Leisa A. Hammett

You Tube Us!

 

Above: Grace is caught red handed (red lipped?), frozen in time...yawning. It WAS 7:30 a.m....

Our Tennessee Mornings interview, written about yesterday, is now up on You Tube.

Coming up tomorrow: Spring has Sprung! That lil' tease...

Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.

Photo: Bill Bangham

"THREE! TWO! ONE!" Friday morning at 7:30 a.m. we were live in front of the cameras of local station WZTV Fox 17 chatting it up with Nashville television news-talk host Charlie Chase and his very pregnant side-kick Kelly Sutton.  The "we" angled on the chintz sofas nearly knee-to-knee with our hosts included, to my far left, Amanda Peltz, executive director of the Autism Society of Middle Tennessee, "Pieces of Hope" benefit live auction artist donor, Grace Walker Goad -- my daughter who has autism -- and then yours truly.  

Yesterday I explained it to the inquiring mind of my former mother-in-law like having gone to Africa versus going across town to the zoo. The former was in 1973, me a bratty 13-year-old visiting her missionary aunt, riding in Land Rovers across the national park of Kenya and into Tanzania's incredible Ngorongora Crater. Just me, my cousin, her father and his sister -- my aunt -- and a local African guide and the lions, the zebras, warthogs, hyenas, elephants, caribou...the list goes on. Us and them. Up real close and quite personal. (Separated by Land Rover, of course.) So, going to the zoo, even a nice one, never cut it for me after that.

Likewise, having been flown to New York and appeared on the set of "The View"* in January, 2007, having a honey-faced mocha-skinned guy in tight jeans and sporting a smart-looking little knit cap over his close cropped hair take control of the mike and stick it up the back of my shirt fasten it to my collar and then clip the other end to the back of my pants' waist, his hands deft and swift doesn't compare to me awkwardly fumbling with the mike and getting it all tangled as the local station employees, nervous as the clock ticked, explain how to run it up my jacket. Waiting in a personal room versus an empty conference room, being moved to the set behind the set and yucking it up with Joy Behar, infinite coaching from the show's director about what I was going to say and be asked versus almost add libbin'. It's just not the same.

Okay. That's REALLY snot-nosed, smart-assed and stuck-up of me to say. I know.

We are truly MOST grateful for the experience to go anywhere and talk about autism and also about GraceArt. The folks at the local studio were great. Really. My take-home lesson IS: next time take control and insist that Grace must sit in my peripheral vision as I'm talking. Luckily I talk well off the cuff and I did. I think. And, so I'm told. But. Oh. Autism. It does have its ways of keeping a parent humble.

When we got back in our car headed toward school, I called The Fiance for a report and that's when I learned that I might as well of been Charlie Brown's teacher. My darling stole the show while I answered the host's questions. She apparently entertained herself and our viewers by looking into the large camera monitors and making faces, much like she does when she's bored and looks into the mirror at home. Opening her mouth as wide as she can, as if she were at the dentist and as if she's inspecing her own chops and also scrunching her eyes shut and contorting her face. All behind my back as I was being interviewed. ("Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.") (Thank you, Grace.) I asked her about it later and she giggled. The Fiance's mother thought Grace was doing it on purpose. Whatever. Lesson learned.

And as I say, Autism, once again, kicks butt and prevents one from taking themself too seriously. Thanks again, Grace. You SQUIRT!

See You Tube.

Endangered Art?

It was a quiet night on Nashville's Fifth Avenue of the Arts. For the past several months, Rymer, Tinney Contemporary and The Arts Company have opened their gallery doors with a new show for patrons more intent on purchasing art. First Saturday Art Crawls are true to their name, wildly popular, clogging sidewalks as art revelers visit the three galleries and those in The Arcade across the street. But last night, the windows of The Arts Company were dark. Proprietor Anne Brown was reputedly out of town. Fancy-attired individuals partied privately behind the closed doors of The Rymer Gallery.

The trip to Tinney Contemporary was worth the hike from the hinterlands of available parking. Since December, recent Californian-returned-home Rachel McCampbell, had labored, tucked away in her Leiper's Fork studio, on a series of mammoth nature scenes. Most stunning are McCampbell's layered acrylic on canvas paintings of extinct birds in various forms of abstraction and realistic detail. There is a dreamy depth of field and yet the pop of up-close-and-bounding-off-the-canvas detail. Some of the feathered creatures perch, other's are caught in flight. At the center of the gallery a dinosaur-like sculpture of Spanish moss, large feathers and bones also bear a mobile with mirrors hinting that the viewer, too, could become extinct. The relationship between nature and human, perilous. 

