Touching Essays About Special Boys...and Other Stuff...

Touching Essays about Special Boys...and Other Stuff...

Our Irish Dragon, Shamus, is a special kid. Yes, he is autistic, but man, can he make you laugh and smile. I found these essays that seem appropriate for our Irish Dragon. I even wrote some of my own. I hope you enjoy them.

I also added some essays I wrote on other topics. Enjoy!

Essays from other Sources
What is a Boy
Heaven's Very Special Child
Welcome to Holland
The Special Mother
Personal Essays about Shamus
A Father's Moment
A Huge Lesson from my Little Friend
A Blessing, not a Burden
Yes, Shamus, There is a Santa Claus
PJ
A Fire Truck, a Playhouse, and an Angel
Junk Food, Bumper Cars, and My Special Son
Words
Next Time
Matinee
Personal Essays about Other Life Topics
Ninety-four Years
Time Machine
Mom
Dad
My Brother Greg
QT
The City of Angels
Route 1718
My Brother Tim
Faith, Fellowship, and a Cup of Lemonade

What is a Boy?
by Alan Beck

Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adults pack them off to bed at night.

Boys are found everywhere - on top of, underneath, inside of , climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.

When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly, or else he becomes a savage, sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.

A boy is a composite - he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker and when he makes something he has five thumbs on each hand.

He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat) large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtimes.

Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into a one pocket, a rusty knife, an half eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine super-sonic code ring with secret compartment.

A boy is a magical creature - you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give up - he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master. A freckle faced pint-sized cat chasing, bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them like new with three Magic Words: "I love you"

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Heaven's Very Special Child
by Edna Massimilla

A meeting was held quite far from Earth!
It's time again for another birth.
Said the Angels to the LORD above,
This Special Child will need much love.

His progess may be very slow,
Accomplishments he may not show.
And he'll require extra care
From the folks he meets down there.

He may not run or laugh or play,
His thought may seem quite far away,
In many ways he won't adapt,
And he'll be know as handicapped.

So let's be careful where he's sent,
We want his life to be content.
Please LORD, find the parents who
Will do a special job for You.

They will not realize right away
The leading role they're asked to play,
But with this child sent from above
Comes stronger faith and richer love.

And soon they'll know the privilege given
In caring for their gift from Heaven.
Their precious charge, so meek and mild,
Is HEAVEN'S VERY SPECIAL CHILD.

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Welcome to Holland
by Emily Perl Kingsley

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this......

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?!" you say. "What do you mean Holland? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significantloss.

But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.

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The Special Mother
by Erma Bombeck

Most women become mothers by accident, some by choice, a few by social pressures and a couple by habit.

This year nearly 100,000 women will become mothers of handicapped children. Did you ever wonder how mothers of handicapped children are chosen?

Somehow I visualize God hovering over earth selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As He observes, He instructs His angels to make notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth; son. Patron saint...give her Gerard. He's used to profanity."

"Forrest, Marjorie; daughter. Patron saint, Cecelia."

"Rutledge, Carrie; twins. Patron saint, Matthew."

Finally He passes a name to an angel and smiles, "Give her a handicapped child."

The angel is curious. "Why this one God? She's so happy."

"Exactly," smiles God, "Could I give a handicapped child to a mother who does not know laughter? That would be cruel."

"But has she patience?" asks the angel.

"I don't want her to have too much patience or she will drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wears off, she'll handle it."

"I watched her today. She has that feeling of self and independence that is so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has her own world. She has to make her live in her world and that's not going to be easy."

"But, Lord, I don't think she even believes in you." God smiles, "No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect - she has just enough selfishness." The angel gasps - "selfishness? is that a virtue?"

God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she'll never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't realize it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a 'spoken word'". She will consider a step" ordinary. When her child says 'Momma' for the first time, she will be present at a miracle, and will know it!"

"I will permit her to see clearly the things I see...ignorance, cruelty, prejudice....and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life, because she is doing My work as surely as if she is here by My side".

"And what about her Patron saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in mid-air.

God smiles, "A mirror will suffice."

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A Father's Moment
by Patrick Paulitz

All of us make daily choices in life. Most of these choices are trivial, like what to have for dinner or what color socks to wear. Other choices are more life-changing, like whom to marry, where to live, or what house to buy. Sometimes, choices are made which at the time seem to be in error, but will allow us, if our ears, eyes, and mind are open, to learn about life, our children, ourselves, and how a wrong turn can lead to nothing less than a miracle.

It was a spring Saturday in the Bay Area. There was nothing exceptional about this day, except that it wasn't raining. Not bad for a weekend in the wettest year California experienced in decades. The sky was blue with white puffy clouds, and it was on the cool side. It was a great day for a picnic.

April and I decided to spend the day in Sausalito, a trendy upscale town on the waterfront just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. We packed a lunch and ate hot dogs, chips, and sodas with a spectacular view of the San Francisco skyline. The pigeons and sea gulls, we discovered, are only your friends when you're eating. They're not one of God's more loyal creatures, to say the least. Later, we blew bubbles with Shamus in a local park. Then, we proceeded to drive back to our home on the Peninsula.

On the way home, I took a minor detour to show April some nice places to have a picnic with a great view of the San Francisco Bay. We drove around, went to a pier, saw the trestles of the Golden Gate Bridge, and left.

We followed the signs to the freeway, which would take us to our home on the Peninsula. Along the way, we took a wrong turn. Or was it a wrong turn?

We soon found ourselves among green rolling hills that eventually led to the Pacific Ocean. We were debating as to whether to turn around, or enjoy the ride. We chose the latter. Arriving at the beach, I parked the van and walked to the beach by myself, as April had no interest in making the short trek to the water. I stayed only a few minutes. It was no fun being at the beach without my wife and son. That's not the way God intended it.

Later, we drove a few hundred feet to the restroom building. With our autistic child, we figured the less walking he did across a huge parking lot, the better. Parked cars provide such a distraction for Shamus. After I took our little guy "potty", I said "Shamus, do you want to go to the beach?". Surprisingly, he said "yes". He was never a beach-lover before. Kids, even autistic ones, do change sometimes, I guess...

We watched the waves tumble in, leaving a white foam behind. Shamus loved watching the ocean - the sound of the waves, the frothy surf, and the sight of water tumbling in. He seemed to be enjoying it so much...

Remember, Shamus is a native Californian. He has been to the beach many times, as we live only ten miles from the ocean. This time, however, was different. He wanted to get his feet wet.

San Francisco is not a beach town. The water is cold, and the summer weather along the coast is usually cold and foggy for the entire day. Bay Area residents, especially coastal residents, don't wear shorts and don't keep beach towels in their car. Extra blankets and jackets are a far more practical item to have on hand.

Shamus wanted to get his feet wet. So, we rolled up his pants, took off his socks and shoes, and I did the same. He got his feet wet. He was ecstatic. As for me, my feet were frozen, my rolled-up pant legs soon unraveled, and both our pants were soaked. We had no towel and no dry clothes. The water felt like ice. And yet, I wouldn't have traded that moment for anything in the world - not even to relax in a toasty hot tub with my beautiful wife. It was our moment - father and son - playing in the surf. For most 4-year-olds, such a moment would be routine. With our dear Shamus, however, I take nothing for granted.

April is such a Mom. Even my own mother, who is 82 years old, often tells me to put on a sweater when she is cold. A mother's nurturing transcends generations and crosses cultural lines. As she motioned for us to come out of the water, even trying to bribe Shamus with a bag of potato chips, I shook my head. I laughed and laughed and shook my head. "No way", I was thinking to myself. This is our special moment in time. I knew what she was thinking. We were cold and wet - more specifically, Shamus was cold and wet. Dad can take care of himself. And I knew that I would allow nothing - not even a loving Mom waving a bag of potato chips - to spoil this moment. It was too special a time. Potato chips and a warm minivan can wait...

After we came out of the water, April drove home as I sat in the passenger seat, stripped down to my T-shirt and underwear. Shamus wore only a shirt and towel - literally. As we drove south across the Golden Gate Bridge, I thought about what a miracle God had given me this day - and all because of a wrong turn...

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A Huge Lesson from my Little Friend
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes, if we open our eyes and step away from our busy, fast-paced lifestyle, God will teach us a lesson - a very important lesson - by using some of his tiniest and most vulnerable creatures.

It was a beautiful, spring Saturday in the Bay Area, and my main concern was what to do with Shamus, our 4-year-old autistic son, for an entire day without his loving mother, who had other commitments on this warm sunny day. April is usually in charge of our weekend jaunts, preparing everything from a picnic lunch, change of clothes, and toys for the car. This weekend, however, I was on my own. As I racked my brain to find a fun, exciting place to take Shamus for the day, I remembered a children's theme park in San Jose - a magical kingdom created especially for young children.

Back in the 1950's and 1960's, it was popular to build small amusement parks specially designed for the younger set. Most of these parks have long-since been bulldozed over into housing tracts, shopping centers, or parking lots. A few have survived, however, including the park which Shamus and I would visit - a park called "Happy Hollow".

When it comes to Shamus, miniature parks are often more practical than the enormous ones designed for typical youngsters. This entire theme park could easily fit in the average suburban parking lot. Its compactness, however, is part of its charm. Stepping into "Happy Hollow" is like walking into a child's dream world. Everything is kid-sized, colorful, unique, and of course - fun. One of the carousals, for example, displays sea animals instead of horses. Where else can you ride a galloping snail, seahorse, fish, or pelican, all a rainbow of sparkling colors, as you spin around-and-around on a child-sized merry-go-round? All of the rides here are for the little ones. This enchanted kingdom is radiant and charming in its simplicity and appeal to small children.

As Shamus was riding a gently-bucking alligator, for which I luckily had a quarter to feed after dumping handfuls of spare change into a wishing well, I noticed something. It was something small and colorful, like this park itself. A tiny caterpillar, sporting a fuzzy and bright florescent green coat, was inching its way across the pavement, oblivious to the world of giant beings with enormous shoes towering just above its microscopic head. Using my keychain, I gently slid the young insect into my outstretched hand. It continued to wriggle its way across my palm. It was a magnificent sight.

Caterpillars transform into butterflies. That is God's plan for them. Last month, while visiting family in San Diego, I saw thousands, if not millions, of butterflies trekking their way north to Canada. There were literally swarms of them - each one unique and incredibly vibrant. That was last month, however. It is now mid-April. I wonder what happened to this lonely fellow. Why isn't he with his family and friends, migrating the long journey north?

Then it hit me. In my midst were two little guys who were slower than most and just needed a little help. This frightened caterpillar would have been carelessly crushed by the large world above if I had not intervened to rescue him. He will become a butterfly - just not quite yet. He just needed a chance - a loving hand to scoop him up and deliver him to safety. In time - God's time - he will become a butterfly. Not unlike God's other wonderful creation smiling and giggling on a jumping alligator just a few feet away - my special autistic son named Shamus.

I eventually released my newfound friend into a lush grassy area. I briefly considered keeping the little critter for Shamus, but realized our special autistic boy wouldn't appreciate having such a companion. Besides, my inch-long buddy was petrified and needed his freedom. He didn't need to be trapped in a glass jar as some kind of specimen. It just wouldn't be right to imprison the tiny insect - any more than it would be right to lock our precious child into an institution. All of God's creatures - no matter how slow or different they are - deserve to live and thrive with their loving families. That's the way God intended it.

Later, after Shamus rode the miniature carousal with a kaleidoscope of brilliantly-colored sea creatures bouncing to the beat of lively calliope-like music, I returned to the green patch of grass where I set the caterpillar free. He was gone - probably chomping massive quantities of leaves, just like our little monster devours pizza, hot dogs, and apple juice. Yes, my friend is gone. But soon, he will return as one of God's most stunningly beautiful creations - a dazzling and graceful butterfly.

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A Blessing, not a Burden
by Patrick Paulitz

Everyone, it seems, has a burden to bear. It's a part of life. Sometimes, however, we receive help in carrying our load from the most unexpected of sources.

It was a warm Sunday afternoon. April and I had been out all day, without Shamus, having lunch and showing a visiting friend the local sites. Shamus stayed home with a sitter hadn't been outside, and we thought it would be fair to get the little guy out of the house.

"Why don't you take him swimming at the Y", April suggested. Shamus had a swimming lesson every week at another facility, but last week, this lesson was canceled. By swimming on this Sunday afternoon, he could have his water play for the week and have a change of scenery as well.

Shamus and I have always enjoyed swimming together, although the term "swimming" is loosely defined here. Basically, I walk around the pool carrying him as he sits on my arm, facing me. I've done this several times with him, and started he was less than a year old. We've played in friends' backyard swimming pools, as well as hotel pools in such scattered locations as San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Northern Idaho. Unlike most California natives, I prefer indoor pools, since it eliminates the concern of sunburn and cool breezy weather. I was never a big fan of outdoor summertime pool parties. At such gatherings, I usually lounge on a poolside recliner, sipping sodas or nibbling potato chips, hoping I wouldn't get accidentally splashed with cold water by the rambunctious kids in the pool. When it comes to Shamus, however, I'm a different person. I'm a Dad.

Taking Shamus to the Y is an adventure in itself. He wants to open every door, and especially loves to play with my combination padlock. He is also obsessed with the body dryer and the bathing suit spinner. He is terrified of the shower room, which we must traverse to enter the indoor pool area. Luckily, the facility isn't too crowded, being a Sunday evening. Shamus certainly makes life interesting. It can be extremely challenging, to say the least, taking Shamus to a place with so many distractions, machines, contraptions, and rooms of which he is fearful. To be in the water with Shamus, however, makes it all worthwhile.

Normally, Shamus hates being lifted. In fact, he detests it. When I sometimes roughhouse with him and set him on my arm or shoulders, he says three words, as distinctly as can be, despite his speech delay. "I want down". When Shamus and I enter the YMCA pool, however, he lets me embrace him. In fact, he insists that I carry him, and he grabs my neck and holds on for dear life, being careful not to drop the bright yellow plastic duck he adopted as his object of choice to grasp while in the pool. I believe he trusts me to save him from slipping into the scary blue water below. Holding Shamus in the pool creates a special kind of father - son bond that cannot be realized on dry land. Walking in the 4-foot-deep water, squatting as I walk to keep most of my six-foot frame wet, I am elated. There is nowhere else I would rather be at this moment than with my special son - not even in the steaming hot tub several feet away, filled with a lively crowd of people, laughing and carousing and having a grand time. This is our special pool time. It is our time.

