Greg Awtry

On Mondays, the York News-Times is gracious enough to lend me this space so I can ramble on, generally about politics and occasionally about topics far removed from that cutthroat arena.

Today is one of those days.

Thirteen months ago I wrote about Baby Maddie, born early in 2010. Many of you often ask about her. You ask that I update you once in while, which says a lot about our News-Times readers and our community. For those who are new to this space, well, let me swallow the lump in my throat and tell you about Baby Maddie.

She gasped to pull air into those tiny lungs. Two small holes in her heart put in question whether she would make it through her first day. This newborn peanut of a little girl fought like a warrior and made it through her first night and into the morning.

It was a cold morning, the sky a dark grey, and the news that came shortly after was equally gloomy. Baby Maddie had a little something extra. Every cell in her body had not two chromosome 21s like most of us, but three. Baby Maddie was born with Down Syndrome.

As grandparents of Baby Maddie, we were devastated. Not only for her, but for her parents, our daughter and son-in-law. Our fist concern was if Baby Maddie would even make it, but as each hour passed, it became clear this precious little girl was a fighter.

Now, a little over one-year-old, Baby Maddie is still fighting. My wife Josie and I know why, if genetics have anything to do with it. Baby Maddie’s mother, our daughter, Jamie (Awtry) McClintic was born with severe hearing loss. Unable to speak and fitted with hearing aids at age three, Jamie began a years-long journey of speech therapy. At age five she was denied public school because of her disability, but we fought to have her mainstreamed anyway. Making up for the loss of hearing, we watched an indomitable spirit take over as Jamie showed a remarkable willingness to learn.

We remember so well the first day she heard the rain. She had never heard it before. Or the look on her face as a robin chirped. Day after day we would take Jamie to Michigan State University for testing. She knew everybody in the audiology department and they all knew her. They asked Jamie if she would be willing to be a test case so they could learn how to better diagnose infants with hearing loss. Little did we know then, but Jamie’s willingness to help infants, even at her early age foreshadowed what was to come later.

Following years of speech therapy, Jamie’s spirit and ability to learn carried her to heights we could of never imagine. One of our proudest moments came as we sat in the audience and watched her accept her Doctor of Occupational Therapy Degree from Creighton University. It was at that point she dedicated her life and career to working with disabled children. They say God works in mysterious ways, but it’s no mystery as to why he gave Baby Maddie to Jamie and her husband Scott.

Maddie is simply remarkable. No, the health issues have not gone away and never will, but this precious little angel wants to learn. Unable to speak, just as her mother once was, she is discovering sign language. I wish you could see her when she learns a new word.

We learned a new word too. Chromosome 21. Appropriately, next week on March 21, we celebrate National Down Syndrome Day. I am sure, like you, it seems like just another one of those national recognition days, and why not, that is exactly what it is. But to me now, it is a very special day. It’s a day we can raise awareness for those who have the “extra 21”. They are very special people with very special needs, none greater than the need to be loved.

So Baby Maddie, be aware of this. PopPop and Sito (Grandma) love you. We can hardly wait to walk hand in hand with you. You’ll be in your favorite color, pink, and I’ll be wearing a shirt with my new lucky number on it. You guessed it. The number 21!

Next Monday is National Down Syndrome Day. If you are of mind, say a little prayer on March 21st for Maddie and others like her. I ran across a prayer from a mother of a Down Syndrome child the other day. I’m unable to find the author’s name, but I am printing it anyway.

Today I say a prayer for the world that I live in. I pray that my daughter grows up surrounded by love. That the world grows more accepting and tolerant. That people see her for the wonderful girl that she is. I pray that people see a beautiful little girl with brilliant sparkling blue eyes that are the color of the deep ocean. I pray that people see a smile that lights up a room. That her milestones and are celebrated and that others have patience with her delays. I pray that people see a little girl, then a teenager, then an adult, NOT a diagnosis. That she will not be sold short before given a chance. That she will share the gifts that God gave her and be able to serve others and not just be served. I pray that she grows up to know that God loves her and HE created just as she is, and she is a work of divine art. I pray that when she acts up that people around her see a child acting like a two-year-old, or a three-year-old, etc. and not attribute everything negative to Down Syndrome, it’s insulting. I pray that I am a good parent and give her what she needs; LOVE, Peace, joy, therapies, patience, as well as discipline and fairness. I pray that I listen to what God tells me and I do right by her. Lord watch over us all and keep our eyes on you.

I thank the York News-Times readers for giving me the chance to tell Baby Maddie’s story. God Bless Baby Maddie and her parents, although I believe HE already has.

By the time I was 8 years old I had moved seven times.

It started in Torrington, Wyo., then to Evergreen, Col., followed by a move to Sacramento, Calif. Then we moved to Douglass, Wyo., then on to Kimball, Neb. And then to Laramie, Wyo., and finally to Cozad, Neb.

Since those early years, I have lived in Lincoln, North Platte and Kearney, St. Louis, Lansing and Okemos, Michigan, Richmond, Virginia, and now York.

Each and every move was filled with emotions of leaving friends and loved ones, offset with anticipation of a new adventure. Life is like that, it gives and it takes, it rewards and punishes, it is filled with hellos and good-byes. But at its core, our center of gravity in all of our lives is family.

Like yesterday, I can remember those cross-country trips to Grandma’s house at Thanksgiving. Dad would put the luggage right behind the front seats on the floor of the car. Mom would lay blankets across the suitcases and the back seat making a make-shift bed in the back. (This was well before seat belts and car seats.)

My sister and I would ride hundreds of miles like that, separated by a cooler filled with sandwiches and sodas. The cooler also doubled as a tabletop where we would play “slapjack” until it turned ugly or until our excessive shouts distracted Dad to the point he would threaten us with a “backhand” if we didn’t stop.

