brushfire"This, yes, this, it was always like this." -Stanley Koehler
REFLECTIONS OF AN EMPTY NESTER
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Nine minutes and 29 seconds. That’s the length of time George Floyd lay handcuffed and pinned facedown on the ground while former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin ground his knee into his neck and two other officers sat on his back. Meanwhile passersby, including a nine-year-old girl, gathered on the sidewalk, pleading with the officers to show mercy. Chauvin is facing three charges of murder — second-degree unintentional murder, third-degree murder and second-degree manslaughter — in the May 25 2020 death of George Floyd. The trial began Monday, March 29, with witness testimony and security, body cam and phone video footage piecing together the events leading to Floyd’s death, from when he wandered around Cup Foods, a neighborhood store on the corner of 28th Street and Chicago Avenue, to when he lay motionless on the pavement under Chauvin’s knee. There’s the moment Floyd is sitting in his SUV, his hands on the steering wheel, while one of the officers draws his weapon and another shouts obscenities at him. “Please, Mr. Officer, don’t shoot me,” Floyd begs. There’s the struggle as the officers try to put him in the back seat of the squad car. He resists, saying, “I’m not that kind of guy!” He says he can’t breathe, that he’s in pain, that he’s claustrophobic. The officers manage to handcuff him and force him into the back seat. After a few moments, the car appears to rock. The officers drag Floyd out of the car on the street side and force him to the pavement. Witnesses for the prosecution unravel the sequence of events leading to the final moments of George Floyd’s life. A worker at the Speedway across the street filmed early interaction between Floyd and the police. “I always see the police and they’re messing with people,” she said. “And it’s wrong and it’s not right.” A 911 dispatcher, who caught sight of the security footage on a wall-mounted display, said the officers and Floyd were motionless for so long, she thought the video had frozen. Her “gut instinct” prompted her to report the incident to the officers’ supervisor, a police lieutenant. “You can call me a snitch if you want to,” she said. Donald Williams, a professional mixed martial arts fighter out for air that evening, also “called the police on the police” after witnessing what he believed was a murder. In his testimony, he said he and Chauvin locked eyes when he accused the officer of conducting a "blood choke," a martial arts move that cuts off the flow of blood to the brain. While Williams acknowledged he called the officers names, he refused to succumb to the defense painting him as an angry Black man, insisting he remained professional and "stayed in my body." Off-duty firefighter Genevieve Hanson arrived at the scene and immediately determined the man held by the police was in medical distress. She heard him pleading for his life, calling out for “mama,” and saying "I can't breathe" 27 times. She saw his eyes roll back in his head and fluid leak from his body. She identified herself as a firefighter and EMT to the officer keeping the crowd at bay. She begged him to let her administer medical aid. He told her if what she was saying was true, she would know better than to intervene. She told the prosecution she felt “desperate to help.” A 17-year-old who took the video footage that went viral, sending so many Americans to the streets last summer in protest, said she stays up nights apologizing to George Floyd for not doing more to help him. She also said she saw several officers, including Chauvin, reach for their mace, causing her to be afraid. A 61-year-old eyewitness broke down on the stand, telling the court he “felt helpless.” The 19-year-old cashier at Cup Foods, where Floyd was accused of passing a counterfeit $20 bill — resulting in a call to the police — described Floyd as friendly and talkative, but suspected he was high. He also expressed guilt and remorse for his role in the tragedy. “If I would've just not taken the bill, this could’ve been avoided,” he said. Paramedic Seth Bravinder said he and his partner, when they arrived at the scene, did everything in their power to give Floyd "a second chance at life." Bravinder gestured to Chauvin to get off Floyd’s neck and then verbally directed him to do so when Chauvin didn’t comply. It didn’t take long for the paramedics to assess what the three officers must have known already. George Floyd was not moving. He was not breathing. He had no pulse. He was unconscious and unresponsive. The paramedics moved Mr. Floyd's limp body to a stretcher, Bravinder cradling his head to prevent it from smashing on the pavement. They drove away from the scene, but pulled over to open Floyd’s airway and administer chest compressions — the very same lifesaving measures Hanson begged the officers to allow her to perform in those critical moments after Floyd stopped breathing. When asked if he had an opinion on when the restraint on Floyd should have ended, Chauvin’s supervising officer replied, “When Mr. Floyd was no longer offering up any resistance to the officers, they could have ended their restraint.” And that was after he was handcuffed and on the ground and no longer resisting?” the prosecutor clarified. “Correct,” the officer said. The first week of testimony ended with Lt. Richard Zimmerman, the highest ranking officer with the Minneapolis police department, testifying that the use of force during that time period was “totally unnecessary.” “First of all, pulling him down to the ground face down and putting your knee on a neck for that amount of time is just uncalled for,” Lt. Zimmerman said. “I saw no reason why the officers felt they were in danger if that’s what they felt, and that’s what they would have had to feel to use that kind of force.” "So in your opinion, should that restraint have stopped once he was handcuffed and prone on the ground?” the prosecutor asked. “Absolutely,” Lt. Zimmerman said.
