those criminals while I watched that video.<br />
<br />
I have a bit more of an insider perspective than most, being an artist myself and having worked with a bunch of animators and cartoonists. Cartoonists, for the most part, are just dorks. They are the most innocuous people you will find. Some of them come from horrific dysfunctional backgrounds, and so they draw happy pictures in order to simplify the world in their minds eye. They are rarely violent, often internalizing their anger, letting it come out on the page. They are often wistful and usually kind.<br />
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My heart aches for the families of these victims, who, as far as I can tell, have been nothing short of heroic in their response. I think it was the editor's daughter who posted a photo of his empty desk; a poignant reminder of his simple occupation... "Armed" with pencils.<br />
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So yesterday, as I was enraged like the rest of the world over the murders of the Charlie Hebdo artists, the phone rang. It was my sister, Amanda. <br />
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"Hey girl!" she used her customary greeting. "I've got something to tell you. I'm going into the bedroom so they don't overhear me."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXou2OghTwYdDBNFolwE3ufMXlzij6oniCXM3HfNUhQm4LiZP5o_umiXRIru5vRc2QqsPma0-CVWgyX1u8O80klYyLcQ1cAkH4uhDdYHUZE9YGkXlNlYXjM-xQ0OIdIqlAOONK4w9Pg/s1600/400983_10151068116483907_1776697406_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXou2OghTwYdDBNFolwE3ufMXlzij6oniCXM3HfNUhQm4LiZP5o_umiXRIru5vRc2QqsPma0-CVWgyX1u8O80klYyLcQ1cAkH4uhDdYHUZE9YGkXlNlYXjM-xQ0OIdIqlAOONK4w9Pg/s1600/400983_10151068116483907_1776697406_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I could hear her thunking gait and then the door click as she closed it. "There now. Did you know that (R3) is threatening to file a lawsuit over our book?"<br />
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She was talking about <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1420828174&sr=1-1" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>, our story about how Amanda, who has Down syndrome, was abused by some of our family members and pulled into a guardianship dispute right after our dad's death.<br />
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The irony of the timing, of course, was not lost on me.<br />
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"How do you know this?"<br />
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"She sent an email. She threatened to sue me, my guardian, and you."<br />
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"Don't worry. Our lawyer said she's got nothing."<br />
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"I thought so. But my guardian is very upset about it."<br />
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"Tell him not to worry. We will handle it. Did you see your face on the front page of the newspaper?"<br />
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"YES!" she squealed.<br />
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"YOU'RE FAMOUS!" I roared.<br />
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She laughed and we shouted together about this wonderful experience of being co-authors, partners, and having our own book. <br />
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"We tell it like it is!" she added.<br />
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"Yes we do! And hopefully it will help someone else."<br />
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"I hope so, too," she said.<br />
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After our talk, I gave my attorney a heads-up about the lawsuit threats. We know there is no case.<br />
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I was irritated, though not surprised, that Amanda is having to go through this after all she has already endured. Terrorism, I realized, comes in many forms. The narcissistic need for control surpasses all rational thought and will usurp an otherwise peaceful existence. The answer, of course, is in changing nothing. Stay the course. Keep writing, or drawing, or whatever it is you do. Film is forever. Pictures are forever. Stories are forever. <br />
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If you don't want to be remembered as a jerk, then don't be one. Terrorism will be exposed for what it is, even when the victims are artists, or animals or people with disabilities. Expression is life. As Amanda said, "We tell it like it is."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjir0r0wd-rfhASz3hFMQCrXWsBzmnr9jIsZeX8MmIkeuL_CL-cAPu8rrUmjsmZ_MuN_sMUa6d-W4ntRQzYE0-0Sw_0fN-yVowDFZCdAqrM6sCcHQ_P1dfsviDerz_p1A0dhIfDGnggDw/s1600/IMG_20150109_131744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjir0r0wd-rfhASz3hFMQCrXWsBzmnr9jIsZeX8MmIkeuL_CL-cAPu8rrUmjsmZ_MuN_sMUa6d-W4ntRQzYE0-0Sw_0fN-yVowDFZCdAqrM6sCcHQ_P1dfsviDerz_p1A0dhIfDGnggDw/s1600/IMG_20150109_131744.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-74511485412574552322015-01-05T18:23:00.000-05:002015-01-05T20:05:29.169-05:00Swimming Down Syndrome<div class="copy-paste-block">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"> Let's face it: the Special Olympics has been a boon to the fitness regimen for many disabled folks who would never otherwise get out of the house. Amanda is no exception. Over the years, getting her to exercise has taken a considerable amount of coaxing, begging, and strategic thinking on my part.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"> But one thing she loves to do is swim. She actually won several gold medals while competing in Mt Pleasant years ago. She didn't always fancy the beach, but if given an opportunity, she would rarely turn down a chance to go in a pool. So when I found out an excerpt from our story, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>, would be featured in the <a href="http://www.bookdaily.com/book/4852306/the-north-side-of-down-a-true-story-of-two-sisters" target="_blank">BookDaily</a> "Health and Fitness" ezine, this chapter immediately sprang to mind:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"> Physical activity was demanding for Amanda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t want to take walks with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured if I weighed over 200 pounds, with bad knees and tiny, flat feet, I wouldn’t want to walk, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she could swim.