For the past four years, Becky has been part of an innovative and unique program for developmentally disabled adults–Beyond Academics.  After spending several years in various group homes, Becky wanted nothing more than to direct her own life and live as independently as possible.  Modelled on the typical going-to-college rite of passage, Beyond Academics provided a way for Becky to live as an adult–the way most of us live–making her own decisions about when she would wake in the morning and go to bed at night, deciding for herself what direction and shape she wanted her life to take, being awarded the respect and regard that every  human deserves, regardless of circumstances.  She, and the other students, have worked hard to learn how to accept the responsiblities of freedom: how to clean an apartment and prepare healthy meals; how to become engaged with the community and make new friends; how to advocate for herself when things didn’t go the way she wanted; how to manage her money and pay her bills; how to negotiate the city to get to important events like doctor appointments.  All this and more–Becky held her own book club meetings where horror fans surely got their fill.  She faced breast cancer with great courage and, thanks to the staff at B.A., made all of her appointments for radiation, not requiring family members to make the daily trip from far away.  She now has a clean bill of health.  She is going to weight watchers and understands the importance of exercise and diet.  In other words, my sister has learned, at 53, how to be an adult.

     Sitting next to me at the graduation was my  husband, Frank, (the dentist, as Becky calls him) who wouldn’t have missed this day for anything.  He was as proud as I was and I expect he teared up a little himself when Becky marched in.  My parents, Jack and Virginia Clinard (now in their 80’s) were there, supporting Becky the way they have from the beginning, my dad’s big smile widening as Becky received her certificate.  My mom, with arthritic knees and back, managed the walk from the parking garage to the auditorium–nothing could have deterred her.  Next to her, Becky’s favorite cousin, Freddy Einstein, joined in the fun, taking time off from work and driving from Winston-Salem so he could celebrate with Becky.  A surprise guest, Mary Elizabeth Parker, my dear friend who has often had lunch with Becky and me, sat behind us.

     Inspiring speeches, heartfelt and sincere, rang through the halls, from such illustrious folks as Terry Shelton, Vice Chancellor of Research and Economic Development, who has been keenly instrumental in helping UNCG partner with Beyond Academics; David Perrin, Provost and Vice Chancellor of Academic Affairs; Joan Johnson, Executive Director of Beyond Academics, a woman on a mission for the developmentally disabled; Holly Riddle, Executive Director, North Carolina Council on Developmental Disabilities; Michael Mayer, Senior Partner, Community Resource Alliance, who made a moving speech about inclusion and respect; and the Commencement Speaker, Celia Hartman Sims, Senior Policy Advisor, Office of Sen. Richard Burr. 

    Of course, the best speech was the last: given by my sister, an impromptu and brief endorsement of the Beyond Academics program.  After the graduates had been presented with their cerificates, DeMario Chandler, recipient of the Student Excellence Award, led in the tassel turning ceremony.  When he had completed his task, Becky rose from her seat and meandered to the microphone.  No one suspected she would do this, but DeMario graciously moved aside and let Becky have her say.

     “I’ve learned a lot from Beyond Academic,” she said in a firm, confident voice.  Then, a long pause.

     “I’ve learned to be independent and I’m going to get my own apartment,” she said.  Another long pause.

     “I love Beyond Academics!” she said. 

     The audience erupted in applause and Becky returned to her seat.  Afterward, lots of folks came up to me and told me they liked Becky’s speech best of all!

     As always, my sister put her own touch on the event, the way she individualizes everything she does.  She grinned from ear to ear as we met her after the ceremony, all of us filled with the pride of  her accomplishment.  We took pictures and then went to reception where we watched a wonderful video about Beyond Academics.  Someone said, along the way, that they hoped the entire UNC network would some day have Beyond Academics programs, showing the world that here, in this state, all are welcome, all are treasured. 

     If you are so inclined, please write or call or email the good folks at UNCG (Terri Shelton, Linda Brady (who was unable to attend today’s events due to illness) David Perrin or any other person who might help further the cause, and tell them how impressed you are that UNCG has stepped up and taken a chance to embrace Beyond Academics.  A call to your local and state representatives to encourage them to fund programs like this even more fully would be most appreciated, reminding them that such programs  enhance the dignity and lives of those who might otherwise be overlooked and underestimated.  Indeed, such programs make all of us more human.

     CONGRATULATIONS TO BECKY AND THE OTHER GRADUATES:  DeMario Lamont Chandler, Jason Anthony Davenport, Jeremy Woolard Donohue, William St. Aubyn Gadsden and Raeshika Dawn McLean!!!!

