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| this is an interesting back yard... |
My boyz are ten years old now. I marvel in their twin-ness and in their individuality. Each with their strengths and talents, their challenges and barriers along the weaving road to adulthood, creating the fabric of their lives. They are navigating a childhood in a world and time that is dense with media driven expectations where success is measured by data and statistics that fail to capture human-ness. I linger on the fringe of their days, observing the unfolding of their experiences as young boyz, on an ancient planet plagued with distractions that drown the natural learning of a curious mind in an interesting world. Most days I have to ration their time with electronics, animated stories, and sibling rivalries. But this day promised to be different. We were invited to visit the backyard of Graham's forth grade teacher, Ms. Aiosa.
This is no small thing for us. Graham is classically autistic; non-verbal with some sensory processing quirks and a fearless curiosity that makes it stressful if not downright perilous to go visiting, anywhere. He approaches new environments with a mix of cautious yet persistent, exploration; able-bodied boy with selective reasoning. He'll take great care to climb a rock, but doesn't understand a road is a dangerous place. His twin brother, Eli, is quite opposite. Hyper verbal, precocious, articulate and larger than life. His imagination is vivid, fantastic and very absolute. Scary-smart, his reasoning is at the other end of the autism spectrum; making social algebra painfully elusive and emotions beyond his control when dis-regulated. But at the beginning and the end of their labels, they are boys. This is my favorite descriptor of them and watching them grow into their boyhoods is the salvation of my motherhood. This afternoon, would be a wondrous experience in witnessing this beautiful unfolding.
Because we don't get invited to many outings, because it is often unsettling for the hostess, because it can be stressful for me to attempt to manage my boyz in a situation that is not supportive of their challenges, because I am a wilted parent on a warm summer day; this was an especially appreciated outing. It came about as I had given a thank you note to Graham's teacher as she was exceptional in her inclusive nature with him in her class room. Within it, I slipped a note, on neon pink paper, inquiring if she would like to tutor Graham over the summer, in a play-based, teachable moment style. Some days later she phoned me and graciously offered to have us over to her back yard. She knows Graham and bit about Eli, but still she opened her home and summer comforts to us. A large pool, a deck, Popsicles, a frog pond, trails and her own young son... a boyz delight. I had to accept.
After recording the complex, rural directions to her back-country homestead, we gathered up our gear and set out across our bucolic town. I've lived here for 24 years and still, have not seen all corners of this Lamoille Valley township. Once 5 rural villages, the remnants of the farthest crossroads of Cambridge became visible in our drive out. Paved state roads, to dirt secondary, to smaller class 4 town road, to a narrow gravel lane marked private. Old farm walls and straining barns gave clues to a long ago place and time. Her directions were excellent and we glided into her door yard parking our 4wheel drive Honda next to hers. It was a custom cabin, following the round living style of a yurt but with all the artistry of a thoughtful mind. Surrounded by hardwoods, gardens, a timber gazibo and the grand pool, it had a welcoming energy. I would spend the afternoon studying the features of its design.
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| Eli and Jaccob ~ Marco Polo |
She came to greet us and introduce the boyz to her backyard, her son and her vision of a summer well spent. There was no awkwardness, only easy conversation as we settled in for an afternoon of fun and sun. Graham explored the surroundings with careful attention and mapping every detail in his mind. He noted the yard, the mulch pile, the deck and the pool. He spied dead oak leaves and made haste to them. Crumbling the crisp, brown leaves in his hands, he would sprinkle them in sun beams. Eli changed urgently into his swim suit and headed for the pool with a triumphant leap. All smiles and elated with the clear waters and the quick friendship of Ms. Aiosa's son. Graham required a little persuasion to get him into his swim trunks before attempting the pool's ladder. He loves the water and this was upto his neck so he could manage independently. He joined the two playmates, laughing and smiling as they splashed and tumbled in the refreshing waters. He enjoys observing from the edges, not sure how to play their game of water fighting. He soon tired of the cool water and wet antics, climbing out of the ladder expertly and choosing his land clothes. He dressed himself again and headed for the house. A bathroom break and exploration of the floor plan before returning to the pool deck.
