Pastimes of My Poorer Self

We wandered over to South Carolina yesterday, in search of Jack in the Box (found) and something to do (also found). We ended up at the botanical gardens on Clemson's campus. We decided that with nothing better to do that blistering hot day, we'd go for a stroll.

As usual, this turned into a mushroom hunt.

I am always a little amused by hunting mushrooms for photos, as though I'm on some photo-safari of fungi. I suppose I am. But they're strange little things, with their shapes and colors and I'll admit, I'm always going to be entertained by this, at least a little.

If I happen to be observing the flowers, or the trees, and miss a fungal family I'll hear calls of "MOM! Mushroom!" and I bend down, getting low to meet the mushrooms on their level. After all, that's where they keep their secrets and I usually see the best stuff down there.

I wonder if my oldest even remembers from where this tradition arose. When we left Florida and moved to what I then considered hell and now find to be home, we were so in debt we could barely function. Months without income had taken it's toll. With three small boys to keep entertained the local parks were our frequent destination, and taking strolls through the new, alien landscapes ended up with Louis amazed at the quantity and variety of mushrooms.

We didn't have anything LIKE that in Florida. I am sure there are mushrooms. But they are Florida mushrooms and probably transient, sexual predators or in a rock band. Regardless, it was new and so taking pictures of mushrooms became a form of cheap entertainment that's now assigned to me every time we step into a woods.

I kind of like it. The mushrooms are kind of attention whores, they like it too.

Pastimes of My Poorer Self

We wandered over to South Carolina yesterday, in search of Jack in the Box (found) and something to do (also found). We ended up at the botanical gardens on Clemson's campus. We decided that with nothing better to do that blistering hot day, we'd go for a stroll.

As usual, this turned into a mushroom hunt.

I am always a little amused by hunting mushrooms for photos, as though I'm on some photo-safari of fungi. I suppose I am. But they're strange little things, with their shapes and colors and I'll admit, I'm always going to be entertained by this, at least a little.

If I happen to be observing the flowers, or the trees, and miss a fungal family I'll hear calls of "MOM! Mushroom!" and I bend down, getting low to meet the mushrooms on their level. After all, that's where they keep their secrets and I usually see the best stuff down there.

I wonder if my oldest even remembers from where this tradition arose. When we left Florida and moved to what I then considered hell and now find to be home, we were so in debt we could barely function. Months without income had taken it's toll. With three small boys to keep entertained the local parks were our frequent destination, and taking strolls through the new, alien landscapes ended up with Louis amazed at the quantity and variety of mushrooms.

We didn't have anything LIKE that in Florida. I am sure there are mushrooms. But they are Florida mushrooms and probably transient, sexual predators or in a rock band. Regardless, it was new and so taking pictures of mushrooms became a form of cheap entertainment that's now assigned to me every time we step into a woods.

I kind of like it. The mushrooms are kind of attention whores, they like it too.

Half Runner Beans and Broken Hearts

The end of August is the herald of heartache in my life. For 11 years it's been a bittersweet time, as within a 48 hour span I am handed the anniversary of my beloved niece's birth and the death of a close friend. Add to that the events of last year and frankly, I could skip the end of August ad infinitum. If I could just jump from say, oh, August 20 to around September 4 or so that'd be great.

We recently drove up to the farmers market that's up near the mountains (but not quite IN the mountains) and everything reminded me so much of our huge gardens when I was little.

By the time Matt was born the huge gardens had gone by the wayside. But when I was little my grandparents, parents, and all of my grandparents neighbors all grew gardens that were about a half acre or more in size. They were massive to plant, massive to keep up, and massive to harvest.

It was a normal course of the day to be handed a basket and sent out to the garden to pick food for dinner. I can distinctly remember being shocked to learn, at about age 7, that you could also buy these things at the store. My grandmother had a basement that ran the length and width of her house which had a fruit cellar at one end. It was full of Ball jars with our vegetables for the year.