 

Painting: Rachel McCampbell

The series,"Endangered Herigage: Nature in the Balance" is a show in partnership with the Land Trust of Tennessee and Tinney Contemporary. Gallery Owner Susan Tinney is aiming to host occasional partnership shows to raise awareness about various issues. The installation taking center stage of McCampbell's large acrylic canvases has been purchased, a portion of the proceeds benefitting the Land Trust. But patrons. More patrons are needed. Needed...in these sliced-thin economic times lest art, artists, and the venues that show them, too, become extinct. The show ends April 25.

On the home front: at this writing, this here blog post is set to spring from my computer to yours at 5 a.m. If any Nashville early birds are up that early, my daughter, Grace Walker Goad, who has autism, and I will be on Fox 17 at 7:30. (A.M. Yawn.) Unfortunately, I will not be there to talk about how much I *heart* Obama. Rather, we'll be chatting it up about a piece of GraceArt  that's being live auctioned at an upcoming Autism Society of Middle Tennessee benefit. I'll be sure to wink at you when I look into the lens of the camera. Now off for beauty sleep. I'm behind.

Walking One's Own Talk

 

Photo: Andy Stafford  

Cattywampus. That would be me right now. I always qualify that the practices that keep me balanced may seem like a lot to others, but they are the nuts and bolts that hold me together amid the turbulence of single motherhood, special needs parenting and All the Rest of Life.

And they are: journaling, a gratitude practice, daily affirmations, exercise, yoga, meditation, healthy supportive relationships, whole food nutrition and a belief in A Divine Universal Energy.

As always, I can see it coming when I eschew these, as I did during my overseas vacation and the weeks since. And here I am, emotionally and physically escalating toward an anxiety attack. Well, I was until I cracked upon the tool box this morning and emptied its contents.

There's some emotional turbulence in my life now and a lot is related to our topsy turvy economy and my plans to get married. I've not handled it well until I got it together this morning and pulled out the tools that I know help build a healthy me. Affirmations. Check. Gratitude list. Check. Yoga. Check. Healthy breakfast. Check. Calling on Spirit. Check. Doubling up on 5HTP, my natural serotonin supplement until I get through this. Check. And, IGBOK. My mantra: It's Going to be Okay. Check.

Whew! Feeling better now. Back on the emotional mend. I can do this....Check.

This post was written on Monday. Published on Wednesday. This wasn't a flighty blog post...I am back on stable emotional ground, braced against the turbulence.

More Spring Break Madness

A homeless man. An autistic teen. And a dozen Alzheimer's patients. Of this I do not know what to make. They are three somewhat separate threads of experience, yet my mind keeps trying to find the ways they are interwoven. The encounters all occurred near the middle of our spring break on two of the days we were visiting family in South Carolina.

The Alzheimer's patients are the residents, most in varying stages of listlessness, that roamed the halls -- many like a walking track -- in the "Reminiscent Unit" of my father's assisted living facility. Last Monday, I helped my care-giving sister move my father from another part of the facility to this one. My sister explained my experiences with the residents were typical. They followed me to my father's room, often passing through the threshold close behind me. Passing them in the halls, some clutched baby dolls or stuffed animals. Some stopped and asked for directions. One, at first blush, a more lucid resident, asked me where was the exit. She assured me she was not a resident there. The longer we talked, the more I doubted her. She was a former nurse and sometimes, according to my sister, she offers to take visitor's vital signs. Other conversations with these people in this bizarre and seemingly surreal place spoke sentences of babble.

Then the teen with autism is my own daughter. With her by my side, there is another sense of living in a world just or more than just a hair off. Somewhere out there, there's a mother who has a child with autism, maybe two who is also taking care of an aging parent. God help 'em. While I grieve what has become of my sister's life, her leaving a 35-year successful teaching career because the demands of taking care of my parents -- and now of whom only my father remains -- I am grateful that I do not have to manage the emotional and physical demands of autism in addition to an aging parent.

And then the homeless man. While I escaped into the intense watercolor world of Andrew Wyeth, a new collection assembled at the Greenville County Museum of Art, my dear sister took my daughter to the charming and commendable downtown revitalization area including the Reedy River Falls Park. Watching the falls storm into the river, a visual crash and bang of sight and sound, with the March sun teasing her cheeks, my daughter sat on a park bench and rocked. So said my sister. Her glee of large and rapid repetitive movement accompanied by her own babble emitted with melody caught the attention of a homeless man. Without social boundaries himself, he stopped to assure her that it was all okay, and yes, "It was All Going to Be Alright." Yes. Indeed. 