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our cousin Denny had a pool at his hotel, and so as summer heated up, that became our ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Best of all, on days when she went swimming, I didn’t make her take a shower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the chlorine was heavy, she could just hose off at the pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She didn’t have any hair to wash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did insist that she shave her armpits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I wasn’t around, she had a tendency to let the hair grow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was easy enough for me to fix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she happened to lift her arm for any reason, exposing armpit hair, I would make the motion of pulling the cord on a lawn mower.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;">“Rrrrummm…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rummm rum rum rum!” I would grab the invisible handle and jounce like I was pushing it.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She glared at me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Knock it off!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But it always worked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would shave her armpits.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She hated the whole shower effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s always the same old thing.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On our first swim day, she came out of the bathroom wearing her shorts and tank top over a leopard print one-piece.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I had to wrestle my swimming suit to get it on,” she said, sitting down and reaching for her shoes.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, I’ll be ready in a sec.” I went in the bathroom and glanced into the bathtub.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the curve of rusty porcelain near the drain there was a creature about the size of a quarter, with eight tentacles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe the scientific name for it is Lupus Arachnis Horribilis. Being an animal lover, I had no fear of spiders, regardless of their size, but this was a good opportunity to stir things up with Amanda.</span></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPOvJe-EiClNNRtCQoDSwVePG4aGgmIos13QzGbRXjGGVH9lBE9AgLzYR4ArmVpZm3tZX0goz8kdhddBTr0VDxHx6MMTq7sW83yHEoXtpp9pavqSXX80wdCcPsIAhJz_WGmZiqjwphA/s1600/301349_10150278385243907_3916730_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjPOvJe-EiClNNRtCQoDSwVePG4aGgmIos13QzGbRXjGGVH9lBE9AgLzYR4ArmVpZm3tZX0goz8kdhddBTr0VDxHx6MMTq7sW83yHEoXtpp9pavqSXX80wdCcPsIAhJz_WGmZiqjwphA/s1600/301349_10150278385243907_3916730_n.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lens case is for size comparison, although I later claimed I had, "dropped my lens case when I realized the brown blob wasn't my false eyelashes!"</td></tr>
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</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Amanda!" I screeched. "You've got to see this!" </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She must have known what I was yelling about, because she came hobbling in armed with a fly swatter. "I'm gonna swoosh him.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I jumped up and down screaming while she swooshed and Lupus ran down the drain. She turned on the faucet. "It's okay Nancy. He's gone. Pull yourself together."</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As we got in the car, I said, “Jeesh, after all that I am gonna need a cola.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s head over to the Northwood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can tell Celia’s mom about your conquest.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Celia's mother doesn't own the restaurant anymore,” Amanda said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She doesn’t?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said she misses working there.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who owns it now?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The other owner.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We drove on down through the woods to Pins restaurant, turning down the cracked ribbon of pavement to the resort area where the big wooden fence surrounded Denny’s pool.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Til was panting in the back seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He jumped out when I opened the door and ran into the woods with his nose down, his plumy white tail waving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hurry up!” I yelled. “Go potty! Hurry up!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jeesh. Pressure, Nancy. Pressure!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amanda said.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, you don’t want any accidents in the pool, do you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t be gross!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Til performed his duty and came blasting back, and we walked up to the big, creaky gate and stepped inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I had expected, we were the only ones there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Amanda rolled and played in the water, tossing a ball for the elated dog, I watched from the poolside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here,” I took a couple of quarters from my pocket and dropped them in, watching as they glinted and flipped to the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“See if you can find these!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She dove, slippery as a seal, her little flat feet pointing and waving up at the wrinkled water’s surface, her hand patting the pool floor all around the quarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was so buoyant that it was taking hard scissor kicks to keep her inverted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was thinking I could probably get some muscle tone on her just by dropping things into the pool a few days a week.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally, she came up gasping for breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You missed!” I shouted.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know,” she said. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t you open your eyes?”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t like getting them in the chlorine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t have my goggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hey, you should come in with me!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not gonna happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know I don’t swim.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bawk, bawk buk buk.