Romanczuk
My mom as juror on a murder trial! I can hardly wait to hear these stories. It's been a lifelong goal, ever since she helped Perry Mason clear his clients every week. And now she's doing it, even as I write. The next thing you know, her ship will come in. I want to be on the dock for that, with my hand out. With both hands out.
When I was young and stupid (I'm not one of those now), I used to think a ship was going to come cruising up Wishart Street and toss money bags on the porch right at 209. The name painted on the bow: "Josie's." Cathy tells me Faye also was waiting for her ship to come in, back in the sixties. It must have been a sixties mom thing. What do nineties moms say? "When I win the lottery," "When Ed McMahon calls," or "When my lawsuit is settled" I guess.
My brothers and sisters were probably all literal enough to realize she was just talking. Even baby brother knew "Yeah, yeah, seven of them" meant Mike wasn't going to see that toy on his Christmas pile. But for a kid hooked on imagery, the ship notion always appealed to me. Parents don't realize how what they say is taken. Like dad in his early PO days. He started at the Post Office about when I was born, and I can remember the first time I saw the main PO downtown where he worked. He had to go in on an off day to pick up something, and took me with him. I thought it was great, because he always talked about "the island" and I was finally going to see it. I was picturing a beach with palm trees, guys dressed like Gilligan and the Skipper, maybe even thatch huts. Then dad stopped at this cement truck platform, where a bunch of plain old guys were loading big dirty white canvas sacks into PO trucks. Talk about crestfallen. It didn't even have a lagoon. Some island, Dad.
I hang onto these stupid memories, and my parents are no help. Like dad sending back that junk with Cathy in July. Eight track stereo from twenty years ago. Nice nostalgia rush. The street hockey goalie pads weren't such a nice rush, however. Reminded me of the worst day of my preadolescence--when the Wishart Wildcats lost to the Water Street Warriors 7-0, in a game that wasn't as close as it sounds. As it came rushing back to me, I realized I still struggle with what was the worse lowlight of that game: Daniel Morris, who was in my room at St. Hugh's (and whose internal organs I didn't personally care for) scoring on me; Joey Campanaro (who was supposed to be on my team) scoring on me ["Why'd you do that, Joe?" "I wanted to see if I could get it in."]; the Warriors' goalie scoring on me; or when I spit a huge, snotty hocker--forgetting I had on my face mask. It was an extremely bad day, even for me. Thanks for the memory, Dad.
Am I going to write about anything purposeful this letter, you ask? Maybe next sitting.
9/27
Then again, maybe not.
The problem with my learning to drive that's always come back to haunt me is that I didn't do any highway driving until I drove Lex down for me to take the test. I guess the rest had a shore trip or two behind them, but for some reason I didn't (probably because the summer was over by the time I got the learner's permit). As Lex put it upon our successful return (as pilots say, any trip you can walk away from was successful), "The test was getting there alive!" His point was watching me become Pennsylvania's newest driver was easier than sitting in the passenger seat as I took on my first highway--the Surekill Expressway. Once in college and borrowing dad's car on weekends, after I beat up Bruce and Kathleen's poor Bug so much I couldn't take the look on their faces when I asked for it, I finally learned to drive on highways. However, I have this ever-present fear when there are more than three lanes that a car two lanes away and I will try to merge into the same lane at the same time. This nearly happened a couple weeks ago on the way to Oak Ridge, just like the first time in the silver Rabbit on the way to Annmarie Robertson's house. The other driver and I looked at each other through my passenger side window (his nose could have been pressed against the glass). With my heart imitating a boxer's speedbag, we both shot back into the lanes we came from. It's better than coffee for a morning wake up.
That reminds me of a VW bus story, then I promise I'll write about something substantial (by page 3, anyway). The night before Lex and Mike killed the bus after 11 years of faithful service, I took it for what I didn't know at the time was going to be its last date. A girl I had been working with at Mountain Magic Leather in the Rio Grande Mall and I drove back to the bay at 18th Street after work. We had the bay to ourselves and weren't saying much, then a duck couple appeared out of nowhere and floated by. "I never saw ducks back here before." "Really?" I was ready to remark on how romantic it was, but she said, "I'm cold." So we got back in the van and I tried to warm her. "I don't think we should." "Why not?" But I knew why not. She was about as attracted to me as I was to her. The only thing we had in common was different gender. A couple weeks later she was working for antique photos instead. But she was the last girl to say "no" in The Bus. Aside from that kind of luck, I was always lucky in the van. Never got stopped by a cop, never had mechanical trouble, never even a flat. If not for Bruce and Kathleen's Bug trying to kill me all the time, I might have felt like I had a motorist immunity.
