How to See Rightly

Other than my short story, the only thing I’ve written about autism in the sixteen years since Benjamin was diagnosed was this editorial.  I wrote it five years ago, when Benjamin was almost fourteen, during Autism Awareness Month.   It was never published either, so almost no one has read it. (It provides a couple of links to sites where you can learn more about autism, if you’re interested.  I hope you are).

It occurs to me that, quite likely, most of you reading this are already teaching your children the values I speak of, so perhaps I’m just preaching to the choir here.  But I feel such a need to shout this to the rooftops, to make my voice heard, because it seem to me that too many parents still aren’t teaching their children how to see rightly and perhaps aren’t seeing rightly themselves. 

So, just for the chance that there might be one person out there reading this that might be moved to think and contemplate change, here’s my piece, written in April of 2003:

How to See Rightly

Down East, where I grew up, was a great place to be a shy and quiet person.  My Daddy pastored small churches near Wallace and Warsaw, and most of the people I knew and loved there were country people who measured their words and weighed yours and gave you time to reveal yourself.  Which, of course, is a good thing if you’re like me—reserved and slow to speak, but generally worth knowing.

 

Now it seems that people seek instant everything—instant food, instant mail, instant answers, and instant appraisal of a person’s worth and value.  I’ve found that shyness and quietness are often equated with dullness, or even stupidity.  In general, people give you about two minutes to reveal yourself, which means that those of us who are slow thinkers and talkers are often dismissed as unworthy of further conversation.  Meanwhile, the glib, clever fast talkers seem to thrive (I call it the “game show-host syndrome”), whereas among the folks I grew up with down east, they might be regarded with mistrust and suspicion.  Now, it seems to me, image is everything and substance means little.  I believe this is a dangerous thing.

 

It is dangerous when people are elected or promoted to a position where the public good is at stake, in part because they have a polished, blow-dried appearance or can repeat over and over a phrase like “I believe in good American values!”  It is also dangerous when people are rejected because of the way they dress, their skin color, their sexual orientation, their bank accounts, or how clever they are with a quip.  But it is heartbreaking when your own child is rejected because they are different.

 

If you asked me to describe my 14-year-old son, I might first mention this: he is autistic.  (Autism is a brain dysfunction which affects language and communication, social functioning, and, often, intellectual development).  Yes, I might tell you that, but for one reason only—so you might look beyond that, into his heart and soul.  Autism does not define him.

 

I often quote a favorite phrase to my children from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.   The fox tells the Little Prince a secret:  “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”  If you were to look at my son with your eyes only, you might see a boy who sometimes speaks too loud, with unusual cadence and phrasing; who might talk obsessively about one subject; or who often doesn’t converse at all.  You might dismiss him, as some classmates have, as rather odd.  But that is his autism.  If you looked beyond that, if you could “see rightly” with your heart, you would see a boy who is kind, spiritual, creative, and highly intelligent, with a wonderful sense of humor.  He is an old soul, who often surprises me with his perceptive observations.  He recently asked me, “Did you ever think about this?  When we are in pursuit of answers, they evade us.  When we are evading answers, they pursue us.”  He has taught me so much and is definitely worth knowing, but people often don’t give him a second chance.

 

April is National Autism Awareness Month, and I write, in part, to draw attention to autism.  (To learn more, go to www.autismsociety-nc.org or www.teacch.com [where Benjamin was diagnosed]).  But I also hope to make people consider the importance of looking beyond the immediate, of seeing past the image.  If we are to teach our children well, we must teach them to “see rightly.”  We must help them learn that every soul has worth and value and that we must listen well to hear each soul singing.  We must teach them to see with their heart, to look beyond appearance and image; beyond the immediate and obvious; beyond sound bites and slick talk; beyond skin color, nationality, religion, or political affiliation.  We must teach them to see what is truly essential and honest and pure and good and true.  It is one simple step towards compassion and understanding.  In listening well and seeing rightly and teaching our children to do so, we can help to make the world a better place for all.

 

Circles

Ever since my son Benjamin was diagnosed with autism sixteen years ago, I’ve found it almost impossible to write anything about our personal experiences with it.  Not that there was any lack of things to write about—I could surely fill a book with what he (and we) endured.  It’s just that every time I’d start to write and begin to explore the regions of my heart that had to do with Benjamin’s autism, I’d start to cry and couldn’t stop.  And so it was three days ago when I wrote here about Benjamin—his victories and his pain.  It took me a long while to finish because I was crying so hard, I couldn’t see to write. 

