13 kids who know sentimental value doesn't come from a store

By Carla Crowder
Denver Rocky Mountain News Staff Writer

Tekno Puppy, your days are numbered.

Just ask Tickle Me Elmo or, more appropriately, Discarded Elmo.

You'll find him hanging with Cabbage Patch dolls in the dimmest cobwebbed regions of toy boxes across the land.

Marketers pushed them. Kids begged. Parents took the bait.

Years later, these are not kids' favorite things. We asked them.

It's true that some store-bought toys are timeless.

The force of Star Wars figures is with us after two decades plus. Rue the day when a 5-year-old and a mess of Legos don't go hand-in-hand.

But these, still, are not their favorite things. When kids are asked to single out one toy, one treasure, that is most precious, they fall by the wayside.

Children are deeper than that.

What's most precious to you in the world, we asked them.

My Mom. My sisters. My baby brother.

Children treasure symbols of strength and memories of grandparents. It's the computer age, but don't tell the kids in eastern Colorado. They'd rather ride horses.

Some children dream of playing pro sports and cling to mementos of their home-run heroes.

Others dream simply of surviving cancer. Of living to be 13.

Children weather bullies at school, abuse at home, the deaths of loved ones. They're clear about what matters most.

"My favorite thing that I own is a glass ball that has a Dalmatian on it that my dad gave me before he died," wrote Aspen Lewis, an 11-year-old from Silverton.

Farewell, Furby. You didn't make the cut.

Anyang Ajing, 10, and Jopour Ajing, 8, Lakewood

Favorite possession: their shared scooter

Here in Lakewood, they can be little boys on a scooter. Carefree, zipping across sidewalks. Bumping into curbs.

Back in their homeland of Sudan, Anyang Ajing, 10, and his brother Jopour, 8, lived through a brutal civil war that's claimed 2 million civilians and rages still, with bombing, butchering and famine so severe that human rights leaders call it genocide.

First they fled to Cairo, Egypt. Now the Ajing family — two parents and five children — live in a pale brick apartment building in Lakewood. Lutheran Refugee Services of Colorado houses eight refugee families here, all from Africa.

The building brims with dark-skinned, bright-eyed children who pour onto the asphalt parking lot, their bleak playground, to toss a football or ride a bike. Anyang and Jopour are the only ones with a scooter. Everyone seems to share.

Less than a block away, symbols of American life line West Colfax Avenue: a rent-a-car place, a pawnshop, King Soopers.

The refugee children absorb it like sponges. They can tell you what television channel the Power Rangers are on. One boy wears a Chicago Bulls jacket and knows all about Michael Jordan.

English is still new to Anyang and Jopour. They speak a Sudanese tribal language as well as Arabic. Other children are eager to translate for them, eager to assist strangers who wander into their suburban asylum.

Through their pint-size translators, the brothers say they like the bread in Colorado better. It was no good in Egypt. And school is tolerable, especially since a school friend gave them the scooter. Anyang's favorite subject is writing, Jopour's math.

Lutheran Refugee Services settles 400 to 450 refugees a year in the metro area and Colorado Springs. At the building in Lakewood, most of the fathers may work because they have refugee status.

Majok, Anyang and Jopour's father, works as a mechanic at a trucking company in Commerce City.

Sarah Valdez, 9, La Jara

Favorite possession: her horse

For as far back as Sarah Valdez can recall, Annie has always been there.

"I remember I would get on her and ride her, and my dad would have a lead rope on her and I would have the reins," Sarah says.

She was probably 2 at the time.

Now 9, Sarah still has the reins. No lead ropes necessary.

Annie runs and Sarah holds on. Together they love to charge through the fields near the family's La Jara ranch.

"I fell off of her before, but it didn't hurt. I just got right back on," Sarah says.

She rides competitively, barrel racing and pole bending.

She says she wishes she could ride Annie to school, "but I knew I'd get into trouble if I did."

The bus must suffice.

In third grade, Sarah's favorite subjects are art and science.

Annie is 13, and a quarter horse. "She's sort of orange. It's called a Bay," Sarah says.

She wants people to know that her horse is "really, really tame." She eats handfuls of grain right out of Sarah's hand.

Sometimes Sarah wakes as early as 6 a.m. to tend to Annie. Her family has 13 other horses as well as cattle on the ranch they work with her grandparents.

With no desire whatsoever to live in a city, Sarah believes it's better for kids in the country.

"We used to have lambs, but I don't know what happened to them," she says. "I think they grew up."

Owen Roberts, 10, Boulder

Favorite possession: hakama (aikido pants)

Owen Roberts tried different styles of karate. The more aggressive stuff, with punching and kicking.

He likes aikido better.

Graceful and silent, almost a dance, aikido uses arm twists, figure pulls, rolling and falling. It's always practiced in pairs. And Owen prefers that.

