Blossoming

Oh, I love younger daughter's watercolour paintings.

I know I'm her mother.  They're just so lush, and light years ahead of anything I can manage.

Younger daughter's art lessons ended yesterday, for another summer.  She's been taking them with the same teacher for the past dozen years, with a few exceptions for logistics and pandemics. 

As she left, she embraced her teacher.  The Resident Fan Boy told me the teacher seemed a little surprised, but that younger daughter scoffed, on the way to the bus stop:  "I always give her a hug when lessons are over!"

It's a rare thing just the same.

Just like her paintings.

Piecrust promise

Double Leo Sister and Jolly Not-So-Green Giant Brother-in-Law had descended into Victoria from their up-Island home to have an early Thanksgiving dinner with us the Friday before the long weekend, using up the last of the piecrusts I'd stashed in the freezer.  

On the Sunday, I had a lovely block of "alone time" while the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter went out for lunch.  It was then that I discovered that I was out of shortening, so resigned myself to making all preparations on Monday.  I was in bed when the RFB approached me to quietly ask if I were making pies at all.  Apparently, younger daughter had observed my lack of preparation, and had made an equally quiet and anxious inquiry.

Younger daughter lives somewhere on the autism spectrum, which despite the rainbow-like terminology, is a very concrete and literal place.  Holidays must be made manifest and occur on the appropriate day, which, in our case is the holiday Monday.  (Many Canadian families have the meal on the Sunday, to allow for travel time.)

I, of all people, know the importance of making holidays tangible in our house, so rose early to make the dough and chill it, before heading out to set out Demeter's breakfast.  Home to roll out seven piecrusts: two for the counter, five for the freezer.

After another trip across the street and down the block to pull together Demeter's lunch, I returned to make the filling from pumpkins from last year's Hallowe'en, mashed and waiting in the freezer.

To further realize and cement Thanksgiving, I'd assembled a playlist for daughter's Spotify account, and put it on while I worked, knowing she'd hear it from her bedroom.

A Disney version of "Turkey in the Straw" drew her out, and I explained what I'd done.  She seemed chuffed. (Other tracks included:  "Thank You Girl" (Beatles), "What a Wonderful World" (Louis Armstrong),  "Eat It" (Weird Al), "All Good Gifts" (London cast of Godspell), "Get Happy" (Judy Garland), "Happy" (Pharrell Williams), "Food, Glorious Food" (original cast of Oliver!), etc.

We eventually sat down to a simple supper (attended by Demeter, of course) with our traditional sides of Caesar Salad and garlic bread, followed by pie, glorious pie.  And younger daughter was relaxed and happy - even chatty, by her standards.

It's important to keep piecrust promises -- perhaps because they're so easy to break.

Making waves

There are waves of fatigue, and waves of fear.

The Resident Fan Boy was awash in a tide of terror in the wake of a too-close-for-comfort encounter in the park. 

While I was mixing flour and lard for tourtières this afternoon while battling off the fatigue of a slowly healing arm, elder daughter hastily did some last-minute Christmas shopping through a haze of jet lag, then met up with her father and sister for lunch, followed by a walk in the park, where younger daughter loves to feed the ducks.  She told me this story first, with the Resident Fan Boy and younger daughter supplying details later.

As they walked along one of the small lakes in Beacon Hill Park, a man approached, bellowing at all he passed.  Sadly, this is not that unusual an occurrence, but usually shouty, deranged people in Victoria are not screaming at people we can see.  This guy was making eye contact.

Swearing vociferously and continually, he observed the Resident Fan Boy looking anxiously at younger daughter, and spat, "Don't look at her; that won't protect you!"

Elder daughter and the RFB closed ranks, and guided younger daughter past. Younger daughter, her high clear voice ringing out from the spectrum where she lives, declared:  "That was unacceptable!!"

Her father and sister gently hushed her, and she protested:  "But he shouldn't be using those bad words!"

The deranged bellower was now walking away, but with each of younger daughter's comments, stopped, turned, and glared.

Walking steadily, and speaking softly, elder daughter and the RFB explained that the man wasn't well.  Younger daughter accepted that, but when I asked her about it on her return a couple of hours later, she repeated solemnly:  "It was unacceptable."

"I know," I nodded, "but his mind isn't working very well.  Every day must be pretty scary for him."  Perhaps even as scary as it was for the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter for that one awful moment of being taken for the enemy.