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if the ferry ever sinks, you’re under contract to save my sorry cement block ass.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s a deal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She dove again, patting the bottom and this time I saw her fist close over a quarter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She surfaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I got it!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Waytago!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She swam to the poolside, putting the quarter up by my foot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Here’s your change, Nancy.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I bent over to pick it up, I was hit in the side of the face and head with a blast of cold water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Hey!”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I looked up and caught a glimpse of the squirt gun she was aiming at me, just before another shot of water hit me right between the eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re gonna get wet, one way or the other, you rat!” She was roaring laughter, dousing me with rapid bursts of cold spray as I screamed and ducked away.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How did you…” I shouted, and then choked as she caught me with another shot square in the mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had never heard her laugh so hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let me introduce my secret weapon, Nancy!” she shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was floating upright, bobbing gently in the water like a buoy, her bald head gleaming in the bright sun, pointing the lime green plastic gun at me.</span></span></div>
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Excerpt from, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN: A True Story of Two Sisters</a></div>
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By Nancy J. Bailey and Amanda Bailey</div>
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Copyright 2014</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-29028713820123392332014-12-27T13:09:00.001-05:002014-12-27T13:10:09.280-05:00How To Say Goodbye - With Cats<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My best friend is dying. We met in 1989, and became daily companions. But after 8 years I had moved away, and we had seen each other sporadically thereafter. Now that the cancer is taking its toll, of course, I wish I had put more energy into calling her. Whenever I did call, she would fire questions at me. How did my gallery show go? What is happening with the baby horse? How is the writing coming? </div>
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I am learning the sad fact that the current trend is to resent this type of inquisition. It's been labeled, "Interviewing." This stems from the habit of questioning for information to use as an arsenal.</div>
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But we were never like that. The quick exchange of information is a treasured thing. My friend Rita is an excellent listener, with a razor-sharp mind and ravenous curiosity. She is a great lover of animals, especially cats. She had established a cat rescue in Ann Arbor, called Mosaic Feline Refuge, which she kept open for 22 years. They finally closed this spring. They couldn't keep up the time, energy, and the vast expense of caring for and surgically altering and then homing hoards of roaming house cats and kittens. "I just felt like I never did enough," she told me.</div>
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"That's because you see the bigger picture," I said. "But what are the numbers? I mean, how many cats did you save?"</div>
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"I don't know. I'm sure they're logged somewhere." She sighed, a futile huff acknowledging the vastness of an unending problem. I thought the numbers might make her feel better. After all, one saved cat can prevent literally thousands of unwanted kittens. And Rita had saved, certainly, thousands of cats.</div>
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I had called her a week before Christmas, because I needed a name for my own rescued kitty. Rita was the first one that came to mind. She is endlessly creative and names all her cats and dogs after food. Over the years she's had some real classics -- Toast and Trifle, Lamb Chop and Wafer. But her husband returned the call and told my voicemail that she was in hospice and hopefully coming home in a few days. He didn't know if she would want company.</div>
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I called back, thinking I would be able to maintain composure, and then left a sobbing mess of a message on his answering machine. I didn't know what to say. I stammered that I wanted a name for my kitty. "He likes his belly rubbed!" I wailed.</div>
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I was able to finally talk to Rita yesterday. She was home. "Chuckles," she said immediately. "You know, those candies that come in all the colors? They stick -- and your guy has stuck."</div>
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The moment she said it, I knew, of course, that this was indeed his name. I had found this silly ornament on Christmas Eve, a tiny handmade kitty that looked like my kitty, but it was wearing a clown hat. I brought it home and put it on the window sill next to the wooden chicken. Rita, with her uncanny insight, had called out the name "Chuckles", and that ornament says it. Chuckles. Chuckie. Chuck Chuck. A final gift from someone who has already given so much.</div>
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When she answered the phone, she sounded down, but the more we talked, the more she seemed like her old self. We laughed and talked about cats and dogs, and Clifford and Trudy, and their new little brother. She asked if I was riding him yet. "No!" I said. "I don't bounce like I used to!"</div>
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"I understand that," she said.</div>
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She asked about my new book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=asap_B00F25LTNU?ie=UTF8" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a>. "Any way you can send it to me?"</div>
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She is a voracious reader. She has devoured everything I've ever written. She said, "Everyone's been sending me books! You wouldn't believe the stacks of them around here. I've been telling people it's the only thing I can still do."</div>
