I did not start out hating squirrels. I thought they were cute. I thought they were likable. My pap Cordell taught me to feed them and my aunt even had one in her yard that was so friendly he would come up to the back window and eat out of their hands. His name was Pete, if I recall, and he was cute and lovable (but not domesticated as a pet - don't worry).
It was a kinder, gentler time when human and squirrel lived together in peace. I collected acorns for my furry tailed friends in the fall. We hung autumn decorations on our windows, including adorable little anthropomorphic squirrels in their pilgrim hats. Life was good.
Then, sometime during graduate school it all changed. I'm tempted to say its just the southern squirrels, raised south of the Mason-Dixon, struggling to survive in the vast megalopolis. But alas, the trouble started in Hershey, Pennsylvania, of all places.
Act I: All's (Not) Well That Ends Well. My first new car (a 1993 Saturn SL1) sat helplessly one night, minding its own business, when it was attacked by a squirrel with a taste for plastic. The squirrel ate through the wiring harness, rendering my airbag non-functional. I drove from Hershey to Maryland worrying over the state of my beloved Saturn, unaware of what had caused the trouble. $700+ and a rental car later, the car was repaired, but my trust in my furry friends was not. I felt betrayed. I felt violated. I felt scared.
Act II: (My) Love's Labor's Lost. My poor husband was laboring over the laundry one Sunday afternoon, as is the typical Appel Household tradition. I heard him mumbling about how the laundry was backing up because the dryer was so slow. He cleaned the lint filter. He adjusted the heat setting. He cursed at the foul smell and stains he found on the laundry. Then he reached into the dryer to see where that stench was originating and he found a large stash of acorns, roasting in our dryer vent. He pulled at them. He filled bags. He drug more out. We thought it would never end. Our laundry was dirty, some of it stained permanently, and we were responsible for the starving squirrel children in Glen Burnie. This was a bad bad thing.
Act III: As You Like It? Time passed. My guilt over the disrupted food supply slowly melted my cold feelings toward my furry neighbors. Then I switched jobs and started interacting with the infamous College Park Squirrels (yes, seriously, they are infamous for their lack of friendliness - see http://www.gottshall.com/squirrels/campsq.htm - no, I am not one of the squirrel reporters and no, I did not stumble upon this while looking for squirrel removal tactics, my friend Jim hooked me on it). We have both black squirrels and gray squirrels. There are many of them and while they look harmless enough, do not be fooled. They will spring out of trash cans, attacking you when you are trying to be a good campus citizen keeping the place clean. Many's the morning when my 7 am campus greeting has been the swish of the squirrel flinging itself at me. They are there because they are foraging for scraps of food. Once, when a spring roll from the local Asian food delivery contained a rubber band, one of the squirrels nabbed the spring roll from the garbage, dragged it onto a picnic table, and began feasting. I tell you - these rodents thrive on plastic. Though I was tempted to try to save the poor creature from its rubber-eating fate, I decided I should not impose my human values about take-out quality on this creature. I suspect that's when the war began in earnest.
In our most recent battles, we have been beaten back harshly:
Squirrels 3 - Wiring Harnesses 0. Yes, these squirrels have gotten to (and destroyed) three wiring harnesses in lot L of the College Park campus. It's not safe - they stalk our cars looking for places to nest, tearing apart the innards of our cars. It has driven grown men to race across the parking lot, shouting and stomping feet, in an attempt to keep them from their evil ways.
Squirrels 4 - Flowers 0. The Glen Burnie Park squirrels have declared war on my flower beds. They have ripped up my flower pots three times this season, seemingly immune to the natural, organic preventatives meant to keep them at bay. I have lovingly tended and replanted and the squirrels come back again. It's as if they are daring me to try something more difficult. And its not just me - they have been known to bring peanuts onto my neighbors porch and stand there staring, as if imploring them to turn away so they can bury the nut.
Can killer squirrels be far behind? I fear not.
A coworker's response to the squirrel's question "Can't we all just get along?" was a resounding "NO!". I am dismayed to report that it appears this is true. It seems our cute furry friends have taken off their pilgrim costumes and gotten out their weapons of mass destruction.
Wednesday, April 11, 2018
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Mobility and Agency. Or Lack Thereof.
On October 14, I stumbled as I was walking into my office, a fall that resulted in three broken metatarsals (foot bones) and a damaged ligament. I was supposed to be leaving the next day to go with John to Martha's Vineyard. Instead the journey I got to take has involved a surgery to stabilize my foot with a screw in my first metatarsal joint and six weeks of non-weight-bearing mobility impairment, plus additional restrictions and another surgery that will take place over the next 6 months. For those interested in the medical details of my injury, Google Lisfranc break; others do a great job of describing it.
At first I was in shock and naively thought I would get a cast thrown on, a set of crutches, and be on my way as if nothing had changed. Reality started to sink in as I sat in the first orthopedic doctor's office in a wheelchair. By the time I met with my surgeon three days later I had shifted from determined resolve to frightened resignation - pain was a given, mobility limitations a given, the only questions were about severity and duration.
We live in a split level house. It sits on a little hill (4 steps) up from street level with three more steps into the house. The door opens into our main level - living room, dining room and kitchen, with a half a flight of steps going up (to bedrooms) or down (additional living space) where both of our bathrooms are located. You can imagine the dilemma, particularly for someone who is overweight like I am.
