A brief interlude

IMGP2184I got a chance to travel to Florida this weekend to a friend’s wedding, a long-time compatriot from my newspaper days. She was the matron of honor at my second wedding (or third, depending on how you count it), and I’m the godmother of her first son. That being said, we haven’t been closely in touch for years, though we do manage to have a face-to-face at least once every couple of years.

Florida is beautiful and sunny in May, though the temperatures were considerably higher than I was used to, after a long winter in the IMGP2180frozen Northlands. The wedding itself took place on the beach in Melbourne. Both the bride and groom wore white–before Memorial Day! *fans self*  Most of my lady friends in the South would have fainted dead away. It was short and sweet, and the view was delightful. The ceremony was followed by a small but energetic reception with some of the best food I’ve had in awhile–jerk IMGP2181chicken, reggae shrimp and this lovely cake:

I also fit in a trip to my dear friend Edde’s in Fort Pierce, where we had lovely weather except for the last night, when IMGP2190some serious dark clouds rolled in over the ocean, dragging thunder and lightning with them. But we still had a nice visit. She was feeling a good deal better than she had been in December, when last we visited, so that was something to be grateful for.

Little Miss spent the weekend with her dad, which I hope did them both some good. Certainly a little “me” time was appreciated. And of course, nothing says Florida like this:IMGP2172

Not something you see every day….

 

 

Does politics make the man?

HoCEarlier this year, I binge-watched both the British House of Cards series, and the American one.  When the new season of House of Cards was done, I went on to  The West Wing, which I’d never watched back in the day.

What I think as I watch the storylines unfold, is that many of these people are unpleasant.  For every time I want to hug Leo McGarry (ok, maybe more so for playing Tommy on LA Law before), I consider how Josh Lyman is a spoiled and privileged brat that has no concept of how millions of people actually live.

westwingNeurotic Toby makes me crazy. But not so crazy as the trade-offs and back room talk, the gossip and deals, the lifeblood of politics.

This is ironic, because I grew up in a home where politics was a staple of everyday life. I spent many years going door to door for candidates, dropped off by my dad, George Wright, with a handful or leaflets and a “Have fun!” He eagerly took me to vote for my first time, in a state primary. The ladies who ran the polling place were so excited I was there, because they’d all known and worked with my father for years. They proudly handed me the Republican ballot. Of course, when I told them I was a registered Democrat, there was quite a little fluff about it. I guess I’d forgotten to mention that.

One year I got to be a page at an Ohio Republican Convention of some kind. It still didn’t fascinate me. But it certainly fascinated my father.

When I was too young to notice, he let his drive to become part of that glam world of “who’s in the know” take him so far as to have an affair with another politico and leave my mother. He was a delegate to the Republican convention that nominated Goldwater in 1964. He was chair of the Ohio Young Republicans. In his later years, he switched his affiliation to the Libertarian party, and ran the county group here in Pennsylvania. He went to the National Convention in the 1990s–and we got a July 4th trip to Washington DC out of it. He ran an Ohio gubernatorial campaign. He loved it. All the talk, the planning, the scheming–much more Jed Bartlet than Frank Underwood, mind you–but still, he got all that back-room stuff. He could talk about it for hours. When he lived in Meadville, he went to all the commissioners’ meetings, and city council meetings, and ran for the school board.

But the other thing you notice when you watch these programs, and it may or may not be true for everyone in the world of politics, is that george-Beth1these are lonely, workaholic people.  My father wasn’t much different. Perfectly at home in a room full of suits, chatting about mills and taxes and upcoming elections for miles around, he was in his element.

Visiting with a family full of small kids? Not so much. Even occasions like graduation, he was uncomfortable with the hugs and emotions.

Is that what it takes, to be able to stomach some of this wheeling-dealing that goes on? The removal of emotion from the equation? I wonder.  Going through his possessions after he passed away a few years ago, I found so many treasured items, gavels, certificates, all from that world he never got to give himself over to as a young man. If he hadn’t married my mother, if he hadn’t had children, would he have run for office and moved up the ladder like these characters, too? Did we hold him back from a future he would have preferred?

As much time as I spent with my father in his last years, I still never felt I really knew him. And that’s a shame.