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| "I can use this raft to get there..." |
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| "first I'll get on it..." |
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| "...then I'll get off it..." |
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| "I'll use the ladder to get out of the pool.." |
He found a floating, fabric ball and began chewing it. Pool water won't kill, but it will cause a belly ache, so I commanded his release of it and tossed it to the middle of the pool. Graham didn't become angry; he studied the situation. There were floating rafts in the pool, one by the edge of the deck. He commenced to test it for worthiness across the water. With Ms. Aiosa's support, he touched it, leaned on it and then climbed on. He would ferry himself to the ball, that was his mission. Back into swim shorts and then onto the float and around the edge. The ball was forgotten as he explored the raft and all the ways to climb on and off. He became the master of his ship. I smiled with his teacher as we realized he figured it all out by himself and that we don't give him enough credit. Graham learns by doing and he taught himself a new game. I pondered, where on the developmental milestones lists of autism, did this accomplishment belong? In his boyhood adventures, it was a natural event that most parents would never witness and perhaps take for granted as a part of growing up. With Graham and his autism, nothing is taken for granted. Every success is marvelous.
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| "...humm, now where's the frog..." |
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| "... come on Ms Aiosa.." |
Satisfied with his rafting skills, he left the pool and went for his land clothes again. He is diligent about the right clothes for the task at hand. This time our hostess would walk him to the frog pond. King Frog, immediately appeared and he was filled with curiosity. Though he doesn't speak words, his body language, and facial expressions convey volumes in his desires. He began to walk out on the narrow plank that united the shore to a small rock centered in the marshy pond. He's sure of his steps, so I wanted to watch; Ms. Aiosa was not so certain. He made it out to the rock and reached for her to come as well. She elected to stay on shore; he elected to move his feet on the slippery surface. SPLASH! and then splash again. He slipped off the rock into the murky waters of lilies, algae and frogs. She lept into 'save' him. The silty bottom made it hard for him to find his footing; he flashed a look of panic but then smiled when he could stand and his teacher's hands held his. My camera was shut down, so I missed this precious picture of a little boy, covered in green pond slime, smiling and pleased with his survival in this 'other-adventure'. For Ms Aiosa, it was a moment of "oh-no"... but for me I witnessed my son become a real boy. He took a chance, tried out an idea and survived the consequences. How many times do real boys take a risk, try something foolish, pick themselves up to try again. It makes them stronger, smarter, happier in testing themselves on the way to becoming human.
On this day, Graham lived this milestone right before my eyes. In all my wishes for Graham, in all my hopes and dreams for him, the hope that he will know what it feels like to be A Real Boy, is the biggest and broadest of them all. Another proud stripe in his boyhood; a gift beyond price given by a teacher who sees what I always see. The little boys beyond the labels. For Graham, self confidence; for Eli a new friend. Thank you Ms. Aiosa for a summer afternoon well spent.
luv and peace ~ ell
A quick fuel-up at the Cupboard Deli and we were ready for the back way to St. A. People were still delighted to see the flag and often stopped to gander and ponder the mechanics of riding with it. The first mile of the first day, my driver noticed the pull on his bike; he adjusted the tension of the flag with zip ties and adapted flawlessly to it's backward yaw on the bike. Everywhere we took it, back roads or city streets, it captured people's attention, if not their imagination. We would encounter more waves, thumbs ups and complements from all walks of folks. The bike purring along the roads, I would notice election signs for many of the gubernatorial primary candidates of all parties. Dems, GOP, a few I didn't even know their parties, some townships were clearly aligned in their interests. Some folks would openly announce or denounce their preferences in coffee shops, ice cream stands and post-parade banter. Sides were being chosen, fingers were being pointed; a polarization of politics and blame gaming was becoming increasingly terse, even in Vermont.
