Jill Green – Page 4

Life and Deaf – Chapter 12 – The First Day

I did research through the mail and going to the library – there was no such thing as internet – to find the best auditory/oral education for our son, mapped out a route and set a timetable for our exploratory trip. As we traveled we would meet up with my brother and Barb, and another couple of friends, Trudy and Herb, at specified locations around the United States. In between we’d visit with many friends made through the years of college and military life. Since there were no cell phones or email we had to rely on the US Mail General Delivery and public phone booths. Although there were several highly regarded oral schools on the Eastern Seaboard we decided to skip the crowded cities of New England and explore new territory in, for us, the wild west.

I’ve found the old loose-leaf notebook where my dream of telling this old hippie story started. I open it to: The First Day–June 26, 1974. What perfect timing. So we begin:

We left in a tropical storm on our shakedown trip from Ormond Beach to Venice, FL to say good-bye to family and friends. Violent winds and rain christened the new Dodge van and our carefully packed hand-built cartop carrier leaked like a sieve. All had to be unstowed. It took all day in Grandma Fifi’s clothes dryer to dry blankets, pillows, sleeping bags, clothes, while we did an epoxy repair job on the carrier. We tried to pack “intelligently” for the big haul cross-country and still have room for living. In a van? My mother spent many hours ringing her hands (and hankies) wondering what she would do with all the leftover gear that wouldn’t fit. She had just gone through the same thing with Terry and Barb the week before and her patience was wearing thin. I don’t blame her. The Green house has always been used as home base because of a welcoming attitude, ample space, and Fif’s delicious home cooking. Of course the real reason was that two out of three of her children and two of her grandchildren were leaving in vans for “God knows where” to live as hippies for “God knows how long”. Though we’d been hashing and re-hashing the plan for over a year, none of the parents thought we’d actually become wanderers.

I, myself, found it hard to believe that we were actually giving up our stable life with two kids, our little 3 bedroom/2 bath ranch in middle class suburbia. But harder still – how did I ever talk my husband into giving up his successful position as a white-collar “investment advisor” – the new-fangled word for a stockbroker?

Life and Deaf – Chap. 11 – Leaning Toward Hippie Daze

pict0017-300x200-6260748 — preparing our rolling home

So why, where, when and how did we get from Florida to Colorado? I began living as an armchair hippie somewhere between the late 60’s and the early 70’s as we followed a more traditional route of our conservative past: bearing two children, buying a ranch style house for $20,000 including a beach access, in a sweet young neighborhood half a block from the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the Halifax River on the other in, Ormond Beach. We watered our salt-saturated yard, strolled the babies, hung out on the lawn after work with the neighbors, babysat for each other, slathered the kids with zinc oxide sunscreen, went fishing and crabbing, had a boat and a station wagon.

My brother Terry and his gal Barb would come over to visit and go to the beach from the University of Florida where Ray and I both graduated a few years earlier. And if we could find a babysitter we could head to our alma mater for live concerts: James Brown killing us with his music and falling down drunk off the stage, or the first live performance of Jesus Christ Superstar with ‘actual’ nudity. In fact Terry and Barbara were the first to offer to take care of Scooter for the weekend, giving us time alone together before our next baby Nicole was born. He was at the height of the terrible two’s: independent, willful and not very language proficient. I remember pulling up from our first vacation, the two of them looking totally exhausted, outside on the lawn with Scooter awaiting our arrival.

My mother, formerly a speech therapist and drama coach, felt comfortable taking care of him, which she would do often when we’d get together on weekends. They took to each other immediately and loved spending time together. In his words:

“Grandma Green, the grandmother I was closest to, was one of the most loving and generous people I knew. One of the reasons we had a close bond was because she used to be a speech therapist and would coach me on saying words properly when I couldn’t hear them. She always spoke to me as an adult and would discuss worldly things with me which I loved because it would broaden my inquisitive mind.”

We stayed in our little Ormond Beach Peyton Place for 7 years as the hippie itch attacked me. I read Be Here Now by Ram Dass, smoked my first joint, did macramé, wore vintage clothes without a bra, stopped shaving my legs and yearned to be a flower child. Such a dreamer! How in the hell did I ever talk daddy Ray into leaving his Merrell Lynch life, still wearing the tied neck and shiny shoes of his military past? Maybe part of it was that my brother and all his hippie friends were graduating from college and celebrating with an adventure across the USA, living on the road, and we got caught up in the excitement.

The planning began. We sold our house, bought a van and refurbished it into a rolling home. Ray quit his job and applied for unemployment. We’d have money to live on until we decided what we wanted to do with the rest of our lives. Our underlying motive became combing the country to find a superlative oral school for Scooter to give him the background he needed to be successfully mainstreamed into regular hearing classes.