Being in a pool, I've found, also helps me hold my special son. Our once little bundle of joy is now a much bigger bundle of joy, and I've found it impossible to hoist him for more than a few minutes without my arms screaming in protest over bearing such a heavy load. The water, however, lightens the burden, and I can easily carry him for hours while in a swimming pool with minimal effort. Having an autistic son is also a burden at times, and luckily, our burden has been lightened by the support not of water, but of family, friends, teachers, therapists, and God. April and I are very fortunate, as we are not alone in raising our autistic son.

The following day, while driving a friend to San Francisco, I visited the Italian district of the city, complete with trendy cafes, coffee shops, and leafy green parks with large century-old trees. While there, I entered an historic, nineteenth-century church, built by Italian immigrants in an elaborate Gothic style. The church was incredibly quiet, the only sounds being the hushed whispers of the few people sitting or kneeling in the pews. All around were tall Gothic pillars, intricate chandeliers, vibrant stained-glass windows, ornate and lifelike statues, and several alcoves with miniature altars and grottos, complete with tiers of red and white candles, gently flickering in the darkness. Originally, I entered the church to view the architecture and artwork, but I stayed longer than I planned. I lit a few candles, prayed, and realized that the load I was carrying could be heavier, but wasn't. Whether by support from water buoyancy or family, friends, and faith, I knew that we weren't alone. Shamus is truly a blessing, and, despite his autism, a wonderful gift from God.

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Yes, Shamus, There is a Santa Claus
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes, as we get older, we stop believing in the magical things that make childhood so very special. And sometimes in our lives, we need a little magic to show us that some things truly are worth believing in.

It's December again. The years seem to fly now. It's kind of a depressing time of year. The days are short and cloudy and unusually rainy this winter. My software contracting job is almost finished, which means I can look forward to unemployment come January.

Don't get me wrong. I love Christmas. We bought a live tree at the local Home Depot and decorated our home. With no immediate family in the area, however, who is going to see our decorations? We put lights on the outside of the house, but they're pretty pathetic when compared to other homes in nearby neighborhoods. No jumping Santa or flying reindeer in our yard! just your basic icicle lights - and it never fails that several bulbs burn out each year. I don't have the time or energy to troubleshoot. No one looks at our lights anyway...

I wish Santa were real. I wish there were really a guy who flew around the world delivering presents. I could write him a letter every year with my Christmas list. This year, I would ask for a new job, some extra cash to fix up the house, and maybe a trip to someplace warm, like Mexico or Hawaii. Then, I would ask for a magical diet so I can feast on all the wonderful holiday foods while watching Christmas specials on TV and still lose all my excess poundage. I would also ask Santa to take all my grey hairs back to the North Pole and replace them with lots more dark hair. I guess this is asking a lot of a fat guy with a white beard, though...

Shamus doesn't get into Christmas. Actually, he never gets into any holidays. I take him trick-or-treating so I can relive MY childhood and steal his candy. One year, we skipped Easter completely. No Easter eggs, no Easter Bunny, nothing - and Shamus didn't have a clue. Even when the Easter Bunny does visit Shamus, I steal most of his candy. He's a good sport about that. I guess there are advantages to having a kid like Shamus...

One day, April showed me what she bought Shamus for Christmas. Videotapes, stocking stuffers, a toy car he received for his birthday that was whisked away before he could see it so we could "recycle" it for Christmas. The usual stuff...

There was also a train set. "It's a cheaper set", April explained. "It's plastic". Being on a budget, we didn't want to spend a lot of money on a nicer wooden set. Shamus wouldn't know the difference anyway. And besides, what if he doesn't know how to play with a train set? Like many autistic children, he lacks creative play skills and may never even want to play with a train set. It's safer to buy him a cheaper set - just in case. And, if we keep the receipt, we can always return it...

On Christmas Eve night, as it was time to put the train set together, I discovered what "AAA" batteries were. I also discovered that, in all the boxes and boxes of batteries we had in the garage, for everything from flashlights to toys to smoke alarms, we didn't have enough "AAA" batteries. We had a few, mind you, but this train needed SIX batteries. So, I did what any good Dad would do on Christmas Eve - I drove to Rite-Aid to buy more batteries. And yes, we did get the train set working. And, I must admit, on that Christmas Eve, as I assembled a cheap train set and made a late night battery run, I felt a little bit like the Santa Claus I stopped believing in so many years ago.

The next morning, when Shamus came out and discovered his presents, he made a beeline for the train set. The cheap, plastic, battery-operated train set. We all played with that toy that morning - April, Shamus, and myself. Shamus had a sparkle in his eye that touched my heart and warmed my soul. Our little autistic boy really did love Christmas and Santa Claus after all. And on that Christmas morning, I realized that I have been wrong all these years. Yes, there is a Santa Claus. And the funny thing is, in watching our little boy's eyes sparkle as he played with his new toy, I realized that I received the best gift of all - watching my child's happiness while he played with his new train - which he correctly believed to be from no one other than Santa Claus.

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PJ
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes, God surprises us by giving an autistic boy - who had nothing but fear for His glorious creatures - a new best friend. A gentle pony named PJ.

It's a sunny Saturday morning as my stretch my eyes open after a long slumber. As I awaken, I hear the patter of tiny squirrel paws playfully darting back-and-forth across our humble roof. I am pleased, knowing my furry four-legged friends enjoy my home as much as I do...

On this warm spring day, April and I will take Shamus to visit a ranch for his very first pony ride. Hopefully, it will help him improve his fine and gross motor skills, learn to love and bond with a living creature, and, most of all, overcome his fear of animals. Hopefully, the encounter will be positive and Shamus will ride the creature each week as part of this ongoing therapy program.

Shamus, unlike most little boys, is afraid of dogs. Perhaps that's normal for younger children, but Shamus is almost five. Even small dogs terrify him. We visited my brother last summer, whose charming cabin in the Idaho wilderness is a menagerie of cats and dogs. We tried our best to keep the scampering canines away from Shamus, but with the numerous two and four-legged creatures and the constant chaos, it was a difficult task. Shamus would just have to manage. He did, somehow...

Before we left for the ranch, April showed Shamus pictures of horses. "What's that, Shamus?" she'd ask, pointing to a picture. "Horsie", Shamus would answer. "What are we going to see today, Shamus", she'd ask again. The answer was the same. "Horsie".

Driving to the ranch was absolutely delightful. Although we barreled down an interstate, it seemed like a quaint country road, with the sparse traffic, green rolling hills, and nearby mountains topped by giant redwood trees with a touch of coastal fog kissing the peaks. The ranch was just as picturesque, with a panoramic view of rolling green pastures and stately oak and sycamore trees. Whenever a horse passed our van, April would ask Shamus to turn his head and announce what he saw. The answer was of course, "horsie".

Soon, it came time for Shamus to meet the pony. "This is PJ", the trainer said, introducing us to the creature and encouraging us to touch him. PJ was a gentle and patient pony, and being the ripe old age of 25, was quite laid-back as well. With all the hands stroking his tan-colored hair, caressing his ears, and touching his nose, he was an extremely calm beast. He loved the attention and had a natural affinity for young children. In a strange sort of way, he seemed to truly appreciate his important role in assisting special children like my little boy. We encouraged Shamus to pet the pony's soft hair and fluffy white mane. Even I enjoyed rubbing his soft, silky coat. Living most of my life in the suburbs, petting a pony is a rare opportunity.

When it came time to mount the animal, however, Shamus resisted. The Monster called Autism reared its ugly head, and my special little boy transformed from a sweet gentle boy to a fighting maniac in a mere moment. For such a little boy, he sure can fight and is quite strong for his small body. He can certainly be stubborn sometimes - not unlike his father. After much cajoling and sweet assurances, however, Shamus eventually calmed down enough to allow PJ to carry him around the pen.

Once Shamus became comfortable with the pony, he was happy. Actually, he was more than happy. He was ecstatic. As PJ and Shamus marched around the pen, April said to me "See, he's smiling". I looked, and sure enough, he was. He had a giant, playful grin on his face and a magical sparkle in his eye that melted my heart. He seemed like a different kid - not the unruly, struggling 4-year-old that resisted mounting the animal just a few minutes earlier. That radiant glow never left his face. In watching this sight, I realized that Shamus gave this creature the greatest gift of all - his unconditional love and trust - and PJ cherished this. The beast walked proud and tall, knowing that because of his gentleness and compassion, he was able to gain the confidence of a very special boy. As far as PJ was concerned, he was a magnificent stallion carrying the noblest prince through the gates of a glorious kingdom.

But alas, even life's most memorable moments must eventually come to an end. When it came time to dismount, Shamus' stubbornness returned. He loved the pony so much, he didn't want to leave. "Say bye-bye to PJ", I told him. "I want ride PJ", he would repeat over and over. "Next time", we would reply, as we pulled him off the pony.

As we drove home through the green, rural countryside, Shamus repeated endlessly "I want ride PJ", "I want ride PJ", "I want ride PJ"... His chatter was almost nonstop. To most parents, it would be a major annoyance, but not to this proud Dad. It was music to my ears. My little autistic boy, who was terrified of even the smallest dogs, had a new best friend - a gentle pony named PJ.

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A Fire Truck, a Playhouse, and an Angel
by Patrick Paulitz

Angels appear in our lives - much more than we mortals realize. To see and experience them, we need only open our eyes and our minds. When angels perform their magic, we sometimes witness nothing less than a miracle.

It's early July, and warm summer weather has finally arrived. By my standards it is hot, since the temperature actually prompts me to change into shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops and slop on the sunscreen. Living in the shadow of San Francisco, with its Golden Gate Bridge, Chinatown, and cable cars, we are hosting many guests this year. Both April and our summer visitors are seeing friends in San Jose on this warm summer afternoon. This leaves, of course, Daddy and Shamus...

"Why not take him to Happy Hollow", I think to myself. Whenever April has business in San Jose, and I'm left alone with Shamus, it's Happy Hollow to the rescue. Happy Hollow is a miniature vibrantly-colored children's amusement park near downtown San Jose. It's actually older than me, being built in 1961, but, unlike myself, its age isn't nearly so apparent. This park boasts of brightly-colored carousals, including one where youngsters twirl on the backs of sea creatures, like pelicans, fish, sea horses, and snails - whose dazzling colors rival even the most vibrant tropical reef. Another ride allows small children to spin on bright orange ladybugs and other colorful insects as they buzz and dart in endless circles, going no place in particular but enjoying the journey nonetheless. Happy Hollow is a tiny, intimate park, and is dwarfed by the huge parking area just outside its warm and welcoming gates. Its smallness and compactness, as well as its brilliant color and unique attractions, give the park its charm, and are what keep children visiting generation after generation. For the younger folk, its magic is timeless.

Of all these wonderful activities, however, Shamus' favorite is the antique fire engine. Unlike the other attractions, this fire truck doesn't move. It doesn't spin in countless circles or gallop up-and-down to electrifying and festive music. Instead, it patiently waits, year after year, for imaginative young children to climb it, sit on it, and to loudly clang its fire bell, pretending to swiftly dash to an imaginary blaze. This fire engine probably reminisces about its previous life, rushing firefighters to the site of a roaring inferno in the early days of San Jose. The fire truck's nearest neighbor at Happy Hollow is a colorful, two-story playhouse, designed to teach children about fire safety. The fire engine and playhouse, I believe, are very close friends, and cherish their respective roles in developing children's imaginations.

Perhaps because of this fire engine's simplicity, it remains one of Shamus' favorite activities at Happy Hollow after so many years. Shamus loves to climb into the driver's seat and wildly clang the old-fashioned fire bell. Sometimes, he even asks me to join him, as he did today. So, on this warm Saturday afternoon, Shamus and I were a father-son firefighting team, rushing to imaginary blazes through the streets of old San Jose, taking turns sounding the old-fashioned fire bell.

Suddenly and without warning, a short chubby girl, about Shamus' age, approached me. "Hey, I want to sit there", she shouted. "My, aren't you a rude little girl", I thought to myself. "Didn't your mother teach you any manners", I wondered, as I moved so the obnoxious child could sit next to Shamus.

When this disrespectful youngster sat near Shamus, she spoke to him as she would speak to any child. She didn't seem to notice his autism. If she did notice, she didn't seem to care. This little girl, who seemed to be so inconsiderate just a moment before, was now showing true culture and refinement. She saved her respect and understanding for the person who matters the most - little autistic Shamus.

After the two played together on the fire engine, the friendly young child invited Shamus to join her in the nearby two-story playhouse - the same playhouse that he, despite visiting the adjacent fire truck several times through the years, never once expressed an interest in. Shamus and his new friend darted to the playhouse and disappeared through its tiny front door.

After a few minutes, I peeked through the playhouse window. The first floor was empty. I then bent my six-foot frame to duck through the child-sized door, squatting to spare my head from crashing against the ceiling of this miniature structure. Then, I poked my head through the wee staircase to see the second floor. There, to my amazement, I saw my little Shamus - my little autistic Shamus - scurrying with the other children, acting like any ordinary four-year-old boy. He didn't seem different from the other kids. For this one special moment, Shamus was a "typical" child. It was a sight to behold, and it warmed my heart.

As the park was closing just a few minutes later, Shamus and I started our short trek to the sea of metallic vehicles in the nearby parking lot just outside the park's enchanted gates. While holding my little boy's hand, I reflected on the incredible scene I witnessed just an instant before - and realized that this touching, magical moment would never have occurred were it not for an angel who befriended my special autistic boy and helped to create a miracle.

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Junk Food, Bumper Cars, and My Special Son
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes, a father and son, while simply smiling, laughing, and enjoying life together, discover a common bond - and create a touching and precious moment.