I spent the first week essentially confined to the bedroom level (when I wasn't at a doctor's appointment). Thankfully I had a knee-walker rolling device which made getting around possible and a great support system. And prescription painkillers that made me not care about much of anything.
Week two I started practicing navigating stairs, and by week three I was able to venture outside a bit with assistance. I have made small victories (showering by myself!) but for the most part I remain utterly dependant on others for most of my daily activities.
Most days I run the full spectrum of emotions - frustration, self-pity, thankfulness, and guilt. And I have learned so much about disability in the process - things I knew intellectually but now understand on a whole different level due to lived experience.
The world isn't designed for the mobility impaired - shocker, I know. But I don't just mean things like stairs and cramped bathrooms (don't even get me started on bathrooms) - I mean restaurants with tables crammed together, stores with aisles that are too narrow and designed to send shoppers around the maximum merchandise, cars with doors that don't open wide, automatic doors that require tight maneuvers to navigate.
This disconnect between what I am capable of (albeit temporarily) and what it takes to navigate the world sometimes seems enormous. Going to the bathroom requires at least 10 minutes. Getting into or out of my car requires planning for people on both ends of my journey to assist me. And a simple walk from my office to the building next door now takes three times the steps and four times as long. I am constantly reminded of my own lack of agency, constantly reminded of the burden I am putting on others, and constantly reminded of how lucky I am that this is temporary.
So, what can be learned from my experience?
1) Sometimes it just needs to be a little bit easier - a hand held shower head, a pack of water that is easily reached, foam mats to cushion the concrete porch I crawl across. These have made HUGE differences.
2) The little things add up to a lot - while my recovery would be impossible without the heroic efforts of my family who take care of me daily, the small acts of kindness have made a big difference to all of us. A fountain soda delivery, a meal that was provided, or a visit from a friend who helped pass the time. We forget how meaningful these can be until we are the grateful recipients.
3) Independance in anything is still something - when one is dependant on so many for so much, even the smallest things done alone are a source of dignity. The first night I figured out how to shower without assistance I felt like I had made a major discovery. Depending on others (even those who are close) for basic hygiene is just demoralizing. No way around it. So anything that can be done to preserve or restore dignity is huge.
In my religious tradition, we wash each other's feet as part of a Holy Week service called Love Feast. My grandpa and I would always talk about how much easier it was to wash another's feet than to have your own feet washed. I have been reminded of this over and over in the past several weeks. Thankfully, it relieves some of my guilt when asking for help. But more importantly, it reminds me how important honoring and preserving another's dignity is. It's a lesson I won't soon forget.
At first I was in shock and naively thought I would get a cast thrown on, a set of crutches, and be on my way as if nothing had changed. Reality started to sink in as I sat in the first orthopedic doctor's office in a wheelchair. By the time I met with my surgeon three days later I had shifted from determined resolve to frightened resignation - pain was a given, mobility limitations a given, the only questions were about severity and duration.
We live in a split level house. It sits on a little hill (4 steps) up from street level with three more steps into the house. The door opens into our main level - living room, dining room and kitchen, with a half a flight of steps going up (to bedrooms) or down (additional living space) where both of our bathrooms are located. You can imagine the dilemma, particularly for someone who is overweight like I am.
I spent the first week essentially confined to the bedroom level (when I wasn't at a doctor's appointment). Thankfully I had a knee-walker rolling device which made getting around possible and a great support system. And prescription painkillers that made me not care about much of anything.
Week two I started practicing navigating stairs, and by week three I was able to venture outside a bit with assistance. I have made small victories (showering by myself!) but for the most part I remain utterly dependant on others for most of my daily activities.
Most days I run the full spectrum of emotions - frustration, self-pity, thankfulness, and guilt. And I have learned so much about disability in the process - things I knew intellectually but now understand on a whole different level due to lived experience.
The world isn't designed for the mobility impaired - shocker, I know. But I don't just mean things like stairs and cramped bathrooms (don't even get me started on bathrooms) - I mean restaurants with tables crammed together, stores with aisles that are too narrow and designed to send shoppers around the maximum merchandise, cars with doors that don't open wide, automatic doors that require tight maneuvers to navigate.
This disconnect between what I am capable of (albeit temporarily) and what it takes to navigate the world sometimes seems enormous. Going to the bathroom requires at least 10 minutes. Getting into or out of my car requires planning for people on both ends of my journey to assist me. And a simple walk from my office to the building next door now takes three times the steps and four times as long. I am constantly reminded of my own lack of agency, constantly reminded of the burden I am putting on others, and constantly reminded of how lucky I am that this is temporary.
So, what can be learned from my experience?
1) Sometimes it just needs to be a little bit easier - a hand held shower head, a pack of water that is easily reached, foam mats to cushion the concrete porch I crawl across. These have made HUGE differences.
2) The little things add up to a lot - while my recovery would be impossible without the heroic efforts of my family who take care of me daily, the small acts of kindness have made a big difference to all of us. A fountain soda delivery, a meal that was provided, or a visit from a friend who helped pass the time. We forget how meaningful these can be until we are the grateful recipients.