But I’ve had such a need to write about it, especially when he was younger.  So I did—in fictional form.  This allowed me, I think, just enough space and detachment to be able to write about what grieved us.  So I thought I’d post here an excerpt from the short story I wrote back then, just so you might know a small measure of what we felt when he was diagnosed.  Obviously, I changed the names, and I should mention, as well, that the experiences of Gabriel, Marilee, and Dan don’t precisely mirror ours.  But their feelings do.

So below is an excerpt from my story, “Circles.”  It was never published and almost no one has read it (until now), but it served its purpose.  The scene here is in the car, as Marilee and Dan sit numbly outside the clinic where Gabriel had just been diagnosed with autism.  And, by the way, the brochure Marilee was reading was exactly the same brochure I was given, and her experience does reflect mine:

“….Marilee touched Dan’s hand.  It was ice cold, and he was looking away, distant and seemingly focused on something beyond her range of vision.  Gabriel’s gaze was always like that—unfocused, as though he were seeing inward rather than outward.
       She could see Gabriel in the rear view mirror, moving his thumbs and fingers together rapidly, while waving his arms about.  He sometimes did that for hours, flapping faster and faster, until his hands looked like separate things—small birds fluttering all around his head.
        Marilee looked down at her own hands, full of booklets and brochures the doctor had given them, seemingly relieved that he had something concrete to offer.  She stared at one of the booklets.  Under the heading, “CHARACTERISTICS OF AUTISM,” there were stick figure drawings illustrating each characteristic.  “NOT CUDDLY” showed a small figure pushing away from the embrace of a larger figure.  Marilee remembered nursing Gabriel and how he’d pull away from her, his body stiffened, even as he drank from her breast.  “‘SPINS OBJECTS” labeled a bent-over form absorbed in spinning a ball, oblivious to the world around him.  ““RESISTS CHANGE IN ROUTINE.”   In that one, the little stick person seemed to be striking the larger figure.  Gabriel kept all his little cars lined up in precise rows on his shelf and flew into a rage if she moved them while dusting.
        But it was when she saw “DIFFICULTY IN MIXING WITH OTHER CHILDREN” that she felt her grief rising.  In the illustration, three figures sat in a closed circle, playing together.  Set apart from the group and facing away was a desolate, hunched over form with his hands up to his face.  Marilee suddenly imagined that she saw the truth of Gabriel’s future in that one crude stick figure drawing and she began to sob.
         In the back seat, Gabriel paused for a moment, his hands suspended in the air.  But as his mother continued to weep, he began the flapping again, faster and more furious, his hands like two fighting birds.
       Neither Dan nor Marilee spoke on the long drive home, lost in thought and sadness.  From time to time, they glanced in the rear view mirror.  Gabriel was now spinning the wheels on a toy car, over and over, lost in his own solitary world.”

“Like One of You”

(All words in italics are the work of Benjamin R.)

Last year, my son Benjamin entered an essay contest for high school seniors through Newsweek magazine. The prize was scholarship money for college. He didn’t win, but, really, that was irrelevant. What was truly important in his essay, “Like One of You,” was the very first line.

“To whom it may concern in the world: I’ve been in the closet for all these years, so to speak.”

Such a simple sentence—but the beginning of a profound transformation. That first line was his first step out of the closet and into the light.  For the first time, Benjamin was able to see what we have seen from the time he was born—what a precious and wondrous child of God he is. And for the first time, Benjamin was able to finally love himself the way we love him—for who he is.

Benjamin told the world that he is autistic.

“Yes, I’m autistic. A lot of people, when they hear “autism,” picture Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man with his supernatural mathematical ability. I am not a human calculator, nor can I tell you what day of the week January 3, 1971 was. Although autism affects people in different ways and varies in severity, most autistic people I have known are just regular human beings who want what everyone else wants—to be loved and accepted for who they are.”