August in San Mateo means many things - warm days, cold nights, outdoor concerts, weekend camping trips, and of course, the San Mateo County Fair. Living down the street from the fairgrounds, it has been a tradition in our family to attend the festivities every year. Even when Shamus was a not-so-tiny newborn, I attended the fair by myself, sporting a cell phone on my waist to always be in touch with Shamus and his proud Mommy. This year is no exception, so we hop in the minivan and make the one-mile journey to the San Mateo County Fairgrounds.

After arriving at the fair, we follow tradition and make a beeline for the food court, letting our noses lead the way. The food court is a lively gathering place, with brightly-colored trailers sporting exotic banners advertising all kinds of delicious fare, with treats ranging from Greek gyros, Mexican tacos, barbequed pork ribs, pizza, cheeseburgers, Thai chicken, and everything imaginable deep-fried, from chicken, fish, hot dogs, bananas, zucchini, and even Twinkies and Oreo cookies. The aroma of all this food lingers in the still August air, inviting us to indulge in the pleasures of filling our stomachs with the tempting and downright fattening delicacies. Nowhere else is there such a variety of scrumptious treats all in one place but the County Fair, and at no other time would anyone dare to savor such sinful delights as deep-fried Twinkies or Oreo cookies. Yes, the fair brings out the child in all of us, and takes us back to a time before calorie-counting, cholesterol-checking, and low-fat diets - and returns us all to our lackadaisical, carefree childhood. Too bad it only comes once a year...

After stuffing our faces with notoriously greasy County Fair delicacies, we took Shamus to a children's play area. Here, the little guy can ride toy cars and climb inside a real working ambulance or helicopter, as well as play tiny-tot basketball or swing a hula-hoop. He could even gaze at a moon rock from an Apollo mission. Of course, all our special autistic boy wants to do is ride a toy car, in aimless circles around the small room. Soon, April decides to go home, leaving Daddy and Shamus together at the fair - just in time to visit the roaring and electrifying fun zone.

Ah, the fun zone. Like the food court, the fun zone is also filled with sights, sounds, and smells that bring back childhood memories, and this fun zone is no exception. Sounds of screaming children and adults, barkers inviting carnival-goers to try games-of-chance, the smell of hot dogs, cotton candy, and popcorn, and the sight of brilliantly-colored attractions that spin and twirl riders, turning them sideways, upside-down or simply dropping them from great heights are all a part of this carnival experience. Of course, there is also the traditional Ferris wheel, House of Mirrors, and bumper cars. Yes, this fun zone is an important part of the County Fair, and to experience it is to relive an integral part of American culture.

Fortunately for me, the father of a very special autistic boy, this carnival had lots of rides for the little ones. First, I emptied my wallet of several greenbacks for an all-day wristband so little Shamus could compulsively ride the attractions over-and-over without me having to constantly return to the ticket booth, with Shamus tugging one hand while I juggle my wallet in the other, hoping to keep the little guy from rambunctiously scampering all over the fun zone. Then, one-by-one, I put Shamus on the rides. Most of the children's attractions revolved in endless circles, and included bright pink elephants, buzzing bumblebees with a kaleidoscope of colors, and roaring fighter jets of sparkling blue. There was also a tiny train, child-sized Hummers, a miniature green dragon roller coaster, and a carousal with vibrantly-colored horses galloping up-and-down, as if marching to the beat of the lively calliope-like music. All of these attractions were brilliantly-colored and played pleasant, uplifting melodies. As Shamus enjoyed the attractions, which I chose for him, he was always happy. Not ecstatic, mind you, but happy just the same. After all, he is a very happy-go-lucky child, and nothing seems to upset him too much...

Finally, I decided to let Shamus try the bumper cars. Ah, the bumper cars! Even as a young adult of twenty-something, I would sometimes go to the local carnival - by myself - and ride various attractions, and my favorite was always the bumper cars. There's something special about driving in endless circles, colliding with complete strangers, and not worrying about insurance companies or body shops. To me, the bumper cars were always special, so it only felt fitting to let my special son share this experience with me.

After buying ride tickets for myself and waiting in a long, snaking line, we finally climbed into our bumper car. Almost immediately, I felt like a child again, and could hardly contain my delight as I waited for the ride operator to flip the magic switch that would bring the bumper cars to life. Before long, we were moving, backwards, forward, and sideways, around-and-around, constantly hitting the side railing and other bumper cars. As I was driving the special cars, I noticed something. Every time we collided - every single time - Shamus giggled and laughed and a huge smile appeared on his face. He, like his Dad, loved bumper cars. He laughed out loud for the first time all day. I was elated. It put a smile on my own face, knowing that my son - my special autistic son - loved bumper cars just as much as his father. The experience, although probably only a few minutes long, seemed to last forever - and, to be honest, I was hoping it would. But alas, all moments in life, no matter how special, must eventually come to an end...

When the time came to disembark the tiny cars that Shamus and I loved so much, Shamus was very cooperative. He grabbed my hand, climbed out, and followed me to the exit. Soon, we were again strolling throughout the carnival grounds. While Shamus and I were aimlessly meandering around the fun zone, I felt something. It was the child-sized hand of a little boy - my special little boy - gently tugging my T-shirt. Then, with his small petite voice, he said something, which, unintelligible to most, was crystal clear to me: "I want more". "You want more what?", I asked him, knowing full well the answer in my heart. He replied "I want more bumper car". My heart melted as the huge smile reappeared on my face. "You want more bumper cars?", I asked. "Yes", he said, in a way that only my special Shamus can. "Okay", I said, as I dabbed my eye with a handkerchief to dry the tiny tear that was starting to form. "We'll have more bumper cars", I said as we headed to the ticket booth to purchase more ride tickets for Daddy.

We rode the bumper cars three times that day. Every time our car collided, Shamus continued to laugh and smile and giggle, like any five-year-old child should. And, after every ride, Shamus always said "I want more" - and, I admit, I actually felt guilty not letting him ride a fourth time. But, like happens so often in life, my wallet ran empty. It was just as well, though. We both had a wonderful day eating junk food and enjoying the carnival, and Shamus and I shared a most unforgettable father-son experience - butting bumper cars at the County Fair.

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Words
by Patrick Paulitz

In any language, words have power - the power to heal, comfort, or to reconcile sworn enemies. Sometimes, a few simple words spoken by a caring stranger can be the most powerful of all - especially for a very special autistic boy and his ever-adoring father.

Living in scenic Northern California, summer feels incomplete without at least one weekend camping trip. A few days outdoors, sleeping under the stars and waking to the sound of chirping blue jays - hungrily pecking our bag of hot dog buns - refreshes the soul and soothes the mind. It's a great alternative to psychotherapy - and a lot cheaper. In my mind, the world would be a much happier and more pleasant place if every one of its citizens took a few days off each summer to appreciate nature's glorious splendor. In the woods, daily problems and frustrations seem to be a world away, even if they are only on the other side of the mountain.

A few miles west of San Mateo lies a picturesque coast range full of ancient and stately redwoods. Even before April and I were married, we made annual pilgrimages every summer to spend a few days eating, drinking, laughing, relaxing, sleeping, and enjoying God's wonderful creation in His wondrous outdoor cathedral. This year, because of our busy schedule and many summer visitors, our first camping trip isn't until late August. April has a summer cold, so Shamus and I will be instead joined by our Japanese exchange student, Kenta, who is staying with us this month. With Shamus, Kenta, and myself, it will be a guys' weekend out.

After packing more gear for one weekend than I had in my entire apartment ten years ago, the three of us pile in the minivan and enjoy a scenic drive along a twisting, winding road that leads through breathtaking groves of ancient redwoods. There's not much civilization along the way, except for a few mom-and-pop grocery stores with weather-beaten signs slowly swaying in the breeze advertising beer and firewood, cozy mountain cabins with neatly stacked piles of firewood, and an occasional youth, church, or Boy Scout camp. Tree branches created a lush, thick canopy, and only a few rays of sunlight filtered through like gentle drops of light kissing the damp forest floor. Though it was mid-summer, we were driving through a world of perpetual shadows. We stopped only once, when Shamus seemed to be getting queasy. Mountain roads will do that to a kid sometimes...

Later that night, after setting up camp and having a dinner of cold KFC and piping hot chili, I dressed Shamus in his pajamas and read to him under the glaring light of a hissing propane lantern before tucking him into a warm sleeping bag. Then, Kenta and I chatted into the cool dark evening by the flickering campfire, drinking wine and sampling various goodies - and always keeping an eye and ear out for mischievous and downright daring raccoons that have no qualms about stealing our food as we talk and laugh just a few steps away.

The next morning, as I rub my eyes and slowly come to consciousness, I hear the rustle of leaves softly dropping on the roof of our simple tent as they create unique silhouettes against the soft morning sun. Various birds sing melodious tunes, as if bidding me a good morning from their home in the trees. The gentle morning rays filtered through the smoke of a neighboring campfire and the canopy of the lush forest, creating a calming, surreal effect. Yes, morning in the woods can be a wondrous experience, and helps me appreciate this gift from God of a new day.

Later that day, after waking from a long refreshing afternoon slumber among the comfy disarray of sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows in our cozy, cramped tent, I realize that it's a great time to take Shamus swimming in the creek. Besides taking ridiculously short hikes through the small campground, wading in the creek is the major activity for families with young children camping in this area. So, I change Shamus and myself into our swimsuits before hiking the short, winding, and narrow trail to the local swimming hole.

The swimming hole is actually a wide section of a small creek, with shallow, motionless water. On the banks of the creek are giant redwoods and lush, green ferns. Since it is late in the day, most of the area is covered in shadows from the cool forest canopy. The small beach, consisting of coarse, gritty sand, is covered with beach towels, sand toys, picnic lunches, and happy, laughing children, along with their parents, grandparents, and siblings. All appear to be having an enjoyable, fun-filled day in this magical valley of redwoods.

After laying down our own beach towel and stepping into the small shallow river, Shamus, upon realizing that the water was like melted ice, asked me to carry him on my shoulders. Daddy, of course, was happy to oblige, despite the almost painful numbing of my toes and feet from the freezing cold water. This is Shamus' day, I felt, and whatever the little guy wanted was his, despite extreme discomfort on my part. That's part of being a Dad, I guess...

As I waded through the frigid water with Shamus on my shoulders, I heard a soft buzzing sound, like an obnoxious dragonfly hovering over a steamy southern swamp. Then, Shamus said "I want boat". As I slowly turned my head, I spotted a small, white, remote-controlled motorboat swiftly maneuvering among the rocks and logs on the other side of the river. Shamus wants to see the miniature vessel, I thought, so I wandered my way towards the sound of the humming watercraft. As I got closer, however, I noticed a group of men and boys on the riverbank using the vehicle for target practice. They were constantly hurling rocks, collected from the side of the creek, at the model boat, trying to hit or even disable it. The tiny motorboat's drone was now drowned out by the sound of many stones plopping and splashing in the shallow water. Whenever a rock hit the vessel, there were loud shouts of approval coming from the riverbank.

"I want boat", Shamus continued. Obviously, Shamus wanted me to get closer to the buzzing watercraft. "Not on your life. I'm not about to get stoned to death so you can see a stupid boat", I thought to myself, as I constantly reassured the little guy. I chanted over and over, "Yes, Shamus, we'll see the boat". Standing in the water, with Shamus on my shoulders, we watched the miniature motorboat from a safe distance, as it quickly zipped through the water, dodging logs, boulders, and flying rocks. Shamus constantly and repetitively chattered "I want boat, I want boat, I want boat..."

All of a sudden, the speedy watercraft veered off its usual course and made a beeline straight for Shamus and me. "Hold your fire", a man yelled as he maneuvered the joystick on the remote control. Soon, the vessel slowly floated by Shamus and me, as if proudly showing off its intricate details to an adoring little boy. Now, we could clearly see its tiny propeller, small windshield, miniature seats and scaled-down steering wheel. "What's going on?", a boy on the riverbank shouted to the man with the remote control.

"Shamus wants to see the boat", the man with the remote yelled back...

"Shamus wants to see the boat". Six little words. Six seemingly insignificant words among the billions spoken daily. Certainly, important speeches were given today by politicians and rulers in capitols and statehouses worldwide. Even ordinary citizens spoke innumerable words today while conversing in thousands of tongues. Yet, at that moment, this short little sentence seemed to be the most far-reaching six words ever uttered by any human being.

"Shamus wants to see the boat".

For that moment, Shamus was not a compulsive autistic boy ignored or considered to be a nuisance by those around him. Instead, Shamus - my special little Shamus - was just a boy who wanted to see a model motorboat as it darted through the water. In this way, he was no different from any other five-year-old boy. And these six words - these six special and incredibly thoughtful words - proudly proclaimed this truth.

Soon after, as Shamus and I were leaving the swimming hole to return to our campsite, I thanked the friendly man for showing Shamus his tiny watercraft. I never told him that Shamus was autistic. Maybe he already knew. Maybe he didn't. It didn't really matter, though. All he really needed to know was that Shamus was a special little boy who simply wanted to see his zippy motorboat race through the river. With one short sentence, this compassionate gentleman didn't necessarily change the world, but he did make the day for a very special five-year-old boy - and his ever-adoring father.

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Next Time
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes life gives us a second chance. The most precious of life's "do over" gifts often comes from the smallest and seemingly most insignificant of earth's citizens. On a balmy October day near the Northern California coast, a little five-year-old autistic boy gave a most-cherished treasure - a second chance at an unforgettable moment between this most special boy and his ever-adoring father.

It's a bright and sunny Saturday morning - a splendid autumn day in San Mateo, and a great day for visiting Lemos Farm, a pumpkin farm near the rural Northern California coast - popular with children and grownups alike.

Lemos Farm is more tourist attraction than farm, and is especially popular in October - almost too popular, in fact. It can get quite crowded, and is filled with families with young children looking for a fun-filled way to spend a warm fall day on the Coast. Autumn on the Coast is nestled between the cool, foggy summers and the cold, rainy, and dreary winters. Most coastal residents agree that October is indeed the most pleasant month, and the crowds at Lemos Farms certainly seem to affirm this belief.