3) Independance in anything is still something - when one is dependant on so many for so much, even the smallest things done alone are a source of dignity. The first night I figured out how to shower without assistance I felt like I had made a major discovery. Depending on others (even those who are close) for basic hygiene is just demoralizing. No way around it. So anything that can be done to preserve or restore dignity is huge.
In my religious tradition, we wash each other's feet as part of a Holy Week service called Love Feast. My grandpa and I would always talk about how much easier it was to wash another's feet than to have your own feet washed. I have been reminded of this over and over in the past several weeks. Thankfully, it relieves some of my guilt when asking for help. But more importantly, it reminds me how important honoring and preserving another's dignity is. It's a lesson I won't soon forget.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
When Teen Suicide is Close to Home
Kenny Wolf was 14, a freshman at Old Mill High School. My son was his classmate and friend. He committed suicide just over a week ago, for reasons that we will likely never fully understand.
Today we, along with about 300 others, attended his services. As a parent, this is one of the hardest things I've ever done - watching my son partake in the ritual of mourning and comforting with his friends and classmates. They all looked so young as they clung to one another. They all are so young - not so far into their teens. Lanky boys, patting each other on the back, holding back tears with grim nods and smiles. Girls holding hands and shaking with sobs, hugging one another. All of them trying to make sense of it.
Most of the adults in the room were careful bystanders - watching for signs one of the kids needed help, trying to find Kenny's parents and offer words of condolence when we know they are so insufficient. We were parents, school administrators, teachers, and church members. Most of us, myself included, cannot fathom what it feels like to be that parent, burying their child. Some of us, myself included, have been in those kids' shoes - mourning a friend or classmate who took their own life, but I suspect few of us had experienced it this young.
We bystanders watched, waiting for those kids to need us. We talked occasionally, trying to make sense from the senseless. We spoke of our fears for these kids: How would they handle their own anger? How would we keep them safe? How could we let them know they could reach out to us?
Thankfully, the minister spoke to us all in his message. He met us in our grief and confusion, starting with acknowledging that while none of us wanted to be there, we all needed to be there. Funerals are where we support each other, where we remember the good and acknowledge the imperfections and the mistakes made. And he started with the biggest mistake Kenny made - the mistake of thinking he had no option.
The ministers words are things any community in this situation needs to hear, so I'm sharing them here:
Today we, along with about 300 others, attended his services. As a parent, this is one of the hardest things I've ever done - watching my son partake in the ritual of mourning and comforting with his friends and classmates. They all looked so young as they clung to one another. They all are so young - not so far into their teens. Lanky boys, patting each other on the back, holding back tears with grim nods and smiles. Girls holding hands and shaking with sobs, hugging one another. All of them trying to make sense of it.
Most of the adults in the room were careful bystanders - watching for signs one of the kids needed help, trying to find Kenny's parents and offer words of condolence when we know they are so insufficient. We were parents, school administrators, teachers, and church members. Most of us, myself included, cannot fathom what it feels like to be that parent, burying their child. Some of us, myself included, have been in those kids' shoes - mourning a friend or classmate who took their own life, but I suspect few of us had experienced it this young.
We bystanders watched, waiting for those kids to need us. We talked occasionally, trying to make sense from the senseless. We spoke of our fears for these kids: How would they handle their own anger? How would we keep them safe? How could we let them know they could reach out to us?
Thankfully, the minister spoke to us all in his message. He met us in our grief and confusion, starting with acknowledging that while none of us wanted to be there, we all needed to be there. Funerals are where we support each other, where we remember the good and acknowledge the imperfections and the mistakes made. And he started with the biggest mistake Kenny made - the mistake of thinking he had no option.
The ministers words are things any community in this situation needs to hear, so I'm sharing them here:
- There was nothing anyone could have done to stop Kenny. Even if someone were with with him every minute of every day, an impossible feat in itself, it would not have helped.
- Just because Kenny made this mistake, others don't have to. There is no problem, or set of problems, that can't be dealt with.
- There are many people who care and who are available to help.
Monday, January 30, 2012
A Paratrooper’s Journey in France and Holland - Bill Bladen and the War
Bill, April 1943 - age 17+
I had the privilege of meeting Bill in the spring of 2008, just prior to a family vacation that included Normandy and the D-Day sites. Over dinner, Bill told us stories of his experiences in France and Holland during the war, and in 2008 and 2009 I was able to visit some of the locations he told us about.
Like a lot of young men in 1942, Bill enlisted in the Army - in his case, at the age of 16. He volunteered for the paratroopers, and was trained as a demolitions man.
Bill’s Demolition Section, Nottingham, England, May 1943
Bill was assigned to the Demolitions Section of the Headquarters Company, 508th Parachute Infantry Regiment (known as the Red Devils), which fought as part of the 82nd Airborne Division (The All Americans).
D-Day
Along with thousands of other paratroopers, Bill left England on the night of June 5th, 1944 bound for Normandy aboard a Douglas C-47 like this one:
Douglas C-47, Merville Battery, Normandy
But the aircrews carrying Bill’s regiment, the 508th Parachute Infantry, were inexperienced. They ran into heavy anti-aircraft fire and the planes became scattered, many going much faster than the 125 miles per hour they were supposed to for jumping, and at much higher (or lower) altitudes than the 400 feet called for. The 508th suffered some of the worst scattering of the drop that night; Bill and the other men of his “stick”, or plane-load, landed far away from their designated drop zone.