Joy, Pride And A Milestone

 

Painting: Grace Walker Goad

Despite the profuse fog of cough-inducing, sinus-grating construction dust and the ear-aching shrill of buzz saws, I realized quickly I was on hallowed ground. I followed my host, Lisa Hester, down the hall, away from the lobby and front office areas under reconstruction to the conference room of the Tennessee Arts Commission. There I found myself humbly in the presence of a large Charles Brindley wall-encompassing painting. A Herb Williams crayon sculpture was sitting with in its typical curious muse-state over in the corner. And the Grace Walker Goad I held in my hand was about to join their ranks.

In my heart I felt a Spark of Joy. My mother/mentor pride was Swelling. And I knew that my 15-year-old artist daughter, who has autism, had accomplished a rare Milestone -- something coveted among Tennessee artists. She’d just sold a mixed media painting, above, to the commendably active and artist-friendly Commission, whose collection is merged with and managed by The Tennessee State Museum. A bit of a coup for kid with a severe disability who can barely string a sentence together and usually not more than four words.  Who still cannot write her name.  But one thing that my daughter, Grace Walker Goad can do is paint. One of our ministers once said, Grace’s mode of communication is through art.

It’s way past time I formally introduce her to this blog that’s named in her honor -- also the name of a yet-unpublished book I’ve written about our life together and a blog that’s one-third about Art, one-third about Autism and one-third, about which I write most, All The Rest of Life. Grace was diagnosed with the enigmatic disorder of autism at age 32 months in 1997. A year into the typically grueling rigor of standard early intervention, I wondered if there was more.  Where was the joy of creating visual art, of dancing, making music? The types of typical teaching facilities where I might enroll her for instruction weren’t suited or willing or able to teach to her different learning style. So I searched arduously in Middle Tennessee for therapists trained in these disciplines. We discovered a child with perfect pitch and perfect rhythm.  But what struck me most was the hyper-active child that turned Zen when she crudely grasped a paint brush and contemplatively studied the blank paper before her and the lush palate to her side. Color and composition became her strong points.

Grace continues through today to study with private art teachers and therapists. She began showing her work at age six.  At age eight she began selling.  She’s shown on Capitol Hill in Washington, DC, a list of area universities and shows and is carried at Shimai in Nashville.  In addition to the state museum, Vanderbilt University owns a Grace Walker Goad and has purchased an additional piece to commemorate autism researcher Wendy Stone, Ph.D.'s 20-year career there.  Former US Senator Bill Frist, MD and former NFL hall of famer Dan Marino, are among a number of individuals who hold her work privately.  In 2007, because of her art, she and I were guests on the autism episode of ABC’s “The View.”  (Episode not made available on web by show.)

Someday, when I’m not writing, hobbling at running her original card and print business and trying to live this life with autism and All the Rest in the process, we’ll take her show on the road.  That’s a definite. Seriously, first, we’ve got to enter high school next year and take the many necessary next steps of growing into adulthood with the Great Challenge of disAbility. But as long as Grace wants to paint, she will be mentored and nurtured. And the future…well, it looks bright. Here’s hoping that there will be many more milestones to come our way. I’m betting -– knowing -– that there will be. Indeed.

We received word yesterday that we may be a guest of the local Fox network morning show regarding a Grace Walker Goad painting that will be featured at the Autism Society of Middle Tennessee's "Pieces of Hope" Benefit. I'll post the interview link on "Journey with Grace" if and when available.

Spring Break Madness

The questions remain unanswered. Their curly, crooked punctuation marks dangling in my knarled mass of thoughts. They're the cluster of words that jammed into and elbowed themselves into every square inch and spare moment of my mental time during spring "break." They are thoughts about Aging: Why it is the way it is and how it can be different? They are observations: About my father's process that I am helplessly witnessing. About the toll it is taking upon my caregiving sibling. It is Up Close and Personal examination of our culture's choices of how we respond to our aging and how  Respect factors into our varied responses. And then, there's the maddening process for all when one loses their mind. I suspect I'll be asking and attempting in my own feeble grasping attempts to answer, excavate and ponder these aloud here in the days to come...starting now:

With wide, expectant and slightly fearful-seeming eyes, magnified behind oversized, thick prescription lenses, my father walked into my sister's home.  He'd later calmly ask my sister what relation "this place" had to us. I lifted his high-tech walker, which bore wheels instead cut tennis balls. Effortlessly, I passed it to my elder sister. She positioned it to stand guard for when my father finally reached the top of three brick steps from the garage into the kitchen. My middle sister stood behind my father and I stood at the top of the steps as he slowly maneuvered his adult body like a giant, slow, gangly toddler.