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Early the morning of Nov. 8, 2000, my 9-year-old daughter bounded down the basement steps to where I was folding laundry at the dryer. “Who won?” she asked. “Bush or Gore?” Her urgency wasn’t because we discussed politics at the dinner table each night or she was concerned about the country’s future in the hands of one or the other presidential candidate. She was inquiring because in her fourth-grade music class she was learning “The Presidents Song,” in which she sang the presidents in order from George Washington to the present, and she wanted to know how to complete the lyrics. “Neither,” I replied. “Or at least we don’t know yet.” I explained this was a historic moment for our nation and then I finished folding the laundry, she got ready for school and our day went on. We gave little thought to how the events unfolding over the next 45 days would impact our lives going forward. Flash forward to a very different picture in 2020. Twenty years ago, headlines came to us in the morning paper and evening network news shows. My husband and I didn’t have cable TV at the time, nor did we carry the internet in our pockets. Today, not only did news about this historic election arrive 24/7, but technology allowed us to experience events live and in real time. In the three weeks since the election, I watched events unfold, heard people speak, witnessed voting in action and later watched or read recaps in national news I could compare to my own observations. This made me feel like I was a participant in history in the making. And while I didn’t in reality help shape any of these events, I know people — friends, community members, business people and local politicians — who did play a role, from working to get out the vote and volunteering at the polls to speaking up publicly about the importance of protecting the democratic process. My husband’s colleague, who served as a poll watcher in Detroit on election day, described working with a partner from the other party as “very collegial” and the experience in general as “actually kind of boring,” according to his wife. The excitement came the next day during the counting of absentee ballots at the TCF Center when more poll watchers showed up than the rules allowed. Some were there to challenge the counting process taking place. Others were there to protect it. I witnessed the clashing of the two sides in a live stream of protests outside. One group was chanting: “Stop the count!” while others cried out: “Count every vote!” More drama followed during a lengthy Wayne County Board of Canvassers meeting. I logged in early enough to gain access. Meanwhile, proceedings were delayed nearly two hours to accommodate the many people who wanted to attend and as more paperwork — affidavits describing experiences at the TCF Center, from what I gathered — poured in. Public comments followed for several hours after the two Republican members of the board voted against certifying the votes, resulting in a split decision. Later they reversed course in a controversial sequence of events. The Board of State Canvassers meeting nearly a week later was live-streamed. This time I was among more than 20,000 people observing the proceedings. Approximately 500 people signed up to make public comments, including a friend of mine who waited six hours and 47 minutes to have her voice heard. The meeting began at 1 p.m., but the vote didn’t take place until 4:24 p.m. What typically was a routine process — certifying votes across Michigan’s 83 counties — turned into a nail-biter where democracy was on the line and one under-the-radar politician put principles above party in a rare show of courage typically reserved for TV dramas. What did I learn in the process? That election clerks across the state, regardless of party affiliation, take their jobs seriously. That while election reform may be overdue, there’s a difference between human error and fraud. That affidavits aren’t considered evidence unless a court deems them so. That people care deeply about their votes. That our democracy rests on elected and appointed government officials fulfilling their sworn duties and not overstepping their essential functions. That moment the Board of State Canvassers certified Michigan’s votes with three ayes and one abstention marked a tipping point in history, as it was followed within hours by the announcement the president-elect’s formal transition process would commence. For fourth graders learning “The Presidents Song” in 2020, at least now they have their answer and can move forward — as can the rest of us. This appeared in the Dec. 3 edition of the Grosse Pointe News. As virtual commencement ceremonies take place across the country, words of advice abound. Graduates will be told to seize the day, believe in the beauty of their dreams and be the change they want to see in the world. These lofty messages are intended to inspire graduates to become the best versions of themselves while making the world a better place. They’re commendable and entirely forgettable. And all too often, they’re negated by more practical advice behind the scenes from well-meaning adults. Perhaps this is why a story told by broadcast journalist Soledad O’Brien, the keynote speaker at my son’s college graduation last spring, resonated so much with my family. O’Brien shared an anecdote about when she was approached by a popular women’s magazine for inclusion in their Mother’s Day issue. They were featuring prominent women from a variety of fields and wanted to take a photo of her with her mother to include in the inside spread. “What was the best advice your mother ever gave you?” they asked her. “Most people are idiots. Don’t listen to them,” was her response. Needless to say, O’Brien and her mother were not included in the special edition. The story generated a