By: Marlene Oxender
I remember where I was standing in our kitchen when my father came home from the hospital and needed to tell us something.
I was only six years old. Dad had been given the task of informing his children that our new baby brother was born with Down syndrome.
I remember my questions and how Dad answered, telling us the baby was special. The baby wouldn’t be going to kindergarten; he would be going to a special school.
He would learn in a different way than the rest of us. I remember thinking that wasn’t good, yet I knew everything was going to be okay.
I knew there was nothing that could stop me from loving this baby. Mom just needed to bring him home.
A year later, I overheard Dad speaking to a relative at a family reunion. He was standing in the driveway outside of the family station wagon.
I was in the car, and the windows were rolled down. I heard Dad say that Stevie was not expected to live past the age of five. He didn’t know I’d heard his words.
Because it is easy for a young girl to create her own reality, that’s what I did. According to me, Stevie would grow up with us, and I’d be able to say, “Told you so.”
And I was correct – Stevie lived 54 glorious years on this earth. Looking back, I see the role I played in his life. Mom needed the older children to help her, and at the age of six, I was older than two of my ten siblings. I helped her take care of Jeanette and Stevie.
I’ve often thought those who are the baby of the family have a good thing going. In Stevie’s case, life was good with ten older siblings who were interested in his well-being. And it quickly became apparent that everyone in the community wanted the best for him.
There are those who are born into this world with the deck stacked against them. In Stevie’s case, those around him were stacking the cards in his favor. They made life happen for him.
The neighborhood children knew our back yard was a place they’d feel welcome. A place where a ball was always bouncing.
They knew Stevie was different, but that didn’t get in the way. Stevie learned to play ball, and he perfected his three-point shot while the rest of us hardly noticed what was happening.
I was recently asked how old Stevie was when he learned to ride a two-wheel bicycle, and I do not know the answer.
My siblings and I have plenty of memories and photos of Stevie on his Big Wheel, but none of us can remember when he started riding a bike.
There must have been training wheels on his bicycle at one time. There must have been someone who worked with him so he could learn to keep his balance.
Stevie became an uncle when he was seven years old, and his role as a babysitter came naturally to him as he helped take care of the children in his life. As his nieces and nephews grew up, the roles reversed, and they started looking after him.
When others speak of Stevie’s popularity, the conversation often centers around the way he viewed the world. With innocence. Without judgment.
When Stevie noticed something different in another person, he told us they were “born that way.” If he saw someone with a cast on an extremity, or walking with crutches, he’d ask them what happened.
It was fun to be a bystander and listen to their answers as they told their story. They likely felt a little healing power as Stevie took an interest in their plight.
Stevie didn’t know what a car payment or mortgage was, but he liked to “hang out” with those who wanted help washing their car or working in the yard. When all you want to do is hang out, there’s always something to do.
If it weren’t for three-pointers, I would say Stevie didn’t bother with the idea of impressing others. But in the case of basketball, it was more than okay to show others how it’s done.
If you didn’t know the joy of watching a ball fly through the air on the way to where it’s supposed to go, Stevie would help you out.
Maybe life has a scoreboard that tallies how many times we let others feel our positive energy. How many times we were content with just hanging out.
How many times we stacked the deck in someone else’s favor. How many times we knew everything would be okay. How many times we were able to say, “Told you so.”
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Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com