Life and Deaf – Chapter 10 – From the Horse’s Mouth

pict0003-3-214x300-8757752 — On our way to a new life in Boulder

Having got bogged down on my blog again, I start reflecting on why it’s been so hard to sit down and write this memoir. A light bulb goes off. It’s not just mine, it’s my son’s. Where’s his side of the story? I dash off an email to him.

“Dear Ray, As I struggle along with my/your memoir I realize I’m missing the most important part. You. Your memories. I have an idea. How about writing sections from your point of view and perspective. Some are already written. We could combine, read and critique each other.

I’m reading Salman Rushdie’s memoir Joseph Anton, written in 3^rd person to be less personal, more honest? You should read it. Made me think of this idea when he told how he was bullied in school and never told his parents. Sound familiar? He says, “when he’d become a writer his gossip mother said “I’m going to stop telling you things because you put them in your books and then I get in trouble.” But she couldn’t stop telling anymore than he could stop writing. Love you, Mom”

Rushdie’s sent away from home – India – to an English boarding school. Thrown into a new school and uprooted from his family and culture in Bombay, he’s not only an immigrant, but he’s not interested in sports and is a geek before his time. He never mentions the pain to his parents. It would just cause more trouble. He just swallows it.

I get a reply:

“Mom,

You have good timing, was going to email you soon. Love your idea about a collaboration. I’ve written some tidbits whenever I reflected upon my past, mostly parts that needed to be healed. I’ll share what I have below, but take note it’s just reflecting and healing on past hurts, the majority of my life was a lot of joy. :)”

So here is the first installation from my son Scooter, now called Ray:

First grade was where it really all started, an accordion of events unfolding one after the other in compressed time.

It was the first time I would be mainstreamed into school as a deaf child. Thinking back on it, it was a hell of an adjustment because in pre-school and kindergarten, I was in a school specially for the oral deaf to teach us how to talk and read lips rather than sign language. It was a sheltered environment where everyone was accepted for who they were in the most natural way and it was also a great deal of fun.

I remember in the middle of the year we all put on a circus to friends and family where we’d dress up as different animals and pretend to be like them. I was an elephant walking a tight rope and we still have a video reel of that somewhere. As children we love circuses and when we think of them we feel joy and happiness. That’s what school felt like; a fun circus where I was learning a lot and having fun amongst fellow deaf children and caring, compassionate staff.

Then first grade came along. Not only was I plucked out of a sheltered environment; I was plunked into a foreign one when we moved from Florida to Colorado. So here I was, totally green, totally new, and totally deaf in a brave new hearing world for the first time in my short life.

I was naive at first (then again, aren’t we all allowed to be at that age?) and welcomed the change with open arms — I loved adventure and trying new things.

I knew something was up and different when I strolled through the cafeteria for the first time to get in line and all these kids stared at me. In reality, I couldn’t blame them for that — back then I had to wear these huge body hearing aids. It was like wearing a novel strapped to the front of my chest with wires coming out of it to my ears. It was a hell of a way to broadcast my handicap. I knew I was different, but I still clearly remember that feeling of uneasiness as I walked through and seeing all those eyes following me, with that look of “What’s wrong with him?” I felt like a circus freak who made the mistake of escaping from the circus I so loved.

I remember feeling very quiet inside and wanting to shrivel up so I wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. But I had to keep walking through all those stares, what else could I do?

Life and Deaf – Fighting the System – Chapter 8

I found some inconsistencies in my last two blog posts, so I’ve made a few minor changes. Chapter 8 becomes Fighting the System and Chapter 9 becomes Old Movies. Hope this is not too confusing.

Scooter lived on a different time schedule than normal humans right from the beginning, fighting sleep in the evening and awakening in the morning. It was always a struggle getting him to pre-school on time. Sonny was accepting of the differences and struggles involved in having a handicapped child, actually still a baby in Scooter’s case, in school. After she left the new teacher was one of those rigid disciplinarians. What we today call a control-freak. This was not a good match for a class of multi- handicapped, multi-aged, very young preschoolers.

Scooter’s daddy Ray dropped him off to school on his way to work. The first time they arrived late, daddy got a warning. The second time the door was locked. And Miss L. wouldn’t open it. “You need to go to the office for a pass,” she yelled through the door. Daddy Ray flipped. He has a hairy temper when aroused.

“Who do you think I am? One of your students? We misplaced Scooter’s hearing aid. What good would it have done bringing a deaf kid to school without his hearing aid? Who do you think YOU are? The principal’s going to hear about this.”

Time passed. Things settled down, but the all the parents were grumbling about Miss L.’s rigidity and lack of compassion. Concern was growing like an inflamed boil getting ready to fester. Then it burst.

