Patron Saint of College Kids

In my faith, if you have a need, we've got a saint for that. I've got one of those little "guardian angels" hanging from the rear view of the pick-up, but I don't take much stock in it. Some would say I need a St. Christopher medal, but I got Sam and me a membership in AAA instead.

If you've lost someone close to you, like we have in the Wolfe house, then you probably carry that person with you like a patron saint from time to time.

The year after Mark died, in my own year of magical thinking, I often talked to birds that came close, in case it was him.

Friends would tell me that they would get visits from their loved one. These were the greatest stories, by the way, friends who could see the loved one in a bedroom mirror after dark, or who would see the loved one next to the bed, and carry on a conversation. I was a little jealous. The birds never talked back to me. Once I thought Mark was trying to visit -- coming down the hall after all the kids had fallen asleep -- but I got so terribly frightened that he never tried again.

Hence the birds.

I digress.

Michael called when I got home from Iowa. He was filled with emotion. He had felt Mark's presence all through the end of high school and through the first years of college. But now, as he is about to start his senior year, Mark has left his side, Michael says.

"He was trying to get me to be the man he wanted me to be," Michael said.

Michael realized the message: he was there, the rest was up to him, it was his life to lead now.

Mark's been gone for nearly five years and he still makes me weak in the knees.

See Sam Run as an e-book

Coming soon. So excited to join the digital revolution.

That is all.

On writing, on reading and The Mayborn

People often ask artists who has influenced their work -- musicians, painters, sculptors, filmmakers, writers. It's a tough question to escape. I've asked it, but not too often, because I've found that many good artists don't seem keen on bringing that kind of consciousness to their work.

I write intuitively, too. I try to edit consciously. And editing often seems to be slightly under the influence of whomever I'm reading at the time.

(Except Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Isabel Allende, and Joan Didion. They are always there.)

This year, Paige has left behind collections from University of Iowa students. Home of Iowa Writers Workshop, there comes from Iowa always something fresh, and often ever-so-slightly unworkable in those pages. I enjoy them. And my friend, RunnerSusan, has loaned me a dozen of her favorite works of fiction that have taken me down unexpected paths.

I took a break from reading the authors scheduled for this weekend's Mayborn conference to pour over essays for a writer's workshop. My essay, Carrion (see the pages on the left), has been accepted to the workshop, so I am reading the work of others who will be sequestered with me and our workshop leader. More new voices and ideas.

Like a book club, only on steroids, it's the eighth Mayborn writer's conference this weekend. It doesn't seem that long ago that I threw the manuscript for "See Sam Run" into the workshop to see what would happen. There won't be anything on that scale for me this weekend, but it will be for someone, and there is all that other talk of writing and reading and writing that is so inspiring to us all. I can't wait to see what this weekend will bring.

Overheard in the Wolfe House #161

Sam (watching Wheel of Fortune): The Talented Cast of Glee!

Peggy: Wow, Sam. That's pretty good, since we never watch that show.

Sam: It just came into my head.

Peggy: That's because you can learn things from context.

Don't Spare the Horses.

When Michael was home visiting for the holidays, we had a shared moment for which the details completely escape me now, but after which my son said, "Wow, Mom. Don't spare the horses."

I'd never heard that before. But I liked it. I liked it so much I wondered whether it would make a good New Year's resolution. One I could actually keep.

In a word, yes.

I logged my 500th mile in in training this month and other things in my life are proceeding at that dogged pace.

Last night, I dreamt something was outside my front door. Unlike all the other dreams of monsters and tornadoes and machines and floods and fire and being forced to get control of a runaway vehicle from the backseat of the car, I didn't hesitate.

Texas has a castle law, you know.

Chisholm Challenge

Before the bull and bronc riders, before the rodeo show and the barrel racers at the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo, you can see some terrific horsemanship at the Chisholm Challenge for Special Riders.

Thanks to all the volunteers and staff, and sponsors, of the area stables that continue to serve the community in a way no other recreational outlet can.

If you check it out, you'll never see horses and riders in quite the same way again.

It Takes a Village

Sam didn't learn to swim the summer this little movie was made. He was 4 1/2 years old. He enjoyed the water very much.

After we moved to Texas, my neighbor, Karol Smith, took all three of my kids into her backyard pool and taught them to swim in a week. She said she'd taught dozens of kids to swim by condensing the way most parks and rec programs did it -- sometimes over several years of summers. She guaranteed she'd get it done.

It was the summer Paige turned 6, so Michael would have been 8, and Sam, 11. I was certain she'd have Michael and Paige swimming, but told her Sam might take a little longer.

It didn't. And, Karol turned Sam into the biggest fish of them all.

Bonenkai or not?

