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.

It's 10 o'clock

Michael has moved into his apartment at TCU and Paige is packing. Tomorrow Paige and I hop in the pick-up and drive her back to Iowa for her sophomore year.

Summer ends again, tonight.

I tried not to cry when she started kindergarten. She's my youngest, but for years she had watched her older brothers go off to school. Even though she went to nursery school three mornings a week, she was so ready that day she went to kindergarten. She just bounded out of the car like her brothers and headed confidently to her classroom. She was big. How could I cry?

Sunday morning, we'll move her into a new room, although in the same dormitory as last year. She's out of her living-learning community, but the bonds between her and fellow writers from last year are strong. They are already trying to figure out how they can find a house to share by next year.

She may not even come home next summer. I'm mindful of that. I didn't come home after my freshman year. We're starting to collect things she will need to live in her first home away from home.

She's big.

How can I cry?

Horse bling

Sam isn't a belt-buckle-wearing kind of guy. When he'd come home from Chisholm Challenge with another trophy buckle, usually from being the best in English equitation, we'd look at it lovingly for a minute. The organizers of Chisholm Challenge order the trophy buckles each year from the silversmith in Placerville, Calif. That was always fun to see, too. I knew the shop since I worked for the El Dorado Arts Council for three years, back when Sam was an infant and toddler. 

But then, we'd just put the buckle back in the velveteen box and shove it in the dining room cabinet. (Lots of room in there. We don't have many fancy dishes.) After a few years, I felt bad. He worked hard for those buckles and he didn't get one every year for every event. (Unlike Special Olympics medals, but I digress.) 

I figured it was time for a display. I asked Dad, and the next time we were talking on Skype, he showed me what he'd built. I brought it home two weeks ago and showed it to Sam. 

He's not really a belt-buckle-arranging kind of guy, either. I pulled them out of the box, marveled at the craftsmanship and then arranged them. 

I hope he's a belt-buckle-noticing kind of guy. 

Love Letter to Caleb

Our family has been touched again by tragedy.

My cousin Caleb's mother left his dad, my uncle, when Caleb was very young. We had to wait until Caleb was grown to see him. We are so grateful he wanted to know us, because to know him was to see and know aloha's true meaning.

Below is the titular essay of this blog, where you can know a little of Caleb, too.

Family Room

Chris painted a Mardi Gras mural in the family room downstairs after Karen and Greg moved into their Loveland house. In it, a girl sashays to the music, her necklace swinging to the beat. Light shines from party rooms down the street. Up close, the corner bricks feel real. For a time, Greg’s first anniversary present to Karen, a painting, hung in the family room, too. For a first anniversary -- for “paper” -- that’s a beautiful idea. Their family room seemed a good place for a golden anniversary party. Come and go. Say hello. Sit outside if you want. Escape to a quiet room, if you need.

Friends came. In-laws and exes came. Family came from next door and far away, Arizona, Hawaii, Illinois, Texas, Utah, and Wisconsin. Even though Don and Carol were the guests of honor, Phil found the easy chair. They wore tunics, silk dresses, crisp shirts and sport coats, jeans and t-shirts. Greg changed his clothes. Outside the family room, in the back yard, Bill took pictures of every permutation. Cousins, siblings, daughters, nieces, grandkids. Bench, stairs, trees, grasses, sky, clouds. Peggy and Chris took off their fancy shoes and went barefoot like Caleb after that. Greg changed his clothes again.

Karen put a big bowl of M&Ms in front of the big screen TV. She was in charge of the caterers, who brought teriyaki chicken on sticks, Swedish meatballs in white gravy, and spicy tortilla rolls with bean dip. They put extras in the oven and refrigerator, which we forgot for a while. Chris was in charge of the frosty orange punch made of ginger ale, juice and sherbet, but Peggy broke the punch ladle. Andrew was in charge of two cakes -- one of three towering tiers, wrapped in blue ribbon, glazed with red raspberries, bordered with delicate dots, and topped with flowers; another made with crunchy carrots and nuts. Perry was in charge of the wine. He laughed when Greg put foam tops on the Guinness Stout.

Don said there were more guests and less time to visit than he expected. One friend came with his wife. After saying hello, they made themselves comfortable in the family room, visiting with other guests. When it was time to go, they teased the happy couple, “Thanks for the conversation.”