One day I dropped in unexpectedly to drop something off for my son. The door wasn’t locked, (We’d found that safety regulations forbade locked doors.) I entered, looked around for my son. “Where’s Scooter?” I asked.

There was a strange look on here face. “Oh my God!” popped out, as she raced to the closet door and yanked it open. There he sat quietly waiting. “Another student grabbed a toy away from Scooter, so he hit him. I put him in there to think about what he’d done.”

“You what?!” I was steaming. Another locked door? This time a closet? “This is an atrocity. You’re going to hear from the superintendent about this.” I grabbed Scooter and left.

With the strong support of PATH, our parent’s organization, and several hearings with school officials Miss L was ultimately dismissed. Yes! to fighting the system. We had power and wielded it.

And along came our angel with a name to fit – Miss Sunny Bates – to replace Miss L. Sunny was understanding of the differences and struggles involved in having a handicapped child in school, many still babies. Most of all she was a compassionate and exceptional hands-on teacher.

Next time – Old Movies. Remember you can continue to receive these posts by signing up with your email address.

Life and Deaf – Chapter 9 – Old Movies

There’s a new addition to my blog. You can now subscribe and each new post announcement will automatically be sent to your email. Just put your email address in the upper righthand corner of the blog. Thanks for reading.

Back to Life and Deaf.

scan-10-9471595 — Scooter with his birthday dog.

A memory pops into my mind, so clearly, of Scooter showing his spirit while hoding his teacher, Sunny Bates’ hand in the parking lot of Marineland. He’s stamping his little foot, shaking his head no, next to the old Dodge station wagon we bought from Grandma and Gaga Patterson. He doesn’t want to go home and accept the fact that the excitement and spectacle of watching the dolphins and whales jumping, singing and dancing for us is over.

It all started when my TV cable went out. For a decade I’ve been piggy-backing off a cable that wasn’t supposed to be live. Holding on to the attitude of Abbie Hoffman’s Steal This Book era, I didn’t feel too bad getting a little free cable from a big rich conglomerate. I started cleaning out the space getting ready for a new big legal flat screen variety and there, mixed in with the almost obsolete DVD’s and CD’s, is a copy that says ‘super-eight movies’. I pop it in and begin to watch. OMG, the beginning of our family: Scooter learning to walk. I laugh, I cry as our family life goes scrolling by. I do a quick calculation, 1968 – 1978, from Ormond Beach, FL where the children were born, through our lives as hippies traveling the country in a van, settling in Boulder, CO and our return to Sarasota.

After 1½ hours and a decade roll past, I’m emotionally drained. A smile soothes my face. My memory has been so easily nudged with these genuine images from the past. It’s all on a movie

scan-91-5165309 — Nicole and Scooter in Ormond Bch

lost, then found in the clutter of life. I sift through years of gift opening in front of endless Christmas trees, fancily dressed toddlers precariously carrying baskets of brightly decorated eggs, crowds of neighbor kids adorned in peaked hats in front of blazing, then smoking animal-shaped birthday cakes. But in between there’s real life: Scooter’s first steps,first run, first fall, picking himself back up and continuing on; no crying or laughing, just pure inquisitiveness and determination.The kids model silly wild outfits I sew them for Christmas. I sew myself sexy ones to go with my bleached blond hair. We enjoy drunk,crazy fun times with the grandparents at their 25th wedding anniversary. I discipline Scooter and drag him away when he won’t stay of the street.We dancing and party with friends at a neighborhood New Year’s Eve bash where Ray passes out on the couch deeply enough to ignore us taking the drink from his hands as we continually change his hats. We take old Boulder Hippie friends boating to Sarasota’s topless beach (Sarasota was not so staid back then) and return to romp nude in our backyard.

scan-12-219x300-4521212 — Crazy Xmas robes I made for kids.

But let me pick up the thread where I left off. Scooter’s new teacher was with us on that Marineland trip. Miss Sunny Bates, the best teacher a child could have, had become a close friend of the family. She loved that boy, his spirited independent ways, quick intelligence and potential to move into the hearing world, and we loved her. After our shaky beginnings with oral education, she took the ball and ran with it, giving him the background he needed to successfully inhabit a hearing world.

Granted the circumstances weren’t perfect-a class of children with mixed disabilities: deaf, emotionally disturbed, cerebal palsied, autistic, aged 2 ½ (or potty trained) through 5. With Sunny at the helm, it worked and I became a volunteer teacher’s aide to pick up the slack, my first job since teaching elementary school in El Paso, Texas. What an eye-opener and education for me, too.

Hope my alterations and changes are not too confusing. Next time a different perspective – a memory from the horse’s mouth – my son.

