Sent to me in an email. thought I'd pass it along.

----------- > > > > > > > SOMETHING FOR STEVIE > > > > > > > > > > > > I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. > > > > > > His > > > > > > placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable > > > > > > > > busboy. > > > > > > But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't > sure > > > > > > > I > > > > > > wanted > > > > > > > > > > > > > one. I wasn't sure how my Customers would react to Stevie. > > > > > > > > > > > > He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and > > > > > > thick-tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried about > most > > > > > > of > > > > > > my > > > > > > trucker customers because, truckers don't generally care who buses > > > > > > tables > > > > > > as > > > > > > > > > > > > long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. > > > > > > > > > > > > The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the > mouthy > > > > > > college > > > > > > kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish > their > > > > > > silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded > > > > > > "truckstop > > > > > > germ"; the pairs of white shirted business men on expense accounts > > > > > > > who > > > > > > think > > > > > > every truckstop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those > > > > > > people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched > him > > > > > > for > > > > > > the > > > > > > > > > > > > first few weeks. > > > > > > > > > > > > I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my > staff > > > > > > wrapped > > > > > > > > > > > > around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck > > > > > > regulars > > > > > > had > > > > > > adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that, I > > > > > > > really > > > > > > > didn't > > > > > > > > > > > > care what the rest of the customers thought of him. > > > > > > > > > > > > > He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to > laugh > > > > > > > and > > > > > > eager > > > > > > to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt > > > > > > > and > > > > > > pepper > > > > > > shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill > > > > > > > was > > > > > > visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was > > > > > > persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers > > > > > > > were > > > > > > finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight > > > > > > > from > > > > > > one > > > > > > foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was > empty. > > > > > > > Then > > > > > > he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and > > > > > > glasses > > > > > > > onto > > > > > > cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish > of > > > > > > > his > > > > > > rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker > > > > > > > with > > > > > > added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly > right, > > > > > > > and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every > > > > > > > person > > > > > > he > > > > > > > met. > > > > > > Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who > was > > > > > > disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their > > > > > > Social > > > > > > Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. > > > > > > Their > > > > > > Social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, > admitted > > > > > > they > > > > > > had > > > > > > fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him > > > > > > > was > > > > > > probably the difference between them being able to live together > > and > > > > > > Stevie > > > > > > being sent to a group home. > > > > > > > > That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last > > > > > > August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. > > > > > > > He > > > > > > was > > > > > > at > > > > > > the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put > in > > > > > > his > > > > > > heart. His social worker said that people with Down syndrome > often > > > > > > had > > > > > > heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and > there > > > > > > was > > > > > > a > > > > > > good > > > > > > chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back > > > > > > at > > > > > > work > > > > > > in a few months. > > > > > > > > > > > > A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning > when > > > > > > word > > > > > > came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. > > > > > > > Frannie, > > > > > > my > > > > > > head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the > > > > > > > aisle > > > > > > when > > > > > > she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker > > > > > > customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of > > > > > > > four > > > > > > >doing > > > > > > a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her > > > > > > > > apron > > > > > > and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. > > > > > > He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. > > > > > > > > > > > > "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be > > > > > > > okay." > > > > > > > > > > > > > "I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. > What > > > > > > > > was > > > > > > the > > > > > > > > > > > > surgery about?" > > > > > > > > > > > > Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers > sitting > > > > > > > at > > > > > > his > > > > > > booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is > > > > > > going > > > > > > to > > > > > > be OK", she said, "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going > to > > > > > > handle > > > > > > all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it > > > > > > > > is." > > > > > > Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait > on > > > > > > > the rest of her tables. > > > > > > > > > > > > > Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie > and > > > > > > really > > > > > > > didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own > tables > > > > > > > > that > > > > > > day > > > > > > until we decided what to do. > > > > > > After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a > > > > > > couple > > > > > > of > > > > > > > > > > > > paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face." > > > > > > > > > > > > What's up?" I asked. > > > > > > > > > > > > > "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were > > > > > > sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper > > > > > > were > > > > > > sitting there when I got back to clean it off" she said. "This > was > > > > > > folded > > > > > > and tucked under a coffee cup." > > > > > > > > > > > > She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk > > > > > > > when > > > > > > I > > > > > > opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed > > > > > > "Something > > > > > > For > > > > > > Stevie." > > > > > > > > > > > > "Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told > > > > > > > him > > > > > > about > > > > > > > > > > > > Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and > Tony > > > > > > looked > > > > > > at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another > > > > > > paper > > > > > > napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. > Two > > > > > > $50 > > > > > > bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with > wet, > > > > > > > shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply "truckers." > > > > > > > > > > > > > That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day > > > > > > Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said > > > > > > he's > > > > > > been > > > > > > counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it > didn't > > > > > > matter > > > > > > > at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past > > week, > > > > > > making > > > > > > sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or > > > > > > > that > > > > > > his > > > > > > job was > > > > > > in jeopardy. > > > > > > > > > > > > I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the > > > > > > parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. > > > > > > > > > > > > Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he > > > > > > > pushed > > > > > > > through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron > and > > > > > > busing > > > > > > cart were waiting. > > > > > > > > > > > > "Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his > > > > > > > mother > > > > > > by > > > > > > their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming > > > > > > back, > > > > > > breakfast for you and your mother is on me." > > > > > > > > > > > > I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I > > > > > > could > > > > > > feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched > > > > > > through > > > > > > the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after > booth > > > > > > of > > > > > > grinning truckers empty and join the procession. > > > > > > > > > > > > We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered > with > > > > > > coffee > > > > > > cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on > > > > > > dozens > > > > > > of > > > > > > folded paper napkins. > > > > > > > > > > > > "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I > saidI > > > > tried > > > > > > to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his > > > > > > mother, > > > > > > > then > > > > > > pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" > > > > > > > printed > > > > > > on > > > > > > the > > > > > > > > > > > > > outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. > > > > > > Stevie > > > > > > stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath > > > > > > > the > > > > > > > tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. > > > > > > > > > > > > I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and > > > > > > checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies > that > > > > > > heard > > > > > > about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving." > > > > > > Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering > > > > > > > and > > > > > > shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know > what's > > > > > > funny? > > > > > > While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each > other, > > > > > > Stevie, > > > > > > with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups > > > > > > > and > > > > > > dishes > > > > > > > > > > > > from the table. Best worke