The farmers market reminded me of those days, when my Mom was young and not dying horribly or dead. She was younger than me, by quite a bit. Those days were so long. The hours in the gardens were interminable, hot and bug laden. I didn't really enjoy them one bit, if I'm honest. I would grumble and stomp around barefoot up and down the aisle, seeking the zucchini that I knew I would be required to eat, or pulling off some tomatoes that I knew I could talk them out of making me eat. Muddy, dusty feet, the smell of earth and green life growing all around me coupled with my mom calling me to hurry up were a theme of my childhood.

It seemed like those days were never going to end, and now I look back and they were forty years ago and I am confused about how that happened exactly. I don't think I could tell you how to can vegetables, or how to tell what's ripe enough to pick.

But I used to know. I was a different person then.

Half Runner Beans and Broken Hearts

The end of August is the herald of heartache in my life. For 11 years it's been a bittersweet time, as within a 48 hour span I am handed the anniversary of my beloved niece's birth and the death of a close friend. Add to that the events of last year and frankly, I could skip the end of August ad infinitum. If I could just jump from say, oh, August 20 to around September 4 or so that'd be great.

We recently drove up to the farmers market that's up near the mountains (but not quite IN the mountains) and everything reminded me so much of our huge gardens when I was little.

By the time Matt was born the huge gardens had gone by the wayside. But when I was little my grandparents, parents, and all of my grandparents neighbors all grew gardens that were about a half acre or more in size. They were massive to plant, massive to keep up, and massive to harvest.

It was a normal course of the day to be handed a basket and sent out to the garden to pick food for dinner. I can distinctly remember being shocked to learn, at about age 7, that you could also buy these things at the store. My grandmother had a basement that ran the length and width of her house which had a fruit cellar at one end. It was full of Ball jars with our vegetables for the year.

The farmers market reminded me of those days, when my Mom was young and not dying horribly or dead. She was younger than me, by quite a bit. Those days were so long. The hours in the gardens were interminable, hot and bug laden. I didn't really enjoy them one bit, if I'm honest. I would grumble and stomp around barefoot up and down the aisle, seeking the zucchini that I knew I would be required to eat, or pulling off some tomatoes that I knew I could talk them out of making me eat. Muddy, dusty feet, the smell of earth and green life growing all around me coupled with my mom calling me to hurry up were a theme of my childhood.

It seemed like those days were never going to end, and now I look back and they were forty years ago and I am confused about how that happened exactly. I don't think I could tell you how to can vegetables, or how to tell what's ripe enough to pick.

But I used to know. I was a different person then.

History Lessons

We grow up learning the history of our state from a very early age. Even though I've been a Hoosier ex-pat since 99 I could still pretty accurately tell you the story of the Pigeon roost massacre, the Battle of Tippecanoe, the New Harmony community (like Shakers but not Shakers) and other intricacies of that boot shaped place. I know that Clinton is as far east as Prairie grass grows, and that The Region is a real place. I can tell you how my own family came to Indiana after the revolutionary war (land grant), where they settled (Nineveh) and the true stories of how we got to where I sit now in the grand scheme of things.

My kids are learning a different history and sometimes that's weird to me. They are learning the history of the place they are from, Georgia.

They are learning the lessons of tornadoes that caused devastation, and families that created a local art form that is legendary.

What is a little interesting is that it's seeping into my own brain. I knew as soon as we came into this room at the Northeast Georgia history museum that we were seeing some Meadors family work. It's interesting, that little nugget of history has made it into my collective knowledge base of these 8 years.

Each state has it's own thing, it's own history and it's story. It's what defines the people of that place. It's too bad, in a way, that there isn't enough time in school to learn these intricacies of each state. We'd understand WHY sometimes I think, when we cast our eyes across the Union, if we understood what came before.

 For me Georgia always represented a civil war place and that was about it. But having lived here so long, I've learned that the civil war is just one thing that happened here. Just like the Pigeon Roost massacre is just one thing that happened in Indiana, it doesn't define the whole of the place any more than that. When you don't live here, and you see the snippets of this place, it's easy to see it through the wrong eyes. I think that's true of everywhere.

It's one of the 13 colonies, most people forget that. Folks usually think New England - but no, we are one of them.

Some really amazing things are here, were here, and will be here. I think maybe that's why I like it so much. I dislike being so far from my family, my family beyond my walls. I love being in this foreign place that has become my home, that my children call home.