There are many things about 2011 that tell me it doesn't matter how many black-eyed peas I eat, that Southern tradition for good luck isn't going to work for me.

I loved being a part of many year-end parties in Japan when I was there twenty-five years ago. (Gad, that's a long time.) Even though 1985 was a good year, everyone acted as if it couldn't come to an end soon enough so that they could have another shot at it in the New Year. We ate like kings. And then the New Year came -- and that's three full days of resting and eating and being with family and friends.

Now, 1986 was a very good year for me. So I'm thinking Paige's little project this afternoon of making ramen noodles from scratch (based on a website that has thorough directions, with photos) ought to be our bonenkai. She's trying to channel her dad, who was an excellent pasta maker (his recipe below -- he would have the noodles cut by the time the water was boiling).

Yep, I'm thinking 2012 is going to be a very good year.

Mark's Perfect Pasta
Two heaping 1/3 cups of semolina flour
1 egg
1 T. water
salt
1 tsp. olive oil
white flour
large pot boiling, salted water

Put all ingredients in a food processor and process til a ball forms, about 3 minutes.

Turn out on a floured board and knead for a minute or two until supple. If it's too wet, knead flour into it. Divide into parts and put through your pasta machine. You may need to roll it through several times at the wider setting until the dough is supple enough to start rolling it through the thinner settings. Dust with flour on both sides before you roll it through the cutter.
Drop the noodles in the water and cook until slightly swollen, about five to ten minutes. Big noodles take longer.
Drain.
Serve hot with garlic butter and grated Romano cheese; your favorite marinara sauce; room temperature with pesto; or cold over cucumber cut julienne style and peanut sauce poured over all.

I've already posted the pesto recipe. I'll put up the peanut sauce recipe tomorrow.

Propped Against The Meyerson Wall

Random thoughts from today's half-marathon (a first for me, for Dallas and for the guy in front of us at the porta-potties).

Following the crowd can be a good strategy, unless you are looking for a parking place. After running 13.1 miles, it's wicked difficult to get out of your truck and walk up your drive. Just because the main architectural feature of a Highland Park house is rustication, it doesn't mean the occupants don't have a sense of humor. Some of the Katy Trail bounces. Volunteers give out water and Powerade. Angels pass out strawberries. The best freebie wasn't the finisher's medal with the 13.1 time turner (needed that really badly about Mile 10), the Oreos (which I'm chewing in this picture), the mini-muffin, the orange, the water, the Powerade or the pretzels. It was the pre-moistened, Texas-size, super fresh, moist towel. There are still places in the city where you can sit on your steps on a Saturday morning, in your robe, drink your coffee and watch your granddaughter watch the world go by.

Just a Little Further

My first half-marathon. And on the Katy Trail. Runner Susan is packing orange-flavored sports beans.


Can't wait.

Humbled

This is just about the nicest thing a peer has ever said about me ... dunno whether it was Gayle Reaves, or Jeff Prince, or Peter Gorman, or another one of those tenacious journalists over at the Fort Worth Weekly who wrote this, but I've got tears in my eyes.

I've long respected and admired their work and have been jealous at times that alt-weeklies have more ink to accomplish what needs to be said. And the Weekly knows that when it comes to the Barnett Shale, A LOT more needs to be said.

But, as The Hollies sang on the radio on the way home from Arlington today (from yet another public hearing on the hydraulic fracturing frenzy) and as if just to me ...

His Own Kind of Up

In training for my first half-marathon, as of this morning, I have run 193 miles. That's about as far as Kent Couch flew in 2007, when he launched his lawn chair with helium balloons in his own version of "Up."

And So It Begins

My friend, and fellow autism mom, Yolanda, calls it the business of empty nesting.

Michael moved into his first apartment this week. I let him shop the house for things he would need to stock the kitchen and outfit the rest of this space he'll share with three other guys. He's a junior at TCU, and each step taken is a further step from the nest. It's exciting to watch, and a little bittersweet.

Paige is next. She will move into the dorm this week at the University of Iowa. Dorm life is not as nice there in Iowa City. I suspect by this time next year, she'll be hunting down her first apartment, the way I did after my first year at North Texas.

Back then, in the dark ages, Bruce Hall didn't have air conditioning. I wasn't putting up with another year of that.

Sam sees these exoduses and knows he's got to make his own moves. We've talked about it a lot in the past year. He doesn't have a good enough job yet, but he's getting there.

Last night, he emailed the folks at Marbridge in Austin. Another young man his age, Daniel, moved there after high school, got a good job at a local hospital, and just this past year, moved out of Marbridge village and into his first apartment. Sam knows that's the kind of support he needs to make the transition.

We're supposed to go tour soon.

And so the last fledging, not to be outdone by his brother and sister, starts stretching his wings.