It broke my heart when Benjamin used to beg me not to tell anyone about his autism. But even more heartbreaking, almost unbearably so, was how viciously and relentlessly he was teased and bullied in elementary school. It was a daily assault on his spirit and part of the reason he felt a sense of shame for who he was. His worst year was fourth grade. Most afternoons after school that year were spent trying to undo the damage done to his soul that day, to bind up the wounds to his heart. I’d sit and talk with him sometimes for hours.  But I never knew how to answer when he asked me why people are so cruel.  When I told his teacher what was happening, she dismissed it with a wave of her hand, “Oh, bullying’s just a part of growing up.” Benjamin, at the age of ten, told me that he wished he could die. He’d say that he wished God would take him home to heaven because the world was too hard a place for him to live.

“It’s funny how bullies have a built-in radar for people who are different. Between them and kids who were simply uneducated about autism, my elementary experience was pretty miserable. Our family moved three times in elementary school alone to find the best place for me. My social awkwardness always attracted a constant stream of derision. It just took me a little longer to figure out that, no, not everyone wanted a hug all of the time (I later discovered that’s what relationships are for) and why some people could say something funny and get away with it while I would get in trouble. Kids saw this vulnerability and seized on it. I can’t tell you how many times I would get into trouble because the other kids would tell me to make a certain vulgar gesture or joke. In my naivety, I would do it in front of everyone, thinking that their laughs would finally gain me some sort of hard-earned popularity. But it didn’t, especially with teachers. Some teachers viewed me as a troublemaker and would chastise me. In fact, the only “friends” I made in elementary school were bullies looking for easy targets to torment.”

I’m writing about Benjamin now because he told me I could. Not only has he come to love and accept himself for who he is, but he wants the world to know about autism. April is National Autism Awareness Month, so I’m going to be writing about Benjamin and autism on my blog for a little while. But for now, I’ll let him speak again. After all, he does it so very well. I’ve been praying all these years that Benjamin might someday be able to sing loudly and proudly the song of himself. It’s a beautiful song. And so he does. Praise be.

“What we really need right now is a joint effort of teachers, parents, and students to learn and to teach others understanding and acceptance of those who are different….Parents of non-autistic children need to help their children to better understand differences in others and to accept them. Teachers should realize that what comes naturally to most people has to be learned by autistic people—we aren’t trying to cause trouble. And students need to think about how the taunts and insults that they casually toss off cut deep into our hearts. Just because someone isn’t a born sophisticate doesn’t mean that they are insulated from normal feelings. We’re really just one of you.”

Queen Winabel’s Parade

My friend Sara has tagged me to list seven random facts about myself.  Since I enjoyed reading hers so much, I thought I’d play along.  So, at the risk of revealing just how odd I am, here goes:

1.  I learned to ride a unicycle before I learned to ride a bike.  And, in fact, I still own a battered Schwinn unicycle.  I had not ridden it for some time when, last summer, my children coerced me into getting back on the thing.  It probably wasn’t such a good idea to do cross-country with it across our yard.  Let me just say that flying through the air and hitting the ground hard is a lot different when you’re almost fifty than when you’re seven.

2.   Writing about my life as a unicyclist brings back the memory of the first time my Mama ever embarrassed me.  I was seven years old and riding my unicycle in the Greensboro Christmas parade, dressed, appropriately enough, as a clown.   Mama didn’t want me to ride that day because I had asthma and the temperature was in the teens, but I was a stubborn little cuss.  I loved the crowd adulation and waving like I was famous or something.  About halfway through, I was feeling a little wheezy-not-to-mention-woozy, when I saw my parents on the sidelines.   My mother was hollering something, but I just waved and rode on.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that she was striding towards me, and I realized, to my horror, that Mama was coming to take me out of the parade. So, as she drew near, I suddenly banked to the right in a clever evasive maneuver and began to ride circles around her.  She was not amused…but neither was she deterred.  Mama walked along with me, turning in circles herself, watching me (as Daddy used to say) like a hawk watching a chicken.  The crowd went wild, alternately laughing and cheering.  I knew when I was whipped, so I surrendered and dismounted from my unicycle—a sad and defeated clown.  Mama grabbed me with one hand and my unicycle with the other and walked regally and with great dignity back to where Daddy was—our own little absurd miniature reverse parade.  My mother told me later that she took me out because my face was purple, which I reckon was red from exertion and the blue from the cold. 

