The unexpected uses of tobacco...

I already spoke about the benefits of having ground coffee in the house (for more than the obvious consumption), but there is another item I always have on hand. Hidden in my sock drawer is a pack of cigarettes. 

Why? Rewind, again, to around 2002. Enjoying the summer sun, while highlighting scribbled notes for a college history exam, I spotted a stray kitten under my father-in-law's car. The later named and beloved "Spooky" created a domino effect of catastrophes as my husband, mother and father-in-law, and I tried to catch him. 

For me, it was stepping on a yellow jacket. (For those not familiar - a yellow jacket belongs to the wasp family, but is yellow and black, appearing more like a fierce bumble bee than a wasp.) In the seconds between my bare foot landing on the winged beast and actually hurting it, it managed to sting me three times. I have been stung and/or bit by many an insect, wasps, bees, and hornets included; however, non induced the pain as that trio from the yellow jacket! 

My father-in-law came to the rescue on that one - slicing open a cigarette, he wet and packed the tobacco onto the stings. Within minutes the swelling and pain decreased! (It is the nicotine in the tobacco that provides this magical result.) I kept those stings packed and taped on for much of the day.

After that visit, I bought a pack of cigarettes to have nearby, in case of future unwanted stings. To this day, it is still in its wrapping, but still - ready and waiting for the inevitable day that it will be opened and used for its unique purpose! 

(Picture from Wikimedia Commons)

The Mysterious Surname...

Surname - that final name that we use in identifying ourselves, our "last name." What I have come to discover, in my geek realms of genealogy and genetics, is that neither me nor my husband have surnames that connect us to our true ancestors!

For starters - I am, originally, Beth Ann McLaughlin, who shouldn't be a McLaughlin. Digging through the past, I uncovered that my great grandfather wasn't the biological son of a McLaughlin, but a Smitley! Then there is the Wilkins who wasn't really a Wilkins, she was just owned by one. (This comes with the discovery that my great x 3 grandmother was a "mulatto" slave, born in 1847, and given the surname of her North Carolina plantation owner.) On my mother's side, there were the Warners, that should have been Blum. (Well, the maiden name of Blum. My German to English dictionary translated the unknown word on the birth certificate to "illegitimate" - so, as to the father's surname, who knows?!)

My husband was born with the last name "Rose" - however, his biological father's biological father was really a Howe, but given the name Rose to match his many older siblings. The biological father of my husband's mother wasn't really a Walker, but a Newton. When he gives his last name and mother's maiden name, both are technically incorrect.

As for our children - all Roses that should have been Howes, born to a mother who was a McLaughlin, but should have been Smitley?! Again, another "my last name and mother's maiden names aren't technically correct" kind of thing. No offense to any Smitley or Howe surname readers, but I prefer McLaughlin and Rose - maybe it is merely because I am used to these, but I do. All of this to say - how sure are you about your biologically correct surname? :)

The unusual use of ground coffee...

     The "Edgerly" gene strikes again! In "The genetics of a klutz," I mentioned a couple "unique" ways I have hurt myself in the past, but failed to disclose one that my mom replicated this past weekend. 

     Back in 1999-2000 I worked at the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, CO. (Yes, the one that inspired Steven King and where "The Shining" was filmed…and no, I did not see any ghosts or supernatural happenings!). It was a Saturday night and I was serving in the ballroom at an expensive wedding. The lovely aroma of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen as we picked up the metal baskets to be served. Setting down the second basket, my pinky finger brushed past the metal and the tip of said finger fell into the bread. Before the guests could view the bloody flesh, I retrieved the basket and returned to the kitchen. Cutting the tip of a finger off on the edge of bread basket - now, that takes talent (or a heavy dose of the klutzy Edgerly gene)! 

     After my quick exit, I wrapped up the finger. Napkins and towels turned red and were discarded. One of the men washing dishes came rushing up with something in his hand - a small pile of ground coffee. In broken English and massive gesturing, he tried to communicate my need to pack the pile onto my open wound. "It stop bleed," he urged. Ok, sure, why not. Low and behold - success! (The science of it being the caffeine in the coffee narrows the blood vessels and slows the bleeding.) I taped up the ground coffee plastered pinky and went back to work.