This is the man who prided himself in standing upright and sadly criticized himself as age began to force him to stoop. The man who walked a mile twice a day. The man who fussed at my now deceased mother for not exercising, blaming her lack of will power for the leaky heart valve that claimed her life. The man that kept his belly flat and a pound or two over a certain number on the scale meant exercising "discipline" by cutting back on sweets.

And, this is being written by his youngest daughter who plans to live until she is 100. Partly because she loves Life, partly because she seriously believes she can, partly because having a child with a severe disAbility is reason enough to try. I became "granola" 21 years ago. I noted the positive effects it had on my skin and hair and body functions. I became a disciple of natural. A believer in meditation. A practicioner of yoga. A steward of thinking positive. A committed exerciser. These are the things that will propel me into three digits of age and promise it to be of near perfect health.

Yes, part of me believes this. Then, part of me knows that the Unexpected can happen. Like it did to my father. For him, the unexpected is Parkinson syndrome. Too much Mercury-laced High Fructose Syrup whirled with carbonation and sealed into aluminum cans? Mercury and aluminum laden toxins in skin products and infused into government recommended vaccines? Maybe. Maybe not. And even if so, then what about the other unexpected unknowns? Do I live in Fear of them? No. It's just I realize that despite the best of my granola plans...Who knows? And that I don't like. So perhaps my task is to make peace with "That." For all of Life is, after all, a Future unknown. I can plan. I can scheme. And then I can Choose to Live each moment of the process. I have done this. I can do it. It's just now it is regarding the issue of life expectancy and the quality of that Life and the process of aging that I am confronting when I talk to my sisters and when I see my father. It is a gauntlet, another challenge, perhaps, of Surrender. Deep breaths. And. Tiny Steps.

A Berry Bad Day

"All right, every day ain't going to be the best day of your life, don't worry about that. If you stick to it you hold the possibility open that you will have better days."  -Wendell Berry

A Sad, Unsavory Sandwich

Our dinner was finished. Yet, the empty dishes remained before us. We three sisters, either merging quickly into or out of our 50s, sat around the table.

We talked. We laughed a little. Bickered none. Our mother died barely three months before. Our father, left behind, had yesterday fallen for the 12th time this calendar year. It is a year so new March has not lost its chill and had only managed to birth but an early inkling of her spring flora. The 12th time had occurred within days of the same week that falls 10 and 11 had happened, each necessitating a dreaded trip to the Emergency Room. Falls one through nine had resulted in "a busted head," meaning a searing wound in the flesh of his age-spotted and balding head. But fall number 10 had produced a cracked vertebrae and 12, a cracked rib. Since Mother's death, Daddy had been diagnosed with Parkinson syndrome, marked namely by heightened dementia and rapidly increasing limitations to his mobility. His frightening spiral amazed all of us, his daughters, his doctors, the staff that cared for him at his assisted living facility.

As we, his offspring, sat around the table Saturday night, we wondered to ourselves and aloud how long the horror of what his life had become would persist in time. It was a horror our eldest sister, the only one remaining in our home town, bore daily. Her stress was palpable, managed by food.

In two days, we would move Daddy into the"reminiscent unit" of his assisted living facility.

We sisters sat together with sadness and resignation, knowing this is what our father's proud life had become. And we were helpless but to watch it unfurl. One of us, the eldest, always on call to run rescue. The other two of us in different cities, in two different states, connected only blood, worry and cellular phones.

Silky. Smooth. And Southern

Of course, the essential ingredients of any Southern fiction worth consuming are race, religion or food -- or all three.

  Random House

Looking For Salvation at The Dairy Queen -- as implied by the clever and intriguing title -- serves up generous heapings of classic small-town Baptist culture with a few teases of Southern fried recipes thrown in, too.

I licked my both my fingers and chops on the pages of this flawlessly written debut novel. The prose was silky. Smooth, even. And decidedly Southern. Instantly, I made a home with the characters, especially the protagonist, a young girl pining to be anywhere but her birthplace of Ringgold, Ga.

I am in awe of the finesse writer Susan Gregg Gilmore brought to the pages of her first work of fiction.  Something many writers her senior in experience craft only after years of quality and up-and-coming but not-yet seamless prose. Somehow, Gilmore managed to ooze onto the pages of her virgin novel a delicious concoction that left my appetite whetted for more.

The Nashville-based author promises to deliver, as she's signed a contract for two more Southern literary feasts. I've got my napkin ready.