The elephant in the room

 The best of results and the worst of fears, all in one day.

On a summer's morning, I was struggling to get Demeter's laundry done, and, tussle concluded, returned to our place to find the Resident Fan Boy and the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant setting up an enormous big screen television in our living room.

This was not a shock.  The Resident Fan Boy has been promising me for two years that we would join the ranks of those with flat screens - as my eye-sight steadily deteriorates.  I sent him examples and gently hinted, but he always said that he was too busy with his church volunteering and accompanying younger daughter to her singing lessons.  He decided that he needed the guidance of brother-in-law the Jolly Not-So-Green Giant, who works in IT for a provincial governmental department.  Every time my Double Leo Sister and her husband visited, the topic would be raised and deferred.

Finally, the appointment had been made, the device purchased, and now the technical argot was in full swing.

The Jolly Not-So-Green Giant is young enough to belong to a different cohort, and was, once again, earnestly trying to sell me on Netflix.  (Every time I investigate Netflix, I'm mostly impressed by how unimpressed I am.)

Having, after some fiddling, located our cable service (which provides us with HBO and Crave, thank you very much), it seemed they couldn't connect our DVD player. Now, this is something that clearly mystifies J N-S-G G, who streams everything, but I've been dreaming, for more than two years, of being able to watch my favourite things on a big screen. 

As the fellas sank into another discussion consisting of strings of letters and numbers, Double Leo Sister quizzed me about lunch.  I checked with younger daughter, who had retreated to her room, but she wasn't forthcoming, so DLS and I decided on the local Greek restaurant.  I was nervous about Demeter waiting for us, as the installation stretched on and on, so I set out for Demeter's apartment.  DLS followed with her dog, and I tried to clear my head of the jangle of the upheaval.

We should have taken younger daughter with us.

We were accompanying Demeter to the restaurant, in a slow descent down Cook Street, when my phone rang.  The Resident Fan Boy was calling to say he couldn't find younger daughter.  Or the cat.

I gave a quick update to DLS and doubled back to our place.  Apparently younger daughter had fled with her purse when she overheard her uncle telling her father that the DVD problem could be resolved, but, as he laughed dismissively, the VHS player was out of the question. (The J N-S-G G has always derived derisive pleasure out of our ancient televisions, DVD collections and residual video cassettes.) Not a problem for us, but younger daughter, being on the spectrum, abhors change, and there are a couple of VHS tapes she treasures, mainly for what she associates with them. Neither man noticed that she'd  slipped out, until they were getting ready to join us for lunch.  They soon realized that she hadn't taken her phone.  Younger daughter has fled before, but not since we returned to Victoria.  She does know the neighbourhood, having walked most of it.

But how could she have taken the cat? He weighs fourteen pounds, I wondered miserably, more resentful than ever that the RFB had involved his complex and complicating in-laws in what should have been a relatively simple purchase.

I arrived to find my husband uselessly pacing the apartment.  He had located the cat, who had taken his safety perch on the very top of younger daughter's armoire.  Shortly afterwards, the J N-S-G G phoned the RFB with the news that younger daughter had shown up at the restaurant.  Double Leo Sister came in the van to pick us up, but I chose the five-minute walk as a balm and therapy - and a play for time. I had a bit of stress and irritation to walk off, both of which I couldn't afford to show.

If only the RFB had bought the television on his own, I grizzled.  He told me later that he actually prayed they wouldn't be able to fit it in their van, so he could have it delivered and installed later.

At the restaurant, younger daughter apologized and told us she was considering a walk in the park, but thought that would make her late for lunch.  I handed her the phone, gently explaining that she should always have it handy, and congratulated her on remembering to go to the Greek restaurant.

We brought Demeter back, and I was able to show her a Repair Shop she'd seen, but this time in all the glory and splendour of a 65-inch high definition screen.  DLS took the RFB to London Drugs to pick up an inexpensive compatible DVD player, and I showed Demeter a sampling of Wolf Hall, which we'd been showing her in parts on her Thursday night dinner visits. What had been dark, and difficult to follow for her, was now huge, clear, and comprehensible - just as I'd prayed it would be.

Finally, to my secret relief, they departed.