     Fast forward 18 years, to last weekend. "I just cut the tip of my left thumb off and nail!!! Stitches are impossible." The text vibrated my phone. My loving response to said text: "Seriously, Mom - my weird injuries club is exclusive and I don't recall inviting you!" Of course, it was quickly followed by the advice to clean the wound well, pack in ground coffee, and saturate them with melaleuca and lavender oils. Again, success, AND a reason to always have ground coffee in the house. (Not that this java lover ever needed a reason to keep bags on hand, but still.)

There's an alligator on the bank...

Upon arriving in our new Florida home, we gathered on the pretentiously named lanai and spotted him. Sunbathing in the September rays, on the far side of our lake - the large alligator. My kids named him "Frank" - Frank of the bank! My youngest wanted Frank to be "our pet." She claimed he would know she loved him and let her pet him. Um. "No, Frank would eat you!"

Rewinding time - in the 1980s, our family would drive down to Florida to visit my great grandparents, who were enjoying their Spring Hill retirement.. One of my favorite places to visit was Weeki Wachee, a haven of birds and reptiles, fascinating wildlife shows, and mermaids. Ok, not real ones, but excellent swimmers donning mermaid costumes, sneaking small breaths of oxygen from tubes hidden in the scenery.

During our first month in Florida, I brought the kids to visit that beloved place. Although there were less shows, it was nearly identical to my memory - frozen in time. What does this have to do with Frank of the bank? The reptile show - still running strong and featuring a young gator and animal safety. Allow me to educate you on simple alligator safety.
1. Don't feed them! Alligators are not born to attach and eat humans, they fear them. It all starts with one brave gator, more desiring the sunshine than his safety from the humans nearby. Said humans decide to throw him some marshmallows, which he gobbles down happily. Next, it is Mrs. Harris's toy poodle walking by - "Yum, there is another marshmallow to eat!" Uh oh. Then, the little kid in the white t-shirt and shorts. Aggressive behavior towards humans is learned, not natural - so, DON'T feed the gators!
2. If an aggressive alligator decides to chase after you, run in a straight line! Whoever told us to zig-zag was completely wrong. Alligators have eyes on the sides of their heads, not the fronts - so, that zig-zag pattern will only keep you in their sites. Running in a straight line requires the gator to move its head side-to-side, which slows him down…sort of. Alligators can run up to thirty miles per hour, but only for short distances.
3. If there is a pool of water in Florida, whether at a resort or your backyard, there is most likely an alligator in or near it - so, don't swim in the lakes!
4. The completely optional advice, meant as a joke from our Weeki Wachee ranger instructor, always be with someone who runs slower than you. Har Har.

Much to my youngest's despair, Frank never has become our pet. However, he is entertaining to watch sunbathing on the bank or sloooooowwwwllly making his way across the lake, little eyes and spots of spine peeking up from the water. Frank of the bank is true to his name today, but dipping back into the cool water - so, see you later, alligator!

Frank of the bank. He was far away, so he doesn't look his size,  but  this guy is over 7 feet long!

Mining for gold...

My father-in-law has a passion for mining - sifting through the dirt and muck to uncover treasures buried within. He has discovered some truly interesting gems, rocks, and even gold. The formation of these things has always fascinated me - how years and pressure, exact compounds and elements, all slowly become things of beauty.

The concept of rock formations parallels to many aspects of life, if we consider it…relationships, for instance. Rarely do we see the remarkable inner beauty of a person when we first meet. Relationships that become the gems of our lives are made over time, sometimes through the pressures of life - they withstand the years without cracking and crumbling into dusty pieces. 

Then, there is writing. The creation of characters, dialogue, and a plot that pulls at the heart strings of readers…it takes time, a compounding of elements, to slowly become a thing of beauty. It is also a mining process - sifting through the muck of the mundane to find the treasures worth keeping, buffing and polishing before it's ready to display. 

Gear up, writers! Put on the wading boots and get ready to work - there are creations of beauty to be found!

Happy Valentines to you all!

Genetics of a klutz…

Growing up, there was a saying in our house. Whenever a water glass was spilled or something broke: "There's an Edgerly in the house!" Named after my great grandfather, Eugene Edgerly, it became synonymous to klutz - you know, the person who drops things, shatters glass, accidentally cuts themselves on the oddest things…the klutz. As if the trait is genetically bound, hereditarily unavoidable - the Edgerly klutz. I clearly have it. If there is an odd way to get hurt, expensive thing to break, or important papers in a tall stack to soak with water - I'm your gal. How many people can say they broke their sesamoid bone (tiny one, under the big toe of the foot) while SITTING on a barstool in their kitchen? Or, how about spraining my ankle INSIDE a ski boot on the way down a slope in Aspen?