Anesthesia and the Incredible Likeness of Your Being

I just brought Paige home from the dentist where she had all four of her wisdom teeth extracted. I've been through this enough -- with Mark and the boys and myself -- to know what to expect.

Paige, always thinking, rarely speaking, has yet to say a word, but we're communicating. That includes her throwing a hand signal to make sure I didn't forget about the construction detour on the way home. (I almost did.)

Michael, always questioning, came out of anesthesia with a 10-second loop of memory. He looked at me and asked, "Is it over? That wasn't too bad. How do I look?" Before I could answer the second question, he came again. "Is it over? That wasn't too bad. How do I look?" I squeezed his arm and tried to get to that second question again when he looked up at me the same way for the third time. "Is it over? That wasn't too bad. How do I look?"

The nurse said, "That's pretty common. He'll get his memory back."

Mark had a tougher time of it. Like most of his life, everything came with complications. When I've been under, all I do is sleep and puke. I have to purge before I can get on with my life. But when I do, it's a brand new day.

Sam becomes his essential self, too. When he wakes up from anesthesia, his big brown eyes turn into holes of the universe, just like when he was a baby, and if you let yourself fall in, it's love and terror all in one.

Overheard in the Wolfe House #115

Peggy: With all the traveling and time out of the house I've had, I've missed you.
Sam: Well, get used to it.

Love Letter to JK Rowling

My daughter and I have tickets to opening night of the final installment of Harry Potter Thursday. The kids have gone on opening night before; this will be a first for me. We'll see part one and part two back to back. It seemed right to do it. Paige, my youngest, heads off to college this fall.

I don't know how my kids would have grown up without being able to do it alongside Harry Potter. Ours is a happy house, overall, one that often looks like the Weasley's burrow, although my clock doesn't keep very good track of the kids and I must wash dishes myself.

But their world has become a dark and scary place more than once, and there were times it seemed only the wisdom in those pages got them through.

When love didn't go as planned, there was Harry and Ginny, and Ron and Hermoine, to remind them that respect and friendship comes first.

After their father died suddenly -- and they felt all alone knowing that no one else in their world knew what they knew -- along came Luna, who reassured them that she sees the thestrals, too.

And when the mother-of-all-battles came home to burn the burrow and destroy the school, they recognized how to sort the world into the truly courageous and those who can only feign bravery.

I doubt, actually, I could have communicated to Sam what is needed to get through the next few years without those final chapters.

Thank you, J.K. Rowling, for being there for my kids when all I had left to offer was the wisdom of the best coming-of-age story ever told.

Working Title

So, yes, I'm working on another book. My longtime friend, Shahla Alai Rosales, an applied behavior analysis professor at the University of North Texas, and I are putting together a parenting book on decision-making.

We recognized that parents make decisions for their young children everyday. But parents of children with disabilities often make more decisions, and sometimes for the duration of their child's entire life. We wanted to put together timeless information for parents, guiding their decisions so that they result in lifelong happiness and satisfaction for their child and their family.

I told my co-worker, Lowell Brown (with whom I'd also like to co-author a book on the Barnett Shale someday) the working title for our parenting book:

Between Now and Dreams: A Parent's Guide for Every Decision You'll Ever Make.

Lowell's deadpan response, "You think that's comprehensive enough?"

Absolutely, dude. And we're going to pack it all in a skinny little book that you can carry around in your brief case or purse.

We're going to change the world.

Getting By With A Little Help From Our Friends

After my public whine about DARS, a few friends reached out with unexpected and much appreciated offers. Sam seized on them both, forwarding a resume to one and securing an interview with another.

I accompanied him to the interview, in part because I wanted to see my old friend, but also because she asked that I be there.

My friend runs a company started by her late husband assembling circuit boards. I'm sure there is nothing in "What Color is Your Parachute" or any of the other how-to-get-a-job-books about bringing your mom along, but that's how we roll.

Sam and my friend communicated just fine together. They are both straight shooters. She gave him a tour and checked his ability to do some of the fine motor work. Then she told him she would work around his Albertsons schedule for now. Very classy. If it doesn't work out, there is an easy retreat for both of them.

But I have to say, at the end of the interview, when she asked about another task altogether -- helping her link up some kind of time clock hardware to her current accounting software -- I saw a huge spark in Sam's eyes.

Every Day of The Year

Based on things Sam has said about the gas plant next door over the past 12 months, I can tell he wakes up each day and thinks, "Maybe today is the day that they lose and we win and we can stay."

As my friend Nancy said, it's sweet, but it's sad.

It's a universal truth, too. I wake up everyday thinking my husband is alive and my home isn't threatened.

Then I draw my first waking breath.

How Paige Sees Home