Reaching back, he patted my left knee and spoke over his shoulder, "...this is the best forth ever... the flag was an awesome idea...everywhere we went, people liked it..." "yup, I replied, "...it was important for me to see that, to see people respect it, to see their reverence no matter what else they think..." In silent agreement, we enjoyed the pensive ensemble of twilight; the best part of the day to ride...anywhere, everywhere... 
It's June 22, 2010 twelve months since my dream to drive my own motorcycle ended with a second degree muffler burn and the dismissal from the BRC. I remember vividly the struggles of that weekend, the relentless, almost-but-not-quite, learning curve to attain my endorsement and join the fraternity of motorcycle riding. I remember the overwhelming crush of defeat as I stood exhausted, tearful and lost. Today I have a fabulous scar to remind me of that mis-guided effort, why it's worth it to wear chaps every time out, and why I really should not attempt to drive a motorcycle on any traveled lane. I also have a short list of gentleman bikers who were generous enough to placate my quest and share the ride. One of them has earned my heart; we ride together on his vintage Harley, often. It's a whole new world on the roads now as I ride in his tender company, immersed in the eclectic scenery of this Green Mountain State.
an a family and crashed our dream in divorce court seventeen years later. Fortunately, time carries on and I've rooted myself perennially here at this old farmstead, defending the Vermont life of past generations and shunning the steady sowing of "flatlanders" bent on reforming these hills. In this, I have met the most wonderful people, inlanders and outlanders alike, and become part of this town in its ritual and rhythm year round. The balance is often razor thin as old standards are cast off for the "new and improved" version of community building. I escape this tide of "more is better" running Vermont roads on motorcycles; a culture that has afforded me the most genuine friendships and adventures that I could hope for. This day, I was on the phone with a favored biker buddy when he pondered why. Why would some one with all my over-educated, comfortable, suburban roots want to hang out with some one lik
e him? He doesn't see himself as smart or worldly. 'Not so', I think to myself. He's a contractor, a Vermonter born-and-bred, living on a road on a mountain that was named for his family. He's been here awhile. His stories of hunting, fishing, camping, living are spell binding to a 23 year plus flatlander like me. As he puzzled his value in my life, I drifted back to an endearing story he shared on one of our outings. He qualified the tale as his favorite story about being a single dad raising his son alone. In this daily challenge, we had much in common. As a single mom, I listened intently to his recollection of how he acquired a small, tattered key chain clip buried in the bowels of his work truck. "Don't ever clean out my truck. In the side wall, I have the first present my son ever gave me. He was just a little feller when he gave me this plastic key ring. It's just a little thing, but it meant so much to me. . . still does. Don't ever clean out my truck. . ." as he swallowed a father's tear. I smiled softly and leaned into him in agreement. The recollection melted as I interrupted the present phone conversation with a weak interjection: "you are one of the smartest people I have ever known. Someday, I'll tell you why I think so. . ." my thoughts now fading into a long ago afternoon. I have a similar story, but it took me months to grasp the value back then. We said our good-byes and I lay across my bed unfolding a precious memory of my first born child giving me a tender gift on a hot July day when I was disenchanted with the world and my seemingly futile place in it. I had ridden a horse in the small town parade that day, struggling with the crowd, the truck horns and a powerful horse impatient with the baby-step pace of it all. After getting the big mare home, I returned to the town party hot, sweaty, agitated. It didn't go the way I wanted; it was not my best presentation of a magnificent horse. My daughter was perhaps 6 years old and having a grand time at the small carnival. When she saw my unhappiness, she persuaded her father to let her buy a ring from a jewelry tent. She presented it to me with an earnest smile and kind offering. "this will help you feel better, mommy. . ." I looked at the over sized gypsy like ring and gave a dismissive sigh. "oh, you shouldn't have spent your money on me. . . it's too big, can you take it back. . ." her face fell and I scolded myself for not saying thank