 

Taking a moment to recognize success

little_girl_hugging_her_mom_0515-1004-2122-0454_SMUAnd in the end, the love you take

is equal to the love you make…  

(Lennon.McCartney)

 

Living with a child on the spectrum is so often a one-way street. No matter how you model appropriate emotional reactions or human interactions, many times there is no reciprocal response. While a neurotypical child may glean an empathetic response from experiencing such interaction in her own life, the same isn’t always true of a child with autism.

I say this having lived with three children on the spectrum, two of the Aspie leaning and the other more “typically” autistic. The boys often have no idea how to respond to emotional displays or the needs of others. (Surely this is why Sheldon Cooper has been taught by rote that when someone is upset, they should be offered a hot beverage.)

Little Miss, however, has come a long way on her road.

I know this because as I’m watching THE JUDGE this evening, a movie with Robert Downey Jr. and Robert Duvall (which I highly recommend), there comes a part where a situation very near to my own life occurs, and it hits me right in the gut. I start bawling, kind of caught off guard by the depth of the emotional net that traps me.

My daughter, who’s playing in her room, calls out to me, then when I don’t answer, she comes out to the living room,, concerned. She asks if I’m all right, and when I explain the parallels in the situation, she slides next to me on the couch and puts her arm around me, telling me it’s all right and that my parents will always live in my heart, so I shouldn’t be sad. When I manage to get under control, she leaves me long enough to bring me her own tissue box. She waits until I’m all dried up and then reminds me it’s okay before she goes back to what she was doing.

red flowers
red flowers

The enormity of what I experienced brought another whole round of tears, for a very different reason. Out of that quiet, self-absorbed girl, such a display of exactly the right reaction was unexpected–even more reassuring that she knows how to be a kind and loving person, and may, someday, be able to exist on her own and have friends and loved ones in her life. What a blessing. Just another reminder that none of us should give up, even when the going is tough. Hope is in the love you make for your child to experience. :)

 

A drive in the clouds

Driving back this week from Asheville, Little Miss and I experienced a chill, ethereal world that feathered off into the mountains on all sides.

IMGP2138IMGP2141Whether it was the blue hills of the southern Smokies or the pine-lined slopes of West Virginia, the world seemed confined to a narrow band of highway, and not much more.

Granted, we were mostly just trying not to get blown off the road by semis roaring past in the rain; but it was beautiful.

We did stop at the New River Gorge to get her National Parks Passport stamped, and took some pictures of the valley and river far below the visitors’ center.

We have become fast traveling companions, she and I, since we’re on our own now. She reads maps, tells me about the birds of the regions, and on this trip, insisted on using her own money to buy snacks for both of us. It was a delightful observation of her empathy and outlook for others.

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At nearly sixteen, she has come a very long way from the time I first began this blog. Then I didn’t even know the extent of the journey that awaited us. Some years we endured forty hours a week or more of therapy. More recently, a constant push to make every moment a teachable one suffices. She’s become a conversationalist, even with her peers. Perhaps she’s not the most stimulating passenger on a long route, but I’ve learned over the years to scale back expectations and appreciate even the small things.

It’s enough.

And that’s all that matters.

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Do you ever outgrow inadequacy?

My stepmother killed herself when I was 13, on a night when I retreated to bury myself in The Wizard of Oz to avoid the fighting that led up to it. After that, I was the person in charge of the house, in charge of raising my sisters, in charge of my own life.

I’ve come to the conclusion that 13 is much too young to do that.

NOT ME.
NOT ME.

I mean, sure I did it. I cooked the meals and cleaned the house. I made sure my sisters were in by curfew (before I went off to college) and that they had clean clothes for school every day. I inspired myself, because my single father chose to drown his sorrows in bourbon and spend his nights at a local bar playing “resident psychologist” so he could feel like he had friends. At the time, I felt like I was doing a pretty good job. My dad paid me $10 a week (hey, it was 1970) and I thought I had things all right. Even when I had to skip some of my friend’s events to take care of kids. Even when I didn’t get to make trips my friends did. Even when I never had a real boyfriend all through high school.

But looking back after my third failed marriage, I think I didn’t have a handle on things. Without loving, adult guidance through those stressful teenage years, I didn’t learn how to relate well to a partner. Everything was just, “Get through the day and make sure you’re not losing any loose ends.” I’m good at that. Perhaps a bit of a control freak, even. So I’ve been told by every man who’s left me. Hard to deny it, I guess.