This stupid snake isn't one of those amazing things though. What on earth would possess someone to make this damn thing. 

"Ceramic snake killed by ex-pat Hoosier" is the first thing that came to my mind upon seeing it. Stupid snake.

History Lessons

We grow up learning the history of our state from a very early age. Even though I've been a Hoosier ex-pat since 99 I could still pretty accurately tell you the story of the Pigeon roost massacre, the Battle of Tippecanoe, the New Harmony community (like Shakers but not Shakers) and other intricacies of that boot shaped place. I know that Clinton is as far east as Prairie grass grows, and that The Region is a real place. I can tell you how my own family came to Indiana after the revolutionary war (land grant), where they settled (Nineveh) and the true stories of how we got to where I sit now in the grand scheme of things.

My kids are learning a different history and sometimes that's weird to me. They are learning the history of the place they are from, Georgia.

They are learning the lessons of tornadoes that caused devastation, and families that created a local art form that is legendary.

What is a little interesting is that it's seeping into my own brain. I knew as soon as we came into this room at the Northeast Georgia history museum that we were seeing some Meadors family work. It's interesting, that little nugget of history has made it into my collective knowledge base of these 8 years.

Each state has it's own thing, it's own history and it's story. It's what defines the people of that place. It's too bad, in a way, that there isn't enough time in school to learn these intricacies of each state. We'd understand WHY sometimes I think, when we cast our eyes across the Union, if we understood what came before.

 For me Georgia always represented a civil war place and that was about it. But having lived here so long, I've learned that the civil war is just one thing that happened here. Just like the Pigeon Roost massacre is just one thing that happened in Indiana, it doesn't define the whole of the place any more than that. When you don't live here, and you see the snippets of this place, it's easy to see it through the wrong eyes. I think that's true of everywhere.

It's one of the 13 colonies, most people forget that. Folks usually think New England - but no, we are one of them.

Some really amazing things are here, were here, and will be here. I think maybe that's why I like it so much. I dislike being so far from my family, my family beyond my walls. I love being in this foreign place that has become my home, that my children call home.

This stupid snake isn't one of those amazing things though. What on earth would possess someone to make this damn thing. 

"Ceramic snake killed by ex-pat Hoosier" is the first thing that came to my mind upon seeing it. Stupid snake.

Love Comes Walking In

Yesterday I had a deja-vu of the very early morning sort. It was the kind of moment with sights and sounds and textures and regret.

When I was in school I had a friend who was also in band who lived somewhat near me. It was walking distance, the next complex over in fact. I lived in a condo, packed in like some weird game of 3D Tetris along with 3 other families in a large retangular faux spanish building.

That photo above is actually the building in front of mine. Mine looked exactly like this. The one in the photo above - burned to the ground when I was 15. Also - that roof looks crooked doesn't it? Anyway, I digress...

My friend was a guy and I really liked him. I'd always been raised to think of boys as my equals and not to think that every male friendship was supposed to be a boyfriend. Thus, I have always had a lot of guy friends. He and I became really good pals my freshman year, and he'd show up at my house several days a week in the summer or after school. We'd sit in my room, decorated in antique rose linens and Star Wars everything else and listen to whatever records he had brought over, or watch whatever movies he'd rented.

My mom would make us nachos, and various other snacks. We'd laugh and cut up, behaving like two close friends would. He introduced me to Cheech and Chong, I remember listening to their albums in my room and not admitting to not getting the drug jokes (sorry I'm a square, a drape). He brought over the Van Hagar album as we refer to that period of Van Halen and I remember how enthusiastic he was about it.

That's what took me back yesterday. Love Comes Walking In was on the radio at 6 am, and I remembered so well hearing that for the first time with him. He was ecstatic about the lyrics, the music, it's a memory of my friend sharing a joy with me and it was a really happy day.

One day he showed up at my house in a red truck and suggested we go to Dairy Queen. As we sat eating our chocolate dipped cones I asked where he got the truck and he told me it was his. Then he said it had been his brother's.