Bill’s gas mask, strapped to his leg, was shot away by anti-aircraft fire during his descent.
Several men in the stick were missing after the jump and as far as Bill knew, had never been seen again. Their two heavy equipment bags were also lost. The plane had also been going so fast that Bill and the others had actually lost some of the gear strapped to their bodies. This included most of the explosives.
This was a problem because Bill had been assigned to blow up a bridge across the Douve River at Beuzeville-au-Plain, a tiny village along the south edge of the 82nd’s area. The Germans had flooded the countryside - much of which is reclaimed marshland - and it was one of the few ways heavy vehicles could attack across the river from the south. Bill and his fellow soldiers traveled at night, playing hide-and-seek with the Germans who were actively searching for the paratroopers, and finally arrived at their objective on June 9th, D+3, only to find that the Air Corps had destroyed it.
Bridge at Beuzeville-au-Plain, Normandy, July 2008
(Bill couldn’t remember the name of the town when he told us this story, but a bit of research and the phenomenal knowledge of our battlefiled guide, Dale Booth, enabled us to find it.)
Bill’s group then gathered with a larger group of paratroopers under Lt. Colonel Shanley holding Hill 30, a low rise west of the Merderet River. This became a key position protecting the American beachead. They had little cover to protect themselves from German fire, but held until heavier forces could come up from the beaches.
“Hill 30” area near Coquiny, Normandy
He was also involved in some of the fighting near the village of Chef-du-Pont, where still more key bridges were located.
Bridge at Chef-du-Pont, now named for the 508th PIR
Memorial to the paratroopers at Chef-du-Pont,
part of a park funded and maintained by the residents.
part of a park funded and maintained by the residents.
During the fighting in Normandy, one of Bill’s friends, Bill Buchanon of Wyoming, was killed by sniper fire while standing next to Bill.
Bill and the rest of the 82nd fought on in Normandy until they were withdrawn to England on July 13th, 1944.
Holland: Operation Market-Garden
In September 1944, British Field Marshal Montgomery proposed a daring plan - laying a “carpet” of airborne troops across Holland, seizing a series of bridges and holding open a corridor through which Montgomery’s XXX Corps would race to the Rhine and beyond. The 82nd was assigned to the middle section of the corridor, with the US 101st Airborne to their south. To their north, at Arnhem on the Rhine, was the British 1st Airborne and the Polish 1st Parachute Brigade.
The 82nd had to capture a number of bridges, all essential to the operation, but the biggest one was the Waal River bridge at Nijmegen.
Waal Bridge, Nijmegen, June 2009
Nijmegen is only a few miles west of the German border, with a large, wooded ridge - the Grossbeek Heights - between the town and Germany. (The ridge has been a key military position for centuries - remains of an old Roman fort lie atop the ridge.) Bill’s unit, the 508th PIR, was assigned a drop zone between the Heights and the German border, in these lush fields:
Drop zone of the 508 PIR, looking west towards the Grossbeek Heights
Looking south-east from the middle of the 508th’s DZ.
The silver object is a marker and memorial to the 508th.
The silver object is a marker and memorial to the 508th.
Looking east. Germany is less than a mile away, just past the distant treeline.
The Germans counter-attacked fiercely. Bill’s unit was assigned to a position in the town of Beek, which lays at the northern foot of the Heights. Beek sits right along a main road to Nijmegen, and the Germans pushed hard to reinforce their forces holding the Waal bridge. Bill was wounded in the left leg by a mortar fragment in the fighting for Beek.
The fighting in Beek was very heavy, and not many of the buildings from that time remain.
Surviving period buildings in Beek, Holland, June 2009
Like the French, the Dutch continue to honor their liberators.
Memorial to the 508th PIR, Beek, Holland, June 2009
While the 82nd held it’s ground, and was finally able to capture the Waal Bridge on September 20th, XXX Corps wasn’t able to relieve the British 1st Airborne, and two SS Panzer divisions which had been refitting in the area crushed the British paratroopers.
After Market Garden
With Operation Market-Garden a failure, the 82nd continued to hold Holland until it was withdrawn in December - and was then thrown desperately into the Battle of the Bulge, in Belgium. The 82nd was pulled out of the line in late February, 1945.
The 508th was reassigned from the 82nd Airborne Division and attached directly to the First Allied Airborne Army in April, 1945. Bill and the rest of the regiment prepared to jump into POW camps to rescue Allied prisoners, but the mission was never needed.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Best Day of Ben's Life (to date, he notes)
... and it ranks right up there for his mom, too!
On Friday, January 13, Ben and I (as well as one of Ben's friends) attended a book signing that confirms my faith in teenagers. Capturing it has taken a few weeks but I hope I still managed to do it justice.
First, a little background.