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 30, 2001

Answers

Dond't know why it didn't all post. Try again.......

-------------------------------------------------------

He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto a cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their Social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down syndrome often had heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.

"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?"

Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to be OK", she said, "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."

Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face.

" What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off" she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup."

She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie."

"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply "truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me."

I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession.

We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins.

"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it.

I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving." Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.

Best worker I ever hired.

==================

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 30, 2001.

Yeah, I know, it's pretty mushy. I don't know if it is true, but it really doesn't matter. The fact is that it COULD be. The story gives a pretty good discription of most Down's kids I know, as well as quite a few truckers I know.

But it could be true. Most people in America think that the government takes pretty good care of all handicapped or mentally retarded people, and in fact there are lots of help programs for them. But my son Kit, who is now 24, totally disabled with Down Syndrome, legally blind, with no communication capabilities, is entitled to a Social Security (SSI) payment of a whole $532 per month. If we tell them that we actually have to support him in our home, they (Social Security) count that help as income and will subsequently LOWER his payment. It's not a problem for us now, because we are older, and have some measure of financial security, but many, if not most, hanidcapped kids are being raised by a single parent (read mom), with few resourses or help other than family.

When Kit was four he had to have open heart surgery to repair the type of valve damage hinted at in the story (tetralagy of Fallot). We were just about seven years out of college and had bought a little house and were both employed with health insurance. Still, our part of the costs ran almost $20,000, and this was 20 years ago! We had to sell the house, and it took a while to recover. Best money we ever spent.