Jeremy played the ukulele. When there were too many people in the family room, he and Caleb took two carloads to the go-cart track. Although they knew how to get there, no one seemed to know where they were, except that Michael said they saw an eagle there. Janelle giggled when someone said Helen took too many pictures while she drove her go-cart, and Sharon caused a pile-up.

On the TV, behind the bowl of M&Ms, Teresa showed a music video she made using photos showing the early years; November 7, 1959; all the girls; travels; and the grandkids. Upstairs, Karen had filled a wall with ten of those photos.

After that, Don and Carol lit the anniversary candle and cut the cake. Some people ate cake with a spoon when the forks ran out. Then, Peggy and Karen and Greg scavenged for forks, washing them to reuse them, at least, until the carrot cake was all gone.

Guests asked again to watch the movie starring Don and Carol, with supporting characters Peg, Chris, Karen, Teresa, Mark, Matt, Greg, Perry, and . . . Ron, Sam, Michael, Paige, Carter, Matthew, Brandon, and Mandy.

By twilight, friends had gone, taking a shortbread cookie, frosted a blue 50^th on white, for a party favor. Kyra and Sara had already taken many shortbread cookies, since they were at the right height for small arms and hands.

After a futile search of the family room, and the rest of the house, for the lost remote, Carter and Tammy and others played “Catch Phrase” instead of “Scene It.” Hot potato meets Taboo. Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. BUZZ.

Then Carol made a small circle of chairs near Edith, announcing she would open cards, some of which came with gifts or $50 bills because a few guests simply refused to follow instructions.

As the caterers came to collect their satiny blue tablecloths, platters and serving trays, everyone helped clean the family room. Greg was in charge of the trash. While everyone else was busy in the family room, Matt decorated Don and Carol’s Grand Caravan with window paint.

“Just married -- 50 years ago.”

Happy Valentine's Day from Mark and Peggy

Sometimes we did things just to see if we could.

I've tried the html/javascript widget, but blogger doesn't want to share. Copy and paste this into your browser to listen on Chirbit.
http://chirb.it/Fwy53p

Being Who You Are

My grandmother's 90th birthday was was her last.

We knew that. Her cancer was untreatable. She had been blinded by macular degeneration years ago. She sent word through the family that she wouldn't be sending Christmas cards anymore.

It's a big family, on my mom's side. My mother is the oldest of nine. I'm the oldest granddaughter of, um, about sixteen, or so, I think. I haven't met all my cousins. Many are still in Wisconsin, but not all. The great-grandchildren number more than 40, and yes, I believe there are great-great-grandchildren, too. My youngest uncle is only two years older than I am.

What can I say, except we're a big, Catholic family.

Except about 10 years ago, Grandma let go that we weren't always. Mom went back to meet the cousins in Northern Ireland. My great-grandfather came over from Ireland as a Presbyterian. He never sent for his family. He married my great-grandmother, shown in this photo with my grandmother.


Grandma converted to Catholicism to marry Grandpa.

My grandmother liked ham sandwiches and drank black coffee no matter what. She knew everything there was to know about babies. She was loving, but not a sentimental person nor the keeper of scores of family treasures (if there even were any).

She liked tossing out the old and in with the new. Grandma was in the moment.

But she was always stitching something. She was the first relative to show me the value of handmade gifts. One year, Grandma and Grandpa made all the granddaughters doll beds of wooden spools and cut coat hangers. They were canopy beds, and mine had pink flocking. I couldn't believe I got the pink one. In my seven-year-old opinion, it was the prettiest of all the beds.

Whenever I visited my grandparents, which got harder and harder to do as the years went by, I would get a tour of the house to see the latest creations. It was as good as touring a folk art museum.

There were other family secrets Grandma never shared. Some we knew, but couldn't speak of, because she wouldn't acknowledge them. Some we learned from Aunt Bea.

Aunt Bea, the originator of the family's sweet roll recipe, and the speaker of family secrets.

Grandma probably just found out how much her sister Bea let on. Don't worry, Grandma. It's all good. It's all about the love. You knew that and so do we.

Mark's Kahlua

Just about every year this time of year we'd have to hightail it outside and stay gone for a while because Mark would be making kahlua for his friends and music colleagues. The only thing that stinks up the house more than making kahlua is making mustard. Caramelizing onions isn't even on the same scale of stink, I'm telling you.