Lemos Farm is a magical place, and is splashed in dazzling colors of the harvest season. The grounds of this autumn playground are filled with all things October - black Halloween witches and bats, colorful scarecrows, dried cornstalks, lots of golden haystacks scattered throughout the property - and of course, pumpkins. Lemos Farm celebrates this distinguished gourd, and the grounds are literally blanketed with them. These pumpkins come in all sizes, from baseball-sized to giants of several hundred pounds, and come in shapes of round, oval, and even lopsided. And oh the colors! There are plenty of the traditional orange pumpkins, but being so close to the farming areas of the Coast, they also have brilliant shades of red, white, lavender, and even multi-colored. Lemos Farm is a shrine to this revered gourd of the autumn season, and it is rare to find a family that leaves these grounds without a least a few of them under their arms - or even piled in wheelbarrows - as they make their exit before jumping into minivans and SUV's for the long, twisting drive home.

Lemos Farm also has activities to entertain the little ones. There is a small petting zoo, filled with playful goats and sheep, as well as pony rides for the tiny guests. The "train ride" at the farm is actually a tram which travels through a pint-sized ghost town, complete with dancing skeletons, a gold mine with miniature miners, various scarecrows, a model Indian village, a humorous graveyard, and a rowdy bordello and gambling hall. Keeping with the seasonal theme of autumn, there is also a hay ride, where farm guests ride in the straw-lined bed of a farm truck as it wanders throughout the property. There are also a few "bounce houses", enclosed inflatable trampoline-like structures where small children can endlessly bounce up-and-down, sideways, and all other directions, like astronauts playfully romping on the lunar surface.

Shamus, my autistic son, enjoys most of the activities at Lemos Farm, with the notable exception of the petting zoo. The rambunctious goats and sheep frightened my dear Shamus, probably more than any Halloween ghost or goblin ever could. The other attraction which Shamus didn't appreciate was the hay ride. After climbing into the big red truck used for this attraction, the monster called Autism reared its ugly head. Perhaps it was the hay, the openness of the truck bed, or the height of the vehicle. It didn't really matter, though. I simply grabbed Shamus' tiny hand and escorted him off the truck - and into his waiting mother's arms. Then, being a giant-sized but still fun-loving boy at heart, I returned and rode the hay ride myself, as the big red farm vehicle bounced throughout the property, meandering through a small Christmas tree farm and along the hilly back roads of the farm, with its overgrown brush and stately oak and sycamore trees. It was quite an enjoyable ride, but like most happy moments in life, it ended much too quickly. Before long, the hay ride ended and the "hay riders", myself included, were soon slowly disembarking from the truck.

After I stepped off the vehicle, the driver discretely pulled me aside. "Is your little guy autistic", he whispered into my ear. "Yes", I quietly responded. After a brief conversation, I learned that besides driving a hay truck for tourists, this compassionate gentleman also taught special kids - special kids like my little five-year-old Shamus. Just before I parted to continue my busy day at Lemos Farm, the understanding truck driver exclaimed: "He'll come around. Just give him time. Be patient, and next time, he'll ride".

"Next time", I thought to myself. I wonder when that will be. Probably next year, since it's not like Shamus to change his mind about anything - hay rides or anything else - very quickly. That's just the way he is, I'm afraid...

After I finished the rollicking hay ride, I took my cherished son by the hand, and together we enjoyed the other attractions at Lemos Farm - except for the petting zoo, with its energetic goats and sheep which terrify Shamus more than any Halloween spook. We wandered around the farm, admiring the pumpkins, scarecrows, and other autumn decorations. Every so often, I asked Shamus "Do you want a hay ride?" The answer, of course, was always "no". What else could I expect, after all, from my little autistic boy?

As the October sun descended towards the horizon towards the end of our day at the farm, I asked Shamus one final time, "Do you want a hay ride?" I don't know why I questioned him again. I certainly knew the answer already. Or did I?

"Yes", he said, surprisingly. I couldn't believe my ears. Maybe he misunderstood the question, I thought, so I asked again. "Do you want a hay ride?" "Yes", he repeated, in a tiny, pint-sized voice. My heart melted as I realized that Shamus - my dear autistic Shamus - did indeed want a hay ride with his father.

Before long, Shamus and I were climbing onto the big red truck for our hay ride. I waved to the kindly driver - the one who teaches special kids like Shamus - and shouted "I'm going to give it another shot!" Then, Shamus sat in my lap as we enjoyed our hay ride - together. The large rickety vehicle, filled with October hay, a smiling Dad, and a grinning and giggling Shamus bounced through the farmland, among Christmas tree farms and groves of ancient, stately trees with mounds of colorful red, yellow, and orange autumn leaves blanketing the landscape.

"Next time", I thought to myself, recalling the prediction from the friendly truck driver just a few hours before. The thoughtful gentleman who mentored to very special kids like Shamus was right. As we bounced through the rural countryside, relaxing on piles of golden hay in the back of a bright red farm truck, it occurred to me. My son Shamus - my beloved little autistic boy - gave me a priceless gift. He gave his adoring Dad a "next time". It's a treasure that comes far too infrequently in life. But on this warm autumn day, I received this surprise from my precious five-year-old boy. And this smiling father couldn't be happier - or prouder.

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Matinee
by Patrick Paulitz

For most parents, taking a child to a Saturday afternoon flick is little more than a way to kill time, of entertaining their little ones with minimal parental exertion, and even as a way to regain their sanity on a busy fun-filled weekend. For one Dad and his very special boy, however, a Saturday matinee became so much more than just a weekend excursion. Watching a simple children's film together fulfilled a father's wish - and gave him an afternoon he will never forget.

For proud dads, certain father-son activities are a rite-of-passage in the parent-child relationship. While my son was still swimming and kicking in his mother's humungous abdomen, I dreamed of taking him to his first baseball game, first camping trip, and even his first movie. This was, of course, before April and I knew we would be blessed with a child who, despite having special-needs, would also bring abundant joy and blessings to our lives. He was more precious than either of us could have ever imagined - a cherished gift from God.

Because of Shamus' autism, most of these traditional father-son outings, which most parents take for granted, never became a reality. How I wished I could take my son on an exciting train excursion to a San Francisco Giants game, buy him a hot dog, Coke, and Giants cap, and together experience an incredible baseball game. My eyes, although sometimes blinded to his limitations, were certainly open enough to realize that such an activity would be disastrous, considering Shamus' often disruptive autistic behavior.

Upon seeing promotions for the upcoming motion picture "Curious George", however, I knew it was finally time to give Shamus a chance at a father-son outing. This film, I reasoned, was a kid's movie. If he does misbehave, the other patrons, being parents of small children themselves, will certainly understand. Besides, the running time is less than ninety minutes - certainly short enough to hold Shamus' interest, I figured. Even if Shamus didn't like the show, I certainly would, since that playful critter named George was a favorite storybook character from my own childhood...

"Shamus", I asked. "Do you want to see Curious George with Daddy"? "Yyyyyyyyes", he replied, in his unique, signature style, answering in a way that only my special Shamus can.

"He's not ready", April said. "Be flexible, and take him out of the theater if he misbehaves", she advised. Being the proud father, however, I was more optimistic, and knew it was time for Shamus to see a movie with Daddy - a film about a mischievous monkey named "Curious George".

Driving Shamus to the cinema, my spirits were higher than the white puffy clouds floating so far above our heads. I would finally have my chance to do a real "Dad" activity with my precious son. After parking in a crowded downtown garage, we strolled to the theater hand-in-hand, passing bustling restaurants and traffic-jammed streets of roaring buses and blaring horns. After finally arriving at the box office, I shouted through the microphone "One adult and one child for Curious George, please". Words cannot describe my incredible pride as I traded my greenbacks for two theater tickets, which I immediately handed to my little boy to give to the doorman. We then wandered to the small auditorium where our chosen feature was showing.

After the lights dimmed and the projector started to flicker, Shamus sat and absorbed the movie. No, he didn't make a fuss. He didn't ask to leave, and he didn't require my constant attention. None of his mother's predictions materialized. What Shamus did was watch the naughty monkey named George play "peek-a-boo" with a yellow safari hat in the African jungle, paint a downtown studio a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, float aimlessly over the Manhattan skyline clutching a rainbow of colorful carnival balloons, and generally make life very interesting for himself and The Man in the Yellow Hat - who eventually grew quite fond of George's frolicsome behavior. The movie screen sparkled like a brilliant display of fireworks on a balmy summer night, and Shamus, although not following the storyline, was mesmerized by the symphony of color splashing on every corner of the silver screen, like a painter's canvas coming to life. It was a pleasant and enjoyable time for both father and son, and an unforgettable experience. While enjoying the dazzling film, I realized that, sitting next to me was my own little monkey who, like Curious George, also likes to find mischief, always warming my heart in the process. I was ecstatic, sporting a huge grin from ear-to-ear, as my precious son and I watched our first movie together. It was a day I will never forget and will cherish in my heart forever.

A few days later, I asked Shamus "What movie did you see with Daddy?" He replied, in a way that only my little boy can, "Monkey Movie". In Shamus' eyes, it was a "Monkey Movie". In my eyes, however, it was something so much more. It was a special gift from a special boy - a Saturday matinee his proud father will never forget.

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Ninety-four Years
by Patrick Paulitz

God gives every cloud a silver lining - which we are often blind to. Our challenge is to open our eyes and minds to see and understand the positive side of life's most unpleasant realities. It is a difficult task, but when accomplished, can yield bountiful dividends.

It's an overcast Sunday afternoon, and with dreary weather like this, I can almost hear my nice comfortable bed beckoning me to join it for a long refreshing nap. Not much going on today, I think, except for the birthday party. It's not every day that someone you know turns 94.

Gerry, our good friend, is hosting this special birthday party at his home in Sausalito - a small, charming, and upscale town just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Gerry is a pleasant chap, a tall and slender Irish immigrant with a brogue to match. He is sixty-something, and his hair, like mine, is definitely thinning. Gerry's residence enjoys a panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay and skyline. His castle on the hill is a wonderful place to sip wine and nibble on vintage cheeses while watching ships glide across the Bay. The yard is a meticulous English garden, complete with an impeccable lawn, whirling ponds, and magical statues of trolls and fairies. In my single days, I would visit late into the night, relaxing in the hot tub while nursing a beer, enjoying the city lights below. It will be fun to see Gerry again, I think to myself. It has been a few years since I've seen him...

As we arrive at Gerry's home, I greet the birthday boy. "Happy birthday, Wedo", I say to the frail, grey-haired gentleman relaxing on a comfortable recliner in the courtyard. As I grasp his feeble hand for a handshake, I contemplate God's wonderful creation. I marvel at all Wedo has experienced in his relatively short lifetime. He is most famous for being an artist, and our home, both inside and out, is adorned with various pieces he created. Unfortunately, I met Wedo in the sunset of his life. I have seen several pictures of the Italian immigrant in his more youthful days, but I have only known him as the gentle grey-haired man who is reaching out his hand for a friendly embrace.

Our culture views aging in a negative light. Not at this gathering, however. As Wedo sat in his recliner, he was a king in his throne, and all of the younger partygoers his loyal subjects. Like all good dignitaries, Wedo has earned the love and respect of those who surround him. In his nine decades of life, the collection of artwork shaped by this patriarch's now frail hands is immeasurable - and the world is greater because of it.

Later, as I climb the steps into Gerry's house, I wonder about Jenny, the loud and obnoxious Chihuahua that yipped at everyone's heels - everyone's heels, that is, except mine. For some odd reason, this miniature dog, smaller than most cats, allowed me to stroke her soft fur as she sat in my lap, relaxed and content. Perhaps she sensed that I was a dog lover, or perhaps I had a magic touch. Years before, when I lived in rural Arizona, another friend had a cat that was also wary of human strangers in her home - but perched in my lap and allowed me to softly pet her, as she purred away and always fell asleep on my leg. I have a way with animals, I guess...

"Where's Jenny", I ask. "She's sleeping", Gerry answers. In chatting with Gerry, I discover the Chihuahua is also nearing the end of her short life. As Jenny eventually emerges from her afternoon snooze, I see a much different dog from what I remember years before. She is no longer the noisy pesky canine from days past. Time has changed Jenny as well. Her gait is slower, and she doesn't race in circles yapping incessantly as in her younger days. Jenny, like all of us, has aged.

In Jenny's case, as in Wedo's, aging is not necessarily all doom and gloom. As an elderly dog, she is friendlier and more desirable to play with. She is gentle, quiet, and quite reserved. Jenny, unlike before, is the kind of dog that any boy - young or old - would love to have as a best friend. Age, even in the canine world, does have its advantages.

As I look out the window to Gerry's English garden, I see towering weeds where a beautifully manicured lawn once carpeted the ground. Tall, unkempt grass obscures the garden statues of enchanting gnomes and fairies. The ponds, which once had cascading waterfalls and gently floating lily pads, are dry and overgrown with invasive vegetation. Even a charming English garden overlooking a picturesque bay is not immune from the passage of time...

As ugly and unsightly as weeds can sometimes be, they too can teach us a lesson. Nature always has its way. As any gardener knows, even the smallest crack in the sidewalk can yield the tallest and most hideous of plants. They are most unwelcome, yet, despite being continuously yanked and sprayed with herbicide, they are eternally persistent, sprouting over and over again - trying the patience of even the most tolerant of gardeners. Yes, an aging garden teaches us about perseverance. Never give up, no matter who wants to rip you out by the roots and throw you away like garbage. If determined enough, you, like uninvited foliage, will triumph.

Soon, it was time to say goodbye to our friends and return home from the festivities. The birthday party we attended that cloudy Sunday afternoon was indeed memorable. Yes, it was the 94th birthday of an extremely brilliant artist who contributed much to this world in his short life. The lesson I learned at the celebration of this man's life, however, was that we all grow old. We all age as time marches on. Luckily, however, there's more to the story. God has wondrous plans for us. This life, no matter how miraculous it seems sometimes, is only the beginning. The best is yet to come...

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Time Machine
by Patrick Paulitz

Time Machine by Patrick Paulitz As we get older, we sometimes remember our childhood in a unique sort of way - by traveling through a time machine to a vibrant and colorful kingdom where childhood dreams really do come true.