laugh, but it struck home. How are young people to “believe in the beauty of (their) dreams” when so many well-intentioned adults squelch those dreams with harsh realities? My own grandfather, according to a favorite family story passed down through the generations, was one of those adults. As a minister, my grandfather often was charged with counseling people in his congregation. A man and woman implored him to speak with their son, who was headed to New York City to pursue a career in acting. Their plan for their eldest child and only son was for him to remain in his hometown of Indiana, Pa., and take over the family hardware store. My grandfather agreed to meet with the aspiring actor. Afterward, my grandmother asked him how it went. My grandfather described a tall, awkward, gangly young man who had no hope of success on stage or in film. “The Stewarts have nothing to worry about,” he said. “Jimmy will be home in no time.” Fortunately, whatever advice my grandfather gave Jimmy Stewart that day went unheeded. But it wasn’t wrong for him to offer it or for Stewart’s parents to be concerned. Jimmy Stewart made his acting debut during the Great Depression. I don’t envy anyone tendering words of wisdom to graduates this year. Do you acknowledge the uncertainties ahead? Be less resolute in your advice to seniors when doom and gloom predictions loom over platitudes about brighter days on the horizon? These are young people for whom a global crisis isn’t an abstract notion, but a reality. And what can you say that hasn’t been said many times before? I will invoke a quote from my grandfather — once again passed down through the generations — for the Class of 2020. These words aren’t meant to temper dreams or discourage efforts to change the world, but rather to provide solace when the unknowns outweigh the knowns and factors lie outside our control. I have shared them at various times with my own children to brace them for uncertain outcomes, as my mother did with me. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst and take what comes.” Perhaps this is what my grandfather told Jimmy Stewart those many years ago. And while it’s not the loftiest advice, it will come in handy at the most unexpected moments. This appeared in the May 21, 2020 edition of the Grosse Pointe News. At my niece’s wedding a few years ago, the minister quoted from Bruno Mars’ song, “Grenade.”
“I’d catch a grenade for ya … Throw my head on a blade for ya … I’d jump in front of a train for ya.” The minister turned to the groom. “Would you put the cap on the toothpaste tube for her?” she asked. “Would you put the seat down on the toilet for her?” Her point to the soon-to-be married couple? It’s the little things in daily life that matter most, not the heroics. With love in the air this Valentine’s Day, I asked four local couples I know — from a mix of social circles and range of ages, their names changed to protect their privacy — to weigh in on what they believe makes for a strong, lasting relationship. What was the most romantic thing their spouse ever did? And if they had to pick one word as the key to a successful marriage, what would it be? For Ted, who has been married 13 years, the most romantic thing his wife ever did was make a cake out of frosted donuts and give him a six-pack of his favorite Michigan beer (they lived in Florida at the time) for his 31st birthday. Separate bathrooms was “the best thing for our marriage” and his word is “trust.” Nick sees himself first and foremost as a family man. He and Téa will have been married 30 years in August. The most romantic thing Téa has ever done, according to Nick, is support him and encourage him to be the best he can for their family. His word is “laugh — together, at each other, at things that happen in your life together. Eric and Tami have been married 37 years. Each shared the most romantic thing the other did. “I am a deer hunter and spend a few weekends each year at our hunting cabin,” Eric said. “I really enjoy this hobby and sitting in the quiet woods, enjoying the outdoors. Tami always tucks many little love notes in various hiding places that I end up finding while we are apart. The notes are tucked in my sleeping bag or backpack or even in my cooler. Just little reminders that she loves me and misses me and it always makes me smile. This has been a ritual of Tami’s for all the years we have been together.” For Tami, it was a Christmas gift Eric gave her early in their marriage that “holds a very special place in my heart. We had a favorite movie that came out in 1996 with Jeff Daniels called ‘Fly Away Home.’ I absolutely loved this movie and the theme song ‘10,000 Miles’ by Mary Chapin Carpenter. I tried to find this music in a cassette tape or album at the time (no iTunes, Spotify or Apple Play, not even cell phones). I literally went to every music store looking for this music, with no success. One Christmas morning Eric had this gift wrapped next to a cassette player. He figured out a way to record this beautiful song for me on a cassette. After I opened it, we played the song and actually danced together in our pajamas. The song still warms my heart.” Eric’s word is “listening.” Tami’s is “connection.” When Harry met Sally, he was 30; she was 29. They’ve been married 28 years. As far as romantic moments go, there are too many to list, Sally said, from “seemingly mundane moments with little notes, a fresh cannoli, a task completed without request, a favorite dinner cooked,” to more traditional moments like sunset walks and sailing to dinner while on vacation. She does, however, single out “the most romantic moment” when, in the midst of a petty argument, Harry stopped and said, “Can we do one thing and then we’ll finish?” Without saying anything further, he put on “Let’s Get it On” by Marvin Gaye and they slow danced in the living room. “We never did finish that argument,” Sally said. “Balance” is the key ingredient to success in their marriage, she added — in particular the balance of compromise. “When we were first married, an older couple sold us their washer and dryer and told us the key to success was 50/50 in giving to the relationship,” she said, “but through the years we’ve come to appreciate that depending on what’s going on and our capacity individually and where we’re at with all the things life brings, the balance shifts a bit in different periods of time. Sometimes it needs to be 80/20 or 60/40 and sometimes it’s 100/100, but as long as we really don’t keep score except to make sure that neither is at 0 and we’re meeting the other where we can, it works.” Trust, laughter, listening, connection, balance. These are essential components — along with dancing, apparently — keeping these four couples together over a combined 82 years of marriage. I’m pretty sure if it came to catching a grenade for the other, they’d each do that, too. This appeared in the Feb. 13, 2020 edition of the Grosse Pointe News. My brother couldn’t pinpoint precisely when he lost track of the book. He had several copies; surely the signed copy our father gave him when he was 16 would turn up someday. While moving around as an adult, he stored some belongings in a spare room in our parents’ house. Perhaps the book — a collection of our father’s poetry published in 1969 — landed in a box we overlooked when clearing things out after our parents’ deaths. A bookseller must have picked it up at an estate sale or auction. Who knows how many stops it took on its journey or how long it languished in a dusty box or on a shelf? The title is The Fact of Fall. In late October, to celebrate the season, I posted on Facebook a picture of the book jacket, a black-and-white photo of a tree with its bare branches pointing skyward on a burnt-orange background. The image prompted a former neighbor who moved out of state — a retired English professor who met my dad some years ago — to comment she planned to order the book. “Sadly, I believe it’s out of print,” I responded, adding it was no longer available even on Amazon. The younger of my two brothers, as sentimental as our father but practical like our mother, had purchased the remaining copies so each of the grandchildren could have their own. My friend informed me she had located a copy — the last available — on a site called Thrifty Books, where she had found other out-of-print treasures. Several days later she sent me a private message. She had received the book and, upon opening it, realized it was an inscribed copy. On the flyleaf was written: “for Ray from Dad. … ‘So many ways to take / down which the summer passes.’” This was from the fourth stanza of a poem called “Picnic: Eridge Grange”: “Fourth is that older boy for whom / footpaths are not enough. / It is his silence they share. / In the openness of woods / his senses dwell aside; each fragrance / a way, so many ways to take …” Our father was in his late 40s when be wrote those words. The five of us, “all in view,” were walking ahead of him in a lane in the countryside of Kent, England, on our way to a picnic. If it was our 11-year-old brother’s silence we shared that day, it was because we were accustomed to following in the footpaths of his imagination. I, the youngest at 3, led the way along the meadow. In the opening stanza, my father wrote: “The smallest has a feather / in her hand. No use to her / but she’ll not let it go. / She thinks perhaps she’ll put it / in her hair. It falls, their feet go past. / Another loss is sealed, the / real, the fancied flight.” Next is my brother, “five summers counting this one.” The poet regards his younger son’s confidence with wistful envy: “Experience for him is a way / to eat bread; life as sandwich / sitting on a gate, / pitching the rest to cows. / The day is sure; beside the wood his hours / stretch like a path. He does not see / the bend, behind, that / will take him from view.” Third is the middle child, the younger of my two sisters. “The girl in the middle / stoops at times. / Something the dying trees give down / she carries to the light; / not to lose one.” I’m not sure what my sister picked up that afternoon so worthy of her examination. But I do recall her bending down to retrieve a fallen acorn at our father’s graveside the day of his burial, placing it with quiet reverence next to the urn containing his ashes. The poem concludes with my oldest sister, last in line on this path, though the one we look to for guidance on others: “Let her who comes last / bringing the picnic things pursue / no thoughts like these. Her braids / will grow; not a leaf / has fallen. Where meadows draw our eyes / so near the earth, we learn / the ignorance of cows / or children on a path / taking each other’s steps / not once looking back.” In these five brief stanzas, discovery overcomes loss, innocence transcends knowledge, light illuminates death, adventure vanquishes regret, and possibility conquers the passage of time. The poet bears witness to all of this, shielding his children with his words and the power of his love. My friend promises to hand-deliver the book the next time she’s in town. The prospect of its reunion with its rightful owner has shed new insight for me on the poem’s opening stanza. The book’s journey and ultimate return — “the real, the fancied flight” — are proof no loss, no matter how permanent, is ever truly sealed as long as imagination, memory and hope remain. This appeared in the Jan. 9, 2020 edition of the Grosse Pointe News. My best friend Helen and I trick-or-treated together every Halloween when I was a kid. In the early years, we were allowed to visit houses only on our street and around the block, making one full circle, while our older siblings ventured farther afield with their friends. In our neighborhood, doors remained unlocked day and night. My father had a habit of leaving the car keys in the ignition. The only bad thing that ever happened was a group of kids would come around each year and