I feel grateful - and exasperated at the same time.  Over the past month, we've been learning how the new toy works and revelling in the clarity and detail - particularly such things as ballets and musicals.  Even old Fred Astaire movies have a three-dimensional look to them.  It's like being by a window and looking in on far-removed times and places.

However, there is a price, beyond the monetary one.  I can never express anything other than delight, acknowledgement, and appreciation for the service rendered, as traumatising as it was.

But you know, there was always that particular elephant in the room.  Now it can watch TV.

Intervention (write of passage number fifty-four)

The Resident Fan Boy was zoning out on the bus, so at first didn't hear the voice from the seat behind him.

"Hello?  Excuse me?"

A waving hand appeared near his ear.

The woman, having his attention, leaned forward.

"There are lots of free seats on this bus."

The RFB turned slightly, so as not to disturb younger daughter, who was gazing out the window, and fidgeting slightly.  The bus was, indeed, nearly empty. He fixed the woman with a quizzical gaze.

"And your point is?"

"Well, you're making people uncomfortable."

While the RFB was processing the implication, younger daughter spoke up.

"No, you're not!" she declared, ignoring the woman completely.  "You're my dad!"

Nothing further was heard for the rest of the trip.

On hearing this story (and having been questioned by strangers more than once myself), I gently pointed out that if younger daughter had been on her own, with an unwelcome man sitting next to her (which has happened), perhaps someone should issue a challenge.

The RFB agreed - a tad begrudgingly - and younger daughter called warningly from her bedroom.  She doesn't like being discussed, and her hearing is acute beyond belief.

Pencilling it in

Christmas got more complicated when I became Santa's liaison officer.

I may have mentioned this.

This year, I managed, for the most part, to stay on top of things, but still found myself nipping into the new book store in the Cook Street Village on Christmas Eve.  It's like a Tardis -- way bigger on the inside.

I found about half a dozen treasures for stocking-stuffing, a job that Santa delegated to me some years ago.  One thing I spotted was a package of delicate pink pencils, perfect for younger daughter, who, I am reasonably sure, still thinks Santa is fully responsible for Christmas stockings.

I checked in with her mid-morning on Christmas Day, asking what she like the best.  She liked a lot of things, showing them to me proudly --- except for the pencils.  They had, she informed me, "swear-words" on them.

To my carefully-concealed horror, I noticed, for the first time, the delicate gold letters on each pencil, forming short and sometimes, quite long variations on expressions containing the F-word.  I quietly took the pencils to my room and have spent some time scraping the lettering off.  It's embossed, of course, and is taking some time.

Merrying @&%ing Sixth Day of Christmas.

Ambush

Two anniversaries - two life-changing events. 

Two years ago, we brought younger daughter to this condo, and told her we were moving. We braced ourselves; she had told us adamantly since our return to Victoria that she was never moving again.

However, she took the news calmly; we had deliberately timed the tour to take place en route to an outdoor screening of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets in Beacon Hill Park, to cushion what we felt sure would be a blow. 

As we departed, unbludgeoned,  to catch the film, we saw a young couple with a dog, and younger daughter suddenly asked: "Can we have pets here?" 

We affirmed this, and she announced she wanted a cat this time, a male cat. 

Male cats apparently are fewer on the ground, so it was a year later that the SPCA phoned us and told us they had the fellow for us. He conquered us quickly and rules absolutely - and stalks us from the closet. 

This evening, I find myself wallowing in apprehension - and it's not because of paws suddenly lunging at me from amongst the Resident Fan Boy's apparel.

Don't these things come in threes? Are we trembling on the brink of another future anniversary?

Do I belong there?

The long months of pandemic have us reaching for comfort in familiar movies and television shows. This is particularly true for younger daughter, whose burden of autism and anxiety is a bad match with the threat of a global virus. 

We invite younger daughter to view DVDs (yes, we still use DVDs) in the living room. It's an effective way of chivvying her out of her bedroom. 

This means we've seen all the Harry Potter films in order and reverse order, all ten seasons of Friends (reminding me how rubbishy the final four seasons were), and the various Muppets films. 

I've learnt that I still rather like The Great Muppet Caper, and that I truly loathe The Muppets Take Manhatten. The original Muppet Movie is okay; it doesn't drive me into the bedroom, or out of the house entirely. 