Over the past year Ben has become a "Nerdfighter," It refers to a group of people (mostly teenagers, but others too) who are nerds that are fighting to "reduce world suck." Their leaders are John and Hank Green, otherwise known as the Vlogbrothers. They post video blogs in a conversation with each other. And really, it would seem, they take turns sharing whatever random things come to mind, from Quarks to Economics to healthcare. John writes books; Hank writes (and sings) songs. And they both remind their legion of followers "Don't Forget to Be Awesome," (DFTBA). Along the way they've raised awareness for children's cancer (raising money for This Star Won't Go Out) and launched the Project For Awesome, a YouTube charity fundraising event that involves Nerdfighters posting and liking videos during a 24 hour period so that they are featured on the YouTube home page. (Ben participated this year, posting and liking throughout the weekend of December 18.)
Ben has been rather consumed with the DFTBA movement since sometime last winter. It has inspired him to rail against the penny and to read "The Great Gatsby," among other things. He has been purchasing DFTBA music (including an amazingly catchy song about the quark) and tee shirts, and reading John Green's books (along with others written by Green's friends and/or recommended by him). He made sure I pre-ordered his copy of John Green's newest book "The Fault in Our Stars" in July, because the first printing was going to be signed. This fall he met a guy at school who recognized his tee shirt by flashing the Nerdfighter greeting (arms crossed over chest, hands in Spock formation), who came to be known as "Nerdfighter Will" in our house. Eventually we found out that Nerdfighter Will is a senior, the band drum major, and a friend to several of the Patriot Players Theatre Company (in which Ben now participates as part of the crew and of which Alexa is an alum). Apparently he's also Ben's timelord double.
But enough Nerdfighter love, onto the book signing.
In early December, Ben sent John and I a link to the schedule for the "Tour de Nerdfighting," also known as the tour for the launch of John's book "The Fault in Our Stars." It included a Bethesda stop sponsored by Politics & Prose, a DC bookseller, and required tickets. Thankfully, I bought tickets right away because it sold out in days. At $27 a pop. This should have been my first clue that this was going to be big.
My ticket order indicated that the doors would open at 6:30 (read: plan to arrive early) and I picked up on this clue at least. We got to Bethesda around 5:15, picked up a to-go dinner at a favorite deli, and walked across the street to the Bethesda Hyatt. I figured we'd walk inside, pick up our tickets and sit in a hallway outside the ballroom with an hour to spare. Not so much.
As we approached the hotel, the boys excitedly spotted "the van," a Sprinter-like van wrapped in blue advertisements for the book with stylized drawings of the Green brothers. I spotted the line, stretching out of the hotel and down the block. There were TONS of people, mostly female and young, happily waiting in the cold on a Friday night for a book signing. Pretty impressive and amazing. Politics and Prose had lots of folks directing us and making sure we all knew where to be, and the line was really calm and pleasant and good-natured. When we reached the hotel door, we thought we were golden, but as we got inside we realized the line snaked into the lobby, up to an atrium, and back down some steps. In all, we waited about an hour and fifteen minutes but had so much fun we hardly noticed!
As we stood in line, it quickly became apparent that this was not your typical crowd. First, there were lots and lots and lots of geeky tee shirts. Many were from DFTBA but there were also literary ones (lots of Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice and the like), video-game-related (think Portal), and math jokes (mostly related to pi). The boys amused me by pointing out, under their breath, their favorite shirts: "Mario Brothers at 3 o'clock." And then there was the whole Doctor Who thing - more sonic screwdrivers than you can imagine and plenty of people dressed as their favorite Doctor. Will had a sonic screwdriver app on his phone and occasionally would play it; and then the crowd would look around for the screwdriver until they figured out that the sound was coming from Will's phone. And often folks held up their own screwdrivers, which was really funny. I think the patrons of the Morton's Steakhouse inside the hotel were befuddled.
Eventually we made it downstairs to the ballroom and then it sank in - there were loads of people (900, it turned out, according to the organizers) and at least 70% of them were teenage girls. The boys enjoyed chatting with fellow Nerdfighters, working on the crossword puzzle in the event program, and figuring out which items they would have autographed by the brothers (three items were permitted per person per brother).
The "show" started when a sock puppet appeared - Hanksock - to introduce John. The crowd went wild - shrieking and cheering and standing. Honestly, it was like a rock concert. Instead, out came the author (more screaming and cheering and standing) who began reading a book. When's the last time you saw people screaming for an author? OK, J.K. Rowling, maybe. But while that might match the crowds and dedication, when John started reading and talking the connection between him and his fans was palpable. These people KNOW each other because of the connection established through the video blog. John was inspiring, challenging the audience to think about what it means to be heroic. He quoted the Odyssey and talked about rarely people are remembered for grand, heroic gestures. Instead, he said, it is how we choose to behave and react every day and in every moment that makes us heroic - the acts of being kind to others and making choices for good that truly make the world a better place. So inspiring. And when Hank Green sang, everyone sang along - including the aforementioned song about Quarks and a song about Harry Potter. Incredibly fun.
A bit about the book itself. It is amazing. It is about teenagers with cancer, a topic close to our hearts as Ben's friend Billy passed away from the complications of brain cancer this summer. John Green served as the chaplain at a children's hospital for several years and was inspired by one patient in particular, Esther Grace Earl (in whose memory the This Star Won't Go Out Foundation was founded). Esther was a Nerdfighter who lost her battle to cancer at age 16. The book is an incredible, tender, touching, funny, and gut wrenching glimpse into the lives of young people with cancer. It's also smart and doesn't pander to teen readers and, as I write this, is on its third week at number one on the New York Times best-seller list for teen fiction. I read it in a day and loved every moment and tear.