you. "I'll wear it on my thumb. It'll be fine. . ." as she strolled off with dad for more fun. I sat there, still guiling over my poor performance, and the odd ring. I put it in my pocket and forgot about it till laundry needed doing. I put it in a cup, then a drawer, then a box. Weeks later, I would hold it and ponder a child's heart. I began to wear it on my right thumb every day, trying to live up to the sincerity of the gift. Some months later, I lost the humble symbol but recall the value of it vividly. Hearing my biker buddy's story made me tearfully long for that toy-like ring gone missing years ago. The answer to his minutes-old question: why I think he is just about the smartest man I've met. Not just because he can solve any functional problem; it
is because this very competent, able, thoughtful, woodsman with a Harley Low Rider sees with his heart first. As time goes by, the value of my college education(s) become less and less relevant and the "university of life" has become the institution of higher learning. The lessons bestowed me during my days and months and years in Vermont have interwoven like an organic tapestry of living, learning, doing ~ better than I could have youthfully imagined. Ever the student, must be I belong here; always seeking knowledge, must be I needed to know him. . . some day, I'll have to tell him why and I promise; I'll never clean out his truck. . .
ine likely caused by a bad head gasket or a warped head... but why the power failure? A bad generator, most likely, sucked the new battery dry of power. Without electricity, the cylinders could not perform thus leaving us stranded with the disabled machine. As this bike has 33,000 miles on her, the owner opted to do a total tear down and re-tool all the original systems. I find it fascinating as it is so very simple a design and it all goes together so perfectly. No metric here so wrenching was easily accomplished with Craftsman tools for obvious fitting with a place for everything and everything in its place. To see it taken down to its "bones", it was hard to believe that this was once, and would again be, a powerful machine over the road. Watching the veteran mechanic, I marveled at his fluent knowledge of this classic chrome pony. He did his best to indulge my pre-novice questions with patient replies and showing the working details in each system. The machining of the metal parts was more precise than I could have imagined as components perform with surgical per
fection. Hearing his presentation, my thoughts would drift to the 30 years-ago machinists and assemblers who worked with the same degree of accuracy as any brain surgeon would exhibit to save the patient. A witness to a rebirth of sorts as each component was taken off and cleaned and assig
ned to its own waiting place for reassembly, it was more interesting than the best picture puzzle one could ever hope to construct. I kept getting lost in the meditative ritual and found it nearly spiritual to participate in such an intimate process. I can see now, why so many Harley owners become emotionally engaged with their bikes. When it was time to leave, it felt like we were abandoning the once glorious ride. The owner, lugging the gas tank and a few other frame parts home for waxing, seeming to offer some mutual comfort for his trusty, iron friend by plying a little luv and shine for the trademark silhouette. With any luck, I'll be able to see the bike come back together in all her new gleam and glory... maybe get invited for a ride. peace ~ ell
Finally, it is day three; it began with me feeling strong. I had no ill effects of my previous day's battle with physics and the indomitable law of gravity. The arnica worked its magic and my sprains were a faint memory while my bruises, which should have been extensive, were coin sized and not bike sized. The muffler burn looked scary, but felt manageable and not distracting. This day, and all days in the future, I will wear chaps. Note to all: if ever you get a second degree burn, tend to it sooner than asap. They get worse with each day and I didn't deal with it until day 4...it's that stubborn streak in me, again. I felt confident; I knew where the controls were, what the "right touch" was for clutch, breaking and shifting. But balancing at slow speeds would continue to challenge me. The pics are my fellow lady student, Margarette, a awesome single woman from NH who had her own bike but no "real experience" with it. She asked the best questions as she had enough experience to know what was hard to do; all of it! The other pic is most of my class ready to mount up for an exercise. All of these patterns were designed to teach the multi-task skills of managing a