It's also interesting to find out that Kit couldn't recieve SSI or medicaid until he was 18, and that his dental coverage even stopped 3 years later. (everyone knows that no one needs dental care past 21, right?) Kit has had open heart surgery, as I said, 5 eye surgeries, several, continuing dental surgeries, pneumonia, etc...etc. We even fed him through a nasal tube for almost a year. All before he was old enough that medicaid would pay a penny. For almost two decades we spent our vacation time and savings in hospital halls and waiting rooms. Fortunately, we had good insurance, and the financial ability to keep it up.

The funny thing is, we were told to institutionalize him at birth. They said it would be too big a burden on us. Said that even in a care facility, it costs the government something like $600 a DAY to keep a child like Kit. But when parents decide to keep their handicapped children at home and care for them there, we don't even get a tax break.

So, like I said, it COULD be true. We decided to keep Kit (there was never any other option as far as we were concerned), we paid the price, and recieved the greatest bargain in our lives. But just so you'll know, the next time you see a young mother with a handicapped kid in the grocery store, or see a busboy or girl in a cafe, or maybe a little group slowing picking up trash in the park..... they're just people underneath it all, and struggling with their own problems, and often laughing at their own troubles. So tell that mom that you see, how pretty her child is, slip a little tip to the kid cleaning tables, honk and wave at the group picking up paper. It'll do wonders for you both.

-----------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 30, 2001.

Lon: It sounds to me like God placed Kit in just the right family- with those who love him and with those whom he could love in return. I know a "Stevie" and he is one of the most loving and uncomplicated people I know. His mother struggles to raise him on her own since her husband died. God's grace sustains her and you in your efforts. Thanks for sharing this with us.

-- Linda Mc (jmcintyre1@mmcable.com), July 30, 2001.

Hi, Linda. Yeah, Down Syndrome kids are pretty easy to love. They mostly are gentle pixies with absolutely no meaness in them. I always wanted to adopt a Down’s girl about the same age as Kit, but we could never afford it when we were young, and now I think I’m just too old. But I still feel that I let myself miss out on a great experience.

Anytime someone says that we are some kind of special parents, though, it makes me feel guilty. Since we’ve been official members of the handicapped community for over 20 years now, I’ve seen many situations where I know I would probably fail. The kids that are severely autistic, kids who often live in a world of their own, kids who are not outwardly responsive to actions or people, are the real heartbreakers to me. The profoundly mentally retarded child who may be confined to a baby crib for life, or the kid with muscular distrophy, a normal person trapped in a rebellious body; those are the ones my heart goes out to. The brain-damaged kid who was perfect, and beautiful and full of promise until that summer afternoon she fell off the swing. I don’t know how a parent deals with that sadness day by day. I suppose we all have the ability to look beyond the eyes that don’t look back, to feel kisses that little lips can’t form, to hear the “I love you” that is never spoken. As Helen once said, maybe our burdens are lightened by love.

But never feel proud for me; it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Kit’s just a lovable mutt. He was such a beautiful little kid, and then his high school teachers called him a babe magnet, and now he’s a lanky, leggy Icobod with a constant grin. He spent a long morning today at the dentist, and after fighting her literally tooth and nail, he wiped away a lingering tear and gave her a hug and kiss. (she absolutly loves him, of course)

I take him with me everyday as I travel for work or whatever, and it never fails to amaze me how people react to Kit. Total strangers are always smiling his way, asking him how he’s doing. “Tough” teenagers that would never acknowlege me, smile shyly and mutter “how ya doin’?”. I wrote something once that I find to be true everyday: strangers look in the mirror of his face and see something there that they most like about themselves. Maybe that’s his true value to mankind, I don’t know. I just know that I like the little skunk.

----------------------------------------------------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 30, 2001.

(((((Lon & Kit)))))

I love the story about Stevie, but I love stories about Kit even more. I feel like I know him. :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 30, 2001.

Lon, I love all your stories. Your real life stories, though, are the best. (After I swallow that lump in my throat).

Thank-you sooo much for being willing to share these with us.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 31, 2001.