Perhaps the most amazing part happened after the reading. That's when everyone had a chance to meet the Green brothers and get their items signed. You might think this could get unruly - 900 people, most under 18, and the clock ticking on a Friday night. Instead I witnessed an incredibly orderly and happy crowd who was respectful of others and chatted with strangers and told jokes and generally were awesome. It helped that the Politics and Prose folks had it down to a science - they distributed sticky notes (to put names for signing on) and dismissed rows of chairs to go into the line.
After about three hours, it was Ben and Will's turn to get into the line. The excitement was palpable. Ben had brought a "Harry Potter" broom (made by friends of ours - it's fabulous), plus some CDs and books. Will had a poster and CD and book. And, while they loved the thought of having the signed items as a memento of the night, what really excited them (and seemingly everyone else) was the chance to have a personal interaction with the brothers. There were stuffed animals and cookies and other items fans brought for them strewn about the table. And as each fan left the table, they had identical expressions of pure joy as they gushed to their parents. It was no different for Ben and Will... Ben was so excited to actually talk to them he's still in awe that it happened almost a month later.
Ben and I are still talking about this amazing experience. It was wonderful to see two brothers committed to doing good and being smart and inspiring others to do the same. And it was really incredible to see so many teenagers and young adults (who usually get such a bad rap for being selfish and self-involved) excited by them and their cause. I learned a lot that evening and have a new-found respect for the phenomenon. And the word "awesome" has a whole new meaning now.
Check them out at http://www.youtube.com/user/vlogbrothers . And don't forget to be awesome.
On Friday, January 13, Ben and I (as well as one of Ben's friends) attended a book signing that confirms my faith in teenagers. Capturing it has taken a few weeks but I hope I still managed to do it justice.
First, a little background.
Over the past year Ben has become a "Nerdfighter," It refers to a group of people (mostly teenagers, but others too) who are nerds that are fighting to "reduce world suck." Their leaders are John and Hank Green, otherwise known as the Vlogbrothers. They post video blogs in a conversation with each other. And really, it would seem, they take turns sharing whatever random things come to mind, from Quarks to Economics to healthcare. John writes books; Hank writes (and sings) songs. And they both remind their legion of followers "Don't Forget to Be Awesome," (DFTBA). Along the way they've raised awareness for children's cancer (raising money for This Star Won't Go Out) and launched the Project For Awesome, a YouTube charity fundraising event that involves Nerdfighters posting and liking videos during a 24 hour period so that they are featured on the YouTube home page. (Ben participated this year, posting and liking throughout the weekend of December 18.)
Ben has been rather consumed with the DFTBA movement since sometime last winter. It has inspired him to rail against the penny and to read "The Great Gatsby," among other things. He has been purchasing DFTBA music (including an amazingly catchy song about the quark) and tee shirts, and reading John Green's books (along with others written by Green's friends and/or recommended by him). He made sure I pre-ordered his copy of John Green's newest book "The Fault in Our Stars" in July, because the first printing was going to be signed. This fall he met a guy at school who recognized his tee shirt by flashing the Nerdfighter greeting (arms crossed over chest, hands in Spock formation), who came to be known as "Nerdfighter Will" in our house. Eventually we found out that Nerdfighter Will is a senior, the band drum major, and a friend to several of the Patriot Players Theatre Company (in which Ben now participates as part of the crew and of which Alexa is an alum). Apparently he's also Ben's timelord double.
But enough Nerdfighter love, onto the book signing.
In early December, Ben sent John and I a link to the schedule for the "Tour de Nerdfighting," also known as the tour for the launch of John's book "The Fault in Our Stars." It included a Bethesda stop sponsored by Politics & Prose, a DC bookseller, and required tickets. Thankfully, I bought tickets right away because it sold out in days. At $27 a pop. This should have been my first clue that this was going to be big.
My ticket order indicated that the doors would open at 6:30 (read: plan to arrive early) and I picked up on this clue at least. We got to Bethesda around 5:15, picked up a to-go dinner at a favorite deli, and walked across the street to the Bethesda Hyatt. I figured we'd walk inside, pick up our tickets and sit in a hallway outside the ballroom with an hour to spare. Not so much.
As we approached the hotel, the boys excitedly spotted "the van," a Sprinter-like van wrapped in blue advertisements for the book with stylized drawings of the Green brothers. I spotted the line, stretching out of the hotel and down the block. There were TONS of people, mostly female and young, happily waiting in the cold on a Friday night for a book signing. Pretty impressive and amazing. Politics and Prose had lots of folks directing us and making sure we all knew where to be, and the line was really calm and pleasant and good-natured. When we reached the hotel door, we thought we were golden, but as we got inside we realized the line snaked into the lobby, up to an atrium, and back down some steps. In all, we waited about an hour and fifteen minutes but had so much fun we hardly noticed!