Both of my daughters seem to "inherit" this unique ability, this klutzy quirk. Sitting on my dresser are 4 broken glass items, waiting to be repaired, all thanks to my youngest. We named the week of January 15th- "the week of the blood pools." My eldest's foot manage to find a stray tin lid. "Um, Mom - she is bleeding to death," my overly excited son informed me. Maybe not to death, but slicing off part of the big toe really does make the floor red! Later on, she stepped on a piece of broken glass. (Actually, this one was thanks to my husband dropping a glass on the tile. Hm. Maybe he has the "gene" as well?) Same foot, different place - time to pull out the grout cleaner again.

We have genetic coding for a myriad of things - from hair and eye color, earlobe shapes, predisposition for addictive traits, and disease…so, maybe there is a gene for klutziness. Just kidding - I highly doubt it. Still, it would make for a better excuse, right?

Unfortunately, this one didn't make it onto the "fix it" pile on my dresser - this Edgerly chipped the front tooth climbing on the counter! Off to the dentist!

The power of the small...

I do sickness gracefully - it is an art I learned during my near three years of chemotherapy and radiation. Aches, pains, viruses…breaking body parts, shots into the bone, muscles, spinal chord, veins….surgeries, procedures, sprains, pulled and torn ligaments and tendons…all of that with (mostly) the grace of Mother Theresa. However, I have a proverbial Achilles heel - my cryptonite - throwing up. Yep. Give me a stomach bug or food poisoning, a batch of gag-inducing medications, and I am a complete mess. Perhaps it stems from the reaction to various chemotherapies, a long term psychological effect from nausea, shaking, and holding onto to the coolness of the porcelain throne (um, toilet). Regardless - I am the opposite of grace when it comes to nausea and vomiting!

With all the stomach bugs making their rounds through the population (Purple a victim of such), I was thinking. Drives to doctor's offices without kids arguing or giggling in the back seat allow for such times of contemplation! These "bugs" are microscopic, unseen by the human eye, yet they wreak havoc on our health! Viruses and bacteria - teeny, tiny things that can take the grown man from health to the hospital in a matter of days. In doing General Science with my older two kids, we are learning about the five kingdoms: Monera, Protista, Fungi, Plantae, and Animalia. Bacteria belongs to the Monera kingdom - a prokaryotic cell (no distant membrane-bounded organelle) - so small, so powerful. (Viruses, oddly, don't fall into any of those kingdoms!)

To be even more contemplative - there is power in the small, the unseen. Adolf Hitler was an art reject, barely surviving in Vienna - yet he rose to lead a conquering nation and was responsible for World War II and the killing of millions. Jesus Christ was the son of poor carpenter and teenage mother, yet birthed the now world-wide faith of Christianity! A small size or lack of importance doesn't mean lack of power. Like the bacteria or virus that spreads through families, a single person can influence the world. Ok, maybe not exactly alike, but you get the idea, right?

(PS - a quick hello to my German and Russian readers - thank you for consistently stopping by for a view!)

The Colors of friends...

I am blessed to have dear friends in my life - the kind I can be honest with…the good, bad, and ugly of life in visceral honesty. For anonymity's sake, I will name them as colors - the hues that ground and brighten my life. Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, and Purple - I love you all!

By order of rainbow….

Red. She is passionate about life, even when the cards she has been dealt are a mess of tattered edges and tears. Regardless to health, family, and chaos, she is the embodiment of strength and dignity. She is a free spirit in a grounded body, a wise "risk taker." Like the fire in a hearth, she burns brightly, warming my heart and cold feet.

Orange. When I think of this color, I imagine the bright hues of the autumn trees; leaves in their final stage of life, brimming with vibrance despite the season's storms. Orange has been through unimaginable life storms, yet she radiates. She has been my rock with issues of PTSD, my fellow mother of children with ADD and Autism - my autumn leaf beside me in the winds of life.

Yellow. Like the sun shining into the darkness, Yellow is light to me. She guides with a warm hand and is always there. She is faithful. Even when clouds hide her view, she lives truth and exudes love. Without the sun, plants wilt and wither - she inspires this plant to stand tall and grow!