3.   I wish I were as bold as Mama was.   The parade incident was definitely not the last time she embarrassed me.  When we ate in restaurants, if the food or the service was not up to her standards, she’d summon the manager to her table.  (Notice I said, summon the manager to her table.  She didn’t feel she should have to seek him out).  And by the time Queen Winabel was done with the hapless manager, even the ones who’d started out cocky would practically be kissing her royal feet. 

4.  My daughter Ariel (aka Lucky Pennies) is just like Queen Winabel (the Grandma she never knew) in that way.  Even when she was younger, Ariel would return something to a store when it didn’t live up to her expectations, even when she was so small she couldn’t see over the customer service counter.

5.   My son Benjamin has grown to be like his Grandma, too, as though her spirit lives on in him, emboldening him, convicting him of the certainty that he deserves nothing but the best, as the beloved grandson of Queen Winabel.

6.   I am really, really bad about going off on tangents.  I start out with one thought, which triggers another, then another, until my thoughts are taking off like a runaway circus train.     Perhaps you have noticed this.

7.   When I was young, I saw fairies.  Since my home life was a little tumultuous (at least until my brother got sent to reform school and my sister married at eighteen), I spent a lot of time outdoors.  I talked to trees and birds and squirrels and saw fairies.  They did not look like Tinkerbell and did not talk to me.  They were little beings of light going about their fairy business.  Sadly, I do not see fairies now.

Well, if you didn’t think I was weird before, I’m sure you do now.  That’s okay….some of my best friends are weird.

I think I’m supposed to tag others now, so you are hereby tagged.  Come on, it’s really kind of fun. 

Tell us who you really are. 

A Passel of Personal Peeves

I’m feeling a little cranky these days, so I hope you don’t mind if I get a few things off my chest.  Sure, a riled-up rant doesn’t right wrongs, but when you’re rankled, raving can be a righteous remedy for relief.  Really.

You?  Oh, no, it’s nothing you did.  In fact, I’m addressing my rant directly to the guilty party, the proper rantee, or in this case, rantees. 

Rant #1

Dear people from whom we purchased this doublewide:

You must be feeling pretty smug these days to have found fools desperate enough to pay such an outrageous sum for your doublewide.  Not that I blame you for that—we made the choice to do so, and sometimes I think the sunrise alone is worth the price.  But anyway, that’s not what I’m writing about here.  I could write about the toxic waste you left in the garage or inquire as to how you managed to make so many large holes in the walls. And just how did that coffee end up on the ceiling anyway?  But that’s not what I need to discuss here either. 

No, Dear Sellers, what I want to say is this:  For the love of Pete, people, why did you leave us not one sheet of toilet paper when you left?  Not one dadgum sheet!  What kind of people actually take the partially-used rolls off the toilet paper holders when they leave?!!!  I’ll tell you who—cheap, cheeky chumps—that’s who.   It takes a merciless soul to intentionally leave another human being toilet paperless.  I’m no paragon of virtue, but every single time I’ve moved from a house, I’ve left not only toilet paper (with extra rolls!), but paper towels and soap, as well.  It’s the decent, humane thing to do. 
 
Didn’t your Mama teach you that?

Rant #2

Dear Cashiers from two different stores that shall remain nameless:

Perhaps you meant well when you asked me if I wanted the Senior Citizen’s discount.  But to be asked that twice in one week was a little hard on my fragile, 50-year-old ego.  Trust me, when I turn 55, I’ll be the first to let you know.  But until then, it might be better, unless you are absolutely certain of a person’s…ahem…mature status, to wait for them to ask for the discount.  Especially since you have a large sign with large print announcing it right at the register.

Or maybe you thought I couldn’t read it…because of my advanced, ripe old age.

Rant #3

Dear Cashier at the grocery store that rhymes with Jingles:
 
I was pretty excited to have that coupon for the Russell Stover’s Chocolate Rabbit.  Even though my kids are in college now, I still enjoy putting together a little Easter basket for them.  We’re on a budget, and the candy they usually get is more Hershey’s than Russell Stover’s, so I was particularly pleased to be able to get such a “fancy” treat.  Chocolate connoisseurs may smirk, but Russell Stover’s is lavish stuff for us.

