A Christmas Story

Scottie thinking about the cafeteria instead of his Christmas sweater

My Uncle Scottie is special. He's lived away at school for as long as I can remember. As a child, I always knew the giant bag of candy in my grandparents' freezer was earmarked for Scottie. On nice days, we'd go visit him. We'd sit at a picnic table while he happily crammed candy into mouth. All of the candy. The entire giant bag of candy. Tons and tons of sugar making an always hyper Scottie really, really hyper. The school eventually asked ever so nicely that we stop bringing candy.

Scottie can't talk. The fact that he can walk is a testament to my grandmother's determination. When she realized he wasn't hitting the developmental benchmarks that her older children hit, she grasped each of his chubby little hands, pulled him gently to his feet and walked with him in a hunched over stance until he finally got the concept of walking. It must have taken her months.

My grandparents love all of their children, but they light up when they see Scottie. He's not just special in a developmental sense. He truly is special. For us, he is pure joy, even if his hands are always sticky and wet from shoving them in his mouth. Scottie loves to eat. He loves to be outside. He loves to run. He's very slight with an ever present smile. Looking at him, I see my grandmother's coloring and traces of my Dad and Uncle Brian. At times, I wonder who Scottie would have become had God seen fit to make him a regular Joe. At other times, I see how happy my family is to see Scottie. I don't think he knows who we are, but he always seems just as happy.

Many years ago, one of Scottie's schoolmates got a recliner. The recliner was built on a rocker frame. Soon, Scottie was racing into the shared living room and claiming the recliner. Every day. It became a problem. Finally, the school called, explained the issue and Scottie got a recliner of his own. My grandparents were so happy to have something to buy him that he actually would enjoy. Now that the giant bags of candy were taboo.

To say that Scottie adores food is an understatement. He lives for it. I don't know how he does it but he can make a grab for someone else's food without even looking their way. It's uncanny. At school, he strolls around the living room, slyly edging toward the cafeteria door. He doesn't know who the president is or that there's something called the White House, but he knows what is on the other side of that door.

Scottie lives in a cottage at his school with other men who share his developmental challenges to varying degrees. Some wear helmets to protect their heads. Others are confined to wheelchairs. Grown men wander around with toddlers' toys in their hands because that's where their development stopped.

It's always sad to see these souls because you wonder - at least I wonder - why God brought them into the world this way. Yes, they're loved, fiercely loved by their families. But is it fair that they have such limitations? It often depresses me to visit although I'm always happy to see Scottie.

A few years ago, I went to the annual Christmas party, where one older resident sat in his chair and held a finger over his mouth to shush the chatter around him. Every once in a while he would vacate his chair and wander off somewhere. We were warned not to take that as an invitation to sit down because he would take off his shoe and throw it at us. We left the chair alone. Then Santa walked into the room, and not just any Santa. The saddest Santa you've ever seen: Thin, without a pillow to fill out his stomach, a gray wig perched sloppily on top of his natural brown hair and sneakers to pair with his too short, threadbare red felt pants. The cranky resident in his chair lit up and cried "Santa!" To this old man, Santa existed, and he was right there in that cottage with a sack of toys. For me, joy came into the room with that old man's innocent excitement. For Scottie, well, the ornaments on the tree looked like maybe they might be edible, and he was plenty happy about that possibility.