He loves to laugh, even now at 86.  A good joke is always on the tip of his tongue or a funny story he learned at his father’s knee.  He is a musician and still sings and conducts a church choir.  I have no idea when or if he will ever retire–he loves feeling useful and making a joyful noise unto the Lord.  He’s been doing it for over seventy years and I am still moved by the beauty he can wring from a choir.  I remember the Sunday after 9/11 when he sang “The Lord Is the Strength of My Life” (not sure of this title) and he sang with such courage and conviction that his music was a comfort to everyone in the congregation.  I watched as my mother wiped away a tear and she whispered how proud she was of him because he was able to calm people who had been terrified by the awful events of that week and was able to offer them hope.  He sang at my wedding and at my oldest son, Michael’s wedding. Before he  sang at that one, he and I had talked about how you feel when your child marries–that you are somehow losing him and things will never be the same.  He tried to help me see I wasn’t losing anything but gaining a beautiful daughter, Emily.  Of course, he was right.  But as he sang “thy people shall be my people” I dared not look at him–I knew I would cry.  Then, as the song continued, I got my courage up and glanced.  Our eyes met.  I knew he felt what I was feeling and vice versa.  His voice broke a little and I looked back down at my lap.  We’ve always had that connection–he is one of the few people who really “gets” me.

That’s why, for the past few weeks, I’ve been worried about him.  He hasn’t been feeling well and his doctors are trying to figure out what’s going on.  Though I have a great deal happening in my own life, I get teary-eyed when I think he might be sick in any sort of serious way.  Truth is, I don’t want to be on the planet without him.  I’m not ready for that.  So, I’m going to try my best to follow his advice:  don’t worry until you have something to worry about and live each day as if it’s your last.  This is me, not worrying, Dad.  This is me, loving you.

Yet, in all this swirling gray, that most cruel, final gift of the gods, Hope, still flutters her shining wings, just out of reach, tantalizes with beckoning light.

And yes, it was my first-ever AWP experience.  As a virgin, I had hoped to be romanced gently, sweet-talked into sharing a bit of my story with other writers, soft lights, slow jazz and good wine.  But that wasn’t quite the way it went.  Instead, I ran haphazard into elevators where no one spoke except in numbers–three, eight, four–and where the big question was ‘how many writers can squeeze into a four foot square?’ 

 The buzz from a thousand conversations hummed through  my skull as I tried to look young, cool, sexy or famous–someone worthy of conversation.  Instead, I was a short, middle-aged chick who discovered she had, rather suddenly, become a hen.  Even my old grad school advisor didn’t talk to me–too busy being adored by some young thing.  Thank heavens for my panel pals and my travelling companions!

I’d say my deflowering was, overall, mundane–no romantic romps or dramatic discoveries.  By the end of  five days, I had lost my nervousness, my sense of awe.  I navigated to nearby restaurants and various workshops with the assurance of a conference queen.  I held my shoulders back, chin up and tried to make my eyes look glinty.  Yes, now I’d been had, but was the better for it. 

 I never could figure out those roaming restrooms, though.  No matter how good I got with assuming the nuances of  the writerly pose, those johns kept me off balance, searching and praying.  One way to find religion, I reckon.

    It is those mountains that have been calling back to me since I left them so long ago.  When I see the rising land, undulating hills covered in woodland and meadow, my body seems to sigh all over and my spirit is enveloped in the welcoming arms of the Appalachians.  If I travel to West Virginia in the spring, the new-green buds on the trees give the hills a shawl of pale silk; if I journey in summer, the full, lush growth has darkend and thickened–now, it’s an umbrella shading everything; in autumn, the hills pull the bright quilt of orange, yellow and red, some dark purple, leathery brown in preparation for winter, season of bare limbs and whipping winds, pewter clouds and heavy snow.

   And it is to those mountains I hope to return–I have told my husband that I’ve lived lots of places but my intent is to die in the mountains, surrounded by the song of the mockingbird puntuated by the rhythmic owl, the bubbling voice of a small creek and the occasional tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker.  I want to walk through woods each day–no sidewalks, please–and become so familiar with my one little piece of land that I know its look in all seasons, its sounds at noon and at midnight, the scents of the foliage and the comings and goings of my fellow creatures who share the land with me.

    Today finds me with the mountains in my heart.

  I fear Bela might have given her folks a fit when she returned home.  She was absolutely perfect while she was with us–and four days is a very long time for such a little one to be perfect!  But that’s the joy of being a grandparent–you have the luxury of devoting yourself totally to a child, something impossible to do while raising your own kids.  After all, when you are rearing your own, there are bills to pay, jobs to do, houses to keep at least somewhat sanitary.  Not to  mention cooking, laundry, and making sure the kids are behaving properly.  A great deal of work.  And stress.  And fun, too.

  But being a grandparent is different–the only stress is on the body–sore muscles unused to carrying toddlers, knees that creak and pop, fatigue that hits a little earlier than when you were thirty.  Yet, there is also a realization that is, perhaps, impossible until grandparenthood is thrust upon you.  That there is nothing more important than listening to a little one’s story; that, for all our struggling with money worries and making ends meet, the true gifts of life are free, and no one loves as openly and freely as a child.   For all our dreams and broken hearts, the illnesses flesh is heir to, the troubles and jagged mess of our world, our grandchildren offer respite and hope.  When those little arms close around your neck and a squeaky voice says, I wove you, Nannah, everything seems right.  Life is good, indeed.

If there is healing in this world, there is healing in poetry.

You can pre-order the book at Main Street Rag for the special rate of $9.00 until April 27 when the rate will be $14.95.  Novelist Julianna Baggott calls the collection “a cause for celebration.”  Hope you will pass this info along to anyone who loves to read.

Cheers!