Knocked Flat – OMG Another Elder Hospital Story

OMG I’ve become an elder and am telling a dread hospital story.

My six month chronic cough is intensifying to the point of doctor visits, both M.D. and holistic, drugs, natural remedies, X-rays to fight the pneumonia with which I’m finally diagnosed. My quick Christmas trip to Florida is extended by an onslaught of a new virulent strain of Australian stomach bacteria attacking my weakened body. It knocks me flat two days before my intended return to Costa Rica. My stomach churns, cramps, stabs and explodes. I induce my brother to drive me to the doctor. He takes one look at me, opens the windows and wishes he’d worn a mask.

“Back again?” The doctor prescribes more antibiotics and as an afterthought, “Drink lots of water”. Nothing about dehydration. My best friend, Lynn, picks up my drugs and the pharmacist says Gatorade is a must. Nicole’s doctor says Pedialyte. I buy them all and postpone my trip to Costa Rica once, twice. Stop eating solid food. Shudder down gallons of sickly sweet electrolytes, canned soup, slithering red jello, all tasting like rat poison. I’m alone. Terry and Lynn drop by with food and drug fortifications, jumping back from the door upon its opening, fearing to contract my disease.

After steady improvement at least in my head, I set a third leaving date for Costa Rica, pick my rental car, drive to Orlando with only one rest stop, jump on the plane already wiped out. Oh shit! My gut rebels again and again. My false sense of being okay vanishes as I push past the seatmate and pace the aisle to the head. The 2 ½ hour flight becomes the longest of my life.

I’ve totally relapsed. My son, Ray, has arrived before me on his first vacation to Costa Rica in 12 years. He’s on his own and takes full advantage of driving my car to every possible tourist destination in our area. I’m down fifteen pounds, and end up in a San Jose hospital. Nicole becomes a super nurse, drives me to the hospital, stays there with me until I’m stabilized and under doctor’s care. Jose takes the kids.

A sulfa allergic reaction sends me into anaphylactic shock. My lips to go numb, tongue and mouth swell, throat closes up so I can’t swallow and sound like the mammoth from Ice Age. After 3 days of IVs and drugs to let my blown-out intestines rest and heal, the vein collapses, my arm inflates to elephant proportions and hurts like hell. Next my muscles start screaming in defiance of their inactivity and lock into spasms in my back and opposite hip. Painkillers are added to steroids and antibiotics.

After five days of an intravenous life, my doctors judge me ready to be discharged, though the aches and pains I contracted in the hospital continue. If I have one more bout of diarrhea I’ll board a plane with Ray on his return and try my luck with the US healthcare system.

I spend my first week home flat, still with muscle spasms and wishing for a big hatpin to deflate my arm. Champion nurse Nicole watches over me and schedules my pill regimen. Ray leaves after a month and I never get to play with him. Sigh. The grandkids don’t know what to do with the sick grandma who used to romp with them.

I feed, medicate, nurture my sore body and stressed mind back to health. Patience, not my strong point, becomes my constant incantation as I end this month long saga with a return to health.

Full Circle

Kicked low by pneumonia, low enough to catch the first flu

That flew in from Australia and knocked me flat.

Childbirth cramps bend me double to stare at my toes.

No solid food for a month, I shrivel.

It’s all too sweet, too salty, too hard to swallow.

The hospital gets me

Imprisoned by IV’s and pain.

I convalesce watching cooking shows

Dreaming of pesto shrimp in fettuccine.

I eat a fresh sesame seed bagel thick-knifed with butter.

Savor each mouthful – the chewiness, crunch, salt tingling my tongue.

Ruby clear Jamaica tea shades my glass and mouth with divine pleasure.

I’ve come full circle on the road to healing.

Beginning my 7th Decade

Journal – Beginning the 70’s Decade

In this little journal hidden under a neglect of papers, books, illness, I now record the month journey through my physical degradation; a corner stone of my seventh decade. Looking back on my latest entry from December 7^th, my birthday, I found such peace in the solitude and beauty of my totem place – the deep pools of the Morete R. in Costa Rica. Maybe it gave me strength to bear the ordeal yet to come.

howlermonkey1-11-203x300-5661367 — Howler Monkey

Dec. 7, 2012 – Divine Peace

River sun turns water aqua clear through the trees.

I breathe in green purity, exhale loneliness.

I feel peaceful solitude in this place of love.

Here with the howlers.

The perilous journey over wet rocks to visit them

Gives me back the balance and rhythm I’ve lacked.

Bringing yoga from my practice to my life.

What better place to tarry, meditate, play.

There is nothing better to do.

Next time: Knocked Flat – The illness that gave me a legitimate writing block. Glad to be back!