"It's more fun," says the freckled 10-year-old from Boulder.

Recently awarded a brown belt, Owen trains three days a week.

It's no surprise that his favorite possession accompanies him in this passion. Pants. And not run-of-the-mill karate pajamas. Owen goes full tilt with hakama, a traditional Japanese garment, considered the proper, honorable way to dress during aikido.

Pleated and voluminous, hakama wrap intricately around the wearer's waist and swish, swish, swish as they move about the mat.

Aikido means "the way of harmony," instructor Mike Bowen says. It includes mind-and-body coordination, as well as self-defense. On a recent Saturday, 17 kids turned out to test for higher belts.

Though one of the smallest, Owen was one of only two to receive a brown belt, just short of a black.

When he's not training at the dojo, Owen likes to ride his bike, play on the computer and snowboard. He has an older brother, Soren, 15, whose lead Owen followed in Aikido.

And those pants aren't really what's most precious to Owen.

That would be a person. And that would be his mom.

Aaryn Lovato, 12, Silverton

Favorite possession: his grandfather's tie clip

The inscription on the tie clip seems rather basic. "Five year safety award — Standard Metals Corporation."

For Filiberto Lovato, it means he survived the hazards of mining in Silverton without getting hurt or maimed. Or worse.

Gold, silver, lead, zinc and copper. Lovato lied about his age to get work in the mines to support his mother and brother when he was 16. Told them he was 18.

Now he's 66 and has a grandson who's nearly a teen-ager.

The tie clip is Aaryn's now, his most precious possession, though in rugged Silverton he has little use for decorative attire.

"I wore it once, to my cousin's wedding," says Aaryn, 12.

"For me, it's kind of an honor, how he got it and he worked so hard and so long. It was his last award before he got arthritis. It really means a lot to me that he had faith in me to pass it on."

Aaryn is bright and articulate and wants to go to college.

"There's no mines going on over here, so he won't be a miner for sure, so I want him to got to school," Lovato says.

Like boomerangs, sometimes an older generation's dreams return to the young.

Aaryn agrees with his grandfather. He wants to go to college. But he wants to bring his knowledge back to this mountain hamlet and work with metals like his grandfather did.

"My dream, as well as his, is that me and him one day would reopen the mine," Aaryn says.

Kodiak Ratzlaff, 5, Wiley

Favorite ''possession'': his brother, Wyatt

Five-year-olds certainly have their charms. Usually those don't include patience and generosity toward younger, diaper-clad siblings.

Kodiak "Kody" Ratzlaff is a one-man marketing campaign who could change all that.

His brother Wyatt Lehr is his favorite toy, his wrestling partner, his playmate. His best bud.

When their mother, Holly Lehr, needs a hand, Kody is there with the diaper, or the tissue.

"When he cries, and he wants his bottle, sometimes I get up and get his bottle and he drinks it," Kody explained.

It's typical for kids to have a curiosity about younger siblings, and maybe get a kick out of them. But Lehr believes she's unusually lucky with Kody's diligence and dedication.

Kody even fakes losing when they wrestle to make Wyatt feel good.

"He tells me, 'Mom, when Wyatt gets bigger I'm going to teach him how to ride a bike and to play baseball and how to read,"' Lehr says.

And Wyatt is keenly aware of his big brother's presence.

The boys have different fathers, and when Kody is away with his dad, Wyatt bangs on the door of his brother's room looking for him.

Lehr and her husband, Shawn Lehr, live in a tiny spot called Wiley. "There are no stoplights, and most of the roads that go through town are dirt," she says.

So they drove to Pueblo for Wyatt's birth on Dec. 22, 1999.

On Christmas Day, they returned to Wiley with newborn Wyatt, wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Kody had it all figured out.

Santa Claus came through after all, he thought. And brought him a brother, as requested.

Laura Gillon, 11, Silverton

Favorite possession: her grandmother's blanket

During winters in Silverton, warmth is in short supply, especially if you're 11 and a girl without much body mass.

Laura Gillon likes living in this old mining town, nestled between snowcapped peaks at an elevation of 9,300 feet.

She loves attending a junior high with only 11 other students. Loves living in the home that's housed her family since 1958. Loves swimming in the hot springs in nearby Ouray.

Hates being cold.

Maybe that's why her grandmother's big blue blanket is her favorite thing.

"She gave it to me before she died. She died on Christmas morning," Laura says. "She was 77 years old and her name was Helen Cook."

Laura sleeps in her grandmother's bedroom now.

The youngest of six children, Laura has lived in Silverton for three years. Her mother, Melissa Gillon, spent summers here as a child and has relatives in the area but lived in Illinois until 1997.

Gillon runs a restaurant and has no plans to leave. "The kids seem to thrive up here," she says.

