Leo Clement

The lion has always been a symbol of wildness. Of untamed beauty, of ferocious strength that can't be tamed. We humans have always had a fascination with these large felines; grudging awe mixed with fear. What is it about them that captivates us? Their unpredictability? How can you ever trust a lion? I suppose, we haven't given them much reason to trust us either. Hunted, killed, broken, and used, we have tried to subdue and conquer them for eons. Sometimes it works, and sometimes we are the ones who get broken. Regardless, the lion continues to be a symbol for us, and one of the most popular animals at the Zoo. It doesn't always have to be that way though, there are stories, legends of man and beast dwelling together in harmony. And surprisingly, or not, a lot of these folks ended up being saints. Maybe C.S. Lewis didn't pick the lion to be Aslan on a whim. And to be perfectly honest, when we picked the name Leo for our boy, we had no idea how well it would fit and def

Rain..? Those of you dear readers in our neck of the world will know that the past couple days the word on the street has been Irene. What a peaceful and gentle name for a howling force of destruction. We haven't borne the brunt of this storm's fury, although our little cabin lies directly in its path as it works its way up north. The worst is yet to come apparently. There is a Russian saying, that loosely translated comes to something like this: "this sorrow isn't a sorrow, the real sorrow is yet to come." It's our little way of reminding ourselves that no matter how good life gets, how stable things may seem, there is always a possibility of a lurking storm; ready to come and shock you out of complacency. We take so much for granted, our health, home, happiness, habits, and anytime those are threatened, we fall into shock. Why are we so surprised? And this isn't pessimism, this is just pure fact. "Sh*t Happens" folks. The one and only tim

Sometimes, there just aren't the right words, or enough of them, to share the feelings in your heart. That's why we have art. Not that I am comparing Leo's One year movie to a fine work of art, but in essence, it serves the same point. An image is a communion between the viewer and the creator; between the person and the subject, and ultimately, a much more subtle and powerful means of connection. Hopefully, this short film about Leo, can say what my words fail to. Many Years to our sweet, strong, and amazing boy! (Click on the text below, and then click on the title to view) The Movie

All is well at the homestead. Leo's head, under his fashionable nylon hat (come on folks I see a new trend here...) is slowly getting smaller. The fluid has shifted from swelling his whole head up, to just hanging out in a pocket above his right ear. It's probably connected to the canal line formed by his shunt tubing. I've stopped worrying about it, and in a burst of energy we took the whole outfit on the road and up to our family camp in the Adirondacks. It was pure bliss after a summer spent in the recycled air of the hospital. Ok it wasn't the whole summer, but it sure feels like it. Our summer fun is just starting, but today I spotted some red in the green landscape around our house. Fall is around the corner with winter lurking in the shadows. Although our little log cabin is snug and warm, I still pine for the glorious days of summer. It's just too bad that we've had a run of particularly traumatic summer experiences. Perhaps I should be grateful for

Once upon a time, in a perfect world, lived a young family. Because everything in this world was perfect, the family was perfect too. A strong father, a kind mother, and a sweet daughter. They lived together in a perfect little house made out of logs with window shutters the color of the sky. They mother and daughter spent their day tending the gardens and the house, riding through the fields on their horses, and most importantly, waiting with anticipation for father to come home from work. When he was home, things were even more, if possible, perfect. There was an old, old,very old oak tree behind their little house, and at his broad base grew a patch of wild roses. The roses were perfect as can be, or so everyone thought. One day, the daughter was out playing and she decided to pick one of the roses to bring home to mother. As she skipped up to the oak, she noticed suddenly that it seemed to be leaning over the roses, almost sheltering them. She wondered why the old oak was being p