As we stood in line, it quickly became apparent that this was not your typical crowd. First, there were lots and lots and lots of geeky tee shirts. Many were from DFTBA but there were also literary ones (lots of Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice and the like), video-game-related (think Portal), and math jokes (mostly related to pi). The boys amused me by pointing out, under their breath, their favorite shirts: "Mario Brothers at 3 o'clock." And then there was the whole Doctor Who thing - more sonic screwdrivers than you can imagine and plenty of people dressed as their favorite Doctor. Will had a sonic screwdriver app on his phone and occasionally would play it; and then the crowd would look around for the screwdriver until they figured out that the sound was coming from Will's phone. And often folks held up their own screwdrivers, which was really funny. I think the patrons of the Morton's Steakhouse inside the hotel were befuddled.
Eventually we made it downstairs to the ballroom and then it sank in - there were loads of people (900, it turned out, according to the organizers) and at least 70% of them were teenage girls. The boys enjoyed chatting with fellow Nerdfighters, working on the crossword puzzle in the event program, and figuring out which items they would have autographed by the brothers (three items were permitted per person per brother).
The "show" started when a sock puppet appeared - Hanksock - to introduce John. The crowd went wild - shrieking and cheering and standing. Honestly, it was like a rock concert. Instead, out came the author (more screaming and cheering and standing) who began reading a book. When's the last time you saw people screaming for an author? OK, J.K. Rowling, maybe. But while that might match the crowds and dedication, when John started reading and talking the connection between him and his fans was palpable. These people KNOW each other because of the connection established through the video blog. John was inspiring, challenging the audience to think about what it means to be heroic. He quoted the Odyssey and talked about rarely people are remembered for grand, heroic gestures. Instead, he said, it is how we choose to behave and react every day and in every moment that makes us heroic - the acts of being kind to others and making choices for good that truly make the world a better place. So inspiring. And when Hank Green sang, everyone sang along - including the aforementioned song about Quarks and a song about Harry Potter. Incredibly fun.
A bit about the book itself. It is amazing. It is about teenagers with cancer, a topic close to our hearts as Ben's friend Billy passed away from the complications of brain cancer this summer. John Green served as the chaplain at a children's hospital for several years and was inspired by one patient in particular, Esther Grace Earl (in whose memory the This Star Won't Go Out Foundation was founded). Esther was a Nerdfighter who lost her battle to cancer at age 16. The book is an incredible, tender, touching, funny, and gut wrenching glimpse into the lives of young people with cancer. It's also smart and doesn't pander to teen readers and, as I write this, is on its third week at number one on the New York Times best-seller list for teen fiction. I read it in a day and loved every moment and tear.
Perhaps the most amazing part happened after the reading. That's when everyone had a chance to meet the Green brothers and get their items signed. You might think this could get unruly - 900 people, most under 18, and the clock ticking on a Friday night. Instead I witnessed an incredibly orderly and happy crowd who was respectful of others and chatted with strangers and told jokes and generally were awesome. It helped that the Politics and Prose folks had it down to a science - they distributed sticky notes (to put names for signing on) and dismissed rows of chairs to go into the line.
After about three hours, it was Ben and Will's turn to get into the line. The excitement was palpable. Ben had brought a "Harry Potter" broom (made by friends of ours - it's fabulous), plus some CDs and books. Will had a poster and CD and book. And, while they loved the thought of having the signed items as a memento of the night, what really excited them (and seemingly everyone else) was the chance to have a personal interaction with the brothers. There were stuffed animals and cookies and other items fans brought for them strewn about the table. And as each fan left the table, they had identical expressions of pure joy as they gushed to their parents. It was no different for Ben and Will... Ben was so excited to actually talk to them he's still in awe that it happened almost a month later.
Ben and I are still talking about this amazing experience. It was wonderful to see two brothers committed to doing good and being smart and inspiring others to do the same. And it was really incredible to see so many teenagers and young adults (who usually get such a bad rap for being selfish and self-involved) excited by them and their cause. I learned a lot that evening and have a new-found respect for the phenomenon. And the word "awesome" has a whole new meaning now.
Check them out at http://www.youtube.com/user/vlogbrothers . And don't forget to be awesome.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Thankful reflections
Over a month ago, Alexa graduated from high school. It has been a busy (almost frenetic) time for us and I haven't had time to record my thoughts, but I'm afraid if I don't do so soon, I'll forget something. So, here are my (not particularly well organized) thoughts on the milestone.
We've looked forward to this for a long time - with fear, excitement, hopes and anxieties just like any family. I recall the day Alexa's umbilical stump fell off - as I stood crying at the loss of that final thing that connected her to me, John told me that I had better get used to letting go. I think his exact words were "If we do our job correctly, she will depend less on us every day." Not what I wanted to hear less than two weeks postpartum, but something that has become a mantra over the last eighteen years.
One thing that made this milestone so special for us, though, is that while parents of neurotypical kids assume that graduation and independence will happen, we were availed of that assumption almost ten years ago. When Alexa was diagnosed with Asperger's, she was a tiny withdrawn elementary student who shrieked, hid under desks, bit herself, and pulled her hair. She could not make it through a school day without some sort of meltdown. The professionals who diagnosed her tried to adjust our expectations - she may never have friends, she might not be able to complete a "typical" school curriculum, she may never move away from home. Thankfully we had a healthy skepticism (and a potentially neurotic sense of denial) because we just couldn't see that future for our daughter. She was smart, she was imaginative, she was our perfect little girl - and we would do what it takes to make things work.