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I was so anxious for her to read this, because she knows Amanda, and she has her own history with family dysfunction. Her opinion is so important. I'm working on getting a copy to her ASAP. I know at this time in life, every day is precious. While we talked, I kept wondering if this would be our last conversation.</div>
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I wish she wasn't going. But at least, this time, I had a chance to tell her she was dear to me; she was like a sister. No, better than a sister. She just laughed and said, "Yeah, you're family."</div>
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Through the whole conversation I worried that she might be getting tired. But she rattled on and on, laughing and chatting. I was driving to a friend's house and when I finally reached my destination and regrettably had to hang up, we both said, "Bye!" quickly, just like always.</div>
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There comes a point when there is nothing more to say, and yet so many things to say. If I could have a friend like this for the rest of my life, we would never run out of things to talk about, or run out of questions. I hope I can help her though whatever remains of her lifetime. But the irony is, in reality, she is helping me.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-57263128419466439412014-12-24T00:04:00.000-05:002014-12-24T00:04:24.996-05:00The Interview, The Thugs and The North Side of DownCreativity seems to attract bullies. Like many other movie buffs, I have watched with interest as Seth Rogan's new film, "The Interview" was yanked from its schedule, caving to apparent non-specific threats from an angry Korean bunch. One could only feel the pride of patriotism when Sony was verbally spanked for this decision by everyone who mattered, including the likes of George Clooney and President Obama.<br />
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In what amounts to either the biggest international scandal ever caused by a film, or the smartest publicity stunt ever concocted, "The Interview" is due to release right on schedule. But the message is clear: We don't negotiate with terrorists.<br />
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While this scenario was unfolding, a similar situation (on a much smaller scale) was happening in my own life. However, "The Interview" is a work of fiction. Our story is all true. On Thursday, December 18 at 9:14 pm, I received a barrage of text messages from a family member. "I strongly recommend that you remove, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1419389851&sr=1-1" target="_blank">'The North Side of Down'</a> from public review.... Others will strike back." <br />
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They went on to say that Amanda would lose her guardian, and I would lose all assets including any horses, dogs and vehicle, and face potential jail time. <br />
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Amanda and I had anticipated a reaction like this. After all, our story unfolds within a volatile, belligerent family. But we had decided that our message was too important to ignore: That people with disabilities need to have a voice. That it is important for people to get their affairs in order, to make their wishes known in a legal, undisputable way. That just because someone is a blood relative, they don't need to be in your life. That no one has the right to take your happiness. That real love can withstand anything.<br />
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She knows I have a lawyer standing by, and that our manuscript was scrutinized with a fine-toothed comb before release. As my attorney said, "The truth will set you free."<br />
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I waited through most of the texts, which went on and on. Then I replied with, "You had better treat Amanda with nothing but kindness and respect from now on", and, "Please stop contacting me."<br />
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After the texts stop coming in, I looked around at my four dogs, sprawled around the room and panting happily, and wondered how in the heck they qualify as "assets." Have I missed something?<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-36950910909475376642014-12-21T08:32:00.001-05:002014-12-21T08:49:45.747-05:00Because Mean People Suck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I have a sweet friend who is slipping away. Even though I haven't seen her in a year's time, I can feel her spirit leaving. It might be because my consciousness knows she is going, and I am becoming resigned to the idea. <br />
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I met her in 1989. She is a great lover of animals and a champion of homeless cats, especially. She is a tremendous patron of the arts.<br />
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But she is fragile. The abuse she was witness to has hit her hard. She was bombarded with dysfunction in her family and, probably because of her involvement in rescue, she had a high number of encounters with jerks. Her sadness pervaded and there was always an air of desperation about her; an energy of forced attempt at happiness.<br />
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She wanted to die for a long time, but she was resigned to living. Finally, cancer is having its way with her. And this is our loss. The world is losing a tremendous benefactor, a vessel of generosity.<br />
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Yesterday I had an unpleasant encounter with an unhappy person who oozes hatred, who puts her energy into twisting words and facts in order to trick people and fool people and cause dissension. I am faced with the age-old question: Why are the creeps allowed to stick around, while this beautiful, educated, kind hearted friend's life is cut short when she is barely 60 years old?<br />
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Because mean people suck! They suck the living life blood right out of you. They suck your energy. They suck away your happiness and your positive thoughts. They spread misery because it is all they know.<br />
<br />
This is why the kind-hearted often succumb to disease, while the evil people forge onward.<br />
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Evil people will kill you.<br />
<br />
I learned a valuable lesson from my sister <a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418920768&sr=1-2" target="_blank">Amanda</a>, who has Down's syndrome, and recently went through a horrific time following the death of our Dad. In the midst of bad behavior among her relatives, she stayed focused on what was important to her: Love. She was somehow able to shed all the abuse and hysteria that was heaped upon her, and concentrate on the thing that mattered most: Her love for her family.<br />