It's Mother's Day. As I look out the window, I see clouds and rain - an ugly day, considering that Mother's Day is usually associated with warm sunny days and Mom wearing a flowery spring dress. As I awaken, I kiss April, my wife and the mother of our special son, Shamus, and wish her "Happy Mother's Day". After I crawl out of my nice, cozy bed, I help Shamus dress and eat breakfast. His favorite breakfast is something he calls "sandwich" - a waffle with a chocolate spread. It's actually quite good...

Later that day, a babysitter came to watch Shamus for a few hours. She comes every Sunday, as part of a respite program to give parents of special needs children a much-needed break. "Mellie", as we call her, is a pleasant, grandmotherly Filipina woman - short on stature but not on her devotion to Shamus. She loves our little monster, and has a warm, charming personality and a soothing, reassuring voice to match. April and I are grateful for Mellie and all she does for us. Since her children are grown and reside in the Philippines, Mellie doesn't mind spending Mother's Day watching Shamus for another special mother. After chatting with Mellie for a few minutes, April and I were off for our Mother's Day meal.

For lunch, April requested an Italian eatery near a local harbor. We dined there once, before Shamus was born, for an Easter brunch. The lunch was scrumptious, and the view was spectacular.

As we were finishing our meal, April and I discussed how to continue our Mother's Day escapades. Our minds, unlike our stomachs, were empty. I tried to be creative, proposing different options to kill a few hours. Then, I recalled a place I wanted to take April to for many years. In fact, every time we drive by it, I mention it to her. She is probably tired of hearing about it, but she'd have to listen just one more time...

When I was a much younger lad, I loved miniature golfing. These courses were great fun for the junior high and high school crowd. Whether for meeting friends or a casual date, these entertainment centers couldn't be beat. They were also a safe place for kids, at least in those days.

My memories of miniature golf are very special. The courses were clean and brightly lit, and the sets were impeccably painted with intricate detail. Whether hitting a brightly-colored ball through a magic castle, Dutch windmill, quaint cottage, or even a little red schoolhouse, playing miniature golf was a real treat. The courses also had small ponds, arching bridges, cascading waterfalls, and shooting fountains - all with pristine, blue water. It was an enchanting place - like a magical kingdom where dreams come true.

Not far from the Italian restaurant was the miniature golf course I showed April so many, many times. "April", I said, "Let's visit the miniature golf course". Luckily, she agreed, and, for the first in two decades, I entered the world of a family entertainment center. It seemed so different and strange, coming here as a forty-something with a 4-year-old child at home - with my wife, not my date - under my arm. It was like walking straight into a time machine. There, in front of my eyes, were colorful, spinning windmills, charming chalets, graceful waterfalls, and picturesque, blue ponds and lagoons. It was like I was a child again - holding hands with my best friend.

As April and I played the various courses, we did not take the game seriously. Unlike years past, we did not keep score, and laughed and laughed as our orange and green golf balls flew into bushes and ponds and bounced off a quaint Victorian cottage and a whirring windmill. We even skipped holes when large groups - with the all-important pencil and paper to keep score - were ahead of us. It was great fun as I relived a special part of my childhood. I was a forty-something, acting and feeling like a kid, in a spellbinding wonderland of unbelievable color.

As we were leaving, I played a few holes by myself. Like the fisherman lamenting about "the one that got away", I shot a hole-in-one. It was the last hole of the day, and I had no witnesses - it was a sight for my eyes only. Not a bad ending to my visit to a time machine where I rediscovered the joy of playing golf in a timeless land of make-believe.

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Mom
by Patrick Paulitz

My mother is the only Mom I have. That's a good thing, since she's the best mother any child could ask for. I share her with five other siblings, but with Mom, there was enough love for everyone - and there was always an endless supply of it.

I was the youngest of six. Some say the youngest child is spoiled, and I was no exception. Mom affectionately called me "Nookum". I have no idea where that name came from. When I was ill, which was quite often, it seems, I was in the "Nookum Club". While in this exclusive club, I was king, and everyone else, Mom included, were my humble servants. My wish was their command, although my kingly requests were usually only for Jell-O, Campbell's chicken noodle soup, or a favorite TV program.

When I was sick, Mom always took excellent care of me. There was an empty bunk above mine, and yes, Mom slept in that bunk all night, making sure I was well taken care of. If I threw up, she was by my side, and cleaned out the "burp bucket", as we called it. A disgusting job, I know, but she did it without one hint of complaint. One weekend, the family had a camping trip, and yes, I was sick. Mom stayed home with me and nursed me back to health, never once lamenting the fun she was missing by being with a sick boy instead of camping with the family. That's my Mom...

When I did something wrong, though, Nookum or no Nookum, she let me know. Boy, did she let me know! She wasn't afraid to discipline us kids, and didn't worry about political correctness. "I'm getting my stick", she would yell, as I trembled as she fetched her infamous yardstick. She originally used a wooden yardstick, but she broke it on a crying kid's butt once. We laughed, but she didn't think it was so funny. From that day on, she used a metal yardstick, and we weren't laughing anymore...

Mom was never known as a "gourmet" cook, but she could cook for the masses. With an army of eight hungry mouths, she was pretty efficient at preparing large quantities of food, although she never could pronounce "taco" properly. She also had trouble with the word "dinosaur".

At our house, nothing was fancy - it was efficient. With six kids, she'd be a fool to use anything but plastic to place our dinner on. Sunday nights were spent making sandwiches for the school week ahead. Six kids, five days a week, nine months a year! You do the math! During Friday's in Lent, the sandwiches were filled with "goop", a concoction of tuna, cream cheese, and relish - that only the Paulitz family seemed to appreciate. The sandwiches, by the way, were placed in "recycled" sandwich bags. Mom trained us kids not to be wasteful, and we saved not only the sandwich bags, but the lunch bags and rubber bands as well. She was years ahead of her time, as now recycling is all the rage. Along with our sandwiches, by the way, were "day old" Twinkies or Ding Dongs. With six kids to feed, Mom knew how to stretch a buck...

I remember the Christmas we gave Mom a microwave oven. Mom, being her stubborn self, insisted she didn't need a microwave oven and wanted to return it. The only problem was, it was too darned heavy, and no one would help her carry it to the car. Now, the microwave is one of her dear friends, heating her coffee several times throughout the day. I remember once when the microwave oven was in the repair shop. She mixed her instant coffee with cold water and walked to the microwave oven's usual spot. She reached to open the oven door, but was soon dumfounded when she realized there was no microwave oven and she'd actually have to heat water on the stove. That's my Mom...

When we boys had a newspaper route and were sick, Mom would be a trooper, folding and delivering newspapers. There was no job too tough for her. And yes, Mom always spoke her mind. Once, when my brother was kept after school one stormy day for a class detention, Mom arrived in the principal's office with her wet, muddy rain boots dripping all over his beautiful, pristine carpeting, complaining about the policy of detention with no prior notice. "It punishes the parents", she said. To this day, I believe, the school has a 24-hour notice on after-school detentions. When she received a call from a telemarketer, her standard line was "I don't appreciate telephone soliciting", before hanging up. She even earned the nickname "Mrs. Citizen", as she sometimes chastised Dad for his taxpayer-funded "boondoggles", as she called them, to cities like San Francisco, Sacramento, and Washington, DC. Mom was never afraid to "tell it like it is", as she'd say.

Mom had a secret friend, who I like to call the "seventh kid". Gypsy, the adorable black Labrador, who was originally my dog but, like most dogs, was left behind when I moved on, to San Diego, Taiwan, and Yuma. Gypsy was Mom's best friend during that time, and Mom was even known to make toast - complete with margarine - for her black, furry friend. Mom watched Gypsy's black whiskers turn to grey and her once playful sprinting give way to an arthritic limp. As it is with dogs and kids, it was Mom, not me, who had the unenviable task to taking Gypsy to the veterinarian to be put to eternal peace. It affected her deeply. It was something I probably couldn't have done, but she was there for me, fighting my battles. That's my Mom...

As I raise my only child, I sometimes wonder how Mom did it. For example, camping is enough hassle with one kid and a minivan. How in the heck did she keep her sanity with six kids and a station wagon? We have a four-bedroom house with one kid; she had a four-bedroom house with six kids. Mom is so much stronger and level-headed than I'll ever be...

Mom knew one important thing. The most noble and aspiring career is that of being a mother. There is no greater title in the world, and Mom knew and believed this with her entire being. All six of her kids went to college and go to church on Sunday - and all six of her kids call their "mother in Montclair". Of this she is extremely proud. She once said she was voting for George Bush because he once said "my kids still call me". She is proud of us kids, and, speaking for all six of us, I can truly say, we are proud of her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!!!

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Dad
by Patrick Paulitz

Dad by Patrick Paulitz Well, it's Father's Day 2005. In our society, Father's Day definitely takes a back seat to Mother's Day, being a newer holiday created to even things out between the sexes. In American culture, with so many children being raised without fathers, it seems that Dads aren't as important as they used to be. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth.

I am the youngest child of six. By the time I joined the family, Dad was an old-hand at his father role. He had it all down - the diaper changing, the bottle-feeding, the rocking and singing to sleep! I remember when I was ill, Dad would sing to me in a yellow rocking chair in the living room. "When charity and love prevail!", he would sing. His singing was, and still is, way off-tune, but as a sick child, it was music to my ears. When someone celebrated a birthday, after the traditional "Happy Birthday" was sung, Dad would continue with "God grant you many years!", a tune sometimes used in the Byzantine Catholic liturgy. To this day, Dad still can't hold a tune, but Dad doesn't seem to care - and, to be honest, neither do I. After all, he's my Dad.

One of Dad's many pleasures in life was taking his family on summer vacations and weekend camping trips. In the early days, he pulled a tent trailer with our 1965 Buick station wagon. Later, he upgraded to a Winnebago, which broke down more times than anyone cares to remember. Between changing a flat tire in the Texas panhandle, being towed through the streets of Vancouver as we lay on the floor hiding from police, being stranded in the Kansas countryside, and once breaking down after traveling only two exits on Interstate 10, the motor home certainly added to our vacation adventures - or should I say "misadventures"?

During our family trips, Dad loved to take pictures. Actually, Dad loves to take pictures ALL the time, and now he has fourteen grandchildren and two great-grandchildren to fill his rolls of film. After family vacations, Dad brought the pictures home from K-Mart in a brightly-colored envelope and planned a slide show. It was a real treat, as Dad set up the slide projector to show the vacation photos on the living room wall. The entire family watched Dad's creation, laughing and teasing Dad when slides were inserted backwards, sideways, upside down, or when pictures made us look like complete buffoons, with our hair a mess, our eyes closed, or half our head cut off. Dad has always had a camera, mostly with lots of complicated dials, switches, and lenses, which only a photography buff like Dad could master. With other complex machinery, however, he is a complete klutz. Luckily, some of his sons had mechanical talent, probably inherited from their grandfather - on Mom's side. This mechanical ability on the part of my brothers helped us get out of many binds as our Winnebago broke down on various interstates throughout the country. It seems that most of the cars we owned were lemons, and I remember many a warm summer night with my brothers and Dad, outside with droplights and rags, working on one car or another. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit the mechanical gene. Besides, I didn't want to get my hands dirty.

Another of Dad's passions is the California Missions. If, in our journeys up and down the great state of California, we were near one of the twenty-one missions, Dad would stop and visit, and of course, take pictures. I believe that in his many years of traveling with the family, he has visited every mission at least once, and some several times. Of course, Mom's reaction was that "you've seen one mission, you've seen them all", and "they all look alike". Even today, when in doubt as to what to give Dad for his birthday or Christmas, just give him something mission-related - a book, plaque, picture, calendar... You can't go wrong!

Dad does have some idiosyncrasies. I know of no one else, for example, who keeps a box of chalk and a hose nozzle in the mailbox. "That's where they belong", he once told me. He also loves calendars, and displays them all around the house. Sometimes, the calendars display the wrong month or even the wrong year. That's okay, though. Dad loves his calendars regardless of what year it is - or even what century...

Another of Dad's greatest loves, besides Mom and us kids, is politics. He has been on the Montclair City Council for almost thirty years. The first time he ran for council because the City Council didn't reappoint him to the Planning Commission. Instead of getting angry, Dad got even - he became a councilman. It's been twenty-seven years, and they still can't get rid of him. Now that's what I call getting even! Now that Dad has cable TV, his favorite stations are Fox News, CNN, and other news stations, and watching the evening news is an absolute requirement in the Paulitz household. His entire home is a library, with newspapers, magazines, books, and other publications scattered throughout every room in the house, including the bathroom. In years past, it was always a safe bet to give him a political book for Christmas. Books by or about Ronald Reagan, George Bush, or Rush Limbaugh were always a hit. Now however, he's cleaned out his bookcase and given away all his political books - some back to me. Now I need new gift ideas for Dad. Luckily, I'm now married, and can delegate that chore to my lovely and creative wife. Perhaps I can give him a mission calendar...

Dad loves his adopted city of Montclair. He would never live anywhere else on earth, and each winter, he looks at the snow on the mountains in the distance, where he feels it belongs. There, Dad can SEE the snow, but not drive or walk in it. On many Christmas telephone calls, as various relatives describe the wintry weather in their part of the country, Dad will comment that his roses are blooming and the temperature is in the 70's. Dad, I believe, will stay in Montclair forever. In 1960, when Mom and Dad moved to California, Dad told Mom that if she didn't like California after one year, they would move back to snowy Pennsylvania. After 45 years, Mom is still waiting...

Dad, I must say, was a good provider. Every morning, he kissed Mom goodbye and left the house, dressed in a suit and tie with his can of Metrocal diet drink in a brown paper bag. Then, he drove down Mission Boulevard to General Dynamics, where he fearlessly battled corporate politics and bureaucracy for twenty-eight years to support his family. We always looked forward to seeing Dad come home from work, happily greeting us he walked through the door carrying his Wall Street Journal. Dad was always home on weekends, and put his family first - before his career or his own self interests. On warm summer afternoons, Dad mowed the lawn - unless he could get one of his sons to do it. He also pruned - hedges, trees, or any other vulnerable vegetation growing in his yard. Dad even enjoyed cutting his children's hair, as if the trees and bushes weren't enough...