Ok, guys. Here's the recipe he refined while we were living in Sacramento.

2 quarts plus one cup water
7 cups sugar
6 ounces of freeze-dried coffee
1 T. Hershey's cocoa, optional
1 fifth of Everclear
3 T. vanilla

1. Drive to Reno to buy Everclear. (After we moved to Texas, he drove to Paradise.)
2. Boil water and add sugar. Add coffee and boil for 15 minutes. The house will be really smelly, so go outside. Add the cocoa and remove from the heat. Let cool.
3. Add Everclear and vanilla. Bottle and keep in your liquor cabinet.

Today it's four years since he's been gone.

I don't like thinking that at some point in my life I will have lived more of my life without him than with him.

What Little Girls Are Made Of

As Paige was packing up for college last summer, we had a dilemma. She'd been borrowing my jewelry box for years because she had way more bangles and beads and baubles than I did.

I stopped wearing earrings when the kids were babies and pulled on them. My skin has autism. It doesn't like bracelets or necklaces or rings. She felt a little guilty about taking my box, especially since that left me without anything for the few things I do have.

On her dresser was a box she'd made at art camp in elementary school. It was empty. I asked her about the ceramic piece affixed to the top. Did she remember making it?

No, she said, but she did remember what inspired her. "I had learned the atmosphere was made up of bits of sunlight, and water, and the grass around us. I wanted to make that. I wanted to make the atmosphere."



That went right to my heart. "I'll trade you boxes," I said. She didn't think it was a fair trade, but I convinced her.

My little girl comes home for the holidays tonight.

Sugar and spice.

Happy 24th, Sam!

The only time in his life I can buy a pack of candles and use every last one of them.

Here is the cake we nearly always bake for a Wolfe family birthday, ever since I bought Rosso and Lukins New Basics Cookbook and adapted it.

The Chocolate Birthday Cake

1 c. butter
1 1/4 c. white sugar
1 c. brown sugar
3 eggs
3 ounces unsweetened baking chocolate
2 1/4 c. flour
2 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
9 T. buttermilk
1 c. boiling water
2 tsp. vanilla

Cream the butter and the sugar in the mixer for five minutes. Add eggs one at a time. Make sure each egg is fully incorporated before adding the next one. Meanwhile, melt chocolate in the microwave by breaking the blocks in pieces and microwaving on high one minute. If not fully melted, microwave for 30 seconds at a time until melted. Fold into butter and egg mixture.

Sift flour, soda and salt together. Add one third of flour mixture with 3 T. of buttermilk and mix on low. Repeat two times, mixing until all buttermilk and flour is incorporated.

With mixer on low, slowly pour in boiling water and then add vanilla. Pour into two prepared cake pans (I prefer Doughmakers) and bake at 375 til it pulls away from the sides and springs back in the middle, 25 to 32 minutes.

While the cake cools, melt 1 1/2 c. chocolate chips in a small saucepan with 8 T. of butter over very low heat, stirring occasionally. Remove from heat, gently store in 2/3 c. half-n-half, 1 tsp. vanilla and 1 c. confectioner's sugar. This mixture will be thin. Refrigerate, stirring every 10-15 minutes until its stiff enough to frost the cake.

Start by applying a thin layer of ganache on the bottom cake round. Sprinkle with additional chocolate chips, pressing them down into the ganache. Top with other round, frost top and sides.

Serve. Store any leftovers covered in the refrigerator.

Tuba Juba Duba

Michael worked hard for a year to learn to play the violin. Mark wanted him to know that music can be fun, too. He suggested this little duet for them to play during the Argyle Talent Show in 2001. Michael captured this video this morning and edited it.
Happy listening!

Miss Connie

Like most kids with autism, Sam couldn't tolerate having his hair cut when he was little. I ended up having to cut his hair in his sleep.

It worked fine when he was a toddler, although one night he kept waking up and fussing while I was trying to cut his hair, so I stopped. The next day, we went out somewhere to get some carryout and walked past a table with a couple of older men having a cup of coffee. One of the guys looked at Sam and said, "Son, you need to have a talk with your barber."

Mark and I burst out laughing. And I told the man the job would be finished tonight, and no payment was due the barber fairy.

Eventually, our next door neighbor, who was a stylist, said she'd give it a go. We'd do it at home, putting him in the high chair and setting out a mirror. Judy would bring her supplies to the house.