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Now with my friend's demise, I am reminded again how important it is to turn away from the negativity dished out by those who thrive on it. Concentrate on people who make you laugh, who love you, who are grateful for the time here. Life is a brief and precious gift. No matter who someone is, be they blood relative; be it a sibling or a spouse or a parent; no one has the right to steal your life away. Get rid of the jerks; move on; stay focused on those who are kind, who have empathy, and who know how to love. It's never too late to learn to truly live.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-30024075525060037252014-12-14T09:00:00.000-05:002014-12-14T09:22:25.578-05:00My Sister, the AuthorOur book is published today. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=lh_ni_t?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER" target="_blank">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN</a> joins the select few books actually written by an author (or co-author) with Down's syndrome.<br />
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Amanda has long been a writer at heart. When she was a baby, she used to climb the stairs and sit with me in my bedroom while I wrote page after page on spiral-bound note paper. I wrote and illustrated hundreds of pages of horse stories while my patient companion was content to just sit cross-legged on the bed near my desk, watching me or quietly coloring or just waiting.<br />
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At that time, I didn't realize the impact this was having. Amanda was just a baby then. I graduated, moved away to Alaska and then the western states. In the meantime, Amanda grew up illiterate. Finally, when she was around 20 years old, I had moved back to Michigan and was spending lots of time with her. I sat with her in the big gold chair in the living room looking at the back of an Eddie Rabbitt album. She was a huge country music fan. I was reading the words to, "I Love a Rainy Night."<br />
<br />
She was attentive as always, and I began pointing out the letters and sounding them out. When we reached the end of each line, we would sing it.<br />
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Perhaps it was the simplistic repetition of the song, but I thought she was catching on.<br />
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Later, watching a "Hooked on Phonics" infomercial, I told my then-husband, "This might work for Amanda. They use music, see?"<br />
<br />
He wanted no part of spending $200 on that program. So, I saved my money and ordered one, and brought it home on my next trip North, along with a couple of Dr. Seuss children's books. Mom and Dad wisely sent the program to Amanda's school. It not only helped Amanda. but other kids in her special ed class learned to read, too. When I asked Dad about her progress later, Dad said, "Yes, she is learning, but it's going to be limited."<br />
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I will never forget the first time Amanda stumbled through, "Green Eggs and Ham." I was in tears. She was 21 years old by then, and opening a whole new door for herself.<br />
<br />
From that point on, the household exploded with paper and notebooks. Amanda was filling every spiral-bound notebook in sight, practicing her writing in her shaky, angular cursive hand. She copied pages of old paperbacks. Eventually she began writing her own thoughts; page after page.<br />
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A writer was born.<br />
<br />
When finally she began journaling after our Mom's death, I asked her, "How would you like to write a book with me? We can write about our mother, and Dad, and our experiences with the family."<br />
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She loved the idea. We pored over our story, building it one page at a time, editing and discussing and reading to each other. We lost Mom, and we cried and wrote. We lost Dad, and we cried and wrote some more. Our siblings battled over Amanda's guardianship, and we wrote on in determination. We were partners in a combined effort. This was our project; our journey. When I asked her if she was ready to become a published author, she said, "I cannot wait! I. CAN. NOT. WAIT!"<br />
<br />
So the little girl who quietly sat by has become a literary force in her own right. Unencumbered by her disability, she forges onward.<br />
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"Limited," indeed! ...If Dad could see her now.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQGcST04zca53BZhPFIMYuVOeoWKzIqlVuEL70vPjFlzFrO3WhfLnlNQ8T7IyakiFOaPFCUAjpl-6iV6H5KJAtTbPAzvv3VzS9rlAjPt5WrZpxldfZdd_blJ7zLEUIBRgFL33eaZpATA/s1600/BookCoverPreviewAGAIN2.jpg" height="640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="436" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-North-Side-Down-Sisters/dp/1505274419/ref=lh_ni_t?ie=UTF8&psc=1&smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER" target="_blank">Click to Order</a></td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-35722777375160435942014-11-29T14:24:00.001-05:002014-11-29T14:38:48.516-05:00Coming December 1<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYqy5ie2T_IROCTayQHKrcs6SNvV_NyWh3jZrfRLDmXNmLrZm4F1MS2YFuCp2fqxux53iA4pNSYut1fCbSoGXna3pPhkJjIpJVa5BvbcfQ7G5jRfGXF1KKhwdJhfAVoNXDN-19UZAKA/s1600/northcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYqy5ie2T_IROCTayQHKrcs6SNvV_NyWh3jZrfRLDmXNmLrZm4F1MS2YFuCp2fqxux53iA4pNSYut1fCbSoGXna3pPhkJjIpJVa5BvbcfQ7G5jRfGXF1KKhwdJhfAVoNXDN-19UZAKA/s1600/northcover.jpg" height="320" title="" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/North-Side-Down-Story-Sisters/dp/1505274419/" target="_blank">Click to order!</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My new book, "The North Side of Down" will be available in just a couple of days. This is a bittersweet time for me, as this is my sister Amanda's story, and it involved a lot of heartache for both of us. Amanda has Down's syndrome and she lost both of her parents within the space of 3 years. As if that wasn't bad enough, she became enmeshed in a belligerent guardianship dispute between two siblings.<br />
<br />
"The North Side of Down" tells how Amanda bore the pain of this era, this life-changing state, as she was hurtled through funerals, fights, being moved from one home to the next, court cases and isolation. She managed it all without losing her dignity and in fact, came out smiling.<br />
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As much as I am horrified by the behavior of our siblings, I marvel at Amanda's elegance. It's unfortunate that, due to more legal red tape, I was unable to keep her name on the book as my co-author. But this is her story, heart and soul. She will still get 50% royalties and I still expect her to attend events and book signings with me.<br />
