A Bait & Switch of Sorts

Quick update on the months of August, September and October:

August never happened.  I don’t remember August at all, so…it just didn’t exist this year.  June, July, September, October.  Yep.  That was how my calendar looked.

Mid-September was our annual family trip to Ft. Walton Beach Florida where we rested up in the calm that is before the inevitable storm of fall programming (for me) and football season photo assignments (for Eric).  No obligations to anything except eating, swimming, and hanging with family. 

Late September was spent with the entertaining and controversial YA author Chris Crutcher, who was in town for our Gadsden Reads Banned Books Week.  Several public speaking engagements, a visit to the Etowah County Detention Center to speak with our female Substance Abuse Program inmates and two school visits (Gadsden City High and my alma mater, Southside High…Go Panthers!) then Chris was back on a plane to Washington State.  An incredible writer and a wonderful person with which to converse.  He GETS people.  He GETS behavior.  He GETS teenagers.  And the students love him.  They flock to him to ask him questions, or to tell him how his stories aren’t just stories, he's writing about their lives.  It is pretty powerful to be in a room where Chris Crutcher is talking to a hundred-plus students, students who keep asking him great question after great question, students who stay after his talk to ask him more personal questions before wandering away to their next class.  We want to bring him back.  We have to bring him back. 

Tex was in attendance of Chris’ library talk.  He came into my office a couple of hours before the event and wanted to know who Chris was, what kind of books did he write, where was he from, and was there going to be free food.  When I mentioned that Chris wrote young adult books about being a teenager and other stuff, Tex just sort of nodded without too much interest.

Me:  “He sometimes uses curse words and writes about sports and about teens who get in trouble.  Nothing that you’d be interested in.”

Tex (interest suddenly piqued):  “Really?  He writes cuss words in his books?”

Me:  “Yup.  Not all of them, but some of them.  Says that he sometimes finds out the most popular profanity at events just like the one we’re having tonight.  So, maybe you shouldn’t come…

Tex:  “Oh, I’m coming alright.  Is he selling books?”

Me:  “The library is.  We have The Sledding Hill for $10.”

Tex:  “I sure wish I had $10 to buy that book with.”

Me:  “Well, I’ll buy you a copy and you can have him sign it, if you even come tonight.  But I’m still not sure you should…

And so that is how I not only got a thirteen-year-old boy to come to an author reading at the GPL, but I also got a copy of The Sledding Hill into his hands.  Now, I don’t know if Tex will ever notice that there is no profanity in that book, but I do hope he notices characters in the story who share some similar hardships as those he faces.  They may be subtle similarities, but they are similarities nonetheless.  And I hope that he one day understands that there are other folks who have walked the same path that he walks, and that he’s not alone.  And all it took was the promise of a free book, free food and maybe some new profanity.

The Ring Bear

Tex came by The Bungalow to earn some money this past Sunday.  I gave him his invitation to the wedding and strict orders to be sure and tell his grandpa and grandma they were invited to come with him.  I doubt that info made it home.  I may have to make a phone call...

As we were spreading pine straw down the sides of the front walk and around the crepe myrtles, Tex asked me if he could be our ring bear.

Me:  "You mean ring bearer?"

Tex:  "That's what I said, your ring bear."

Me:  "Well, we don't have a wedding party, so Eric's going to have the rings in his pocket..."

Why do I feel like Barney Stinson has a hand in this?

Addendum:  If you do not watch How I Met Your Mother, you may not understand this joke.

Tex Part III: Memorial Day

“Is that blood?!?” I asked Tex as he sauntered up our front walk.

“How’d you know?” He responded, smiling proudly down at the blotches and streaks of brown on his shirt.

Life experience has taught me what blood looks like on clothing, but I didn’t say this out loud to Tex because he would’ve asked twenty questions that I would have refused to answer.

“Good Lord, child.  What happened to you?”

“We was playing the Getting Hit in the Head Game and I got hit.”

Yeah, I’m familiar with that game.  I like to refer to it as the potential Massive Head Wound Game.  Again, I kept this to myself.

He showed me the BB-sized hole in his noggin and told me that Joel had "done patched him up real good."  For the record, our neighbor Joel is working on his nursing degree (his wife is already a nurse), so he and/or his wife are my pick to patch up a bleeding child.

Once I got a good look at Tex for other wounds (nothing but the usual old scabs that boy children tend to forever seem to have about their bruised knees and ankles), Tex leapt off the porch to play chase again with the neighbor kids, completely oblivious to the heart attack he had just almost caused me to have.

Some days I just can’t think straight.

Irene & Tex (Part 1?)