It worked!

Judy was really patient. Sam was fond of telling her what to do, and Judy went along with it.

When we left California, we weren't sure we'd find someone like Judy, but we were wrong. Connie Clark stepped right in. Her big heart and boundless sense of humor got Sam from kindergarten haircuts through middle school.

Haircuts at Connie's became a family affair. Everyone took their turn in the chair -- another thing Sam could be in charge of, who's turn it was next to get a haircut.

We followed her over to Robson Ranch when she moved her shop from Argyle, and that old converted gas station, to a real salon. Even though most of her clients were older, we still came as a mob.

Connie got cancer and eventually she wasn't strong enough to stand all day and cut people's hair. Mark started taking the boys over to Unique Stylists in Denton. After Mark died, Sam kept up his appointments with Wayne. He never lets his locks get very long.

When a life is touched by autism, it touches thousands of other lives in ways you can't imagine until you are there, watching. Connie was one of those people who helped Sam navigate to a fairly independent, normal adult life.

Just by cutting his hair.




We'll miss you, Miss Connie.

The Peter Principle

Oh, the holidays are coming. Mostly, they stress me out, but I like the making of the presents and the baking of the things. Recipes I don't dare make any other time of year because I'd blow up like Violet in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory if I did.

Things such as fruitcake -- the kind people love because you douse it with rum once a week -- has to be started this month.

When the kids were little, we would make a gingerbread house that they could take to Cornerstone Cooperative Preschool for the Christmas party and break it apart and eat it.

I took a class from Sacramento County parks and recreation that was just Christmas cookie recipes. Got lots of good ones there -- little sesame thins, which are about as addictive as sables, and one of those early versions of death-by-chocolate cookies that were more brownie or candy than cookie.

We always make cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning.

Those little guys were really tender the years Mark was able to score two 50 pound bags of Peter Pan flour. The bags were damaged in a delivery he was making. The flour was fine.

Oh, I loved that flour. We became baking fiends. Scones, biscuits, artisan-style breads, homemade pizza. As the bags emptied, I begged Mark to ask them next time he was trucking for Morrison (he drove a regional run for JB Hunt) to ask them where to get it. They said those big bags only went to restaurants and bakers. They couldn't sell him any.

I know I should be able to find the little bags of Peter Pan in the stores, but I never see them. I buy King Arthur, which is good, too, and Albertsons "O" Organic.

Sigh.

I'll go on the hunt again, but it's going to be another Christmas without Peter Pan.

Good thing Sam's favorite cookie doesn't need flour. This one came from the Sacramento class. It's called Unbelievable Cookies

1 c. crunchy peanut butter
1 c. sugar
1 egg
1 c. chocolate chips.

Mix peanut butter, sugar and egg in a bowl. Stir in chips. Shape in balls and bake at 325 for 10 minutes. Do not over bake.

Southern Impolite Meets a Yankee Can of Whoop-Ass

(Note to readers: This is not one of my best moments. I'm exploring events from our lives for the next book, in hopes that there are lessons and wisdom in these experiences. Or, at minimum, a good chuckle. Let's see what happens with this one.)

At the end of Sam's second-grade year, the kids and I went with Mark to Shreveport for a year-end concert with the Shreveport Symphony Orchestra.

It was a great opportunity for the kids to see their dad perform as the tubist in the orchestra. Most concert settings are so formal, even I had hard time behaving.

The Shreveport Symphony had always held their year-end concert in the convention center. They put out round tables and lots of kitschy decorations around the room. Some people decorated their tables, too, and of course the food and wine flowed as the symphony played a pops program.

The acoustics were horrible -- there was a level of background noise in the room that I'm sure made it a real challenge for the guys on the mixing board. But a great time was always had by all.

The kids and I sat in the back with some other symphony friends at our table and at tables around us. Given how young the kids were -- Sam was 8, Michael was 5 and Paige not quite 3 -- I was thrilled how well they behaved. Especially Sam. He didn't get up and run around the tables. He wiggled and fidgeted some in his seat. Sometimes he would slip down and stand up next to his chair, but at his size, he wasn't tall enough to block the view for any one around us.