Laura is old enough to entertain thoughts of going elsewhere, especially since her only sister, now 20 and a college student, is considering studying in India.

"I'd like to stay here, but sometimes I like thinking about living in California," Laura says. "Because it's warm."

Even in summer, Silverton is so cold she needs a windbreaker.

The winter Laura was 7, her family visited before moving here. It was her coldest experience ever.

"Me and my brother, Dale, we were playing on a snowbank, and I fell in and it was so cold," she says. "It got in my hair, in my boots, in my gloves. It got all over."

That was before she had the blanket.

Vanessa and Victoria Timm, 11, Haxtun

Favorite possessions: a horse and a baseball.

All twins have their tricks.

Here's Vanessa Timm's favorite: "My sister plays football, and some kids will come up and ask me if I want to play football, and it's funny because I don't tell them I'm Vanessa."

Vanessa's football prowess doesn't quite match that of her twin, Victoria Timm.

The identical girls were born in tiny Holyoke, in northeastern Colorado, nine minutes apart. Same weight. Same length.

But each has a distinct personality, special talents.

Victoria plays ball.

Football is her favorite sport, with basketball a close second. "I wanna play in the WNBA," she says.

Baseball ranks third. What else does Victoria play? "Golf, tennis, volleyball, kickball, soccer," she says.

Her prized possession is a baseball signed by Houston Astros pitcher Scott Elarton.

"My Aunt Tonya and Uncle Jeff, they gave it to me for a birthday. And the Astros pitcher, his hometown is Lamar, and that's where my aunt lives," Victoria explained. "And they were walking in Wal-Mart, and they saw him and they got it signed."

Vanessa plays a little basketball, but she'd much rather be in the saddle than on the court, or the field or the diamond.

Her family owns three horses, all of which she rides. She and her little sister, Kendra, 8, recently pooled their money and bought a colt. But Vanessa's favorite is Cody, a quarter horse.

In the fall, Vanessa can be found at the Phillips County Fair excelling at barrel racing and showmanship events.

The Timms live outside Haxtun, a farm town on the eastern Plains. Their closest neighbor lives about a mile away, says Tammie Timm, the girls' mother.

Faraway neighbors, she believes, bring her children closer together.

"They can't just run to a friend's house. They have to find stuff to do out there," Timm says. "It keeps it more in the family. They play with each other."

LaQuaisia Body, 10, Denver

Favorite possession: a stuffed bear

She wears a soft blue dress covered in dainty flowers. Her feet are wedged into black Mary Janes with white socks, folded down once. Just so. A rainbow of barrettes controls her hair in tucks and twists.

LaQuaisia Body is just a little girl. She's 10. But life has thrown her curves fit for only the hardiest grown-up.

Her favorite possession is a stuffed bear with arms and legs that flop when she squeezes it to her. Its white fur has grown a little dingy with wear.

LaQuaisia's bear is named Nono, after a character in a therapeutic children's book. In the story, Nono was abused. So was LaQuaisia. But as her counselors tell her, Nono was brave and had lots of courage. So does she.

Like 14,000 children across Colorado, LaQuaisia doesn't live at home. She lives at the Colorado Christian Home, in northwest Denver, a church-based center for children who can't live with their parents, some temporarily, others permanently.

LaQuaisia has her own room in a cottage with 11 other children. She attends the fourth grade at a school on the grounds. "I like to do cursive," she says.

Yes, LaQuaisia wonders about her mother and father. She knows her situation isn't like most kids'. But she copes.

"I really don't care, because I'm not used to living with them anyways. So it doesn't bother me much. But sometimes it does," she says. "My friend Christine, me and her are very close, and when she went home I was feeling down because I wanted to go home and didn't get to go home, and she went home."

LaQuaisia lives for Thursdays. That's when her sisters visit. The five girls are scattered in foster homes and treatment centers. One has been adopted.

Like sisters everywhere — in two-parent homes, in cushy lives or difficult ones, separated by time zones or oceans — when the girls get together, nothing else matters. The hardship fades away. They are little girls again.

"We laugh," LaQuaisia says. "We just laugh so hard."

James Martinez, 9, Sanford

Favorite possession: his horse, Missy

With his fondness for cowboys and Indians, roping and riding, James Martinez should have been born in a different time. An earlier era.

James almost wasn't born at all.

His mother, Mayoanne Martinez, had a tubal ligation after giving birth to three sons. Fourteen years later, James came along.

Then, at age 2 months, her pleasant surprise suffered a series of massive seizures. From the local hospital in La Jara, James had to be rushed to Children's Hospital in Denver in a helicopter.

Doctors told the Martinezes their baby had suffered two aneurisms. The prognosis was poor, and the likelihood of long-term brain damage was high.