You scanned the rabbit, and I smiled and handed you the coupon.  You studied it for a moment, picked the rabbit up and looked at it, then handed the coupon back with a curiously smug look on your face. 

“I can’t take that,” you said.

I was baffled.  “Why not?”

You announced, in a self-righteous tone, “This coupon is for the HOLLOW Russell Stover rabbit.”  Then you smirked.  “Your rabbit is solid.”

I looked at you, open-mouthed with disbelief.  No, not disbelief that the coupon actually said that.  In fact, when I looked at it again, I realized it indeed said “Hollow Rabbit.”  But I was incredulous that you would take such obvious pride in denying a simple, cents-off coupon to someone because they had the solid rabbit instead of the hollow one.  And the look you gave me—strangely triumphant and accusatory at the same time.  I mean, you would have thought you’d caught me trying to slip the rabbit out in my purse.  Oh yeah, you’re a noble one, you are, valiantly fighting those desperados like me who would actually try to sneak those hollow rabbit coupons past your eagle eyes.  You must be so proud.  I’m surprised you didn’t shout, “Security!  Coupon outlaw!” and ask them to pat me down for more illicit coupons. 

I pointed out to you that the solid rabbit was actually more expensive than the hollow one, but you were adamant, secure in your position of moral superiority.   So I put away my money and handed you back the rabbit.  “I guess I won’t get it then.”

So, congratulations.  You won, but your store lost a sale and the good will of a new customer.  And it wasn’t so much that you refused me the coupon—maybe they train you to be completely inflexible about coupons, and you were just following policy.  It was the fact that you seemed so self-satisfied about it and the way you looked at me like I was committing a criminal act instead of just trying to buy a chocolate rabbit.  Pardon the pun, but I would have to say that was a “hollow” victory for both you and the store you represent.

So there you have it—my picayune, paltry, perhaps petty personal peeves. 

Whew.  Thanks.  I feel better already.

The Light Has Come

 

(sunrise from my porch)

I wish you all a Joyful Easter and Happy Spring!  And may we all know peace, hope, and light.

          “Arise, shine for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.”

           Isaiah 60:1

(our flowering cherry humming with honeybees)

There’s No Place Like Home

Well…hi there.  How are y’all?  I’ve missed all my blogging buddies a lot this past month and a half while we lived the nomadic life (mostly without internet).  I’m really sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but we’ve had so much that demanded our immediate attention that my poor little blog got short shrift.  I look forward to having time to come visit your homes in cyberspace again and to catch up on your lives. 

Part of the time, we were on Jupiter.  No, really, it’s true.  The little rental house where we spent several weeks was on Jupiter Road.  The landlords lived next door, and they gave us our first taste of the wonderful hospitality of the people around here.   First was a bottle of wine, then sparkling juice, then freshly cooked Vietnamese spring rolls and dumplings, in celebration of the Vietnamese New Year.  I’ve got to say, it beat my favorite New Year’s dish, Hoppin’ John, by a long shot.

Us?  We’re doing okay.  A little weary from endless days of nothing but work without a day off and still a little stressed out with worry, but we’re thankful to finally have a home.  We’re working like mad to get our new home ready so we can finally free our stuff from storage.  We’ve just bought a ten-year-old doublewide that needs a fair amount of cleaning, repairing, and replacing.  The folks that lived here before liked blue—a lot.  Blue carpet, blue countertops in kitchen and baths, white and blue vinyl, and some blue walls.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that—it’s just that not a single thing we own goes with the blue, as most of our things are earth-toned.  Right now, we’re ripping out navy blue carpet and replacing it with laminate.  Of course, we’re doing the work ourselves and racing to get the floor down before we have to unload our things.  So, most of the repairing and replacing and painting will have to wait until we have more time and money.  But that’s okay—we’re just happy to be here.

So little time—so much to talk about!  First of all, just let me say how much I appreciate all your thoughtful comments, notes, and letters of concern.  It means a great deal to me to have friends that not only care, but actually miss me when I’m gone!  And let me especially thank June, Bonnie, Sara, and Country Dew for kindly mentioning me in your blogs, even in my long absence from mine.  I appreciate it.  I am also grateful to Jennifer and Shannon for their kind offers of assistance. 