Sometime last month, Tex arrived on our porch talking about “this writer, Irene Latham” who visited his school to talk about books.  I couldn’t contain my excitement as I exclaimed that Irene was a friend of mine and that I loved her books more than just about anything!  Tex was grinning and telling me that he knew all about Leaving Gee’s Bend and Don’t Feed the Boy, and was just overflowing with the pride of him knowing me, and me knowing a famous author like Irene, and all of us knowing each other.  Why, he was just pacing the porch with all that pride.  And then, when I asked him which of Irene’s books did he think he would like to read most, he bashfully told me that he’d really like to have Leaving Gee’s Bend, but that he didn’t have the money to get a copy of it.

The very next day, I emailed Irene, who set about making sure that Tex received a copy of Leaving Gee’s Bend with a personal inscription from her to him (Irene has known about Tex for some time, basically since his “one way mirror suit” comments from last summer).

So, after a hand-delivery of the book by Irene to a mutual friend, and then a hand-delivery of said book to me by said mutual friend, I was able to give the gift to Tex a couple of nights ago.  He was beside himself when I handed him the book-shaped package marked TEX, the package that I told him was from Irene.  And rocking from one foot to the other with excitement, he proceeded to try to cut open the wrapping with a knife.  I stopped him as gently as I could and offered to open it for him, lest he cut the book jacket or himself in his glee.   Once unwrapped and in his hands, the book was turned over and over as if he couldn’t believe that Irene had sent him, HIM, a book.  And when he opened the book up to the title page where Irene had penned a personal message to him, he just about lost his Kool Aid.

“But how did she know my real name?!?”  My response was, “Well, I told her your real name.”  Then he laid himself down on our chaise lounge (the one he always acts like he owns) and proceeded to read silently from Leaving Gee’s Bend.  And when he finally decided to get up and go play with the other kids swarming around the neighborhood, he started to take the book with him.  Again, I gently stopped him and suggested that he leave his book on our porch while he played, because the kind of playing he does is probably not good for books.  So, he put the book gently down on the piano bench which serves as our porch table and asked if it was okay that he left it there for awhile.  Of course it was okay.

Tex ran off to play, looking back over his shoulder to make sure the book was still there.  Five minutes later I spied out the window to see that the book and Tex were gone.  I think his mind was too crowded with thoughts of Leaving Gee’s Bend for him to concentrate properly on playing that night.

I'm sure this story is to be continued...

A Porch Presentation

With daytime temperatures in the seventies, there are flowers blooming again.  At the end of November, violets, azalea, and even spirea are blooming along side the nandina berries.  It is the nature of winter in Alabama.

There are children out playing in the neighborhood again, as well.  Even Tex, his shadow long absent from our doorstep because of a late-summer banning by his grandfather from our neighborhood (I believe the charge was insubordination) has been back, knocking for Flavor Ice and attention.

I've just finished giving an impromptu presentation to Tex and the McCall boys on paleontology and archaeology in Alabama, complete with artifacts, pictures and demonstrations.  There were histrionics and lots of “How much will you sell that to me for?”

One way mirror suit.

Tex got his feelings hurt really badly by two of the neighborhood boys on Saturday.  They treated him unfairly after an unfortunate wrestling incident.  Tex was so hurt, his normal wall of bravado crumbled into choked back tears, which is a terribly sad thing to see in a child, especially a child of the boy persuasion.  Eric distracted him by offering him a job:  two dollars to move two pieces of sod from the back of his vehicle to the back yard.  This acted as a distraction for about seven minutes, until the job was done.  As Tex was eating his Flavor Ice and counting his hard earned cash, he muttered the following words, "I wish I had me a one way mirror suit.  That way, I could see out, but no one could see in."  The poetry and pain of those words almost made me cry.  And the poetry and pain of those words almost made me go find those boys who hurt him just so I could give them a good hard pinch.

"After you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never afterwards be quite the same boy."  J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Tex Part II

About a month ago, I was on my way home when I saw Tex about a block from the house.  He was swinging a stick at some invisible foe when he looked up and saw me.  I waved and kept on driving.  When I pulled into the driveway, I looked in my rearview mirror and was surprised to see Tex running up behind me.

Me:  Hey there, Tex!  How’re you doin?’ 

Tex:  Well, I’ve done run away, is how I’m doin.’

Me:  Hmmm…well, how come you run away?

Tex:  I been accused at school of sayin’ somethin’ I didn’t say, and my grandpa just about beat the life outta me, so I left.  I don’t have to take that.  (Tex started talking faster at this point) I’mgonnaliveinthewoods and killarabbitwiththisherestick and I’mgonnabuildafireandcookitandeatit.

Me:  Well, what did they accuse you of sayin?’

Tex:  That I called this big old fat girl a big. old. fat. girl.

Me:  Hmmm…well, you know that if you did say something like that, it wouldn’t be nice, right?