Then he said his brother died yesterday. I didn't know he HAD a brother. He had never once mentioned it.

In the sweltering heat of a beat up red pick up truck and as our ice cream melted awkwardly, he told me about his drug addicted brother who was never home and who was in jail all the time. He had died from an overdose. He told me slowly, like he wasn't sure of what he was saying. I just remember wanting to hug him and we were both holding ice cream and I didn't know how to accomplish that.

He shook it off and suggested we go for a drive. We drove through the corn and soy bean fields, blasting music I chose from the random tapes on the floor and he told jokes and I laughed.

A week later we started school, and out of nowhere he came up to me and said "Don't expect me to drive you everywhere because I have a car. I'm not your fucking chauffeur."

He hadn't driven me anywhere since that day we went to Dairy Queen, and I was left standing in the hall of the music department confused and a little hurt. I hadn't seen him in a few days, but I had chalked that up to us both getting ready for school.

He never came over again. He never called. He never came by and sat with me at lunch.I asked a couple of people if they knew what was wrong with him and no one had any idea what I was talking about. I tried to strike up a casual conversation a couple of times and he literally walked away both times.

We went to the same college years later. I saw him across the quad and waved - I was excited to see a friendly face. I will never forget the cold stare I got, nod, and how he continued walking away.

It was years later that someone parted that curtain for me. I never understood what teenage girl transgression I had made to cause him to suddenly hate me. A girl I knew dated him and she said "Well after you wouldn't ever go out with him you broke his heart." I was flabbergasted. GO OUT with him? WE WENT OUT ALL THE TIME!!

I know it's a huge part my fault. I miss stuff. I don't always read into situations. But part of it is his fault. He never even tried to hold my hand, he never once indicated I was anything but his awkward girl pal.

So when I hear Love Comes Walking In I wonder if I missed a nice boyfriend because neither of us knew how to talk? It doesn't matter now. But I'm sorry I hurt his feelings. I always will be.

Love Comes Walking In

Yesterday I had a deja-vu of the very early morning sort. It was the kind of moment with sights and sounds and textures and regret.

When I was in school I had a friend who was also in band who lived somewhat near me. It was walking distance, the next complex over in fact. I lived in a condo, packed in like some weird game of 3D Tetris along with 3 other families in a large retangular faux spanish building.

That photo above is actually the building in front of mine. Mine looked exactly like this. The one in the photo above - burned to the ground when I was 15. Also - that roof looks crooked doesn't it? Anyway, I digress...

My friend was a guy and I really liked him. I'd always been raised to think of boys as my equals and not to think that every male friendship was supposed to be a boyfriend. Thus, I have always had a lot of guy friends. He and I became really good pals my freshman year, and he'd show up at my house several days a week in the summer or after school. We'd sit in my room, decorated in antique rose linens and Star Wars everything else and listen to whatever records he had brought over, or watch whatever movies he'd rented.

My mom would make us nachos, and various other snacks. We'd laugh and cut up, behaving like two close friends would. He introduced me to Cheech and Chong, I remember listening to their albums in my room and not admitting to not getting the drug jokes (sorry I'm a square, a drape). He brought over the Van Hagar album as we refer to that period of Van Halen and I remember how enthusiastic he was about it.

That's what took me back yesterday. Love Comes Walking In was on the radio at 6 am, and I remembered so well hearing that for the first time with him. He was ecstatic about the lyrics, the music, it's a memory of my friend sharing a joy with me and it was a really happy day.

One day he showed up at my house in a red truck and suggested we go to Dairy Queen. As we sat eating our chocolate dipped cones I asked where he got the truck and he told me it was his. Then he said it had been his brother's.

Then he said his brother died yesterday. I didn't know he HAD a brother. He had never once mentioned it.

In the sweltering heat of a beat up red pick up truck and as our ice cream melted awkwardly, he told me about his drug addicted brother who was never home and who was in jail all the time. He had died from an overdose. He told me slowly, like he wasn't sure of what he was saying. I just remember wanting to hug him and we were both holding ice cream and I didn't know how to accomplish that.

He shook it off and suggested we go for a drive. We drove through the corn and soy bean fields, blasting music I chose from the random tapes on the floor and he told jokes and I laughed.