smash our carved pumpkins. Yet for some reason, my father always accompanied us, lurking at the foot of a front walk or behind a shrub, a steady, watchful presence on a cold, dark autumn night in Massachusetts. What was he afraid of? This was a simpler time — no cell phones, cable TV or online shopping for costumes. We played outside, unsupervised, till the ring of the dinner bell or the bats came out at dusk. The news was delivered in a daily paper or evening television or radio broadcast. Our biggest fear — later deemed an urban legend — was razors in apples and LSD-laced candy. Whatever private concerns my parents harbored for our safety back then, they weren't the ones who forbade us from going to the house of the young couple renting the house across the street while the permanent residents spent a year abroad. They were graduate students at the local university. With no children of their own, they must have been thrilled to live on a block with so many kids. I imagine they stocked up with candy, turned on their porch light and waited for the flood of trick-or-treaters to ring their doorbell. It broke my heart a little when we passed by their house. My friends’ parents said they were strangers and couldn't be trusted. Later I told this to my mother, who scoffed at the notion. Flash forward to the present day in Grosse Pointe, the closest recreation of my own childhood of neighborhood trick-or-treating since we moved here with our three young children 20 years ago. I love the way Grosse Pointers go all out to decorate their lawns and houses, from spooky to kooky. I love the festivities in the parks and The Village. And Halloween night, I love the eerie glow of headlights snaking along our street, the sidewalks lit up with flashlights and packed with children transformed into otherworld beings. I love opening my door to each group of trick-or-treaters, some familiar faces from our neighborhood, others new, but always polite. I love complimenting their costumes and seeing their faces light up when I tell them they can select their own candy from the bowl. I love the way the parents — watching from a safe distance on the sidewalk, like my father — wave and say thank you. Sure, every year there are grumblings on social media about kids who are “not from the neighborhood,” “too old to be trick-or-treating” or “not wearing costumes.” There are even complaints about kids being driven in and dropped off from neighboring Detroit. Honestly, in two decades, from the tiniest fairy princess or Power Ranger to adolescents making lame — or no — efforts to dress up, we’ve never encountered a single issue. Not even a smashed pumpkin. When our kids were old enough to venture farther afield than our own neighborhood, they figured out which houses handed out the full-size candy bars. To get there meant crossing invisible borders from their own home city into another. I likely even drove them there, dropping them off to join a group of friends. Never once, to my knowledge, did a homeowner hesitate before handing candy to my child and say, “I don't recognize you. Are you from around here?” Each year it amazes me how many porch lights are off. I’m not talking about parents trick-or-treating with their kids or joining forces with other families. I’m talking about people who routinely go out for the evening or huddle in darkened houses, pretending not to be home so they don’t have to open the door to strangers. It’s one night and all that’s asked for is candy and kindness. We keep our porch light on until the candy runs out. If we gauge it correctly, this is usually around the time the hustle and bustle has died down and only a few lingering trick-or-treaters remain. Our lit jack-o-lanterns — jaunty or mad, goofy or sad, depending on my husband’s fancy when he carved them — have darkened on our front step, the candles burned to a pool of molten wax. If there’s one last hopeful knock at the door, I open it and say, “Sorry, guys, we’re all out of candy. Come back next year.” We’ll turn the porch light on. This appeared in the Oct. 31, 2019 edition of the Grosse Pointe News. This summer my husband and I enjoyed a unique window into the private world of a mourning dove family. Literally. You might call it the opposite of a bird’s eye view. The mother and father dove — we named them Lovey and Dovey — built a nest on the air conditioning unit outside our oldest daughter’s bedroom window. We could stand at the foot of the bed and lean toward the glass, our faces inches from the roosting mom or dad. A friend informed us both parents sit on the eggs. Until then we assumed — it’s sexist, I know — it was just the mom. More attentive now, we noticed differences. One was slimmer and more elegant; the other, well, a bit chunky. (Fun fact: mourning doves eat roughly 12 to 20 percent of their body weight per day. Dovey must take this to heart.) Their markings were similar, though, and each regarded us with a steely, blue-ringed, unblinking eye. If they were apprehensive at first, poised for flight, they got used to us. Or perhaps they, too, were trying to determine from our markings and size which was the female and which the male. In June, one of two eggs hatched and the young dove successfully took flight. We thought that was it for the patient pair, who perched atop the eggs — and later the baby — without fail. (Unlike human progeny, fledgling doves don’t appear to mind being smothered 24/7.) But my husband’s internet search revealed doves produce multiple broods a year. Sure enough, another egg appeared in a matter of weeks — a single egg this time (they typically have a clutch size of two, we discovered). The incubation period, we learned, is short — only 14 to 16 days. Not knowing when the egg first appeared, we worried. Day after day passed with no sign of a hatchling. What if the egg wasn’t fertile? How long would Lovey and Dovey sit on the egg before abandoning hope? Is there some instinctive timing mechanism triggered