Green. She is the color of life and springtime - the blades of grass peeking out of the dirt, revealing the life within. Her perspective is as fresh and her potential is like the long, green stem of a flower in bloom. Our bonds surpass blood and runs freely into the vast fields of friendship.

Blue. She isn't the color of sadness, but of the sea and sky. The world is wide and she has spread her wings to fly to the farthest parts of it. She is an inspiration of opportunity. Her heart is massive, like the ocean, and she has allowed me to witness the waves. In spirit, she brings me along on adventures of triumph and defeat, truth and lies, weakness and strength.

Purple. She is strength, a leader and guide into the unknowns of life. She cares for those in need, volunteers her time and energy, crochets encouragement into the chaotic patterns of my life. She is not a violet, but an iris - brightly swaying in the breeze, leaving a welcoming scent. She inspires me to grow, to better myself in marriage and motherhood.

The squirrels of ADHD...

"Evan, go upstairs and get your socks," I tell the blonde boy of seven years.
"Ok!"
Up the stairs he goes…down again, five minutes later, still barefooted.
"Evan, where are your socks?"
Blue eyes wide, "Oh!!"
Up the stairs he goes again…another five minutes, still without the socks.
This would play on repeat, everyday, until I began to tell him to say the word "SOCKS" until he retrieved a pair and had them on his feet.

He wasn't deliberately disobeying. Instead, once upstairs, he would get distracted, forget that mounting the stairs had a purpose, and come back down. We call them squirrels, thanks to Pixar's "Up." I saw the signs, the similarities that I struggled with for decades before diagnosis. ADD or ADHD. Like me, it was the latter.

A quick schooling on ADD and ADHD - it is a brain thing, focus specific. We have too many nerves firing off at the same time. While this gives us the unique ability to multi-task, it does leave us lacking in the ability to reign it all in, quiet the noise. A friend once put it perfectly - ADD is like being in a room with three radio stations playing, two tvs on, you are cooking an egg, and someone wants to have your full attention to answer an important question. Yes! I would imagine if you did that with anyone, they would have to utilize great energy to listen to the question and reply with all the noise! Yet, that is our "norm."

As for the H in the letters, hyperactivity is often misunderstood. You might picture a four year old streaking through the house, full throttle, chaos in their wake. However, it isn't necessarily external hyperactivity that is expressed with the H. It does mean something extra must be muted to remain focused. I "self medicated" for decades - in the form of twirling my hair while watching tv or listening to lectures, pacing back and forth in a room while on the phone, wiggling my toes inside my shoes when expected to maintain complete stillness. Hyperactivity is also what my son and I call our "super power" - in the form of hyper focus, we can funnel all the channels into one, that is so loud, it drowns out everything else. If I hyper focus while writing or digging through genealogical records, the fire alarm could be going off and it would take a bit to get my attention! Hours pass that feel like mere moments.

While writing this blog - the squirrels have been running through the room: Dog comes in, squirrel! I overhear my husband and son playing on x-boxes, "you have to go under the water." What do they mean? Squirrel! Youngest puts a gerbil on my shoulder…well, that one is almost a real squirrel, still - squirrel!

And sometimes a squirrel literally distracts your day…when you find one in the yard - Squirrel!

55 Years - Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

Growing up - I was not raised to "see" color. Race and ethnicity were not the essence of bias, character was. My childhood friends were a hodgepodge of skin hues, all darker than my own. (This is pretty much a given in any social scenario - I come in two tones, pale and burned red!) Immigrant and native born, my circle was wide. I am grateful for this upbringing, yet it makes grasping the reasons for hate due to hue all the more difficult!

Today, we remember Martin Luther King, Jr, the man who stood in Washington, DC. and gave the iconic "I have a dream" speech. "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character."The content of their character, beautiful alliteration. Judging by color, at that time, meant whether the skin was dark or light. As the years have passed, America has added many hues that range between and, sadly, each is still "judged."

"In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred." Fifty-five years has brought wars and recessions, technology and medical advancements - progress in much of life, yet the divisions continue. Beyond the color of our skin, we divide and judge gender, ethnicity, religion, sexuality, financial positions, and political affiliations. Toddler-like tantrums due to opinions voiced, people "unfriending" each other on social media platforms due to the votes they cast, violence erupting in streets, with fists and weapons…wrongful deeds, bitterness and hatred. These were the warning words of a man who is honored this January day, yet where is the honor in these behaviors? I can answer that - there is none!