A week later we started school, and out of nowhere he came up to me and said "Don't expect me to drive you everywhere because I have a car. I'm not your fucking chauffeur."

He hadn't driven me anywhere since that day we went to Dairy Queen, and I was left standing in the hall of the music department confused and a little hurt. I hadn't seen him in a few days, but I had chalked that up to us both getting ready for school.

He never came over again. He never called. He never came by and sat with me at lunch.I asked a couple of people if they knew what was wrong with him and no one had any idea what I was talking about. I tried to strike up a casual conversation a couple of times and he literally walked away both times.

We went to the same college years later. I saw him across the quad and waved - I was excited to see a friendly face. I will never forget the cold stare I got, nod, and how he continued walking away.

It was years later that someone parted that curtain for me. I never understood what teenage girl transgression I had made to cause him to suddenly hate me. A girl I knew dated him and she said "Well after you wouldn't ever go out with him you broke his heart." I was flabbergasted. GO OUT with him? WE WENT OUT ALL THE TIME!!

I know it's a huge part my fault. I miss stuff. I don't always read into situations. But part of it is his fault. He never even tried to hold my hand, he never once indicated I was anything but his awkward girl pal.

So when I hear Love Comes Walking In I wonder if I missed a nice boyfriend because neither of us knew how to talk? It doesn't matter now. But I'm sorry I hurt his feelings. I always will be.

The Lessons Of The Past

Autistic children do better with a routine. This is a pretty well known fact, and truthfully it's rather like CANNON in the world of Autism. Just as you know Darth Vader didn't say "Luke, I'm your father." (Or you should know because my God don't you have the Internet why don't you know?) you also know that "Autistic children do better with a routine."

I'd say that what's possibly more true is that autistic PARENTS do better with a routine. Just as parents of newborns have to map out their lives with this tiny human who requires 24/7 man to man coverage, autistic children need certain things and they need them from you and not when you feel like it.

I have a bath time routine that while it's not a "RULE" it's a guideline. I sit with them, as if they are small, and I WATCH them. History has taught me over the past 12 years that to sit in the other room, on my bed reading a book or what have you, simply leads to disaster. It's boring in the master bath while they play.  It's a fairly unpleasant time as they are 12 and have discovered that they are boys but we aren't to the point where I am MANDATED by decency to wash them alone. That day is near, however. I play phone games like Gummy Drop, Candy Crush's less cool cousin (but I can say "I don't play Candy Crush"), Linez, and Blek all round out my iphone entertainment. Plus Facebook and Plurk, and checking FLICKR and texting people are part of my repertoire.

I scrub them, wash faces and hair and let them return to playing in the water. I resume whatever game, or conversation, and after a while we drain the water and get out and on with our lives.

Tonight, however, I have this new book. It's so very good. It's Margaret Atwood and she's who I want to be when I grow up. Her words are like a conversation with a good friend. So I took my book after I got them clean, and I stretched out on my bed and set a timer for 15 minutes. That seemed like enough time for me to indulge in a little fiction and them to play with water and toys. I noted that Miles had dumped LITERALLY every toy into the tub, and they were happy.

It seemed like at 12 maybe we were at a different place. I dove into my book, keeping and ear out for sounds that seemed dangerous or distressful.

As my timer went off I called out "Miles pull the drain, Charlie stand up." At the same time, Miles shouted "WIPE! I NEED WIPE!"

Oh no.

Oh NO NO NO NO NO.

At first I thought, just maybe he thinks he needs to poop. I rushed in and took Charlie's hand - who was already standing and walked him out of the tub. I scanned the water like Captain Quinn searching for danger and OH MY GOD THERE IT WAS.

A turd.

He had dropped a HUGE TURD in the tub. In the tub FULL OF BATH TOYS AS WELL AS HIS BROTHER.

The water is going down. The turd is actually a solid turd (Praise whomever you like) but it's now water logging and sinking and is going to lay and melt grossly across the plethora of toys beneath is. I did want any panicked mother would do.