when all faith is lost? If a robin can hear a worm underground, surely a dove can detect inner workings of the life within. So we waited. And made frequent trips to the third floor. Finally, early one morning, I saw a tiny, ruffled head nestled up against its parent’s breast. I rushed downstairs to share the news with my husband. We rejoiced and named her (him?) Glory. The internet informed us doves leave the nest at about 11 or 12 days old. The parents no longer sit on them at night once they begin to self-regulate their body temperature. (This explains the “smothering” part.) We began to worry again. Fledgling doves are on the ground several days before they’re able to fly back up into a tree, according to our research. What if a predator got to Glory during this vulnerable stage? How could her parents allow her to leave the nest before she could even fly? Then we remembered: Even human children leave their homes not fully equipped for success in the adult world. That’s the beauty of combining nurture with nature; there are some skills they must acquire on their own. So we held our breath, knowing Lovey and Dovey prepared Glory to lead her very best dove life, same as we did — or tried, at least — for our own brood of three. Unlike our own children, Glory will never return to the nest, even for a visit. Lovey and Dovey, on the other hand, will stay together — or so the internet tells us — returning to the same nesting site year after year. In the meantime, we trust they’re still out there, feasting on the bounty of berry bushes and seed-bearing flowers in our backyard as they prepare for their next hatch. Occasionally we hear the haunting, mournful cooing sounds that earned them their name and catch a glimpse of their blue-speckled feathers as they flit from tree to tree. Their wings — another fun fact — make a whistling sound when they fly. We leave their nest undisturbed. When the time comes, we’ll return to our own perch on the third floor, patiently waiting and watching as the next life unfolds on the other side of the glass. This appeared in the Sept. 19 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. My oldest daughter, as she once observed, leads a project-based life. It struck me this approach has led to an admirable amount of productivity and creativity in her 28 years on this earth. That and a lot of “to do” lists. Last summer she was home for a few weeks before beginning a Ph.D. program in English. She already had a project in mind well before she arrived — publishing a family literary magazine. She put out a call for submissions to our extended family and, after a few gentle reminders and some prodding, entries came trickling in — poetry, short stories, photographs, essays, drawings, paintings and even a college thesis précis. Within weeks the journal was edited, designed, proofread and printed in a 192-page, perfect-bound volume representing work from 26 contributors. Project complete. Check. This summer, she was home a few weeks before setting off for Switzerland, for which she packed more books than clothes and designed an elaborate reading schedule in preparation for her qualifying exams in September. She had a different project in mind this year. Having watched “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo” on Netflix — you know, the cheery young woman who asks you to examine every item you own and ask yourself, “Does it spark joy?” — she decided it was time to clean out her childhood bedroom of everything she had accumulated since we moved to Grosse Pointe when she was 8. While she was separating items, I would occasionally complain about something she was throwing away or donating. Her response always was: “But, Mom, we still have our memories.” So among bags of donated clothing was the dress she sewed for the homecoming dance her sophomore year of high school. The sewing machine she made it on found a new home in a local middle school life skills classroom, and she gave her treasured childhood books to an elementary school in Harper Woods, hoping rather than collecting dust on her shelves, they will find new life introducing children to the same joy of reading she carries with her to this day. Sometimes, seeking inspiration to “Marie Kondo” other areas of our house, I go up to her cozy attic bedroom on the third floor to reflect on what an uncluttered life looks like. Gone now are the outgrown clothing, sports uniforms, trophies, art projects, schoolwork and teen icon posters covering the slanted walls. In their place are a tidily made bed, organized desk with office and art supplies tucked away in drawers and an empty closet with a few spare hangers. Replacing the childhood line-up on the built-in shelves along one wall are favorite books that someday will make their way to a future home and just the right amount of family photos and sentimental trinkets to seem homey, but not overwhelming. On the walls, a collage of soccer photos and a framed poster of the U.S. women’s soccer team from the 1990s serve as reminders of glory days and heroes of the past. I look around at the relics of my daughter’s childhood and every single item sparks joy. This appeared in the Aug. 8 issue of the Grosse Pointe News. “Time stands still / Beauty in all she is” — Christina Perri, “A Thousand Years” It’s not my love story. I am neither of the players nor is it my stage. I came into their lives as a journalist to tell the tale of two teenagers for whom the stars aligned one night. The headline of my article was: “Dancing with Dylan: One enchanted evening.” They were 17, attending their homecoming dance. Dylan shopped for a suit with his dad, Dave. Lindsey's mom, Michelle, bought her a red dress and matching high-tops — the only shoes she wouldn't kick off. Dylan showed up at Lindsey's house with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. She wore a wrist corsage and he a matching boutonniere. They posed for pictures and enjoyed pizza by candlelight. Later, alone in