Martin Luther King, Jr. had integrity and spirit - he loved people and had courage to peacefully voice and advocate his beliefs. He united both blacks and whites to follow and pursue the cause; he inspired.

Now - I have a dream. I have a dream that my three children might one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, by the multiple ethnicities flowing through their veins, by the religion in which the believe and follow, by their sexuality, by whether they are rich or poor, by whether they vote Democratic or Republican, by the career path the choose, or by anything more than the content of their character. Might they be judged as fair and kind, sensitive to the needs of others, loving towards the people around them, open to voicing opinions while respecting the opinions of others. May they be judged for their forgiveness and acts of charity, for following laws and being productive members of society, and for being hard workers, earning and not entitled.

(Quotes: Thanks to www.archives.gov/files/press/exhibits/dream-speech.pdf Copyright 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Where is the toilet plunger?!...

Shel Silverstein - I was first introduced to his poems 30 years ago, when a friend gifted me a hard copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends. Lines read and re-read, some even pasted into memory - the kind so tightly glued that they can still be quoted years later, decades later!

It all began when the toilet plunger became a pretend light saber. The life of that play was cut immediately short. "Do you know where that has been?!" Inside shutter, slight gag, before demanding hand washings. "Teddy said it was a hat, so I put it on. Now Daddy's saying, "Where the heck's the toilet plunger gone?" The words tumbled out of my memory and mind, onto my tongue. I laughed. It could have been worse, right?

It provoked me to contemplate the aspects of memory - the way the brain works and remembers. Obviously, if we constantly repeat things, we tend to remember them....or maybe not obviously, but it seems to be the case. However, do you remember that song - the one that came out when you were twelve and played through the speakers of your radio continuously, for months. You knew every word and pause, every building crescendo, every staccato sounding word. Decades have now past - that same song that filled your every day has only passed your ears a dozen times since then, but it begins to play on a radio station. Before your kids can flip the station, your hand freezes their motion. There you are again, decades later, singing every word in sync with the artist. But how do you remember it all?

I honestly think music and rhyme play a big part of the memorization - that poem, that song...it is the rhythm and rhyme that catch, crocheting of lyrics into the recesses of memory, easily pulled out, like a loose string from fabric.

Now to sanitize that plunger, just in case star wars calls for another saber fight!

When the best of baking intentions goes…bust?

It's the holidays…time for purchasing gifts, wrapping them, last minute errands, decorating, and baking. Oh, the smells that fill the home, lingering aromas of vanilla and cooked dough - it's the scented candle delight without lighting a flame.

This year, I decided that I would bake for the neighbors, as well. In the previous years, bouts of viruses have kept me from this endeavor, but 2017 is deemed to be cookies (and fudge) year! My eight year old helped me narrow down the list of options (hardly narrowing when choosing five, plus fudge, but still) - oatmeal with red and green M&Ms, sugar with sprinkles, peanut butter, caramel, and lemon drop.
Beginning yesterday, we started with the sugar and caramels. "Helping," she stirred, covered the counters with flour, dropped bits of dough on the floor (much to our dog's delight), and placed balls of our blendings onto cookie sheets. Although she made more of a mess than helped, I was glad that I put her in charge of balling up and lining the last tray.

Why, you ask? Caramel pieces - the ones for baking, are the same pale ,fleshy color as the dough. My bright idea was to top all the ones I had made with a caramel piece - falsely assuming it would melt into the cookie, giving the top bite as much delight as the inside. What I didn't realize is that the caramel does NOT melt, but, instead, turns a lovely shade of tan. Allow me to give you a visual.



So…this happened. Can you note the difference between mommy-topped cookies and my daughter's? Do you see why I was so relieved that she did the second tray? Sigh. Otherwise, no caramel cookies would have been added to the neighbor's plates! haha


On the other hand, I believe I have found a wonderful recipe and unique "look" for any future mammogram technicians or breast surgeons. Lacking the usual reds and greens, it truly could be a gift of any occasion?!

Although this particular batch was a…bust, we have thoroughly enjoyed them!

Merry Christmas - and happy writing!

What autism looks like….