At the risk of throwing off the whole tone of this letter, I'll include this topic of substance. With the pediatric neurologist down and the education specialist to go, Kate appears to be a mild form of Luke. Even though Luke was good at her age, that's probably good news. Only a quarter of autistics are female, and those cases are usually more pronounced and troublesome than male cases. Although she didn't want to have anything to do with Dr. Zimmerman (neither do her parents), she did at least make eye contact with him a few times. Dr. Frye, who would be the one to slap on the label, is tomorrow. We'll see.
9/28
Cathy and I have been civilians for a year already. The freedom still amazes me. One of my employees and I are going on a two-day trip down to the nuke power plant near Aiken, South Carolina. I asked my boss if the company had any problem with us socializing together, since not only am I Pam's supervisor, but she's a woman. My boss just looked at me like I was from outer space and said no. It's pretty wild, being a civilian. The only morality you're forced to have is your own.
The dream from last letter--which, for those of you who didn't get the last letter, involved my going back to Philly to find a rainy room and not so friendly Hispanic welcome--I think was borne of my subconscious realization that once Wishart Street is sold I won't have a home base on visits to the city. If I come alone, of course, I have a bunch of brothers and sisters who'd love to have me because I'm such a marvelous house guest. But I can't see Luke (and even Kate now) being tolerated anywhere but Wishart. If I had a sibling with Mike's lack of worry and Lex's lack of clutter, that would be the place. But the only one in the family who's something like that is the one who fathered these brain damaged kids. Hmmmm.
Not that mom and dad shouldn't bail out on my account. They should have been gone years ago. It just occurred to me while talking to mom last week that my parents are starting to think "old." She asked about watching Luke and Kate for us, and I said Cathy and I weren't planning any trips until a tenth anniversary cruise. When mom started to calculate how old she'd be two years from February, I got nervous for a minute thinking she was figuring out her own mortality. But she was just wondering if she'll be able to keep up with Luke then. The great thing is she decided she could! Never mind that Cathy and I can't keep up with him, or Kate, right now.
10/1
Had a weird idea the other day, a winkie guillotine. It came to me not only because I've been reading about all these sex crimes. [Aside: Is it just that I'm turning 34 soon, so I'm tuned into this stuff, or are most perverts in their early to mid-thirties?] The other reason sex crimes are in my subconscious is it looks like Kate is going to be labeled with the Big A, too. We need all the follow-up tests and Kate was sick with a sinus infection during the interview with the second doctor, but the first doctor's write up ends with "IMPRESSION: Autism," dangling at the end of his letter to Kate's pediatrician like a lit fuse. So my mind is forecasting through the dark clouds ahead thinking, "Hmmm, a blonde haired, blue eyed young lady who doesn't talk and has no social concept." Knowing first-hand young men are basically scum (see the VW van paragraph above), I can't help dwelling on what might happen to her. That's why I've been thinking the U.S. should use a guillotine to remove the non-cranial head of sex crime convicts.
I'm going to write now about the "luck" of having two autistic kids, then I swear I'll learn to take each day as it comes, plan ahead only when I have to, and not dare to dwell on the bleak future because worry causes wrinkles. [Aside: It won't help Cathy's BeautiControl sales if she and I are raisin faced.] One in 2,500 births are autistic; that's 4/10000, or a .0004% of having an autistic child. Of course, having a child with some kind of handicapping condition is a monstrous 10% and that doesn't stop couples from trying. If you're "blessed" with one autistic, though, your chances of having another increase to one in 50, or 2%. I've never won the lottery. I've never even hit in the 4000 Club, which I've been buying from mom for about twenty years. So I finally beat the odds now, only to find Shirley Jackson was running the Lottery. Closing with the AA/NA version of the Serenity Prayer seems appropriate: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference--just for today. (It works if you work it, but ya godda work it every day!).
Sincerely,
Jeffrey B. Romanczuk
Writer