the gym, they danced to Christina Perri's “A Thousand Years” under the ceiling stars. These weren't “typical” teens enjoying a high school dance, nor would the night have been possible without parents and school staff working together to clear physical and sensory barriers, creating a magical experience for a girl and boy who met in their autism spectrum disorder classroom and created a completely non-verbal connection. Three years after I wrote this article, my newspaper would publish an obituary and five months after that a feature story about a grieving mother, whom I interviewed in the home she shared with her mother. Michelle showed me pictures, a video, and Lindsey’s bedroom — a pink and white sanctuary for the raven-haired, diminutive 4’9” girl who, in 20 years, never spoke a word. Napping on a slice of sunshine on the floor was Ollie, the therapy dog bereft of purpose. Images that pierce my mind from the photo book — a gift from Dylan's parents — Michelle shared with me that morning: Dylan in a black tuxedo and bowtie and Lindsey in a ruffly dress, sparkly shoes and a wrist corsage, seated on a bench before their senior prom; a close-up of the two of them napping, faces nearly touching, a never-fading smile on Dylan’s; Dylan holding Lindsey’s face and kissing her cheek; colorful letter-shaped balloons above a casket that spell out “SASSY.” In one of her mother’s favorite photos, Lindsey is seated on a red exercise ball and Dylan is next to her on a metal chair. He’s looking at the camera but her eyes are closed, her face turned to kiss his cheek. It’s a rare moment when she is caught kissing him rather than the other way around. “She was so comfortable around him,” Michelle said. “She was much more comfortable around him than I’d seen her around any other person.” In the photo, Lindsey is wearing jeans ripped at the knees and silver high-top sneakers. A silver barrette offsets her dark hair. The aqua hair ties in her pigtails match her T-shirt. Doing her hair and makeup and buying her outfits was “my only way of having some control over our lives,” Michelle said. “Because you don’t have any. You can’t control what’s happening to your child and it’s such a horrible feeling. So I think to myself, well, I know I can make her look cute.” And then there was the video with the rushing, rhythmic roar of the BiPAP machine, Michelle’s voice in the background. “Do you love her, Dylan? Tell her you love her.” Dylan is next to Lindsey’s hospital bed, caressing, as always, her cheek. Michelle described “a mourning of normalcy” when the diagnosis comes. “You think about all the things they’re not going to be able to do,” she said. “You just can’t help yourself. You think about how they’re never going to fall in love. They’re never going to go to a dance. They’re never going to date. So many things. “So to have Dylan and Lindsey meet and form this amazing connection; it was not only for them something beautiful, but as parents, for us to see, it gave us something that we thought we’d never be able to witness in their lives.” Lindsey and Dylan are the players and it is their play, but neither can tell it. That is where I enter from behind the scenes, to contribute a verse. *** She was a princess wearing a jean skirt with a bedazzled T-shirt and glitter eyeshadow, frozen in her castle. He was a prince locked in his own world, bright in ways he couldn't articulate, verbal but a "one-word kind of kid," according to his mother, Amy. His name is Dylan, hers, Lindsey. Students at their high school dubbed them with their own celebrity portmanteau: DyLinds. They met in class. He noticed her first. He saw she was tired during her physical therapy session, so he brought her wheelchair to her. The physical therapist, recognizing an instant connection between them, began engaging Dylan in Lindsey’s therapy sessions. Lindsey was prone to falling due to poor muscle tone — another burden of her diagnosis, Chromosome 15q duplication syndrome, along with motor delays and epilepsy — but he motivated her to walk farther, faster, as long as she was walking to him. Lindsey was often late for class, sometimes never arriving at all but landing in the hospital instead. Their teacher, Jill, tells the story of one morning early in their relationship before she realized the bond forming between them. The students were sitting in their usual circle, each with a stuffed toy. Lindsey came in — and Dylan’s bear went flying. He immediately rushed to Lindsey’s side. “We were in the middle of English instruction,” Jill said. “All of a sudden he looked up, got bright-eyed, stood up real quick, took the stuffed animal he was holding and chucked it across the room. He ran over to embrace her and give her a kiss on the cheek.” He would rush to her side again and again — for visits at her house, snuggles on the couch, milestone moments, including his graduation party and her combined 18th birthday and pre-prom gala — and through multiple hospitalizations, to touch her cheek, to kiss her face. To say his final goodbyes while the BiPAP machine pushed a 70-mph wind into her lungs, keeping her alive. “He loved how soft her cheeks were,” said Michelle, who kept fresh roses by her daughter’s urn in her bedroom. The petals reminded her of Lindsey’s cheeks. The room was a shrine to her daughter who at 20 — the age she died — was no longer a teenager, but always a child, who gave her mother sassiness with a look but never spoke a word. Often she was unreachable in her castle tower. Some tried, receiving little response. But her mother knew her little girl was in there. “I knew she was listening. She was always listening. Someone would come and say hi to her and she would totally ignore them as if they weren’t there. … But then when that person would walk away she would give a look, like: Oh, I fooled them.” With Dylan, she made eye contact. With Dylan, she didn't have to jab him with her elbow or pinch him on the arm to let him know she was mad or