motorcycle safely for any unexpected road condition. We started with weaves again; a slalom through the all orange, cup size cones. Left was easy, right was still very hard. I fought to get my body in the right place on the bike and negotiate the turns in a higher gear. The speed was great, second gear is so forgiving compared to first. This went well and then the instructors were grinning. Next we had to do the "box turn"; a small 20' circle at one end of a 40' by 20' box, it required a very slow speed. I could do counter clock wise easily. But to do clock wise, I went so off course that Jay was startled. No matter how hard I focused, heard their encouragement, I only succeeded once of eight attempts. Not good. But I could advance to the next exercise. Big high speed (third gear) arches and turns. I discovered, I was good at speed and did well both ways. But then the entry control for sharp turns. Left was hard but successful, right was undoable. I couldn't stay even close to the course. In the real world, I would have hit guardrails, or trees or little kids on the sidewalk. Frank was the one who approached me. I was vexxed and couldn't make my body do my brain's will. I could not execute his directions, safely. He stood in front then to the side. Spoke quietly when he said, "you're not meeting the objective...." I didn't get it; I'm not good at reading between the lines. I looked exhausted and puzzled. He said it again, more carefully: "you're not meeting these objectives; its not safe to continue." "I can see that, I just can't find the right place to put my balance for the turn..." I tried to explain, but I knew what was coming. "I want you to shut it down, put the side stand down, and dismount...you can not continue in this class..." His considerate instructions. When I performed the shut down, my last shut down: 'Thumb: kill switch off, Key: turned to off, Valve: fuel valve set to off', I dismounted, glanced at the odometer to see it read: 17 miles, it seemed like a hundred. I pushed my visor up and asked if I could give him a hug. Swallowing hard the failed dream, "thank you, for keeping me safe" as I hugged his shoulder. "that's my job", his confident reply...he said I could stay and watch all I wanted, take the written test for my permit...I was wilting like a flower as he spoke. I ambled to my car, peeled off helmet, chaps and gloves. Called my sweet biker man and left a message that I'm excused and will be home earlier. Maybe, if he was up for it, we could catch dinner, go for a twilight ride and a creeme. He had programed his phone to answer me with a love song. I smiled and leaked tears ~ sad to lose the dream, happy to feel so cared about. I pulled out my soccer mom chair and watched the group tweak their skills before the lunch break. Fast stops, road hazards, brake-straighten up and sudden stop in the curves. I would have dropped it, probably, in this one. I was tired and felt defeated by a brain injury that cannot process the precise cues that riding safely, requires. I pondered how much of my poor performance was due to coming with zero experience and having to learn every thing from step one in a fast paced, intensive program. . . how much was because my brain is broken, more than I can fathom. When the group broke for lunch, Margarette came over and gave me a kind, sincere hug. "We were all routing for you," Brushing away tears, I said that "at least I learned here and no one got hurt. You all look really sharp out there. I called my sweetie and hopefully, I catch a ride with him tonight..." She graciously reminded me how fortunate I was to have a sweetie, she had no one, just endless bad boyfriends...that's why she opted to ride for herself... On that note, I opted to depart, and not stay on to watch the class test. I just wanted to go home and begin the next day when I might feel better. I had my family, my farm, and my honey-what-loves-me. I'll ride with him often and savor the view over his shoulder while my arms hug his waist. The BRC was a challenge for me: could I, or could I not do it. In a safe place, with wonderful people and awesome instructors, I could not. I wanted to pass the test; but I had no intention of owning or riding my own bike. I started riding so I could make friends and discover places. I have gotten all of that and more. I have a precious friendship with a sweet man on his gleaming bike. I think, maybe, that's right where God wants me. I "Monday morning" analyze the whole experience every time I hear a bike thunder by, but I know this was the "best-for-me" outcome... its hard to be stubborn, if love kills slowly then I hope that is a really long time for me, in the company of very precious friends...