This is a new thing for our family - autism. I could go into a detailed back story of how and why our eldest daughter wasn't diagnosed until age 13 - signs assumed to be quirks, delays thought to be laziness, singular, random melt-downs so far a few between that the connection was lost. At 3 years, she was "tested" by a group in North Carolina - the answer, "believed to be on the spectrum, but not specific due to abilities to be interactive with others." I left it at that. I was uninformed and uneducated - the few autistic individuals I knew were more in the realm of Rain Man, the more typical assumption.

She can talk, she interacts, and she doesn't scream about things. Sure, her speech was hard to understand until well after 5 years and her sentences condensed to short staccatos of random words. No, she wasn't interested in pretend play with other girls (or on her own) and didn't seem to have a grasp of volume control when "talking" to herself. But - she was happy, easy-going. She was the infant who was happy in anyone's arms, the baby who never cried unless she was injured, the toddler that had only one all-out tantrum. Yet, there wasn't the usual "comfort found in mommy" connection, no communication for being hungry, wet, or tired.
With number two born 19  months later, I was grateful of her seemingly low-maintenance personality, especially when our son was quite the opposite! :)

It wasn't until a few poignant events, ages 11-13, that something didn't settle for me. With pen and notepad, I began writing it all out - the "quirks," delays, previous findings, aversions to strange things and fixation on others; those events that didn't add up, didn't make sense. I researched and began asking the "right" questions with her and finally talked to our pediatrician. "I think that I should refer her to the behavioral science group at the University of South Florida and that she should be tested for Autism Spectrum Disorder." What?! No, no, no - she makes eye contact, she can talk - there is just something else up, right?

After completing a stack of paperwork, I received a call from one of the psychiatrists at USF. Three hours later, after numerous questions, she wanted to move to the next stage - observation and testing with our daughter. She strongly felt that she should be tested further. After a five hour appointment and a month of the psychologist's team's viewing of videos and questionnaires done that day, my husband and I found ourselves in the Dr's office again. Yes, she was definitely on the Spectrum, Autism specific in it…with an anxiety disorder. Although we were prepared to hear "spectrum," it still felt like our world took an unexpected tilt.

Everyone diagnosed is different - let's just start there. There are variances in the levels of autism, in scope - it is truly wide and intimidating. What I want to share is what autism looks like - for this teenage girl.

She is smart and scores well when academically challenged. Her aspirations are to be a large animal vet and if she puts her mind to it, I know she will be one! Although her facial expressions are not as varied as my younger two, her smile can brighten a room. She comes across as shy to most - unsure about what she should say or do, worried about not reading someone's body language correctly. She will start a therapy group for that next month, though -given a safe place to practice and working with people who understand the complexities of the austic brain far better than our hours of research and reading possess.

She is also quiet, unless she has something to say. She is sensitive - especially to anything perceived as criticism. She defends other's quicker than herself. Although sarcasm is lost on her, her world being very black and white, she has a quick sense of humor and her laugh is contagious. She is loyal - trust may be very slowly earned from her, but once she does, she is fiercely loyal.

She has a super power - an unexplainable connection with animals. She can quiet the wildest of horses with her voice and soft touch. This ability became apparent when she was just shy of two years old and wandered towards a pit bull, whose owner was on his cell. When we saw her, she was laying stomach-to-stomach, babbling at the dog and the owner had ceased his conversation and was standing with mouth agape. "I don't understand - he hates children and bites! But then she came up - I swear, I didn't see her - and he sits, then lays down, then this - " gesturing to the scene before him. The incident wasn't singular and we now call it her super power, one that will certainly come in handy with a rowdy elephant in the future!

That is the thing - about autism, ADD/ADHD, other medically termed diagnosis with "disorder" looming at the end. It isn't a disorder, not necessarily, it is a difference. Sure, the brain may have to be taught certain social cues and how to wrap the mind around what isn't black and white, what is grey. But that same brain can access things that ours can't - whether with animals, the ability to pick up musical instruments with ease, or telling what day of the week was March 28th, 1763 - those are super powers! I shared with her about the girl with autism who never spoke. People assumed she wasn't smart, so she taught herself how to read and write - now? She is a published author! She can't make the words in her mind come out of her mouth, but boy can she write them! (See, back to writing!) Would she have that unique ability to describe what most often limit to speaking if she could form those words verbally?