When you grow up having to mother everything in sight, I suppose that takes a swipe at your ability to choose a good partner who will be strong enough to help you, or Heaven forbid, actually take care of you. I’m sure the psychologists would say that I was drawn to men who needed to be taken care of instead. Well, that certainly played itself out.  Bottom line is I find myself older, damaged, and alone.

It’s pretty sad some days when the only empathy I get is from my dear autistic daughter, who struggles so hard with her own understanding of others’ inner lives.

Now that I’m spending days being introspective, I wonder if my flawed upbringing ruined my sisters’ chances for happiness. (Not that I carry all the blame for that–it’s a parental issue, but I still feel responsible.) Can I have demonstrated enough of a lesson for my daughters even to see, to incorporate in their own lives? I hope they’ve learned somehow, even just by cherry-picking the past for clues. Here it is, 40 years later, and I don’t know if I’ve learned anything myself, other than to get through each day and desperately chase the loose ends that seem to multiply the older I get. No matter what I’ve achieved–and I’ve met many of my life goals–I still feel like I’m that kid trying to juggle so many adult issues armed with a spatula and an old pair of Keds.

When do you finally feel like you’re good enough?

Snakes on a train

trainI’d counted on our cross-country AMTRAK trip to be an adventure, one like I’d never experienced. Certainly the delays and other foul-ups on the behalf of the train company added extra layers to the “adventure” I’d never expected, but not all of them were bad. Exactly.

Because of a ticket snafu, we ended up for one overnight in the coach section. I had as seatmate an exchange student who buried herself under a plush white winter coat and slept for nine hours. Little Miss had a Christian woman with two bags of newly-purchased religious books and an addiction to straight solitaire on her tablet. Across the way was a tall, middle-aged gentleman with a black knit cap he kept pulled down tightly, who dug out a shiny new tan gabardine vest half way through the trip and put it on, looking like he felt like a million bucks.

Then there was the mother and teenage son from Nebraska who alternately cuddled and said I love you and then split, with the boy disappearing for twenty minutes at a time claiming he hated her.
But the ones that interested me most came to my attention later in the evening, after the lights were dimmed and people started falling asleep. I never thought to look at the first one, especially after I heard what he was saying.

I know, I know. I’ll have to go to the Greyhound station in Texas to get them. I couldn’t help it…I didn’t want to fight him…Yeah. Yeah. Punk got in my face…No, I’m on the train. I just bailed as soon as I could. Figure maybe they’ll chase the bags. Yeah. Yeah I’m all right. Fixed myself up in the john…Dunno what’ll happen now. Tell Richie… yeah, you know what to tell him. I’ll call…

Made me wonder if I should even close my eyes.

Then the middle-aged black man behind me started talking in succession on his phone to a couple of different people. One was a buddy, I think the second was the woman he’d just run out on.

No, baby, I couldn’t just sit there and listen to you dump on me all day about how I can’t do this, and I can’t do that…No, I didn’t tell you I was going. You’d just discourage me. You always discourage me—I know what I need to do. Don’t tell me what I need to do!

 I could hear her voice, though not her words, screeching back at him. Then he went off on a tirade very similar to Samuel L. Jackson’s in the movie of the similar name. With kids all around. At 3 a.m.

She hung up on him. I think. He switched to his buddy.

You know I’m going to California. I’m gonna fight. I can get matches there. She all about ‘what woman you run off with?’ and ‘how can I leave her?’ like I gonna be nothing without her….ha! That’s what I’m saying…I just can’t stay there. Can’t stay there. Nuh-uh. Sure I didn’t tell her. What I tell her first for? Then she just drag me down…

He went on to more “colorful” language, and I wondered why he thought the destruction of his three-year relationship wasn’t private business.  Or maybe if it’s only strangers around you, they don’t count as real people and you don’t have to show them some respect.

That was apparently the thought of some unknown miscreant who raided the suitcases stored in the common area below in the middle of the night. Even our AMTRAK car attendant lost her suitcase to this creep. She’s a nice lady. It made me feel bad for her. What the $^$%%# is wrong with people? Don’t get me started—Samuel L. might just have to move over and take a seat.

Too many snakes on this train.