This was a huge accomplishment for him. We had worked hard during second grade to help Sam learn to stay in his seat and pay attention. He had such trouble with it at the beginning of the year that his teacher had begun to send him out to the hallway with his aide when he couldn't sit still. While I could see her point that he was a distraction for the other kids in the class, the aide noticed that sending him out in the hallway was reinforcing the problem. She got worried. I called Kevin Callahan, a special education professor at the University of North Texas at the time. He came to observe and designed a little intervention that helped Sam teach himself to stay in his seat and pay attention. It was brilliant and it worked.

But Sam's behavior wasn't perfect, and even though his little brother and sister wiggled and fidgeted, too, Sam's wiggles got the attention of one woman a table or two away. She would watch Sam. She would whisper to the people at her table. It was hard not for me to notice I was being judged, too.

I did my best to ignore the Chinese water torture of her judgment. We were making some good memories and I didn't want to give her the power to spoil it.

After the concert ended, people began packing up their tables. Sam, Michael and Paige rushed to the stage to hug their dad and meet the other musicians. I stayed behind to pack up our things. I looked up to see the woman was approaching me.

She began to tell me what she thought was wrong with Sam.

I listened patiently for her to get to her stopping point. I told her that actually I was quite proud of my son because he has autism and his dad was performing and this was about the best he had sat still and paid attention this whole year.

Then she smiled this treacly smile and said, "Well, I am a teacher of the emotionally disturbed and in my experience ..."

I lost it.

I leaned forward and yelled, "Get out of my face."

She looked stunned. But she didn't move.

"Get out of my face!" I yelled again.

She took a step back.

"I said, get out of my face!"

Rule of three, she finally went back to her friends.

I was ashamed of myself for losing my cool. And a little grateful that the room was full of ambient noise, enough that only the woman and her friends knew what had happened between us. Maybe another table, but that was about it. The kids and Mark never heard it.

I walked very deliberately towards the stage. I could feel the woman and her friends watching me. I told Mark what had happened and turned and pointed to the woman. He studied her. She and her friends finished packing up and left.

"Do I need to go over there and do something?" he asked.

"Nah," I said. "I don't think she'll bother another autism parent again in her life."

Love Letter to Steve Jobs

In 1990, Mark and I didn't know anything about autism. But our little boy couldn't talk and we feared the worst.
Sam was drawn to a simple, hypercard game, "Cosmic Osmo," that came already loaded on our first MacIntosh computer.

As he played, we saw that even though Sam couldn't speak, he could think.



We never got to thank you while you were here, Steve Jobs. Today, I'm sure Mark got that covered.

Lights in London

I promise not to subject you to a bunch of home movies -- especially as aged as these images have obviously gotten -- but I couldn't help myself with this one.

When the Dallas Symphony went on its first European tour in 1997, Mark was hired as second tuba. I went along for the first half of the trip as an orchestra groupie. We had a blast.

We left the kids -- Sam was 9, Michael was 6, and Paige was 4 -- in the capable care of my parents. But we took the camcorder to capture things we thought would interest them on our return.

The videos sat in a box for years after our VHS player died. I borrowed one from my parents this summer and, with the help of a Pinnacle Dazzle, have begun digitizing the handful of family videos we have.

We made this little ditty in London when we realized how much fun Sam would have had, if he had been there to play with the light switches.

This was the first time I've heard Mark's voice since the week he died. I'm not sure who was grinning bigger tonight when we captured this first "movie," Sam -- re-living a favorite childhood memory -- or me, remembering the sound of the love of my life.

True Grit

"Thought for the day: there's a lot to live for, and everything happens for a reason. Pain is normal, tears are how we heal, and being happy all the time is unreasonable. We hurt, but that hurt makes our happiness that much more meaningful. The key is to keep moving on, embrace life, and always be thankful for what we have (which is often much more than we give ourselves credit for)." -- Michael Wolfe, Facebook

Tenacity

"Straighten up, Willie. It's time to row." -- Isabel Allende, The Sum of Our Days.

Temptations

"How tempting to live in limbo and wait for my real life to return. But this was my real life now. Life is a thing that mutates without warning, not always in enviable ways."

-- Diane Ackerman, "One Hundred Names for Love"

My Dad is Socrates

After a long discussion about this summer's horrendous heat wave ...

Peggy: I confess. In years' past, I would be grateful if we had only a few days over 100 degrees.
Dad: Is that really a good way to live?
Peggy: Ummmm, no.

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.