So, one late afternoon, I'm sitting on the couch doing Sudoku, while younger daughter is perched on the Resident Fan Boy's raised seat cushion (originally made by Demeter for the RFB's late father).  She's watching the scene where Gonzo is singing wistfully in the desert, dreaming of earlier in the day, when he was hoisted skyward by a bunch of helium balloons.

Sun rises; night falls/ Sometimes, the sky calls/ Is that a song there?/ And do I belong there?/ I've never been there, but I know the way/ I'm going to go back there some day.

I'm thinking of when I originally saw the movie in a cinema, long before the advent of my daughters.  I remember the dreaminess of it -- had I nodded off?

Then I realize that younger daughter is softly singing along.  Part heaven, part space/ Or have I found my place?/ You can just visit, but I plan to stay/ I'm going to go back there some day.

And my heart is breaking, but I manage not to cry.  I hold very still, hardly daring to breathe.

Seeing spots

To someone whose perception of time differs from most, this pandemic has been even more of a challenge. Earlier this year, as I removed laundry from younger daughter's room, I saw that she had filled in each and every square of her calendar, clear through to December: "VIRUS - VIRUS - VIRUS . . . ."  Like a flashing alarm, blinking repeatedly, world without end, amen.

At the same time, a friend posted this equally alarming animation on Facebook.  It covers the period between January 1st and June 30th, 2020, and it uses visuals and sound effects in a simple but unsettling way.

We start, seemingly drifting somewhere in space above China (which is unnerving in itself, to tell you the truth). One screen corner shows the date, the other the number of deaths -- not case numbers, deaths; that's important. It starts at 0, of course, but once the numbers appear, it will change every four seconds.

For the first few seconds, we have silence, until the first death, sometime in January.  A beep sounds, and a red dot ripples out, like a pebble hitting calm water.

The beeps come closer together, as the circle morphs into what looks like an angry scarlet pustule -- as the Philippines, with a beep in a different tone, joins in, and we float backwards and outwards, so our view takes in all of Europe, as Iran, Italy, France, and Spain become inflamed rippling spots, all beeping on different notes.

By March 11th, the day the pandemic was declared (and the last day I shook anybody's hand), we're viewing a flat world map. European countries are obscured by red welts. 

On March 16th, Canada gets a scarlet circle. That was the day that Sophie Gregoire Trudeau was confirmed as a COVID case, and things began shutting down in Canada like a row of falling dominos. 

By April 12th, the day elder daughter came from Hades to shelter with us in Victoria, the Canadian circle is large, and the United States is pulsing angrily. 

And so it goes to June 30th, spreading and spreading, the mingled beeps becoming a cacophony, as I compare my own personal timeline - I've kept one while all this has been happening. 

I understand there will be an update covering July 1st to December 31st. 

 I can hardly wait. 

Will younger daughter fill in her 2021 calendar with anguished repeating words, flashing like an alarm clock?  To her, it seems it will never end.  I can't convince her otherwise.

The in between time

When you live with someone who lives on the autism spectrum, maintaining a modicum of rhythm and predictability is key.

Particularly during a pandemic.

So yesterday, I baked up our usual hot cross buns, and younger daughter and I watched Tim Minchin as Judas in the 2013 production of Jesus Christ Superstar. This year, they're more than traditions; they're lights in the dark hallway with no door in sight (yet).

And this year, it's not only pleasant, but imperative, that we decorate eggs. We usually try a new technique every year, but we haven't done marbled eggs for ten years, and Demeter has never tried them.

They look nothing like the eggs we did in 2010, but that's okay. We like 'em.

Tomorrow? No church, but chocolate eggs, ham, and the Easter Beagle. (And elder daughter, but - shhh - don't tell Demeter; it's a surprise, and the next surprise is that Demeter can't hug her granddaughter for two weeks.)

What can't be unseen

"Land of the eagle" - Audun Rikardsen - Norway

This is a photograph.

It was obtained through the effort, endurance, and patience of three years.

The photographer set up a branch on a ledge, attached a camera to it, built himself a hide nearby, and made the branch more attractive to eagles by hanging meat on it. After three years (three years), an eagle got accustomed to the set-up, and visited regularly.

This photo was the winner in the "Behaviour: Birds" category of the Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2019. It was one of my personal favourites. I had several other favourites, like this one,

"Summer Cornfield" - Joël Brunet - France

which was "Highly Commended" in the "Plants and Fungi" category.