What did we do without video games and DVD players in the roof? We played the alphabet game by looking at all the road signs. We played the license plate games on passing cars. There were no rest stops (no Interstate highways either), no truck stops, just friendly little gas stations on the main intersections of two-lane highways.

Mom would have the entire trip planned out, where we would stay and where we would eat. She also served as the official navigator, no GPS system in those days. She, not the electronic voices of today, was the friendly “Turn right” voice, and sometimes the not so friendly “Turn around” voice.

So off we would go, to see the ones we loved the most.

Did you ever notice how certain smells can bring back a memory? The smell of a family vacation is one of those. So is the instant you walk into grandma’s house. There is a smell, something between freshly baked bread and a musty carpet, to the odor of cinnamon from the apple pie in the oven.

Then, before you know it, usually on Saturday, we were off again with leftover turkey sandwiches firmly packed into the cooler/tabletop. Same trip, but in reverse. Mom had the return trip planned as well, with many stops the same as before. She always had her favorite places, you know.

By now, the novelty of the backseat-bed had worn off and instead of playing cards with my sister, it was, “Hey, you’re on my side!” or “Stop it!” Once home, it was always followed by a trip to the local drug store because we had to turn in our film, and wait a week or so to get our pictures back. My, how that has changed.

It was usually over dinner when Mom would share those precious black and whites. We would pass them around one by one, knowing the next day they would find their permanent place in the album, complete with those sticky little black corner things that held the photos in place. (I think it’s time to dig those albums back out of the closet again.)

Even though life has changed since those innocent days, we find ourselves in much the same situation, although our roles have changed. Our children and grandchildren are separated by thousands of miles. Sometimes it’s us loading up and heading west (son), or east (daughter). Sometimes it’s them converging on our house, now referred to as Grandma’s house.

But isn’t it nice to know that the sense of loved ones and family remains. It really is true. “Home is where the heart is.” And you don’t need a GPS to find it!

There is more to life than politics. That is the wake up call I received this past week when the “kids” all came home. The “kids” aren’t kids at all, now in their mid-30s with growing families of their own. Many of you know what that means; Grandchildren! For those who have them you know what I am talking about. For those who don’t, I hope you will. It is simply one of life’s greatest gifts.

The 30-something kids … Oh what memories they bring back. Some good, like watching them carefully wipe their children’s tiny hands like we did not so many years ago, and some not so good, like watching them wipe their children’s “other” ends, like we did, and no longer must.

It’s not easy for political junkies like me to push the daily grind off to one side for a few days. But soon, I tend to forget the nastiness, the posturing and the highly scripted teleprompters for a few hours as I get immersed in the carefree world of 4-year-olds. But as “Pop Pop” (me) takes a seat in the lawn chair to catch his breath, his mind quickly reverts back to the dark side as he watches the future of our nation playing in my own back yard.

On the surface, their future looks bright. Speaking of bright, have you noticed how advanced kids are today? Seven-year-old Ally is concerned she may have lost her i-pod, while Andrew, all of 3-plus years is sitting at the computer desk fully navigating the thing like it was nothing more complicated than a toothbrush. He opens files, drags and drops, zooms and closes. No big deal to him. Huge deal to me who, at that age, was more interested in finding a tin can to keep fishing worms in.

Their parents, those 30-somethings, are plugged into chargers powering laptops and cell phones all capable of connecting to any and all parts of the world with a push of a finger. GPS (Global Positioning Systems) tell them exactly where they are on this planet within a couple of feet. Electronic baby monitors, and gadgets I have never seen, surround Baby Maddie, only 6 months into her life’s adventure.

Again, it all looks to be unfolding just as it should. These young parents are focused on the tasks at hand, their careers and their children. But as advanced as they are — as we all are — (GPS, i-phones to i-pads to i-pods, to i-chats) there is still no “i-future” gadget that shows us where we are going. That’s what those folks at Apple need to be working on, an i-future-pocket-fortune-teller!

I would love to know how Ally, Andrew and baby Maddie are going to pay back the 13 trillion dollars we borrowed from them. (We continue to borrow four billion dollars a day from our children and grandchildren, which I think is almost criminal.) When baby Maddie goes to school five years from now, the 13 trillion will have grown to more than 20 trillion. Money we have stolen from her generation’s future, just so our generation could glut out on the politicians’ idiotic and insubordinate financial irresponsibility.

I wonder when these little ones grow up if they will ever forgive us for stealing from them. I am ashamed of it already.

I just read in the paper where a lady will go to prison for misusing an elderly women’s money. Money she was in charge of. Heck, that goes on in Washington every single minute of every single day! The politicians who abuse our money don’t get prison; they get pensions! They don’t get reprimanded; they get re-elected! And they are stealing money from children for crying out loud! How much lower can you get?

Wake up all you 30-somethings out there. Our government is stealing from your kids. Your taxes are expected to skyrocket just to help support our spending addictions. We are spending your children’s future and there is no end in sight.

So in the heat and humidity of these long summer days, Pop Pop (me) watches the future of the nation playing in his own back yard, taking a break from the electronic world for a few hours to witness the innocence of youth catch fireflies with a net. I-phones and digital cameras capture the moment and freeze it in time.

Living in the moment, for the moment is wonderful, but we can’t simply put the world on hold by hitting the “pause” button. A minute ago I was writing about my grandchildren. A minute from now is yet unwritten. It is our future, whether a minute, a day or a decade from now, it belongs to all of us, yet more to the children than to me.

So, join me in telling our politicians to stop borrowing my grandchildren’s money! It is really starting to tick me (and millions of others) off!