<br />
Our hope is that this story will give others a heads-up to get affairs in order. You may grow up with someone, but you may not really know them until the chips are down. At that point, you will find your true hero.<br />
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<br />
This wasn't my idea, despite the fact that I fell in love with the movie. Hard. I was so in love with, "Shrek," in fact, that I saw it on the big screen no less than six times. <br />
<br />
That's excessive, even for me.<br />
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I also bought the soundtrack and played it in my car until I wore it out.<br />
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When my friend, director Ann O'Reilly, first contacted me asking if Clifford could step in as Farquaad's horse, I didn't hesitate to jump at it. But my first reaction to the idea of a musical play was to wonder how it could ever measure up to the dynamic genius of the film. The answer, as with most good plays, is that it doesn't try. It has the same characters, or some variation of them, the same story, and much of the same dialogue. The music is different. The acting and dancing and special effects all fall upon the mercy of whatever company is producing the effort.<br />
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But Howell is doing it right. Mark Mazzullo's Shrek is a giant, green, bumbling behemoth. Fiona, played by Annelise Hoshal is a flaming-haired goofball with a mean set of tap shoes. Kevin Rogers' Donkey has the comic timing demanded of someone dressed in a suit with floppy ears. The dancing, the music, the colors, the lights! With the flash and glitter of the headdress of the formidable Dragon, the mighty Melinda Towns has a voice that could rival Adele. And as Lord Farquaad, performing the entire two hours on his knees as a tiny little man who "overcompensates", Chris Salter is stealing the show.<br />
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Clifford has attended two rehearsals and, as I expected, is reveling in the glamour and attention. His role is mercifully short -- he is to carry Farquaad down the aisle between the seats, deposit him on the stage, wait while he proposes to Fiona, and then deliver him back up the next aisle and out the back doors.<br />
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One of the most impressive things about Chris is that he is not a rider, but he is making it work. "Cliffy, come to Daddy," he croons, as Clifford sidles a step away from him. I realize this is one of the great things I miss most about live theatre -- the quick thinking, the ability to improvise during the inevitable unexpected moments.<br />
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Clifford is handling everything just fine, despite Farquaad's struggle to negotiate with the fake legs. The hardest part for me will be getting through it with a straight face.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-36225847705155531052014-08-28T12:00:00.000-04:002014-08-28T11:51:19.765-04:00Are You a Retard?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amanda saying, "Hmm..."</td></tr>
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Today I would like to address the label, "Retarded." I have heard this misused twice in the past three days. In both cases it was applied to my sister Amanda, who has Down's syndrome. In the first instance, the word was used by a cousin (in-law) in a flustered attempt to define Amanda's "condition." She finally finished with, "Well, there are a lot of names you could call her, but she's a child!"<br />
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My response to that was, "There are a lot of names I could call you, too. But she's an adult." <br />
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In the second, the label was used by the producer of the shows my dogs perform in (more accurately now described as, "my ex show producer") in an attempt to hurt my feelings and insult me. The phrase was, "You're retarded, just like your sister."<br />
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My response to that one was, "Thank you."<br />
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]">
Ignorance is found in all walks of life and in all professions. I have experienced the gamut of reactions to Amanda, but the most
offensive ones often are from people who I thought would know better. One
Michigan library director said, "We have a coupla Down's Syndromes who
work in the cafeteria." </span></span></span><br />
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<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2]"><span id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0"><span id=".reactRoot[485].[1][4][1]{comment10151417292533907_26183879}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"> Uhmmm... A couple of WHAT? Excuse me? And
you work WHERE?! I think the title of my next book should be, "I Am Not
My Disability!"</span></span></span><br />
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I have friends who, when joking around, will say someone is, "retarded," or, "such a retard," and then they catch themselves, look at me and apologize. The funny thing is, when it is used in this way, it doesn't even bother me. I have never been hypersensitive about the label, "retarded."<br />
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The actual definition for "retarded" is, <span class="st">"Occurring or developing later than desired or expected; delayed."</span><br />
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<span class="st">To me, this would more accurately describe someone with a learning disability. For instance, I could say that I myself am mathematically retarded. Ironically, my cousin-in-law is apparently emotionally, certainly socially, and perhaps intellectually retarded. The show producer is intellectually, emotionally and socially retarded. And both, in terms of understanding disabilities, are suffering from educational retardation.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Amanda, on the other hand, has an extra chromosome. She is academically as advanced as her chromosome collection will allow. She is not "late" or "delayed" at all in her emotional, social and intellectual development. Therefore, I can state pretty accurately that she is less of a retard than the three of us.</span><br />