Every year, the Royal British Columbia Museum is one of the few hosts of the display resulting from the competition. (I think there are only three venues in Canada.) Demeter has been going for years, and younger daughter and I have attended for the past three exhibitions. Younger daughter insists on carefully reading the description on each photo, including the camera settings. I've found the best way to accommodate this is by going about five times, which is enough time for younger daughter to carefully examine each of the hundred photos.

It's a little nerve-wracking, because her strategy is to stand sideways by the corner of each photo, and read the captions aloud, going back and repeating if she is deciphering a new word, or distracted by someone approaching to view the image, as they tend to do in an exhibition.

A pair of elderly ladies came up behind her, and asked her to move. I quickly pointed out that there was an excellent vantage point from where I was standing, leaning in to quietly say: "She reads out loud to process..."

They hastily backed off, and actually apologized to younger daughter, while I cringed inwardly.

Last year, the exhibit ended before younger daughter had had a chance to "process" all the images, so this year, I carefully noted the ending date of March 29th.

Of course the museum shut down on March 17th, but luckily, we had got in our five visits, with all the photos thoroughly viewed.

The Wildlife Photographer of the Year is a collection of jaw-dropping photos, illustrating the fragility of our eco-system, and how an image is a result of days, months, or years of patient waiting - or simply being in the right place with an adequate camera. Way too few women amongst the photographers, and a couple of photos I can't un-see.

So I won't show them to you. You can google "Wildlife Photographer 2019", and guess.

Siding with the angels

The more I look at the news, the more I miss Mr. Rogers.

I don't think he was a saint - he certainly didn't think so - but I think he was on the side of the angels, and it's remarkable how much what he said is close in message and meaning to the Dalai Lama - someone else who would deny sainthood, but is on the side of the light. Both men were/are highly disciplined spiritually, and in an almost indefinable way, available and elusive at the same time.

Take this past weekend - and you may.  It was a bit of a minefield with younger daughter, whose anxieties, for a multitude of possible reasons, have been particularly acute.

It seemed the right time to saunter down to the cinema, enduring the half-hour of commercials and promotions (because we're not good at finding our seats in the dark), to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood, with America's 21st century version of Jimmy Stewart, Tom Hanks.

This is a story "inspired by real events", so we've been warned it's largely made up, and this is emphasized by the introduction, which moves the plot from an imagined Mr Rogers' Neighborhood episode in Pittsburgh to New York by means of the miniature cityscapes of the sort that began each show.  You can tell that the toy cars are being moved by unseen human hands.  Seeing as Fred Rogers himself was always very clear about the difference between reality and make-believe, this is very appropriate.

I won't go into the story, which is based upon (okay, inspired by) a magazine article written by a journalist who is renamed for the movie.  It's a tale that pretty well anyone in the audience will recognize, and see the parallels of, in their own lives.  The Resident Fan Boy thought of his late parents and almost wept; I thought of my complicated relationship with my father, and my shortcomings as a mother, and didn't weep.  Heaven knows what younger daughter thought about, but she reported that she liked the movie.

It is well-written, well-acted, and believable, even if not literally true.  There is a remarkable moment in a coffee shop, where Fred Rogers, ever solicitous, ever elusive, asks the troubled journalist to perform one of Rogers' favourite spiritual exercises:  thinking, for ten seconds (it seems longer), of the person or persons who "have loved us into being."  The astonishing thing was the palpable silence that fell upon the audience at our cinema-showing.  It was quite a bit like the Silence that descends upon the Quakers at a Friends' meeting for worship.

There were a few musical surprises for me in the film; songs I've loved.  Only one of them reminded me of the 1990s in which the story is set.  It's a song by Tracy Chapman entitled "The Promise".  It's really not got much to do with Mr Rogers - yet it does, rather like the film has surprisingly little to do with Mr Rogers, yet is all about him.

Peeping Thomasinas

I was standing in my bedroom with my coat on, waiting for younger daughter to emerge from her own bedroom and gazing out the window, when I saw a woman peering around the corner into my room.

My bedroom is tucked in almost behind the pathway leading to our building's front door. This is usually not a problem; one would have to know that the window is there, and make the effort to lean around the partition -- which is what made this apparition disturbing.