Our move?  Well, it was hard…but then, that’s pretty typical for us.  We apparently have some sort of curse that kicks in the minute I call to reserve the U-Haul-It truck. Don’t believe me?   Here’s just a partial list of incidents from past moves:  Auto accident, severe kidney stone attack and kidney infection, dog bite, ice storms, illness, car breakdowns, truck breakdowns, (and subsequent nervous breakdowns).  Allow me to share a small excerpt from the Most Recent Example of The Moving Curse:  My Exciting Drive Down the Mountain.  Regular readers may recall that right before our move, my Camry’s transmission suddenly refused to go in any direction but forward.  Well, we still haven’t got that fixed, so I was a little nervous as we set out for our hundred-mile trip down to our new home.  Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man told me not to worry—I could follow him and he’d be right in front of me if anything went awry.  (I should mention here that he was driving our other car, a twenty-six-year-old Volvo with about a gazillion miles on it.  Oh yeah…I felt very reassured)

The first part of the trip wasn’t so bad—we were on the Blue Ridge Parkway which was pretty much deserted, so I began to relax. But alas, the Parkway was closed ahead because of winter weather, so we exited on a road that I wasn’t too familiar with.  About that time, I looked down to see that one of my dashboard warning lights was on.  Oh dear, was that the Check Oil light?  I’d always heard that if that light comes on, you must pull over right away or your goose is cooked.  Or at least your engine is cooked, which I’m pretty sure is worse than a cooked goose.  So I began to search desperately for a place to pull over that wouldn’t require my Camry to go in reverse.  The road we were on seemed to be lined with one narrow driveway after another, but then I saw a Realty that had one parking space out front that ran parallel to the road.  I swerved into the space, turned off my ignition, and sat there taking deep breaths.  I saw the folks in the Realty peering out the window at me, and it was then I realized that I was in some sort of special “Realtor of the Month” parking space. I gave the realtors a weak smile and waved.  About that time, Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man, who had finally realized I wasn’t behind him, returned to screech to a stop behind me.  The realtors began to point.  I jumped out of the car, forgetting that I had unzipped my jeans for comfort while driving.  Of course, my fly promptly fell completely open, exposing the tattered, desperation underwear I was wearing.  (You know, the kind you wear when you haven’t washed clothes for several days and you’re down to the bottom of your underwear drawer? These particular ones were polka-dotted.)  I whipped around and zipped up my pants, pretty certain that the realtors were probably now dialing the police on their cell phones. Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man leaned into my car and turned the key, peering at the dashboard. 

“That’s not the Check Oil Light, it’s the Check Engine Light,” he said.  I looked again.  Somehow the little picture under “Check” had looked liked an oil can to me in my distress, but now I could clearly see that it was a little car with its hood open.  The light was likely on because of my transmission problem.  I slapped my perspiring forehead (feeling like a dolt), got back in the car, waved at the realtors again, and  beat a hasty retreat.

Here’s where I should mention that Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man ALWAYS takes the scenic route and that he tends to choose the twistiest, curviest, corkscrew of a mountain road he can find.  Well, this time was no exception.  The road he chose was pretty much nothing but continuous S-curves, with a sheer rock face on one side and a yawning precipice on the other.  I enjoy this road when I’m a passenger and he’s driving, but when you have a load beside you in the front seat stacked to the ceiling that falls over every single time you careen to the right which on this road was about every five seconds, a twisting mountain road quickly loses its charm.  So there I was driving on this crazy mountain road with my left hand because my right hand was holding the load on the front seat to prevent it from falling on top of me.  That’s when I heard the sound.   Ssssssss.  Like air escaping from a tire. Or perhaps the sound some engine hose which is crucial to the running of the car makes when it is failing.  I began to hyperventilate again.  The road we were on had almost no place to pull over.  The weird thing is, I only heard the sound when I steered sharply to the left, which on this road was every five seconds.  My hands began to sweat which made driving with only my left hand even harder.  What was that sound?!!   Ssssss….Ssssss…Ssssss   I pictured my tire suddenly blowing out and my car flying into the great beyond, sort of like Thelma and Louise…but different somehow… while Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man drove on blissfully unaware.  I began to wrack my brain, trying to remember if The Car Guys on NPR had ever talked about Ssssssss sounds.