All in all, I must say that Dad is the best father anyone could ever have. He gave us strong values, took us to church every Sunday and Disneyland every year, put six children through twelve years of parochial school, never swore, and taught us how good homemade pizza and milkshakes can be. He continues to love and care for all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Dad is proud of being a Paulitz, living in Montclair, being a councilman, and especially of having such a warm and loving family who loves him so much. Dad, you're the greatest!

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

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My Brother Greg
by Patrick Paulitz

My big brother Greg is my oldest brother. I'm the youngest of the six, which always meant that in life's milestones, Greg did everything first, and I did everything last - and that was fine by me. Greg's latest accomplishment is turning fifty, and I don't mind at all that he beat me to that as well.

Greg loves holidays. He enjoyed them when he lived in California, and he enjoys them even more as a father and grandfather in scenic North Idaho. When living in Montclair, Greg transformed our house into a creepy and eerie haunted house every Halloween. It was great fun helping him wrap furniture with sheets, hang drop cloths, set up a black light and slide projector, and put a record player in the window, playing a classic Disney Haunted Mansion soundtrack. Needless to say, the Paulitz home was quite spooky every Halloween, until Greg married and started his own loving family - who filled an entire pew at Mass each Sunday morning while growing up. Now, he is known as "Mr. Christmas", and like clockwork hangs Christmas lights every Thanksgiving weekend, along with driving to the local mountains, dressed in a warm jacket and gloves and armed with a thermos of hot chocolate and a saw to chop down his family Christmas tree. The tree isn't as perfectly shaped as those on the tree lot, and it's certainly more trouble than pulling an artificial tree from the garage. Sometimes it's even a little crooked. But for Greg, nothing beats the tradition of taking his children into the woods to find a Christmas tree...

Being the oldest, Greg inherited much of our grandfather's automotive know-how. This mechanical gene was obviously depleted before I arrived, since I have absolutely no talent nor interest in anything remotely machinelike. I sometimes hear Mom tell the story of how Dad took apart a vacuum cleaner, with pieces scattered all over the living room floor. He had no clue how to put it back together. Greg, a boy of ten, came along and reassembled the machine perfectly, much to Dad's amazement. From that point, Mom and Dad knew Greg would be an engineer. In fact, Greg adopted the Confirmation name of Saint Benezet, the patron saint of engineers.

On many family vacations, when our not-so-reliable Winnebago motor home broke down, Greg was the first one to roll up his sleeves, pop the hood, and tackle the problem. He certainly wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. He even rebuilt clunkers in the Paulitz driveway, late into the balmy summer night, hanging a droplight from the hood long after the scorching sun ducked below the horizon. Now, Greg's interests are in home improvement, and he has added several rooms and decks to his charming home in the Idaho wilderness. To defend his title as a do-it-yourself wizard, Greg regularly tinkers with Mom and Dad's toilet when visiting during business trips. He is a regular shopper at his local "Home Depot", and even gave me their gift card when I bought my home in Northern California. Of course, my home improvement projects have been limited to installing towel racks and smoke detectors, replacing toilet seats, repairing bad boards in a deck, and calling a handyman for anything that requires any real talent or ability.

When Greg wasn't fixing cars or getting ready for holidays, he was finding trouble with his comrade across the street, along with my brother Tim. In the 1960's, before modern day wireless technology and webcams, the trio concocted a devise to eavesdrop on our eccentric next-door-neighbors. To this day, in Mom and Dad's back bedroom is a hole drilled in the floor, a telltale testament to this mischievous scheme. One December, the gang-of-three rigged a device to mildly shock pesky neighbors who delighted in stealing Christmas lights and smashing them in the street. Unfortunately, the contraption overheated and charred the wall. The evidence of this playful plot can still be found in Mom and Dad's garage. Another devilish conspiracy involved locking my brother Kevin in the closet or out of the house - until Mom got home, that is! Of course, this group wasn't stupid, as they took turns standing guard in the rafters, watching for Mom's dreaded arrival, which would soon put a stop to their naughty misbehavior. They even drilled a hole in the garage wall to assist them in their stakeout. Their spying skills were superb, as Mom never did catch them. She probably thought they were such good boys! Greg even shared his engineering interest with me, helping install a shortwave antenna on the roof so I could hear foreign broadcasts from the BBC, Radio Moscow, Radio Australia, and even an occasional stray signal from Northern California. It was thrilling for me to listen to shortwave radio programs each evening, thanks to my big brother Greg...

Greg was always a dreamer. He reached for the stars, and when he couldn't quite touch them, he caught the Moon instead. His bedroom was filled with lunar models, spacecraft replicas, and the like. To this day, in his home in rural Idaho, there is a nook dedicated to his love of all things moonlike. He also helped design Cal Poly floats for the Rose Parade, and it was always a thrill to see "his" float glide down Colorado Boulevard on New Year's morning, on our state-of-the-art 17-inch color television, circa 1970, which Mom and Dad bought specifically to see the vibrant and dazzling floats from the famous pageant. It sure beat going to the neighbors to watch the Rose Parade! Greg is also a big Disneyland fan and was even offered a job in New Orleans Square creating meals for café guests. He declined the offer, but not before getting the mandatory Disneyland haircut - which he probably needed anyway. It was, in fact, at Disneyland's Blue Bayou restaurant that Greg gave his then girlfriend Roberta a ring and a promise, asking her to share his life and his future...

My big brother provided a few laughs in our family as well. He once - with the best of intentions - lent a sleeping bag from our Winnebago to a friend. When Mom found out, she hit the ceiling, and Greg's friends earned the infamous nickname "Underwear Borrowers". When Mom found his "Who's Next" album by "The Who", featuring the band members walking away from a giant cement slab after apparently urinating on it, Mom spray painted the image, which, by today's standards, is rather tame. I still remember that shiny black album cover, a testament to Mom's censorship and unwavering commitment to strong moral values. I also remember Greg having LP's by "America", "Cat Stevens", "Credence Clearwater Revival", and "Simon and Garfunkel", which he played on a vintage 1940's record player. When I hear songs from those albums, even today, I think of my big brother. I guess in some ways, Greg, being the oldest, broke in Mom and Dad for me, since I certainly got away with a lot more than he ever did. Thanks, Greg!

Greg is a huge animal lover, having an entire menagerie of various critters at his homestead in picturesque North Idaho - including rabbits, guinea pigs, and canine and feline friends. He has gone through numerous generations of dogs and cats, and when one passes on, whether by natural causes or by hitting it in the driveway, it is promptly replaced. It was partly due to his wife Roberta's influence that I was allowed to have my one-and-only dog Gypsy, much to Dad's regret. That's a story for another day, another time...

Greg was also the first in the Paulitz clan to have a paper route, which all his younger brothers, including me, inherited. One of the customers thought that all four of us boys were Greg and that he never aged or outgrew his paper route. She probably figured that he discovered the mythical and elusive "Fountain of Youth". During Greg and Roberta's wedding reception almost thirty years ago, I delivered newspapers as they opened their gifts. The first present they unwrapped were towels from me. Mom, of course, picked them out. I, being Greg's little brother, had the greatest honor of serving as altar boy at the ceremony. And yes, the happy couple did tip me. The wedding was simple, as was the reception - cake and punch in a church hall. The honeymoon was a local camping trip. Even at such a young age, Greg and Roberta knew what was important in life. Either that or they were flat broke...

Besides being dog lovers and having delivered newspapers, Greg and I have something much more meaningful in common. We both are the father of a special needs son. Of all my siblings, only Greg, who was married before I even entered high school, can truly relate to the struggles, challenges, and incredible rewards that are part of raising special boys like Carl and Shamus. Greg also truly understands how special these children are and the utter joy they bring to the lives of all they touch. My big brother and I both know they are a very precious gift from God...

Now, at the age of fifty, Greg is a proud father and grandfather, and loves nothing more than to renovate his house, camp in the breathtaking forests of North Idaho, care for his lush, pine-blanketed yard, frolic with his grandkids, take evening strolls with his wife Roberta and a few of their dogs, and eat Roberta's scrumptious cooking. His preferred attire is work boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt, and his hands are always working, whether changing a car's oil or a child's diaper. And, come nightfall, those hands are rarely seen not holding an ice-cold beer. The greatest compliment I can give my big brother is to quote his loving wife, who, when talking about husbands one Sunday morning outside of church, said "I got a good one".

Yes, Roberta, you did. You got a good one!

Unforgettable Greg Moments

green bullet Greg's first vehicle-of-choice was a boxy green van which he purchased from a Panamanian missionary. After acquiring the vehicle he gutted the interior, installed paneling, and spray painted the windows black. It's was such a 1970's thing to do, but of course, it WAS the 1970's!

green bullet Greg was a "Star Trek" fan in his younger day. I remember all my brothers watching "Star Trek" on a tiny black-and-white television in the back bedroom, which had bunk beds in those days. I believe the "Star Trek" gene is hereditary, since Greg's oldest son, Carl, is also a "Trekkie".

green bullet Before Greg and my other brothers installed an extension telephone while Mom and Dad were on vacation, he talked to his girlfriends on the phone right where Mom could watch him - crouched on the kitchen floor under the counter between the refrigerator and the present day dishwasher. In the 21st century, Mom would have a hard time monitoring Greg's romantic conversations, with cordless phones, cell phones, email, instant messaging, and the like. What's a Mom to do?

green bullet Greg and Roberta's first dog, Sheba, had the same color hair as Mom, much to Mom's delight. Sheba was affectionately known as the "Dog-In-Law", and had a bizarre habit of drinking from the toilet. She also had the alias "Houdini", because of her infamous mastery of escape artist techniques. One Thanksgiving weekend, when Greg and Roberta were visiting, Sheba was curled up on a warm rug inside the cozy house while Gypsy shivered outside in the cold, longingly gazing in the window. Mom, who is fair to all, including her four-legged friends, let Gypsy come inside to sleep that night. Gypsy was an inside dog from that moment on...

green bullet Greg loves cars so much that at his daughter's wedding reception he compared her to a quirky automobile, and presented his new son-in-law a set of symbolic car keys to his new wife. As a husband and car owner myself, I can personally relate to Greg's analogy, having had much experience with quirkiness, in both my automobiles and my wife.

green bullet I remember visiting Greg and Roberta in Idaho, sometime in the early 1980's. Carl, their special needs son, was scampering - ever so slowly - unassisted in their front yard for the very first time. Needless to say, Greg and his lovely wife were absolutely overjoyed, and were shedding tears of joy in a tender embrace. It was a touching moment that I remember to this day. Being the father of a very special boy myself, it was something that I can now relate to on a very personal level.

green bullet When helping Greg and Roberta pack for their move from California to Idaho, I discovered a huge vodka bottle they were going to dispose of. I rescued that unique treasure, and it has been displayed in my countless homes ever since. Now, twenty-five years later, that one-of-a-kind bottle still holds a place of prominence high on a shelf in my family room. Perhaps my wife April let me put it there deliberately, hoping for California's next big earthquake.

green bullet When Greg and Roberta were dating and I had a paper route, I won a trip to Disneyland for signing new subscribers. This trip coincidently fell on the same day that they already planned to visit Disneyland, so we decided to enjoy the theme park together. I took the "Daily Report" bus to Disneyland, and met Greg and Roberta by City Hall. The loving couple didn't seem to mind Greg's little brother tagging along. We had a wonderful time - after all, it WAS Disneyland! As we strolled down Main Street after our lively day of Disney fun, a monstrous thunderstorm engulfed the park, with enormous bolts of lightning and rolling thunder. Roberta compared the lightning to that "Japanese guy flashing pictures". As we drove home, I thought about what a cool brother I had, and how nice his girlfriend was. As a matter of fact, they're still pretty cool, even thirty years later!

Happy 50th Birthday, Greg!

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QT
by Patrick Paulitz

Certain events in our lives invite us to reflect on times gone by, such as moving to a strange new city and missing old friends, leaving a comfortable job for a new adventure, and even the passing of a cherished pet who truly was our best friend. Even saying "goodbye" to a beloved car can invoke nostalgic memories, especially when so many unforgettable moments were shared with that one-of-a-kind automobile - a small red Honda Civic affectionately known as "QT".

As the tow truck driver gently hoisted the vehicle and slowly drove into the distance, I waved "goodbye" to my friend for the very last time. Today is the end of an era, I thought, an era that began when I was much younger, much thinner, and much different from what I am today.

As a twenty-something young lad, my car was my lifeline. Based on its license plate, I nicknamed it "QT", and often referred to it by name. "QT" fit my needs perfectly - a miniature red hatchback with a pint-sized engine that struggled to climb even the most modest hills of the sprawling San Diego area. No matter how difficult the ascent, my dependable automobile always made it to the top, slowly but surely. It sure was a persistent vehicle, not unlike the famous locomotive known as "The Little Engine That Could". My tenaciousness companion certainly taught me a lesson about perseverance.

Once, nine people were in that tiny Honda - two in the front, and seven in the back. It wasn't a college prank. I was simply driving a large family of recent Vietnamese immigrants as they laughed and chattered away in a strange but friendly-sounding language. Some of them even stood in the back of that crowded automobile. They didn't mind, and neither did I. It was all part of my adventure with my special red car.

"QT" also joined me on a camping trip to the coast of Baja California, far from the glaring lights and beating sounds of the bustling metropolis of Tijuana. With three campers and their gear crammed inside, my friendly Honda bounced along the pothole-riddled highways of Northern Mexico, passing smiling farmers who always gave us a wave. We, of course, waved right back. Later, my trusty red hatchback drove right onto the sandy beach and we pitched our tent, later waking to the sound of the crashing surf just a few feet away. A kindly American expatriate treated us royally as we were welcomed into his modest trailer for a fish-fry, complete with ice-cold Pepsi and Mexican beer. He was afraid I was too skinny and needed to eat more. If only he could see me now...