"Other than that he likes horses and ropes and boots, he has no problems," his mother says.

James has worn cowboy boots since he was 6 months old. His bedroom decorations carry the theme — curtains with American Indians on them, paintings of horses or boots and a herd of miniature toy horses.

Medical miracles and deep sorrows. This San Luis Valley family has seen both.

James, now a bright, articulate fourth-grader, is a special comfort to his mother because her 16-year-old son, Carlos, was killed by a drunken driver seven years ago.

That was about the time James got his first real horse, a gift from an uncle.

Now his favorite horse and most prized possession is another horse, Missy.

"She looks like a palomino, but her papers say she's an appaloosa," James says. "She has a smooth trot and a smooth gallop and she never bucks."

Amanda Martinez, 12, Denver

Favorite possessions: a bear from her uncle, a necklace from her grandmother

Amanda Martinez is too old to play with the stuffed bear wearing pastel pajamas. Yet she's too small to wear the heavy chain with the silver medallion.

At 12, Amanda has the expressive eyes and eager-to-please attitude of a child, the singsong voice and hip-hop jeans of a teen-ager.

Amanda's treasures reflect that in-between age.

The bear reminds Amanda of her Uncle Joey.

"When I was little, I'd crawl off my bed and knock on his door. He'd let me turn on his music full blast and rip up newspapers in there and he wouldn't get mad," she says.

Her uncle gave her the bear, with a tiny book sewn into its belly. He died when she was a toddler. Amanda's not sure how. "He used to drink a lot," she says.

An honor-roll student at Baker Middle School, Amanda has been coming to the Boys and Girls Club on Inca Street since she was 6.

It's better than school, Amanda says: "You don't have to sit, you don't have to follow directions."

She helps take care of the animals, cleaning out bird cages. The club used to have rabbits. Not anymore. Amanda ponders a delicate way to describe the rabbit problem. "How can I put it? They had to get rid of them because they were... they were, like, mating too much."

Amanda's other prized possession isn't exactly hers yet. But she's hoping she'll get it someday.

It's a 1972 silver dollar made into a necklace. Her great-grandmother gave the coin to her grandmother, and one of her uncles crafted the chain, Amanda says.

Derrick Ross, 11, Denver

Favorite possession: a Louisville Slugger

Derrick Ross shouldn't have to swallow three pills a day. He shouldn't have to suffer through painful illnesses like meningitis and shingles. He shouldn't need chemotherapy.

After all, he's only 11. Why should cancer be allowed to interrupt Little League practice and fourth grade?

On April 22, 1999, Derrick learned he had leukemia.

"I woke up one morning and my legs were paralyzed and I stood up and collapsed and my mom took my temperature and it was 104.5," he says.

The freckle-faced Lakewood boy, now a sixth-grader, underwent six months of intensive chemotherapy, missing a semester of school.

The hardest part for his mother, Denise Simmons, was Derrick's questions. "Mommy, why did God let this happen to me," he would ask. "Will I die?"

She and Derrick have worked, amazingly, to focus on the positive side effects of cancer. All the perks Derrick and his siblings get. The Make-A-Wish Foundation trip to Disney World, Denver Nuggets games and special parties.

Then there's Derrick's prized possession, a Louisville Slugger signed by eight members of the Colorado Rockies. He had great seats at a game last August and got to meet the players afterward. "They had me, and some kids in wheelchairs," Derrick says.

Derrick's a fan and a player. His season was just starting when he was diagnosed, and he was determined to play anyway. His mother remembers one particular time at bat. It was a Saturday. Derrick had shingles related to his cancer. It causes severe pain, and a ball hit him. She knew he was in agony, but he refused to let it stop him.

He just wanted to play ball.

"Cancer or no cancer, shingles or no shingles, he's an 11-year-old boy," Simmons says.

On this chilly day in late December, Derrick looks like the healthiest kid you could ask for. He has a sparkle in his bright blue eyes, a full head of light brown hair, stylishly moussed, and noticeably rosy cheeks. The color in his face comes from the steroids he's taking because of his cancer, his mother says.

Derrick has an 84 percent chance of making it to adulthood. Even so, he'll always be in remission, with a chance of the leukemia's returning when he's an adult.

Denver Children's Hospital, where Derrick is a patient, treats 150 new cancer patients a year. About a third have leukemia. It's a roller coaster, Simmons says. Derrick started out angry. His condition goes from "not too bad to life-threatening," she says.

One day he'll be tired and nauseated. But as soon as the wearying effects of the chemo wear off, her boy is back with the irrepressible grin and the twinkle in his eye.

Simmons has learned she can no longer make promises to her son that everything will be OK.

"All I can ever promise him is, you'll never spend the night alone in a hospital.'

Contact Carla Crowder at (303) 892-2742 or crowderc@RockyMountainNews.com.