By: Marlene Oxender
The world seemed perfect that day. It was springtime when the sun was shining as it should be. The skies were blue and dotted with a few clouds.
It was easy to notice the birds outside. My house windows were open to let the outdoor air make its way in. I’d spent the morning in front of my computer screen, typing on a keyboard.
By afternoon, the need to get out of the house overwhelmed me. I didn’t care where I went; I just needed to feel some outdoor air.
So I took to the road, stopped at Edgerton’s coffee shop for a hot coconut latte, and headed to my childhood home.
I poked around in the back yard for a bit. Checked out the pink rose bush. Visited with my brother Don for a few minutes.
When it was time to head home, I decided upon the scenic route. A train going through town made me pause long enough to remember I had planned to stop at the cemetery. I wanted to see the flowers that’d been placed at Stevie’s grave.
It would be a quick visit with no plans to stick around. No reason to overthink. No reason to start up the crying.
My internal dialogue was speaking to me in the “jackal voice,” a voice my friend had recently explained to me. It’s a voice in which everyone is an expert. A voice we use to make fun of the situation we’re in. To make fun of ourselves or others.
After she explained it, I recognized the jackal voice was something I’ve used as a coping measure. As a way to change the seriousness of the moment.
In preparing myself for a quick visit to the cemetery, the voice in my head was telling me to think logically. There was no need to cry.
I was perfectly capable of standing at a tombstone for a short while. I could check things out. I could get back in the car. I could drive away with dry eyes.
There I stood before a row of tombstones with the names of family members etched upon them. I could read the year of their birth. The year of their death. So final. Etched in stone.
Surrounding me were rows of tombstones with the names of friends I’d known during their time on this earth. I told myself there’s no need to cry. Just walk. Read the names upon the stones and get back in the car.
My time at the computer that morning had included writing a story about Aunt Luella. I remember thinking it had been a while since I had written about her.
She had played a role in helping my sister Elaine at the time of her open heart surgery. Luella was one of the volunteer blood donors who’d traveled to Indianapolis back in 1960. She was there for my family.
Aunt Luella stayed close to us over the years, and we helped her celebrate her ninetieth birthday by hosting a family gathering in her honor. She celebrated ninety-two birthdays before passing away in 2012.
As I was walking past Uncle Bob and Aunt Luella’s tombstone, I saw a piece of folded cloth material on the ground. It was stuck in the grass, so I gave it a gentle tug in order to loosen it.
I stood motionless as I realized I was holding a woman’s cloth handkerchief. Pink roses in the design. Near-perfect condition. No rips. No tears. Just a tiny green grass stain. I asked myself if I was being told to go ahead and have a good cry.
The next morning, the first thing I thought about was having found a handkerchief beside Aunt Luella’s tombstone. I thought about having spent the early part of the day writing about her. I thought about the synchronicities.
About what it took for that handkerchief to be there for me to find. Someone had dropped it. It landed where it landed.
A few weeks later, I was searching for a letter my Aunt Joan had written to my parents at the time of my birth. As I sorted through my box of papers, I noticed a greeting card with a picture of three little angels on the front.
The angels were individually donned in purple, yellow, and blue dresses. Little wings upon their shoulders. A pink rose in the center. I opened the card to find Luella’s signature.
I was the ninth child in the family, so this was the ninth baby card she’d given to my parents. No one knew at the time she would be sending two more.
No one knew the eleventh child would be Stevie – someone who was born with Down syndrome. Someone we’d all be sending cards to. Someone who wouldn’t let others forget his birthday. Someone who showed us how to live.
I found a video in my camera in which Stevie was making fun of me – calling me a “crazy girl.” Twice. I’ve replayed it and decided it may be a good example of the jackal voice. He was definitely teasing me. He was poking fun at his sister who was taking life too seriously.
I’ve placed the video on his Facebook page. He can be heard doing an impression of me saying, “I can’t find it” after I’d been searching for where the extra rolls of toilet paper had been stored.
Stevie didn’t know the seriousness of the national toilet paper shortage. He didn’t know there were people working overtime at the toilet paper factories. He didn’t know how hard the truck drivers were working to deliver to the stores. Or how busy the store clerks were.
He didn’t know people were buying more toilet paper than usual. This was a serious situation which Stevie knew nothing about. And there he was, making fun of me. Laughing at his sister. Calling her a “crazy girl.” Making fun of someone as important as his sister.
Those who knew Stevie often tell me how much he meant to them. How he changed them for the better. I know what they’re talking about, yet I want them to tell me what they’re talking about.
It seems that Stevie lived his life with no doubts. No second guessing. No reason to think of himself as anything less than wonderful.
If we could see the beauty of the world through Stevie’s eyes, we’d see how worthy we are.
We’d see the beauty in one another – a beauty that’s unmatched in all the earth. We’d know that big things happen in small moments. We’d know when we’re taking life too seriously.
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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 two recently published books, Picket Fences and Stevie, are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com