hurting. He knew without any words ever exchanged between them. “One day he walked in,” Michelle recalled. “She was having a bad day and she was poking at her left eye. … That was always a signal for a bad headache and actually part of her diagnosis was frequent migraines. Dylan walked in and right away walked over to her and put his hand over her eye, immediately, without me mentioning a headache or anything. He knew.” Dylan also was the only one to whom she openly showed affection. Even Michelle only received the occasional loving gesture. “When she gave that affection, it was the greatest gift I could ever get,” Michelle said. “When she smiled, I just melted.” Michelle often referred to Dylan as Prince Charming because he would rescue her with kisses, with joint naps, with movie dates at her house and that one enchanted evening when they danced together alone under the stars in the school gym. “They were like soulmates,” said Michelle. “I don’t know if that really exists, but it was a totally non-verbal connection. They were like magnets drawn together.” Michelle and Amy formed their own bond over the years, referring to each other as in-laws. They talked about the “little slice of normal” their children brought to their families. They learned to set realistic goals and celebrate small victories. They spoke wistfully about planning a commitment ceremony for their two children. Michelle even bought an ivory dress for Lindsey. Lindsey wore that dress in her casket, a white camellia in her hair. In the last photo taken of the two of them together, Dylan is bending down to bestow one final kiss. In the movie version of their love story, the star-crossed pair would have met in another century, joined together briefly in the present and destined to meet again after the film fades to black. In the fairytale version, one kiss and the princess would awaken. My son played his last collegiate lacrosse game on April 27. His lax career began as a fifth-grader under Coach D and with club and summer ball under Coach B. He and three of his high school teammates went on to play in college. Each took to the field for his final regular season game on the same day, three at the exact same time. For my husband and me, our son’s last game marked the end of an era watching our kids play sports. We made lasting friendships through their teams, from Little League A ball to Ivy League soccer, coordinating carpools, co-hosting team pasta parties and post-game tailgates, chatting in the stands or at the stats table and bonding over shared victories and losses with fellow parents. We traveled around the state, country and even internationally — does Canada count? — for tournaments. We cheered teams on in rain and snow and temperatures from below zero to 104 degrees (Texas is hot in September). With our son and two daughters playing two and even three seasons of multiple sports — baseball, basketball, cross country, hockey, lacrosse, soccer and volleyball — throughout middle and high school, spilling into summer with camps, tournaments and college showcases, athletics were a major focus of our family life. Jared’s four years with the Emerson Lions provide the perfect coda to this epic chapter. It was the team with the smallest roster in the league, but the biggest heart; the fewest subs on the sidelines, but the loudest bench. The best way to capture the spirit of this team is through the seniors who began the journey with our son freshman year. There’s Cam, fast, skilled and selfless, more a play maker than showman. Leading in assists, he was the one most likely to feed the ball at just the right moment. Unfortunately, he was unable to play senior year due to a back injury and was truly missed, but he continued to support the team from the sidelines, making the trip to cheer them on for their final game of the season. Then there’s Bailey, starting goalie for three years. He was relegated to the bench senior year when a freshman recruit joined the team. This happens often in college sports. Hard work, dedication and commitment may be overlooked when “someone better” comes along. Loyalty may not always be rewarded, but Bailey showed it anyway. He proved as valuable a teammate on the bench as he did between the pipes, supporting the players and coaches and cheering on teammates from what became affectionately known as “the bench mob.” We’re sure to hear more from Bailey — literally — as his already promising career in sports broadcasting flourishes. I have a special fondness for Marshall. Not only is he a redhead like my son, with a gentle smile and calm, steady demeanor, but we hosted him one night when he and Jared drove across the country together to spend their fall semester in Los Angeles. He played long stick defense, a difficult, thankless, yet critical position. He was a solid presence on the field and team, demonstrating leadership by example. Fernando started freshman year as a talented face-off specialist. Like Bailey, he lost this position to a new recruit, in this case, one who turned out to be one of the leading face-off players in the league. Fernando forged a new role for himself as a defensive middie — a grinding and often thankless position requiring grit and endurance, but rarely the glory of goal scoring. He and Jared shared an experience together off the field — an improv class that took them out of their comfort zone to another level of teamwork and camaraderie with a different cast of supporting characters on stage. I feel fortunate our son had these fine young men not just as teammates, but friends. It was the team chemistry — the blend of leadership and loyalty and support for one another — that made Emerson lacrosse such a meaningful experience for Jared and source of inspiration for his biggest fans at home. The final whistle may have blown on their lacrosse careers, but we will continue to cheer on “the boys” with whatever’s next. |
Mary Anne BrushJournalist, fiction writer, wife and mother |