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<span class="st">So, before you take offense to the word, "retarded," remember that it does have its applications. The question is, is it being used correctly? To muddle it over seems a good idea, because it might save you a knee-jerk reaction. Or better yet, to use one of Amanda's catch phrases, "Think again!" </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hmmm....</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-28637557514183152062014-08-26T21:59:00.000-04:002014-08-26T23:09:48.102-04:00The North Side of Down<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzhPTrnW9zz0V-hgtrD50fltn7VIFwutHG1A4QL1x48O17SJeH2arI3lr04s_iiQDWUfNZ-0QBlwyhhbpek7qjjO8fPk-z3IoakeXJ0h8JWSizG2LTY8RVecFRbyLgGCT2yiG6dBbwJ4/s1600/529886_10150809106038907_1248242172_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKzhPTrnW9zz0V-hgtrD50fltn7VIFwutHG1A4QL1x48O17SJeH2arI3lr04s_iiQDWUfNZ-0QBlwyhhbpek7qjjO8fPk-z3IoakeXJ0h8JWSizG2LTY8RVecFRbyLgGCT2yiG6dBbwJ4/s1600/529886_10150809106038907_1248242172_n.jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></div>
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<span class="bqQuoteLink"><em><span style="color: black;">"There are two powers in the world; one is the sword and the other is the pen. There is a great competition and rivalry between the two. There is a third power stronger than both, that of the women."</span></em></span></div>
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<em><span style="color: black;">- Muhammad Ali Jinnah</span></em></div>
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It has been a rough couple of years: Rougher even than my divorce, or the subsequent foreclosure of my home. What made the past few so difficult was the loss of my parents, magnetized by the suffering of my poor sister, Amanda. She has Down's syndrome and became the object of a feud between two siblings vying for guardianship. Amanda had made her choice, but the entire family was still dragged through an excruciating legal process that lasted for nearly two months, immediately following my Dad's death.</div>
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During these weeks I devoted nearly all my time attempting to comfort and reassure her. Though terribly depressed, grieving, confused and scared, she handled the situation with tremendous dignity. She handled it better than I did. I was furious.</div>
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Amanda is in her forties. She spent her whole life living with my parents in the remote Northern Michigan village. She was their buffer, their companion, their servant (often unwilling), and their endless source of entertainment. Amanda is a brilliant wit and, since she is universally underestimated, her snappy one-liners can ambush the innocent bystander.</div>
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<span lang="">Me: Did you have a good birthday? <br /> Amanda: Yes. <br /> Me: I would hope so. THREE birthday cakes, jeesh... <br /> Amanda: Yeah. Tomorrow it's back to normal food. Snickers and Milky Way.<br /><br />One thing Amanda and I have in common is that we both love to write. During those terrible weeks in 2013, we found solace in sharing our thoughts, and putting words on paper. Even then, I saw the start of a book happening. We were living it. Every day that we were together, we made notes. Often Amanda would initiate these sessions by saying, "Let's work on our book."<br /><br />It brought tremendous comfort to both of us. Now I am finding that most memoirs having to do with Down's syndrome are about babies, written by the parents... People reeling from the reality of how their life will never be the same, and not in ways they expected. But Amanda's story is one of later years, and hopefully will serve as a warning to folks about getting their affairs in order. I hope that this story will spring from the ashes and help someone. <br /><br />The manuscript is in the final editing stages now; our story is told. We are searching for a publisher, but teetering on the brink of indecision, as there are so many self-publishing options available. Please follow us on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NorthSideofDown" target="_blank">Facebook</a> for regular updates.<br /><br /><span lang="">THE NORTH SIDE OF DOWN<i> </i>will describe, as no other book has, what life is like growing up with someone with Down's syndrome. It will show how sometimes those with the softest voice have the most to say. It will show how appearances can deceive, not only in those who seem simple, but in those who seem the most loyal. It will examine how the legal system can paralyze a disabled person in the wake of the loss of a guardian. Perhaps most importantly, it explains the concept of true forgiveness.</span></span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-71171416843468242572014-06-15T14:00:00.000-04:002014-08-29T12:26:51.667-04:00Clifford Visits Fernwood Botanical Garden and Gallery<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We had a whopping turnout of over 300 people to meet Clifford, pose for photos and see him sign books at Fernwood Botanical Garden and Gallery in Niles, Michigan. The setting was beautiful and so was the weather! You can't ask for more.</div>
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Sunday June 15</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01287090837266778687noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-64060218163048045082014-05-12T15:43:00.001-04:002014-05-12T15:45:03.017-04:00If You Call, I Will PantherWhen I was in high school, my art class took a field trip to a gallery in Sault Ste. Marie, Canada, to view a show featuring some Canadian wildlife artists. I wandered around the room looking at various paintings of foxes and wolves and loons. They were all impressive, and I thought I could have stayed there all day, but one kept drawing me back.<br />
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It was an arctic gyrfalcon sitting on a cliff. The thing that was most remarkable to me was the atmospheric feeling about it. Even though the focus was on the bird and the rock, it gave the feeling that I was viewing something that was very high up in the air.<br />
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I went back to this painting so many times that my classmates started making fun of me. "Nancy really likes that one!"<br />
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I didn't care. I wanted to make sure I remembered the name of the artist. And his name became emblazoned on my brain: <a href="http://www.fulcrumgallery.com/a28592/Robert-Bateman.htm" target="_blank">Robert Bateman</a>.<br />
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That was in the late 1970's. Now everyone who is the slightest interest in the wildlife art world has heard of Mr. Bateman, and most are familiar with his dusky technique, his soft naturalistic stroke, his muted colors. I can usually identify his work on sight.<br />