Don’t assume, ask–a rule to live by

When I was a kid, maybe fourth or fifth grade, one of the highest honors you could get was to be chosen as a school Portrait of a young boy crossing guard standing on the road holding a stop signcrossing guard. Remember those kids? They would wait with the professional guard and help others cross the street, take care of stragglers, all that sort of thing.

At Thomas Jefferson Elementary School in Euclid, Ohio, in order to be selected as a student guard, you had to have all A’s and B’s and be a good, reliable student. I’d transferred to the school in fourth grade, so I didn’t get chosen right away, of course, and that was fine. So in fifth grade, I was ready when they announced the names, because I always had good grades and was a teachers’ pet kind of gal. But they didn’t announce mine.

So I worked even harder, and when they announced the names for sixth grade, I just knew I’d be included. They nominated other girls who lived on my street. They nominated just about every one of my classmates in the top reading group. But they didn’t pick me.

I was devastated.

What was wrong with me? I mean, I remember being one of those nerdy kids the cool kids picked on. My stepmother had an odd sense of children’s fashion, and I didn’t have a lot of friends. But this could have been a real self-esteem builder and verification to the other students that I wasn’t a total loser.

It took me awhile, but finally I got up the courage to ask my teacher why I hadn’t been selected. She smiled quite fondly and said, “Oh, Barbara dear, we didn’t think your parents would let you participate.”

So they hadn’t even given me the chance to ask if I could–the school officials had just made that decision for me. Expecting I’d be disappointed by my parents saying ‘no,’ they were being kind by not inviting me.  Forty years later, I still feel that disappointment and loss of vindication.

Raising children on the spectrum brings me into a confrontation with this issue a lot. How often do others–or even us as parents–leave our kids out of activities because it’s assumed they won’t like it/do well at it/be interested? Are we being kind when we shield them from potential failure?

If I assumed that Little Miss couldn’t deal with loud activities because of her sensory issues, she’d never have signed up for chorus, which is one of her favorite classes at school now. She loves singing at concerts. IMGP0394

She would have missed one of the greatest concerts we ever attended–and one she loved–because we’d have skipped it rather than helping her cope with a set of good headphones and a blanket to cover her head when it got overwhelming.

We might have assumed that she couldn’t compete with other children in the county fair contests, but she tended her flowers and won a ribbon every year. She attended dance classes, even though she opted out of the performance. That was okay with me, because I asked her opinion first. She wanted to dance with Miss Heather, but she didn’t want to participate in the end of season event. I don’t see that as someone who doesn’t finish what they start, I see it as someone who’s empowered to make their own choices for age-appropriate activities.

The boys, too, have been offered options–martial arts classes, music classes, theater classes, after school gaming sessions. They don’t choose many, not being particularly ambitious. But they get the first chance of refusal, which I believe is the right way to go.

What about you? Have there been events or activities you’ve offered to your children that you thought they couldn’t/wouldn’t like or be able to participate? Is it better to keep them from the disappointment of failure? What have they tried and succeeded at that surprised you?

***

VoodooDreams_w7507_medOn the same note, I will not assume that you don’t like free books, but I will ASK if you’re interested in this, the third book of the Pittsburgh Lady Lawyers series, standalone novels of romantic suspense, all with a heroine who’s a lawyer in the great city of Pittsburgh. VOODOO DREAMS is FREE for Kindle December 17-21. You may get one for yourself and as many friends as you think would like it for Christmas! Here’s the storyline:

When her big trial goes bad, corporate attorney Brianna Ward can’t wait to get out of Pittsburgh. The Big Easy seems like the perfect place to rest, relax, and forget about the legal business. Too bad an obnoxious–but handsome–lawyer from a rival firm is checking into the same bed and breakfast.

Attorney Evan Farrell has Mardi Gras vacation plans too. When he encounters fiery and attractive Brianna, however, he puts the Bourbon Street party on hold. He’d much rather devote himself to her–especially when a mysterious riddle appears in her bag, seeming to threaten danger.

Strangely compelled to follow the riddle’s clues, Brianna is pulled deeper into the twisted schemes of a voodoo priest bent on revenge. To escape his poisonous web, she must work with Evan to solve the curse. But is the growing love they feel for each other real? Or just a voodoo dream?

 

Life in the vicinity of a good time