I wasn't frightened, just a bit annoyed, even more so, when her companion, standing out on the sidewalk that follows the street, pointed me out, and the woman's fingers appeared as she gripped the wall to lean sideways to peer again.

I turned and stalked from the room. (I should have tugged the blind down.) I wondered what on earth was going on. Two units in our building are on the market. Were the women there for a viewing, and if so, where was their realtor, who would normally let them in? Were they visitors flummoxed by the entry-phone? Someone should tell them that looking into private windows is rather creepy.

I decided to leave by the side entrance in order to avoid them. No luck. As I rounded the corner into the small side parking lot, I nearly ran into the Peeping Thomasina, who was being followed, at a slight distance, by her companion, who smiled faintly at me as I passed. I returned a stony sidelong glance.

Younger daughter and I strode up the sidewalk en route to her voice lesson, as I suddenly wondered if the women had been able to slip into the building as younger daughter, trailing me by a few steps, exited.

"I was wondering if those two women in the parking lot...."
"What two women?"
"They passed us as we left."
"I didn't see them."

Great. Spooky as well as creepy.

A cold and friendless time

Nineteen years ago, when the move to Hades was looming, and the Resident Fan Boy was transferring, I'd take younger daughter to a gym class at the Y, while elder daughter was in school.  It was a fairly unstructured class, more of a playtime.  I'd hover while younger daughter climbed, and half-listen to a tape of Disney classic songs that played at each session.

There was one song, though, that, even if I couldn't quite hear the lyrics, always brought me to the edge of tears.  I'd swallow them back, and attend to the task at hand.


I'd never seen Pete's Dragon; it was one of those kids' films that post-dated my childhood, and predated my motherhood. (I did see the 2016 remake with younger daughter, and remember next to nothing of it.)

Listening to it today,  I'm just as glad I couldn't make out all the lyrics.  Mind you, back then, I probably wouldn't have realized how apt they were - although I think a part of me knew.  It's that desperate promise every mother longs to keep: that she'll always support you, guide you, never leave you.  Sometimes, she can manage it for the first fleeting years, but children can't be shielded forever.

I'll never let you go.

We have to, eventually.  It's the point of the exercise.

Dappled

I gave younger daughter my Nikon, so she could snap scores of pictures, a thing she likes to do at Butchart Gardens. This means waiting while she takes pictures of everything: the sky, the ground-cover, butterflies, the water, individual flowers, beds of flowers.

I looked down and saw this plant, which looks sun-dappled -- but isn't.

I used my phone.

The magic dress

I'm not an enthusiastic shopper.

As a result, I've learned to tackle Christmas and Birthday Season - the latter being the thirty-day run between the period before I must post my parcel to elder daughter in Hades to Mother's Day - in manageable purchasing bursts, none more than ninety minutes.

I found younger daughter's birthday approaching rapidly, but despite my careful planning and plotting, had failed to find an item of pretty clothing to join the gifts of movies, music, and makeup.  Usually, I wander into a likely shop and something will call to me.  Although I'd heard elder daughter's name floating out at me in April, nothing whispered about younger daughter.

With two days to go, I wandered into a shop in Cook Street, mentioned the specifications to the employee there - something feminine for a petite stature with a generous bosom, as younger daughter takes after one of her paternal great-grandmothers.  (She certainly didn't get it from my side of the family...)

I spotted it a split second before the clerk did, a simple sundress, reminiscent of the late Fifties, early Sixties.  Flower print, modest boat neck, slightly pleated skirt, and defined waist. Sort of Sandra Dee without the sly overtones.

She showed me several others, but I kept saying, "That one's calling me."

I presented it to younger daughter on her birthday, and she wore it the very next day for her part in a fundraising concert.

It was like magic.  The dress, which fit perfectly, seemed to endow her with extra social grace and confidence.  She maintained poise as garden tours strolled past her and planes droned overhead.  I was delighted (and careful not to say so) when she excused herself at lunch - a new thing in itself - to reapply her makeup in the washroom instead of at the table.

The usual snowfall for Christmas Day in Victoria

Younger daughter was so disappointed that there was no snow this morning, she refused to accompany the Resident Fan Boy to church. Elder daughter fled out into the morning, and surprised her father at the cathedral. (He was so surprised, he didn't initially recognize her. This will take years to live down.)

Younger daughter recovered, and diligently participated in our other rituals.