I also camped in the California desert with my faithful red car. After stopping in a hot, dusty town for beer and fried chicken, my best buddy and I followed a narrow winding road that weaved through forests of Joshua Trees reaching for the cloudless blue sky and piles of boulders that lay scattered throughout the landscape. During the surreal desert twilight, bats fluttered over our heads, the flapping of their wings shattering the eerie desert silence. At night, we were treated to a God's own show of lights, with millions of twinkling stars filling the black night sky. Later, as coyotes yelped in the distance, the desert became a world of perpetual shadows, as giant Yuccas formed spooky silhouettes again the monstrous full moon looming above the horizon.

"QT" was my constant companion as I moved throughout the west, from scenic San Diego, to a small dusty town in western Arizona, and finally to the bustling San Francisco Bay Area, where I arrived with a television, computer, lamps, books, clothes, and even furniture stuffed inside every last nook and cranny of that cramped red hatchback. My faithful Honda and I did it all together, including road trips to California's enchanted Mount Shasta and various treks to the saguaro-covered hills of Phoenix and the snowy pine-blanketed forests of northern Arizona. From cruising the neon jungle of the Las Vegas Strip, touring the world-renowned Hollywood Boulevard, numerous rollercoaster-like spins up and down San Francisco's famous hills, and countless jaunts across the breathtaking Golden Gate Bridge, my beloved red car and I were like two inseparable friends.

Life changes constantly and we must change with it. I am now blessed with a beautiful wife and a very special son, pay a mortgage, mow the lawn each summer, and hang Christmas lights each December. I now camp with my own family instead of my single buddies - in lush redwood forests instead of sunny beaches and deserts - and drive a minivan that seats seven, bringing more gear for a weekend in the woods than I had in my entire apartment ten years ago. I'm now a lot heavier and balder than before, and the little hair still standing is a lot grayer than I remember. Yes, I'm a different person than that proud day nineteen years ago when I stood in a suburban San Diego dealership and haggled for my very first automobile. Life marches on, and sometimes changes in our lives are measured not in years or decades, but in the cars we drive. For me, the era of "QT", that little red hatchback that struggled up the shortest hills, is over. In the time I have left on this earth, however, I'm sure I'll have many more cars - and many more adventures they will share with me.

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The City of Angels
by Patrick Paulitz

Los Angeles. Two words that - in the mind of most Northern Californians - invoke images of relentless summer heat and smog, brown and bone-dry hillsides, an infinite sea of traffic-choked freeways, faceless cookie cutter housing tracts, and countless homogeneous shopping centers and strip malls, all splashed with a colorful but unsightly mural of tasteless graffiti. And, I admit, having been raised on the outer edges of this sprawling sea of humanity, this was my picture of Los Angeles as well.

"Should I take the job in Woodland Hills?", I asked April, my lovely wife and lifelong partner. I really didn't want to, but my options were few. Yes, I decided, as a responsible father and husband, I must endear some major hardships to support my family - even if it meant heading to that monstrous metropolis to the south so despised by Bay Area residents.

Driving south on Interstate 5 that miserable January morning, I was cold - oh so bitterly cold! In a rickety 1980's clunker with a busted heater and stereo system, I splashed along through buckets of unstoppable rain pounding my windshield as my wipers desperately struggled to keep the pace. Wrapped around my frozen legs was a thick winter blanket that failed in its mission to warm my numbing appendages. I never spotted the rays of the famous California sun that gloomy day, and the few stops I made were to buy hot chocolate and an electric blanket. It was not an enjoyable drive, to say the least.

After a few nights in a nondescript motel on Ventura Boulevard, a seedy river of neon flowing through Los Angeles' San Fernando Valley, I eventually settled in a leafy neighborhood on the Valley's west side, renting a second-floor bedroom in a stately home inhabited by a large frisky canine named "Lenny" and his devoted two-legged masters. Every evening, after visiting one of the Valley's numerous fast food joints and wolfing a tasty meal of a cheeseburger, taco, fish and chips, or other unhealthful fare, I balanced my portable computer on my lap and surfed the Internet, wrote email to friends and family, and even composed essays about various adventures in my life. My tiny cell-like room was my sanctuary from the bustling world of Los Angeles just outside my bedroom door.

As soggy winter rains gradually surrendered to the pleasant sunny days of spring and summer, I eventually adapted to life in the Valley, despite my proud and stubborn links to the San Francisco area. A few times a month I flew home to Northern California, soaring high above towering Redwoods and a sparkling Bay before zooming down the runway at a modern international airport. The weekends spent down south, however, weren't spent moping between the four walls of my small rented chamber. Sitting alone in a bedroom, even for this opinionated Northern Californian, just wasn't an option.

It was in Southern California, a few short miles from the modest dwelling I escaped twenty years earlier, where I rediscovered the nostalgia of watching a motion picture on a monstrous outdoor screen, as giant movie stars flickered under the canopy of the black nighttime sky at the local drive-in theater. Inside the car, my best buddy and I devoured chiliburgers, French fries, and sodas, laughing and joking throughout the film, disturbing not a soul and having the time of our lives.

With the Pacific Ocean in the Valley's backyard, a few weekends were spent touring the coastal hamlets of Ventura and Santa Barbara, smelling the cool salty air as I frequented quaint collectible shops and gorged chilidogs and French fries at a historic outdoor hotdog stand a few steps from the crashing ocean surf. In the laid-back beach town of Santa Barbara, I taught myself to kayak as I drifted aimlessly through a majestic blue harbor, waving to friendly tourists licking ice cream cones on the pier above or dining at an elegant waterfront restaurant. The enormous smile I wore that day was extremely contagious in this charming seaside resort. Later, as the shimmering Pacific called to me, I dipped my ten naked toes into its cool refreshing water, reliving the childhood I left behind so many years before. That evening, I dreamily gazed at the radiant full moon peacefully dangling in the heavens above, its hypnotic reflection gracefully dancing on the calming ocean waters below.

One Sunday afternoon, when my best friend made the long excursion from his home in the Mojave Desert to the San Fernando Valley, we visited Griffith Park, an urban oasis not far from the legendary sites of nearby Hollywood. There, I straddled a galloping horse on an antique carousal, gently rocking up-and-down and spinning in never-ending circles, all to the melodious tune of a turn-of-the-century calliope. And, what better way to spend the Fourth of July than to visit California's most beloved tourist attraction, Disneyland? Having settled hundreds of miles to the north a decade before, it was a real treat to once again navigate Caribbean waters inhabited by spirited, plundering pirates, pay respect to countless lively and mischievous ghosts frolicking and carousing in a dilapidated Southern mansion, race down the icy slopes of a snowy Alpine peak, and hurl through outer space on a speeding rocket, zipping by planets, stars, and entire galaxies. Of course, Independence Day wouldn't be complete without a vibrant display of fireworks on a balmy summer night, with a symphony of color splashing every corner of the dark and starless sky, complete with the sounds of booming rockets and the crowds' loud shouts of approval.

As happens all too often in life, however, it soon became time to say "goodbye" to my Southern California escapades. My next destination would be Sacramento, California's capitol and the backyard of the San Francisco Bay Area. On that final weekend, I packed my belongings, which seemed to multiply in my short half-year in Los Angeles. I now drove a large SUV, with a working air conditioner and stereo system, and what easily fit in a small sedan in January now barely squeezed into my spacious new indulgence. On a scorching Saturday of 110 degrees, I plunked in my plush modern vehicle, with a stack of favorite CD's and icy artic air blasting my body, and cruised north on Interstate 5, passing enormous cattle ranches, with endless seas of livestock blanketing the golden hillsides and spilling over the horizon. There were also a few roadside rest areas and an occasional fast food joint - and little else along this vast stretch of open highway. I was on a road trip to my next adventure, to be continued in Sacramento, the next stop on my journey of life.

Dedicated to Frank Maraligia, for his warm Sacramento hospitality, political discussions, and nightly concerts on the porch. Thanks for everything, Frank!

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Route 1718
by Patrick Paulitz

Last night, the dream - like a film projected on my resting eyelids - visited my nighttime kingdom once again. There I was, forty going on ten, straddling a shiny black bicycle and throwing newspapers in my childhood neighborhood, up-and-down short cul-de-sacs and major boulevards, tossing daily bundles of the latest news on driveways and porches of my waiting customers, one home and one street at a time. Most dreams vanish like a child's bubble in the breeze when the annoying alarm shatters my slumber, but this one I remember - every single time.

The 1970's was a different decade. It was a simpler time. Kids actually delivered newspapers, and rain, cold, and December darkness couldn't kill the operation. Every afternoon, the Paulitz family room was littered with mounds of folded newspapers and stacks of insert advertisements, with assorted green and red rubber bands strewn throughout the mess. My hands were as black as the grimiest mechanic's, as were most of the walls and light switches in the Paulitz home. When I was sick, Mom would fold and even delivered a few times - in the rain, donning a poncho and boots and driving the family station wagon. On Sunday's, the routine was predawn, and somehow, I was able to pull myself out of bed and throw the entire route before returning to my cozy bed to watch Popeye and Bugs Bunny cartoons. Now, at the age of forty-something, I'm barely able to brush my teeth and pull on my pants by that hour...

I had a great throwing arm back then. I could peddle my bike, steering with one hand, and launch a "Daily Report" clear across the driveway and nail it on the porch - usually. Sometimes I missed. Errant newspapers were known to haphazardly land in hedges, over fences, under cars, in puddles, and even on rooftops. In most cases, I was able to retrieve and plop it on the porch where it belonged - and also promised the biggest tips. If I ever came up short, for whatever reason, I returned home and plucked the Paulitz family paper from my father's grasp, consolidating the sections which were scattered around the house, and reassembled it, hoping the subscriber wouldn't wonder why their copy looked so torn and wrinkled. If short by more than one, I would purchase the remainder from the local newsstand. Back in that decade, if someone didn't receive their "Daily Report", they called my home, not a faceless office building with recorded messages and an endless computerized phone tree. And when they called, I delivered - literally. Customer service was my number goal, even at the age of ten...

Besides occasional bad throws and rainy days, the other challenges of having a newspaper route were aggressive dogs and substitute paperboys. I was chased by several vicious canines during my short career, but usually escaped unharmed, frantically peddling with only inches separating my pant legs from their gnarling white teeth. I was bitten only once, by a nasty neighbor mongrel that charged me regularly. Not a bad record, I guess! Each summer, before the annual family vacation, I hired a substitute. The experience was usually non-eventful, except for the one kid who never delivered a single issue, tossing the entire inventory into a dumpster. There were numerous calls from angry subscribers that August, but when I returned with my excellent service, I'm sure they forgave me...

I remember one Saturday morning, during the gasoline crisis of the late 1970's. Cars were queued, literally, for blocks and blocks, weaving like an endless snake through business and residential districts of my hometown, for the privilege of filling their thirsty gas tanks. One driver yelled to me "Hey kid, can I buy a paper?" "No thanks", I said, knowing I had no extras. I guess I was more interested in good customer service than being an entrepreneur, although, thinking back, I could have made a fortune selling newspapers, coffee, and donuts to motorists in gas lines. Oh well, another lost opportunity...

Once a month, I hopped on my bicycle, with a pocketful of greenbacks of assorted denominations to give as change, and went "collecting" - even in the dark of winter. Subscribers would give me cash, or sometimes a check, and hopefully a nice tip. Collecting was a real treat during the Christmas holiday season, when I received lots of goodies, like homemade cookies, Italian pastries, See's candy, and of course, a good, old-fashioned ten-spot. Many of my clients, especially the seasoned ones, were quite talkative and shared their life stories, like the veteran who was in the Merchant Marines and had visited every country on earth - except the infamous Soviet Union. It sounded pretty remarkable, but being a naive boy of ten, I believed him - every last syllable. One elderly woman, not realizing I was the fourth Paulitz brother to deliver her "Daily Report", could never keep my name straight. She was either very forgetful - or simply believed I had discovered the mythical and elusive "Fountain of Youth". Many of these venerable citizens invited me into their homes to chat and munch a few cookies, which I never turned down. I still don't...

Times have changed dramatically in the last thirty years. Now, in the twenty-first century, the paperboy is obsolete**, meeting the same fate as the beloved milkman from a few decades earlier. Gone, but not forgotten, as my years of throwing newspapers will always be alive in my nostalgic memories - and my pleasant nighttime dreams.

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My Brother Tim
by Patrick Paulitz

A funny thing happened back in September of '57. My older brother, Timothy Carl Paulitz, tumbled into the world, with a garden trowel in one hand and a mushroom in the other. And ever since, the Paulitz family �C and the Paulitz yard �C have never been the same.

Being his younger brother, I've known Tim my entire life. And, I must say, helping others has always been his passion. He was active in service clubs in high school and college, including the Circle K fraternity, where he slept in a rented closet barely large enough for his tiny bed and desk. This association organized haunted houses for special-needs children, Bloodmobiles, and other charitable projects. Scaring kids and sucking blood, all for a worthy cause...

In high school, I wrote a term paper about the Joshua Tree, a Yucca-like plant from the Mojave Desert. Before the days of Microsoft Word and spell-checkers, I used an electric typewriter, a high-tech alternative to the obsolete, old-fashioned manual typewriter of the time. Somehow, I misspelled a key word in the assignment �C countless times. The word was "Bernardino", as in "San Bernardino", the county in California where these plants thrive. Back then, making such an error meant one thing �C retyping everything. Running the spell-checker and reprinting wasn't an option in those dark days of the twentieth-century.

Tim, my big-hearted older brother, offered to retype the paper - the entire report. Every last page. And that he did. I was eternally grateful. Over twenty years later, I still have that composition, a testament to the kindness and thoughtfulness of my big brother Tim...

To this day, Tim volunteers in soup kitchens and homeless shelters, where he is sometimes mistaken for the transient residents. It must be his unruly hairdo and wrinkled attire, which I've seen him ball-up and toss into his suitcase �C before, not after, a trip. I sincerely doubt that Tim owns an iron or a comb, but if he does, they're probably buried under a huge mound of junk. Somewhere...