 It was then that I noticed that my car smelled a lot like flowers.  I sniffed.  To be specific, it smelled like the Australian Paw Flower, much like that contained in Aussie Sun-Touched Shine Hair Spray. 

           

Yep, you guessed it.  Every time I went to the left, a big book in the laundry basket next to me was falling on top of the hairspray nozzle, then falling away when I went to the right.  I began to laugh maniacally and opened my windows, as the fumes were by then threatening to asphyxiate me.  By the time we got to the bottom of the mountain, my hairspray can was empty and I was feeling a little light-headed.

I’ll spare you the gruesome details of the rest of the trip.  I’m sure this was quite enough. And I’ll tell you more about The DoubleWide For Which We Paid an Utterly Ridiculous Sum later. The important thing is:  we made it, we’re here, and we have a home where I can see my beloved rolling hills and mountains and the glory of the ever-changing sky.  For that, I am grateful.  And I am grateful for you, my kind readers and friends, who actually read my sometimes long-winded stories with patience and understanding and who miss me when I’m gone.  Thank you. 

I’m sorry to say that my posting will still be rather sporadic for a while, at least until we can get this place spiffed up, spackled, and spic and span.  I also want to make some time to read about what’s going on in your lives—I’ve missed that a lot.  I’ll tell you all about our new place soon.  Until then, here are a couple of pictures I took from our new yard and porch.

Here’s the sunrise from our front porch.

 

We were thrilled to see this rainbow a couple of days ago.  Ariel (aka Lucky Pennies) stiched together an amazing panoramic shot from the pictures of this rainbow she snapped while home on Spring Break.  I expect she’ll post it on her blog very, very soon.

I took this one just last evening at sunset.  The skies were beginning to clear after a gray day of fog and rain.  The sun made its first appearance of the day before setting in a blaze of glory.

She Dreams of Falling

 

(Steps on our hike last year at Stone Mountain State Park, North Carolina)

No, I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth, though I do dream most nights about falling.  And, no, I haven’t given up on my blog, though it has been woefully neglected, along with my commenting on all your wonderful blogs.  I am truly sorry.

More immediate and urgent concerns have commanded our attention of late.  The good news is:  We have sold our house and the new owner wants to take possession very, very soon.  The bad news is:  We have sold our house and the new owner wants to take possession very, very soon.

And, as of today, we have nowhere to go.

Until today, we have been looking to buy a home in the place to which we’re moving.  The trouble is, people there apparently haven’t gotten the word that it’s a buyer’s market now.  They all want outrageous amounts of money for their houses and land. And we don’t have that kind of money to spare.  And we’re not that picky—we just want a couple of acres or more in the country where we can see mountains and clouds and stars.  The house doesn’t have to be fancy—a trailer will do. 

Anyway, at this point, we’ve gone from mild anxiety to full-blown panic.  And needless to say, we’re looking for short-term rental—just so we don’t end up sleeping in our U-Haul truck.   Did I mention that we haven’t found work yet? Did I mention that the pain from my slipped rib problem returned, so that I’ve taken to sleeping in a recliner?  Did I mention that my car’s reverse gear suddenly stopped working out of nowhere (at sixty-thousand miles)?  Looks like I’ll be getting a transmission for my fiftieth birthday.  Yay.

And please don’t lecture me on how it would have been prudent to have gotten a job before making a drastic move.  Yes, that’s how it would have happened in an ideal world where eveything works out just as you’ve planned.  Lord knows, we’ve tried.  But nothing yet.  The reality is:  we’ve sold our house and we have to move.  I’m sure we’ll find work in time.  Blue Ridge Blue Collar Man is one hell of a carpenter and a highly skilled handyman besides.  Oh, and he writes poetry.  But not on the job. 

And now you can see why I haven’t been writing.  Not only a lack of time, but a growing lack of my usual cock-eyed optimism and a general crankiness that I didn’t wish to burden my readers with.  But I did want you to know that, Lord willing, I’ll be back—both writing and reading your writing.  So please don’t give up on me or my little blog.  And please, if you’re so inclined, say a little prayer for us.  Sometimes I’m not so sure mine are getting through.