I slammed both hands into the water and pulled out that turd, flinging it into the toilet in horror.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I manged to get the water on in the sink with my elbow and scrub better than any surgeon in the history of the world. I was crying and laughing and furious with myself because if I had BEEN there I would've seen the physical signs that he needed to go and I would have intervened. I scrubbed again and again and again. I used the hand sanitizer and then I used it on Charlie's legs because they had clearly been in poop water. I didn't even know what else had been in poop water. I used a clean wash cloth to wash Miles off again out of the tub and got them both...dealt with.

Routines. Sit with them in the bathtub. My husband has the bath toys soaking in bleach, and I'm soaking my soul with...I don't know what. I feel like I got kicked in the face. I should be able to do one normal thing in my life, but I can't.

Some days I resent it more than others.

The Lessons Of The Past

Autistic children do better with a routine. This is a pretty well known fact, and truthfully it's rather like CANNON in the world of Autism. Just as you know Darth Vader didn't say "Luke, I'm your father." (Or you should know because my God don't you have the Internet why don't you know?) you also know that "Autistic children do better with a routine."

I'd say that what's possibly more true is that autistic PARENTS do better with a routine. Just as parents of newborns have to map out their lives with this tiny human who requires 24/7 man to man coverage, autistic children need certain things and they need them from you and not when you feel like it.

I have a bath time routine that while it's not a "RULE" it's a guideline. I sit with them, as if they are small, and I WATCH them. History has taught me over the past 12 years that to sit in the other room, on my bed reading a book or what have you, simply leads to disaster. It's boring in the master bath while they play.  It's a fairly unpleasant time as they are 12 and have discovered that they are boys but we aren't to the point where I am MANDATED by decency to wash them alone. That day is near, however. I play phone games like Gummy Drop, Candy Crush's less cool cousin (but I can say "I don't play Candy Crush"), Linez, and Blek all round out my iphone entertainment. Plus Facebook and Plurk, and checking FLICKR and texting people are part of my repertoire.

I scrub them, wash faces and hair and let them return to playing in the water. I resume whatever game, or conversation, and after a while we drain the water and get out and on with our lives.

Tonight, however, I have this new book. It's so very good. It's Margaret Atwood and she's who I want to be when I grow up. Her words are like a conversation with a good friend. So I took my book after I got them clean, and I stretched out on my bed and set a timer for 15 minutes. That seemed like enough time for me to indulge in a little fiction and them to play with water and toys. I noted that Miles had dumped LITERALLY every toy into the tub, and they were happy.

It seemed like at 12 maybe we were at a different place. I dove into my book, keeping and ear out for sounds that seemed dangerous or distressful.

As my timer went off I called out "Miles pull the drain, Charlie stand up." At the same time, Miles shouted "WIPE! I NEED WIPE!"

Oh no.

Oh NO NO NO NO NO.

At first I thought, just maybe he thinks he needs to poop. I rushed in and took Charlie's hand - who was already standing and walked him out of the tub. I scanned the water like Captain Quinn searching for danger and OH MY GOD THERE IT WAS.

A turd.

He had dropped a HUGE TURD in the tub. In the tub FULL OF BATH TOYS AS WELL AS HIS BROTHER.

The water is going down. The turd is actually a solid turd (Praise whomever you like) but it's now water logging and sinking and is going to lay and melt grossly across the plethora of toys beneath is. I did want any panicked mother would do.

I slammed both hands into the water and pulled out that turd, flinging it into the toilet in horror.

Over the course of the next few minutes, I manged to get the water on in the sink with my elbow and scrub better than any surgeon in the history of the world. I was crying and laughing and furious with myself because if I had BEEN there I would've seen the physical signs that he needed to go and I would have intervened. I scrubbed again and again and again. I used the hand sanitizer and then I used it on Charlie's legs because they had clearly been in poop water. I didn't even know what else had been in poop water. I used a clean wash cloth to wash Miles off again out of the tub and got them both...dealt with.

Routines. Sit with them in the bathtub. My husband has the bath toys soaking in bleach, and I'm soaking my soul with...I don't know what. I feel like I got kicked in the face. I should be able to do one normal thing in my life, but I can't.

Some days I resent it more than others.