The Snowman, by Raymond Briggs, is about an unexpected snow on a Christmas Eve, like the Christmas miracle we had a year ago. The Christmas special, based on the book, continues to be a poignant favourite with both my daughters, now no longer children.

The song "Walking in the Air", which features in the special, was sung by a boy soprano named Peter Auty, but it was 15-year-old Aled Jones who made it famous. This video, made twenty-five years after Jones' recording, is already more than eight years old, but I'm tired and my resistance is low.

It is the best of times....

It is the worst of times.

It's Advent.

Today, I was especially reminded of friendships.

And I was painfully reminded of my shortcomings as a mother of someone on the autistic spectrum.

I was locked out of this blog. Again. This time, it's something to do with Chrome. However, I went to Safari, of all places, and got back in.

I'm tired. Can we do this tomorrow?

I like this Advent carol. I've mentioned this before, but I like it.


People, look east. The time is near
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way.

Furrows, be glad. Though earth is bare,
One more seed is planted there:
Give up your strength the seed to nourish,
That in course the flower may flourish.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the rose, is on the way.

Stars, keep the watch. When night is dim
One more light the bowl shall brim,
Shining beyond the frosty weather,
Bright as sun and moon together.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the star, is on the way.

Slow vote to Fernwood

The Resident Fan Boy and I voted in one of the advanced polls in the recent municipal election for Victoria, partly to avoid the crowds and partly to plough the path for younger daughter, as this is her first election in British Columbia.

Good thing we did!  A civic election has to be the toughest of the three levels of elections; municipal politics get less press coverage than provincial and federal politics on the whole, and there's usually a huge selection of candidates, for more positions, so it's not a simple matter of ticking one square for an MLA or MP.

This election, for example, was for mayor, plus (up to) nine city councillors, (up to) eight school board trustees, and, to really complicate matters, a choice of which councillor to send to the Capital Region District, and a referendum.

On top of this, we had a number of hurdles to overcome.  Despite registering online, we were not yet on the voters' list, because that had been released to the elections officials over a month ago.  This meant registering in person at the polls.

When I showed up at City Hall for the advanced poll, I noted the other hurdles - particularly tough for younger daughter's autism spectrum challenges.

Four line-ups:  1) To enter the voting area.

2) To  register, which included answering some questions, and providing the correct ID.  The fellow registering me decided, on principle, to accept my library card (which I had mentioned, but not offered) as ID.  I'd already presented my passport, along with my provincial health card, which confirms my address.  "Library cards are on the list, and -- we can!" he declared.

"Great," I replied.  "I'm a literate voter.  Also well-read."

3) Another line-up to take one's turn in the voting booth.

4) Most daunting of all, a long curving line to "cast the ballot", that is, in this case, feed it carefully and singly, into the sole "ballot reader", a machine resembling a printer.  You had to wait for the confirming click, then they'd hand you your "I Voted" sticker.

The machine, which, I suppose, eliminates hand counting and sorting, takes waaaaaay longer than slipping one's folded ballot into a ballot box.  You can't fold your ballot for one thing; you have to conceal it from prying eyes in a yellow folder, although it wouldn't be hard to guess how you voted in the several seconds which elapse between taking it out of the damned folder and feeding it into the damned ballot reader.

Oh, yes, and the ballot itself had to be filled out by meticulously shading into an oval next to your choice(s) with, and only with, the provided pen, much like the dreaded provincial high school exams for university qualification that I remember with little relish.

On Election Day itself, I searched for illustrating photos on the internet to assist younger daughter with visualizing the process to come, because despite being a veteran of all three levels of elections in Hades, this would be a whole new procedure for her.

You can imagine that part of me was rather hoping she'd give this election a miss, and I did explain, more than once that voting in a municipal election in Victoria would involve four long line-ups and a complicated ballot.

However, even after a long day that included a practice session with her accompanist for an upcoming singing competition, and a trip to Pic-a-Flic to renew her DVDs, she was insistent.  Of course she wanted to vote.  It was Election Day, and she's twenty-two.

Far be it from me to disenfranchise anyone, let alone my own daughter.

We set off to the nearest polling place, the high school, at 6:30 in the gathering darkness, reasoning that we were bound to finish long before the polls' closure at 8 pm.

It took some time to locate the entrance and we were directed to the other side of the building -- where an enormous line snaked out into the parking lot.