My big brother has a healthy obsession for the plant kingdom. Consequently, our yard in Montclair was blessed, although others may prefer the term "infested", with "Four-O'clocks", an invasive tropical plant with vibrantly-colored flowers and large green leaves. Our grandfather Baba supplied the seeds, becoming an unwilling conspirator in transforming the Paulitz dwelling into a Four-O'clock oasis. Tim was our family "Johnny Appleseed", sowing such horticultural surprises as "Johnny-Jump-Up's", with small purple and white flowers, a few maple trees, and an apricot tree - which faithfully yields an abundant harvest each summer, even today. Wherever Tim calls home, from the plains of the Rocky Mountains to snowy Montr��al to the Pacific Northwest, he gets his hands dirty. Scattering seed, tending plants, watering, weeding, fertilizing, pruning, and gathering the goodies for all to savor �C nurturing his chlorophyllous friends is one of Tim's passions, to say the least...

Tim is also a fungus fanatic. Once, en-route from California to his new home in Colorado, Tim and I took a detour to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon - to mushroom-hunt, of course. By day we hiked through moist, wooded areas, searching for specimens. Come nightfall, Tim and his mushroom buddies broke out microscopes and reference books to identify the samples. It was good, clean fun �C especially watching the frenzy over fungus fragments!

Another of Tim's pastimes is an afternoon nap. Or morning nap. Or anytime nap, for that matter. Whether hosting guests in his Colorado apartment or visiting my brother Greg in Northern Idaho, any time and any place are great for a delightful daytime slumber. During college, Tim even slept in his truck between classes. The most unusual place I remember Tim taking a siesta was on the grounds of the Japanese Gardens in Spokane �C in plain view of summer tourists. My brother Tim loves sleeping so much that he moved to Pullman, Washington, named for George Pullman, the inventor of the railroad sleeping car. Now that's a real fan of horizontal hibernation!

Tim loves books - especially weathered classics with a wisp of dust on the cover and lots of dog-eared, wrinkled pages. When I helped him move from California to Colorado, we filled a trailer, floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall, with stacks of them, and his brand-new truck struggled to pull the heavy load over the Rocky Mountains, not unlike the famous locomotive known as "The Little Engine That Could". In Tim's office at Colorado State University, one of his bookshelves actually sagged from the strain of his beloved textbooks. Whatever new town my big brother visits, his first stop is the used bookstore, with its musty odor, antique shelves, boxes of unsorted volumes, and countless dusty hard-covered novels just waiting for Tim to open and explore. He loves books so much that he even married a bookworm. His wife Nancy once worked in a used bookstore in Washington State. I guess bibliophiles tend to stick together!

In addition to classic literature, Tim also collects vintage vinyl and shellac phonograph records, in various formats (33, 45, and 78) from various decades of the last century. For years, Tim hoarded boxes of 78's at the homestead in Montclair, but eventually his beloved treasures ventured north to Pullman, where they, along with his prized collection of classic writings, clutter up every room of his home. In fact, he even stores literary works in his bathroom. Just in case...

My big brother prides himself "corrupting" me by exposing me to Jim Morrison and "The Doors", the American rock band from the 1960's and 1970's. Expose me he did, but I wouldn't call myself "corrupted". For a few years in the 1980's, I purchased a "Doors" vinyl album, opened it, dubbed it to cassette tape, gift-wrapped it, and set it under the Christmas Tree for Tim. He returned the favor with "Beatles" albums, although he had the good taste not to copy them first. Good taste was not my forte in Christmas gifts, I guess. I once gave Tim a huge industrial electrical insulator from an electric company where I worked. It weighed several hundreds pounds and had absolutely no functional use, making it a true "white elephant". The insulator eventually made its way to Northern Idaho, where it is used as a garden decoration. I'm glad someone found a use for that piece of junk!

Tim is our family's most outspoken liberal, never voting for a Republican in his thirty-two years of casting ballots �C and, if asked, he will gladly tell you why. To tease my older brother, I gave him various gag gifts during the 1980's and early 1990's, including paper doll books of Nancy Reagan and the George H. W. Bush family. The latter was eventually returned to me via Dad, probably never opened by Tim, and now sits in my bookcase in Northern California. Now, I am the proud owner of a collectible paper doll book which includes images of George H. W. Bush, the forty-first President of the United States, posing in his underwear.

My big brother has a unique sense of humor �C politically and otherwise. During the first Bush presidency, Tim drew a caricature of George H. W. Bush, parodying his now famous quote "Read my lips..." �C with the personal of touch of the President wishing Dad a "Happy Birthday". Tim collects and writes puns, and prefers originals, not those endlessly forwarded over the Internet. For Christmas one year, Tim wrote a series of Yuletide puns, of which my favorites are "Man Wrecks the Malls with Plows of Raleigh" and "Wild Leopards Wash Their Spots by Night". Recently, Tim entered ten original puns into a contest, hoping at least one would receive the grand prize. Unfortunately, no pun in ten did.

Tim is also an imaginative storyteller. When asked by an Irish Presentation Sister, whose order taught an entire generation of Paulitz children, what planet we lived on, he replied "The Moon". Even then, he was years ahead of his time! Being a loving older brother, he told my sister Patricia that she was actually a slave my parents purchased to do his chores, and later decided to adopt. He told me I was an ape acquired from the San Diego Zoo and trained to behave as a human. After forty-three years, I'm almost there...

All in all, my big brother has done a lot of living in his short fifty years on Planet Earth. He never met a mushroom, plant, used book, or classic vinyl record he didn't like, and loves getting his fingernails dirty. He doesn't own an iron or a comb, but does possess an eccentric sense of humor. Tim is never too busy for a "nap attack", and is an overall "fun guy". Just ask his mushroom friends!

I hope this scrapbook comes as a complete surprise to my older brother, as it was five decades in the making, but I won't hold my breath. When Tim traveled round-trip between Denver and San Francisco on Amtrak, some twenty-some years ago, I decided to surprise him by hopping on his train in Oakland and tagging along with him to Colorado for my summer vacation. After climbing into his train, I found his seat and revealed my covert conspiracy. To which he said, with a face of stone and the emotion of a turnip, "What car are you in?". Needless to say, Tim doesn't surprise easily.

To his academic and professional colleagues, he is known as "Timothy C. Paulitz, Ph.D." or "Dr. Timothy C. Paulitz", but outside of those circles, he's not one for fancy titles �C or fancy clothes �C or fancy anything, for that matter. He likes to keep things simple. So we call him "Tim". And my big brother, the newest quinquagenarian in the Paulitz family, wouldn't have it any other way...

More Tales from the Past Half-Century

green bullet When Tim was about three-years-old, he constantly inserted his fingers in his nose and his thumb in this mouth �C simultaneously �C even when riding his little red tricycle. He was also afraid of a huge Teddy bear named Smokey that resided in the Paulitz home for several years during the last century. Of course, Smokey was larger than Tim at the time...

green bullet Tim actually invited me, his little brother, on a few of his plant-hunting expeditions. One trip was to Joshua Tree, in the Mojave Desert, to look for the tiny Jojoba flower, whose oil, according to Tim, might someday replace oil from the Sperm Whale.

green bullet Tim, along with my brother Kevin and me, once visited Wallace, Idaho, not far from the Montana border, where we stopped at an abandoned railroad depot and collected boxes of cumbersome railroad spikes. We somehow managed to lug them to Montclair, where Dad was overcome with joy at the sight our newfound treasure.

green bullet In his college days, Tim drove a 1960's pickup, which was originally grey but later painted school bus yellow. The gear shifts made an annoying grinding sound, but it was a classic truck. He once tried to teach me to drive a manual transmission by letting me drive the vehicle in a parking lot. To this day, I still can't drive a stick-shift. With those obnoxious gear shift levers, I can see why...

green bullet Being a Circle K fraternity brother, Tim once brought a parade mascot home to Montclair. It was a giant red metallic ant named Jasper, which Tim towed with his old 1960's pickup. Tim also delivered a portable outhouse to the Paulitz homestead, just in case we felt the need to relieve ourselves in the driveway...

green bullet Tim took great pride in recycling watermelon rinds and apple cores by feeding them to Gypsy, my black Labrador Retriever. Until she threw up, that is.

green bullet To this day, Tim watches a small portable TV and uses a coat-hanger for an antenna. He only watches local stations and PBS. Of course, I can't talk, since I also only watch local stations on a similar TV from the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store. Why would anyone pay to watch TV?

green bullet Update to previous entry. Rumor has it that Tim finally purchased his very first color television. Welcome to the twentieth-century, Tim. But the twentieth-century ended six years ago!

Tim knows I like trivia. So here's some Tim-related trivia for the non-essential data overload lovers in the Paulitz household:

green bullet The Circle K fraternity, of which Tim was once a member, actually started in Pullman, Washington, where Tim currently resides. I guess Tim has made the full-circle with Circle K fraternity!

green bullet Jasper the Ant was named after the parade in Ontario, California, of the same name. The parade was since renamed, but its name back then was "July All States Parade Euclid Registered", or JASPER. The parade was held on the Fourth of July, and went down Euclid Avenue, hence the "Euclid Registered".

green bullet I was famous for memorizing TV commercials. I couldn't memorize my homework, but where was the motivation in that? My favorite commercial to recite was: "Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun". That, of course, is the McDonald's Big Mac. Tim worked at McDonald's in the 1970's, and told horrifying stories, such as dropping hamburgers on the floor and plopping them back on the grill to serve to customers. I eat at McDonald's on occasion, and know these stories weren't true. Or were they...?

green bullet Tim has lived further west than anyone in the Paulitz Family. Corvallis, Oregon, where he lived in the late 1980's and early 1990's, is at 123.28o W. The closest runner-up is San Mateo, California, where I lived until recently, at 122.32 W.

green bullet Tim and Nancy are the only Paulitz couple, besides Mom and Dad, to have their birthdays in the same calendar month. That, of course, would be September.

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Faith, Fellowship, and a Cup of Lemonade
by Patrick Paulitz

Sometimes the Lord truly does work in mysterious ways. A church gymnasium, a glass of lemonade, and a kindly man named John - mix thoroughly with one balmy Northern California evening. God's perfect recipe for the creation of something miraculous...

It's a warm summer's evening, around sixish, in the Sacramento County community of Orangevale. There are still a few hours before the sun hides its face below the horizon for its nightly slumber. Neighbors chat outside on dusty lawn chairs, their animated voices rising up like smoke from a summer bonfire into the windless and stagnant air. Children slurp on after-dinner Popsicles and ice cream bars. And even dogs can't stand to be inside...

Coming from the San Francisco Peninsula just the year before, these balmy summer twilights were still a novelty. Near the coast, long pants, socks and shoes, and even a light jacket are more appropriate attire. But not in sizzling Sacramento. Not tonight...

On that warm evening back in 2007, I was living alone in a home my wife April and I recently purchased. Our seven-year-old son, Shamus, needed to finish the school year in the Bay Area, and even our furniture had yet to make the move eastward. So, at least for now, I had a giant bachelor pad in the heart of Orangevale, sleeping on a floppy mattress and dining nightly at local fast food restaurants. I was a married man living the single life – at least for now...

As the sun lazily dipped to the western horizon and another scorching Sacramento day slowly said goodbye, I dressed in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, and a baseball cap -

And took a walk.

"What's that large brown building over there?", I wondered, as I briefly paused on the road shoulder near Greenback and Filbert, as a river of traffic zoomed by just a few feet away. "It looks like a church". I, like the mischievous monkey named "Curious George", was curious. And, like that famous monkey, I decided to feed my curiosity.

As I crossed Greenback Lane, I noticed a sign reading "Divine Savior Catholic Church". "So this is the local Catholic community. Maybe I can join this parish", I thought to myself, as I crossed the busy thoroughfare.

A few minutes later, I stood in spacious parking lot, near a large modern building that appeared to be a gymnasium.

I pulled on the glass doors. The building was unlocked. I slipped inside.

After a few moments, I sighted a table covered with small paper cups of lemonade, apparently for a function later that night. I was parched and sweating, and would soon start melting without some immediate relief. I probably should have used more discretion, being the uninvited guest to this celebration, but I, like Curious George, couldn't resist having a cup of sweet, cool lemonade. I took a sip. The satisfying yellow beverage flowed down my withered dry throat like sweet, heavenly nectar...

"MAY I HELP YOU?"

I peeked up from savoring my chilled refreshment and spotted a tall, thin, handsome man - glaring at me.

"Oh boy, am I in trouble!", I silently murmured to myself. Instead of panicking, however, I played it cool and simply stated the facts. "I was going on a walk", I replied. "I'm new to the area, and decided to check out this parish". "Okay", he answered. "Come back anytime". He then added, "I'm John Groce, the Youth Minister here at Divine Savior". "I'm Patrick", I responded, and as we shared a firm handshake I immediately sensed his genuine and warmhearted nature.

After meeting John, I felt warmly welcome at Divine Savior, and became active in this friendly parish in my new community. In the upcoming weeks, I joined a Bible Study, to which I walked, every Tuesday after dinner, wearing shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, and a baseball cap - my standard uniform for the sweltering summer months in Orangevale.

One evening before Bible Study, I again saw John, this time in the church vestibule. "Hi John", I exclaimed. We chatted a few minutes. I then told him about my special son with Autism, Shamus, and explained that in the Bay Area, my family attended Mass in a crying room, and never felt like a part of the congregation. "It's like watching Mass on TV", I complained. John explained that Divine Savior is inclusive of all, and welcomed all parishioners with disabilities. "We have no crying room here", he explained. "It goes against our philosophy. If you like, I can give you a list of local parishes with crying rooms, but I really hope you'll give us a try first".

And so we did...

Now, April, Shamus, and I are active parishioners at Divine Savior. Shamus, despite his sometimes strange behavior, has been welcomed as a member of the parish and attends CFF class every Sunday morning. I am an usher and a member of Knights of Columbus. April attends weekly Bible Study. We feast on Pancake Breakfasts and Crab Feeds. For 11:30 Mass, we have claimed our turf - second section from the left, third seat from the back, right side. My family has found its spiritual home at Divine Savior parish, thanks, in part, to a kindhearted and gentle man named John –

Who let me finish my lemonade...

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