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I was even able to meet him in person one day in the early 1990's, when he was riding the crest of his fame and success. I had stopped at a bookstore in Ann Arbor, and saw a modest sign on the door: "Artist Robert Bateman, here today." I could hardly believe my luck! I went home and got the book I had featuring his work, and brought it back so he could sign it. Like many artists, he was rumpled, soft-spoken and modest. He spoke reverently about the earth and its creatures. I was smitten. I was so tongue-tied that I couldn't express my admiration, or even propose marriage. But I did hold out my hand, and he shook it and I came away thinking I'd never wash the hand again.<br />
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So when I was approached by <a href="http://www.fulcrumgallery.com/" target="_blank">Fulcrum Gallery</a> to blog about their product, and they offered to send me a print, I skimmed through what they had available. I was thrilled to find Bateman's "Tropical Cougar" in their inventory. Fortunately, their website was easy to navigate. I pored over matte colors and deliberated over how to frame it. Finally, I picked a soft eggshell matte and dark wooden frame to match the understated tones in the image. It arrived two days ago, packed securely in cardboard, flawlessly framed in the colors I requested. It now hangs in my bedroom, designed to inspire me every morning. Thanks Fulcrum Gallery. Thanks Robert Bateman. I did eventually wash my hand, but now at least I have one of your prints.<br />
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<a href="http://www.fulcrumgallery.com/Robert-Bateman/Tropical-Cougar_28371.htm" target="_blank"><img alt="Tropical Cougar by Robert Bateman" src="http://ts3.mm.bing.net/th?&id=HN.608028444249162596&w=300&h=300&c=0&pid=1.9&rs=0&p=0" height="298" style="height: 224px; opacity: 1; width: 300px;" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-50110305647961917032014-03-28T18:19:00.000-04:002014-03-28T18:19:17.087-04:00Border Collie on Slate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEJrkCtRP9CvHpURxDLQznQ5T268gHxxvEvIJ29nio5rz9J33vAdiHsmW7uUwteMx5NcMM9CxElRC57N-jmcvHycK4ii1BH7VjLKt7xbhjDUaztduFDnRcuImcb0o7KZDhM-4sxz8uQ/s1600/bryteslate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVEJrkCtRP9CvHpURxDLQznQ5T268gHxxvEvIJ29nio5rz9J33vAdiHsmW7uUwteMx5NcMM9CxElRC57N-jmcvHycK4ii1BH7VjLKt7xbhjDUaztduFDnRcuImcb0o7KZDhM-4sxz8uQ/s1600/bryteslate.jpg" height="256" width="320" /></a></div>
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My friend Barb's border collie is featured in today's slate painting. This beautiful dog has appeared on
billboards promoting pet expos all over the country from Michigan to New
York. She is easily one of the fastest dogs I have ever seen. I was
happy to be able to paint her and I incorporated the image of the sun in
honor of her name: Bryte! About 6x8"</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-56769818807511479982014-03-28T18:14:00.000-04:002014-03-28T18:14:29.628-04:00Feline Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PR363Zc0_bfCr8GPIPcE4SFNjm2PeMRmEIA_w-5rEGZkjmmmBnGqs8lhybFG0v_2Qxl310gC-irk5Pt3ac0yFIBufzAyTAVSgPEoRB3eh9SpJJsIac5J28q_wlDj50Zn3INmhASpEQ/s1600/kittehbluglass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_PR363Zc0_bfCr8GPIPcE4SFNjm2PeMRmEIA_w-5rEGZkjmmmBnGqs8lhybFG0v_2Qxl310gC-irk5Pt3ac0yFIBufzAyTAVSgPEoRB3eh9SpJJsIac5J28q_wlDj50Zn3INmhASpEQ/s1600/kittehbluglass.jpg" height="320" width="243" /> </a></div>
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I was a little tempted to change this cat into a Somali or Abyssinian, as that is my "breed bias", but this time I decided to leave it black. I think it works with the coldness of the marble sill, the snowy day and the blue glass. This painting is about as close to a still-life as I get. It is actually a study in textures. I found it an interesting challenge to have black fur, under the circumstances, emanate warmth.<br />
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This is acrylic on 9x12" gallery-wrapped canvas. I have prints available in my <a href="http://fineartamerica.com/featured/kitty-with-blue-glass-nancy-j-bailey.html" target="_blank">online gallery at Fine Art America.</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6820476008600686213.post-13013921066758740682014-02-14T10:45:00.002-05:002014-02-14T10:58:03.631-05:00Endless Equine ArtLast night I watched "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kULwsoCEd3g" target="_blank">Cave of Forgotten Dreams</a>" on Netflix, Werner Herzog's documentary about the Paleolithic-era paintings in the Chauvet cave of Southern France. Deemed the oldest works of art on record, the paintings were primarily of horses. Their scruffy manes, knobby heads and arched necks are easily recognizable, and they are pictured running in groups. The lines and textures of the images are so beautiful that I want to get a copy somehow and hang it on my wall.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpx-JGP9PA7L97zCTBDSt631HawOIaxqO38g_v0N1zdI97OZCKP4WknEusiKYDqgNZrwC5cKFYje9xWsTKBKbDT5-FAxgXduX13aqe6kIvy8zCjMey9sjD9MU5O2w04PP6N27FoofvGQ/s1600/100_9444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpx-JGP9PA7L97zCTBDSt631HawOIaxqO38g_v0N1zdI97OZCKP4WknEusiKYDqgNZrwC5cKFYje9xWsTKBKbDT5-FAxgXduX13aqe6kIvy8zCjMey9sjD9MU5O2w04PP6N27FoofvGQ/s1600/100_9444.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morgan stallion on black canvas, 9x12" acrylic</td></tr>
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It leads me to reflect on this equine wonder, a limitless source of inspiration though the ages. The horse lives on, forever stretching our collective imagination. When I learned to hold a pencil and make a mark with it, I started drawing horses. Even though I had never owned one, I drew them galloping with flowing manes and tails. I drew long heads with pointed ears and rounded cheeks. I drew bent legs and bulging knees and comma-shaped nostrils. Now all these years later, I am still painting horses. It seems only appropriate on this Valentine's Day that I should be reflecting on my first love, the horse.<br />
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Here are two new salutes to our eternal friend. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMPs17XL54eqJxNhCNaHe-yFXVXe48YtQvn18prL_bKTCCHZzeiC2XSRNPtmVlkfK5goj0JW7PgDhqv2TF1Tq6R_4lCAJ1ln5J2AOocyVME-cMw6HC0EhsSDXH_LHXWYuQmG4hNtHsQ/s1600/100_9451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMPs17XL54eqJxNhCNaHe-yFXVXe48YtQvn18prL_bKTCCHZzeiC2XSRNPtmVlkfK5goj0JW7PgDhqv2TF1Tq6R_4lCAJ1ln5J2AOocyVME-cMw6HC0EhsSDXH_LHXWYuQmG4hNtHsQ/s1600/100_9451.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"War Horse", Mustang 9x12" acrylic</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07671421289586776170noreply@blogger.com0