After chatting companionably to our fellow queue occupants for - I dunno - twenty to twenty-five minutes, we were finally in the gymnasium, where younger daughter still had to be looked up on the voters' list, even though we told them she wasn't on it.

We joined the queue for registration.  At the advanced polls, this had been quick, but, even with four people at work, it was clear that the filling-out of the form took out an inordinate amount of time.  When younger daughter sat down, one of the questions put to her was if she knew the final three digits of her social insurance number.  This was after she presented her health card, passport, and birth certificate.  The Resident Fan Boy deflected some of the sillier questions.

We had told younger daughter that she need only to vote for mayor.  We were talking to someone on the spectrum.  She took several minutes filling out every part of the ballot.  I took some comfort in noting that others were also taking a long time, and somewhat less comfort in watching the line for the ballot reader grow longer and longer.  By the time the RFB and younger daughter joined this final queue, it had been over an hour since our arrival.

Worn out, I went to sit on the concrete steps leading out of the gymnasium.  In the hall behind me, a long line-up of people still waiting to enter had been brought inside so the outer doors of the school could be shut and locked.  The polls had closed - it was now 8 pm - but those inside would still be permitted to vote.

From my perch, I watched the long line of voters approaching the lone ballet-reading machine.  I marvelled at how different this population of the electorate was from those coming to the advanced poll.  When I voted, I was surrounded by mainly middle-aged and elderly, mostly smartly dressed people.  Tonight, it was a Fernwood crowd:  parents with babies, toddlers, preschoolers, and primary graders; people with dogs;  people who looked like they rode motorcycles,  many, many young voters evidently casting a ballot for the first time.

Despite my weariness, I was touched by the faces as each person waited for the confirming click, then slapped their "I Voted" sticker into place, beaming.

One last heart-clutching moment when a young woman attempted the machine, then was directed back.  Evidently, her ballot was not quite correctly filled out.

Oh gawd,  I thought.  Will younger daughter's ballot be okay?  It's been over an hour and a half...

It was.  I gave her a thumbs-up, and we walked out under a night sky with planets glowing in it.

We got home two hours after we had left.

Somehow, we feel affirmed and confirmed as residents of this city.

Sidewalk rage

Thursdays have become sacrosanct in our household -- a household with someone living on the autistic spectrum has many holy days from which it is perilous to deviate.

Thursday is Pic-a-Flic Day, when we make the pilgrimage to select the week's DVDs.

We usually walk back, but sometimes, the slow, upward incline is daunting, particularly if the weather isn't pleasant or if there are extra bags to carry, and we catch the bus to a stop a block or so from our apartment building.

It's taken me some months to have sufficient courage to describe the afternoon in question, when I alighted from the bus, and made the quick diagonal cut to the busy corner near the traffic light. Younger daughter, like Eurydice, was a few steps behind as usual, so I didn't see what happened.

The first indication of trouble was the outraged bellowing of a little old man, yelling at me about younger daughter.

"She stepped right in front of me!"

I was caught off-guard by his fury, but gazing at his contorted face, shouting at me about how he had to stop suddenly to avoid bumping into her - I should point out that he, like us, was on foot - it occurred to me that he was barking at me.

Not at younger daughter.

Which meant that he had figured out that I was in charge of her.

Any wish to placate him vanished with this realization.

"My daughter is on the autistic spectrum," I told him firmly. "What's your excuse?"
"That doesn't matter!" he shouts.  "She should know better!"

Mothers have an extra limbic layer.  Mothers of neurologically different people probably have several.

He stood by the curb, waiting for the cross signal, still sniping at me.  I was carrying a book bag.  I swung it back about six inches, then bopped him on his arm.

It didn't even unbalance him, but he was probably a bit unbalanced to begin with, and now really enraged. His voice jumped several decibels, but I was no longer listening.  I strode away from him, not looking back, and flipping a bird over my shoulder at the direction of his roars.

Younger daughter apologized all the way up the hill.

When I got home, I was in a cold sweat of shock and shame.

I knew I hadn't injured him, but my actions taught him nothing, and were a poor example to my daughter.  This isn't how grown-ups respond to insults, particularly childish and petty ones.

On top of this, Victoria is a small city, and I was clad in a distinctive, hot pink raincoat.

I didn't wear it for months.