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.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #143
Peggy: Bank of America called me today to apologize.
Sam: It’s about time.
Peggy: Yes, it was. It was the ‘customer advocate.’ They are sending me an Amazon gift card as a token gesture.
Sam: Now that’s the right way to do it.
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.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #142
Sam (after an exasperating evening with an Excel spreadsheet): … and now it won’t fill down.
Peggy: Do you want to enter each cell one at a time?
Sam: Ugh, that will take so long.
Peggy: Do you want me to make a pitcher of pina coladas while you do it?
Sam: Oh. Well. Go ahead.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #141
Peggy: You’re working at Albertsons on Halloween. You gonna dress up as something? Wanna be the banana?
Sam: No, Mom, I don’t think so. We’re not allowed to have fun at work.
Happy Halloween
My good friends at Texas Parent-to-Parent sent out their fall newsletter with some tips to help kids with disabilities, and particularly those with autism, Aspergers and sensory dysfunction to make the most of Halloween.
I asked Sam tonight if he remembers when it got easier for him to wear Halloween costumes. He stopped eating his Blue Bell Christmas Cookie ice cream long enough to say “high school.”
So, long past the trick-or-treating days.
Here’s a tip sheet for costumes and activities.
And here’s a tip sheet for the rest of us to help make Halloween special for all the kids.
Remember what Lucy Van Pelt said: Never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker.
Overheard in the Wolfe House #140
(as Peggy sets her cup of chicken broth down on the table)
Sam (in a stage whisper): Mom’s going to the bathroom.
Cleanliness is Next To Impossible
The problem with putting your house on the market is that people come over. And before they do, you have to clean it.
A lot.
And not that Erma Bombeck way, where you just give it a sweeping glance.
Opening our lives this way has been traumatic for Sam, but he’s getting better. I got just a little ptsd leftover from when we sold our home in California in 1993. At the time, I was pregnant and chasing two preschoolers. We lived in a 1,100-square-foot house with a forest of tubas in a “hot zip.” Real estate agents were supposed to call and schedule a visit, but they would sometimes pull up to the curb and “call.”
After a while, I gave up. They could just tour a messy house — dirty diapers, toys, dishes, tubas, and all.
Here, we live too far off the beaten path for people to take a chance on pulling up and getting permission to see the house. But I am tired of always being “on” with the cleaning. This market is a lot tougher. I’ve got the place priced competitively, so we have too many people coming through. Some rooms in the house have taken on a museum-like quality.
My mother has that kind of tidiness in her house. My sisters do, too, at least in certain rooms.
I’ve not ever been that way. It’s not like I don’t know that I should clean the refrigerator once a month to discourage listeria, but it’s amazing how long I can go when I think no one is looking.
I vowed to get better the day that Michael and Paige came running into the office — I was writing something — to announce that a spider nest hatched because there were a thousand baby spiders on the living room ceiling.
They thought it was really cool, but decided that leaving it to nature wasn’t a good idea. And there really were a thousand baby spiders on the ceiling. I vacuumed for about an hour.
After that, we worked out something called Hour of Power. We put about two dozen small cleaning jobs on slips of paper in a bowl, the kids would roll the dice and take turns picking jobs on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Mark and I would do the tough stuff, like mop the floors or address whatever disaster had been waiting all week (the refrigerator, for example.) By the time we were done, it looked good and lasted almost til the next Hour of Power.
Those were the good ole days.
Well, back to cleaning.
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.