Since navigating these waters of autism is so new to us, the learning curve so wide, I am sure this will not be the only blog I will post on the topic. I did want to introduce this "let's be real" first as it is one, of many, in which fills those pen hued pages of notebook. It is life and it is beautiful.

The wave...

As I brush off the dust from my computer's neglected keyboard and open the college-ruled notebook that accompanies me to every chiropractic, physically therapy, blood testing, -ologist, etc. apt…every two hours of becoming the human kid-taxi…I finally sit down to blog, to you. The chicken scratchings of thoughts, marked in various hues of pen colors and pencil strokes - notations, ideas, and random thoughts….all with the plans to pry open the laptop and click away at the keys, yet not doing so.

In last year's blog, "Coffee and chronological order…," I mentioned not getting caught up by linear form, to pen the scenes that the mood dictates, not just what should be next. In a round about way, I have ignored my own suggestions and done just that! Although there isn't a chronological order to my blog, there is the underlying topic - about writing. However, even though my daily life is writing, it isn't the process or finite details that consume it - It is life. I realized that without tips and tactics to share, I wasn't blogging. With the chaos of life, I pen it, but never post. So - for the time being, I am no longer limiting myself suggestion, but to whatever drives my thoughts, yet writer focused. Maybe I should rename - "The continuing writer - let's be real"?

Why the title, "The wave…"? In those many hours, riding over speed bumps, stopped at red lights, and rolling my eyes at impatient drivers, a thought came to mind. We drive a Jeep Wrangler Rubicon - my husband's pride and joy. When he bought our silver tank, the dealership let us in on the Wrangler secret - the wave - four fingers up and a slant, given to the Wranglers driving the other way. I have no idea where this began or why it is singular to this vehicle, just that it is. It is a commonality - "I chose as you did" vehicular connection between strangers. Maybe writers need a wave - perhaps a pencil in the air - "I write, too!?" The thought was fleeting and invoked a soft giggle - "there goes that lady driving around with her pencil in the air!" Obviously, it wouldn't catch on and has more potential to become a driving hazard than a "thing," but still - to all you writers, taxying your children here and there, I raise my invisible pencil to you!

Having problems "braining?"...

Allow me to paint you a picture with words…
Millions of water droplets are assaulting your car's windshield. Back and forth, wipers work in synchronized motions, clearing the moisture from the glass. Traffic. Of course it would be heavy on hour ten of eleven long ones. As the happy American Bulldog snoozes with your daughter in the backseat, the hubby hums along to the radio and chomps on the cookies purchased at the gas station north of Ocala. Behind the wheel, you navigate the rain storm and automobiles. In a domino affect, taillights shine red - one after another, breaks peeling with their complete stops. Your arms and body tense, taught as the wheel you grasp tightly, foot firm in the heavy push of the pedal, as the Jeep shimmies to a stop. Behind you, the Mercedes is less attentive to the series of events and still approaches, closer and closer, until a jerking action shoves you forward. Lovely. Hour ten. One to go. Pulling over into the wet grass beside the cluttered asphalt lanes, you and the Mercedes roll. Hour ten, with the upcoming police report, now two to go.

We had a wonderful vacation in the picturesque North Carolina foothills last week. A few trees were tipped with red lined leaves, preparing for the autumn peak. With two vehicles for the trip, it meant neither car held all three kiddos (read: MUCH quieter) and the dog was a wonderful traveler! Now, however, I feel like I need a vacation after my vacation! The whiplash of the rear-ending fractured a vertebrae in the upper lumbar of my neck. (At least the X-rays validated that my pain wasn't imagined!) I, as the sole tensed one in the car, was the only injured party, thankfully. Since then, however, I seem to be having a problem braining!

It is a made-up verb, I know; but it is the best way to describe the cobwebs and fog in my mind.  I have read the same paragraphs over and over, walked into many a room and forgotten why I entered, looked at my third grader's math with a puzzled expression - oh, it is math. Hm. The accident didn't give me dame bramage or anything (har har), but the pain just has me "off" in the department of adequate braining. I was going to wait until I felt better to blog (because, frankly, I couldn't think of what to blog about!), but opted to just write whatever popped into my head, instead. My first thoughts, staring aimlessly at the blank post title, was "I am having problems braining!!" So - there you go! Ever have a hard time braining?

The backseat occupants..at the NC rental house. (Photograph contributed by Holly McLaughlin, my sis-in-law. :) )