Tex:  But I didn’t, so that’s why I’m running away.

Me (looking at the sky):  Well, okay, but it looks like a storm is rolling in.  You may want to postpone your running off until tomorrow or something…

Tex:  Naw, I’ll be okay.  I can sleep on your porch and be safe.

Me (with much put-on emphasis):  Now listen here!  We can’t be havin’ no fugitives livin’ on our porch!  You best get them thoughts outta your head!

Tex (laughing):  I’m no fugitive!

Me:  Why, yes you are!  The minute you ran away, you became a fugitive!  You’re tryin’ to get me and Eric in trouble with the authorities for harboring a wanted fugitive…aiding and abetting…you little rascal!  I’m not fallin’ for that…

By this point, Tex was bolstered by the idea of being a wanted fugitive, and was looking right proud of himself.  He swung his stick up under his arm like a Tommy Gun, threw his head back for a belly laugh, and strolled off down the road.  He was on the lam…

An aside:  Eric pulled in from his race yesterday afternoon.  It usually takes him a little bit of time to unload his gear from the car, so I headed out to help him.  When I walked out on the porch, Eric was unstrapping his bike from the car, and talking to what seemed to be the brick post.  I walked over to see what he was talking to, and a grinning Tex poked his head around the corner.  Tex was in a talking mood.  We listened as he told us about his new pet chicken, the one he was keeping in his tub at home, how he had come by it, and how he was planning on never having to buy eggs again.  As Tex talked, he pressed himself up against the brick wall, scooted down to creep up the stairs to the porch, and folded his body behind our chaise lounge.  It was as if he was trying to sneak up on our porch without our permission, but was doing it right in front of us by distracting us with his storytelling.  It worked.  Pretty soon, he was sitting on the chaise lounge across from me, talking up a storm.  When he notice that the couch upon which I sat was one that moved on hinges, he exclaimed, “A swing couch!”  Eric responded, “Well, it’s a glider, actually.”  Tex retorted, “Well, I call it a swing couch!”  Eric’s last words as he walked through the door were, “Some folks call it a Kaiser couch…”  Smart aleck.

Tex Part I

Now, there’s this kid in the neighborhood whom I adore because, not only does he seem like he’s a long lost member of the Little Rascals Gang, but he reminds me a great deal of my darling nephew.  I suspect that like my nephew, he has Asperger’s, but unlike my nephew, I don’t think that he has been tested or diagnosed, so he’s missing out on the educational and behavioral assistance that he can receive from that diagnosis.  Eric and I have become watchful of this kid, and we go out of our way to ask him how his day is going, or to let him help us do yard work. 

The first time I met this kid was when my friend Tami and I were having after-work wine and snacks on the porch about a year ago.  I saw him coming our way from a fair piece down the street.  He had probably smelled the pimento-stuffed olives and cheddar cheese from a mile away, as growing kids are wont to do with food.  As he approached, his eyes were focused on the food platter.  He hopped up on one of our pine stumps (this was the phase between pine removal and stump grinding) and asked, with his eyes locked on the Cabot Vermont Cheddar, “Whatchall got there?”  I was thinking to myself, “Now look here fella, we don’t want no trouble outta you…”, but instead I said, “We’re having adult snacks and beverages and conversation.”  He cocked his head to one side, “Well, can I have some?”  My mind toyed with the idea of giving him one olive and one square of cheese, but then I imagined word of my feeding of children getting out amongst the kids of the neighborhood (I had experienced their Blitzkrieg the winter before when I had baked up some cookies at Christmas), so I thought better of it.  I replied in as kind, yet stern a voice, “No, now, you best move along.  Like I said, these are adult snacks and beverages, so, this is a no-kid zone right now.”  He did move along, glancing back over his shoulder a few times as if to give me a chance to take back what I said.  I worried that I had hurt his feelings…

That was not the case.  His feelings were not hurt in the least, and he kept coming around.  Often.  And the more he kept coming around, the more I learned about his personality and his personal life.  He has a strong Southern drawl and a voice that goes up and down with lots of emphasis and, in some cases, indignation.  He goes through growth spurts that come so often, he’ll walk up to you in pants that fit, but walk away in high-waters.  He’s got a lot of pride and bravado, and he sometimes stretches the truth.  He knows more about the Alabama Crimson Tide than my own momma and Tom Banks, III combined (which is saying a lot), and is determined to play football for them one day. He lives with his grandparents here in the neighborhood, ‘cause his momma lives in Texas.  After one of the times that he went to visit her, I began to call him Tex.  He really liked that for some reason, so I still call him that to this day.  You can tell by looking at him what kind of mood he’s in; if he’s swinging a stick and walking with his head down, beware. But know that his mood can change really quickly if you just ask him how his day was, and then just let him talk.