“Ring Out the Old, Ring in the New, Ring Out the False, Ring in the True”

 

(Sunrise over the Yadkin Valley)

I can’t really say that Lord Alfred Tennyson is one of my favorite poets, but I guess I’d say that this poem really rang a bell with me.  My prayer for our country and our world is that we may “Ring out…The civic slander and the spite” and “ring in the love of truth and right.”  And that we may “Ring out the grief that saps the mind, ring in redress to all mankind…Ring in…the larger heart, the kindlier hand…ring out the darkness of the land.”

May we all know love and light in 2008.

  “Ring Out, Wild Bells” from In Memoriam    

 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

                                                                  — Lord Alfred Tennyson 

The Nut Family’s Christmas Adventures

You might remember the Nut family from a previous post back in the fall.  They were climbing a mountain then–they love to hike.  But I don’t think I properly introduced them:   On the top, to the left, is Tom Nut next to his wife, Beth Nut.  On the bottom, to your left is their daughter, Ariel Nut and her brother Benjamin Nut.

Of course, everyone in the community knows them as Nuts and, in fact, their family tree is full of Nuts.   But they are very close and aren’t the type of nuts to stay in their shells–they love to go on roadtrips. 

So they set out one day in their old Chevy to find a Christmas tree.  

They took some friends along.  The Nut family doesn’t just hang out with nuts–they have a very diverse group of friends.

Now Ariel Nut loves to take pictures and sometimes gets so distracted, she doesn’t notice what’s going on around her.  So her mama Beth Nut was always cautioning her:   You need to be more aware and careful.  There are squirrels and other animals out there always on the prowl for Nuts, so you must be alert!    But Ariel Nut would just roll her googly eyes.   (You know how teenage Nuts are!)   Now, the Nuts had nothing against rodents–some of their best friends were rodents, but they were aware that the world was full of Rodents of Unusual Size, who didn’t have their best interests at heart.

So  when they got to the Christmas tree farm, Ariel Nut wandered off as usual, snapping away with her camera.    The rest of the Nut family set out with their friends to find a Christmas tree.  Suddenly, they heard a scream.  It was Ariel Nut!  They all ran in the direction of the scream.  Mama Beth Nut got there first.  She gasped in horror when she saw what had happened–Ariel Nut had been snatched by an evil squirrel! 

Beth Nut immediately began to throw herself at the squirrel, jumping on his feet, trying to get him to let go of Ariel Nut.  She just could not understand why the squirrel had snatched little Ariel Nut when he already had a giant acorn of his own.   Wasn’t that enough?  Why was he picking on little Nuts?   The squirrel was very irritated, but there wasn’t much he could do.  His hands were full.    But pretty soon, the rest of the Nuts and their friends arrived and all began to charge the squirrel, barking and squealing. 

The squirrel finally had enough of the Nuts and their friends.  He dropped Ariel Nut on her head and scampered off.  Everyone rushed over to see if she was hurt.  But Ariel was a tough Nut to crack–she was fine.  What a relief!  They all started back to find a Christmas tree.  But soon they heard a rustling in the leaves behind them.  It was the squirrel! 

Quickly, they all piled into the Chevy and Tom Nut careened down the road, driving like…well…a Nut.  The squirrel was in hot pursuit, gaining on them by the second.

Then Beth Nut had a brilliant idea.  She told Tom Nut, and he swerved into the parking lot of the local grocery.   Their canine friends diverted the squirrel’s attention by nipping at his heels long enough for Beth Nut to run in the store.  She emerged with a jar, opened it, and ran up to the squirrel.  His little pointed rodent nose quivered at the delicious aroma, and he screeched greedily.  He snatched it from her hands and scampered away happily.  At last, he had what he really wanted–Jif, the Holy Grail of Nutdom.  Of course, Ariel Nut managed to snap a picture.

So the Nut family left the grocery, waving goodbye to the squirrel and shouting, “Merry Christmas!”   They drove back to the Christmas tree farm, found the perfect tree, then headed home with their faithful friends, the tree on the top of the Chevy. 

So Ariel Nut learned a valuable lesson–that she should listen to Mama Nut, who was always right.    And the whole Nut family learned the value of true friends— the ones who stick by you when you’ve gotten yourself in trouble.  And they all learned that sometimes peace can come without violence.

So from all the Nuts and their friends–may you have a peaceful Christmas of goodwill and love.  And a Happy New Year!