Here comes the thankful part - somehow, we found people who also saw that in her and helped us. We have an incredibly supportive family who are no strangers to the autism spectrum and we got understanding and support from them. We had the resources to assemble a team of disparate folks who showed us a way forward. We had health insurance that paid for private speech, occupational and psychotherapy. We had jobs that provided the financial means to pay for co-pays, advocates and life coaches (plus the flexibility to shuffle hours to accommodate for those appointments). We had a school system that provided the supports Alexa needed, that took a chance on her, and that connected us with some of the most dedicated professionals I've ever met. It takes a web of support to raise a child with special needs, and we had an incredibly strong web. As we now pull those strands apart to build a new web on Maryland's eastern shore, I am in awe of the difference they've made, the humility with which they receive our thanks, and the commitment reflected in the time they have spent with us. Many tears have been shed over the past few months as the goodbyes have begun - the tears themselves demonstrate the strength of those bonds.
So what am I thankful for? Well, to name a few:
We've looked forward to this for a long time - with fear, excitement, hopes and anxieties just like any family. I recall the day Alexa's umbilical stump fell off - as I stood crying at the loss of that final thing that connected her to me, John told me that I had better get used to letting go. I think his exact words were "If we do our job correctly, she will depend less on us every day." Not what I wanted to hear less than two weeks postpartum, but something that has become a mantra over the last eighteen years.
One thing that made this milestone so special for us, though, is that while parents of neurotypical kids assume that graduation and independence will happen, we were availed of that assumption almost ten years ago. When Alexa was diagnosed with Asperger's, she was a tiny withdrawn elementary student who shrieked, hid under desks, bit herself, and pulled her hair. She could not make it through a school day without some sort of meltdown. The professionals who diagnosed her tried to adjust our expectations - she may never have friends, she might not be able to complete a "typical" school curriculum, she may never move away from home. Thankfully we had a healthy skepticism (and a potentially neurotic sense of denial) because we just couldn't see that future for our daughter. She was smart, she was imaginative, she was our perfect little girl - and we would do what it takes to make things work.
Here comes the thankful part - somehow, we found people who also saw that in her and helped us. We have an incredibly supportive family who are no strangers to the autism spectrum and we got understanding and support from them. We had the resources to assemble a team of disparate folks who showed us a way forward. We had health insurance that paid for private speech, occupational and psychotherapy. We had jobs that provided the financial means to pay for co-pays, advocates and life coaches (plus the flexibility to shuffle hours to accommodate for those appointments). We had a school system that provided the supports Alexa needed, that took a chance on her, and that connected us with some of the most dedicated professionals I've ever met. It takes a web of support to raise a child with special needs, and we had an incredibly strong web. As we now pull those strands apart to build a new web on Maryland's eastern shore, I am in awe of the difference they've made, the humility with which they receive our thanks, and the commitment reflected in the time they have spent with us. Many tears have been shed over the past few months as the goodbyes have begun - the tears themselves demonstrate the strength of those bonds.
So what am I thankful for? Well, to name a few:
- Alexa wore three honor cords at graduation - International Thespian Society, National Honor Society, and AP Honors (she took 7 classes and scored four 5s, two 4s and a 3 on her tests). Not only did she earn a diploma, she nailed that high school diploma!
- Alexa actually survived the commencement ceremony (and the tunnel of horror that she waited in before processing). She used all sorts of strategies learned along the way to do something for John and I and herself - to deal with noise and crowds and silly ceremony so that we could celebrate her. Her art teacher told an amazing story of Alexa's determination, as she pushed through the sensory nightmare to make it to that commencement floor.
- We had an amazing post-commencement gathering full of the people who have loved and supported Alexa along the way. And Alexa enjoyed it, socialized, and shined. I cannot think of a prouder moment than seeing her make the rounds of the over 60 people in attendance, receiving congratulations from friends, teachers and family (many of whom I met for the first time that day).
- Alexa has an amazing group of friends who appreciate her for who she is. The PPTC theatre family just rocks (and, she would say, they are her second family). When she was cast her in her first role in ninth grade, a connection was borne and a transformation was continued. She has been changed for good, to quote a favorite musical number...
- We have a great family who supported us, cheering Alexa on, providing emotional support even sometimes (often) taxi services.
- John and I survived as a couple. There is a reason that the divorce rate is higher among special needs families - it's hard to agree on the zillions of decisions necessary (particularly when you are tired and thankful just to have survived a day). I've had the best partner ever and I'm so thankful we made it through the rough patches.
- I have two fantastic kids. One is the subject of this post - she has an inner strength and determination that astounds me. The other is one of the most caring and understanding young men I've ever known - Ben. He has borne with us as we schlepped to one place or another, has laughed off my neurosis when I turned my worry to him, and has become an advocate for kids like (and including) his sister. Plus, he makes her grilled cheese sandwiches.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Best. Day. Ever.
That's what Alexa called yesterday - February 20, 2010. The day we went to see Phantom of the Opera in New York City and got a backstage tour by the female lead. (As an aside... "Best. Day. Ever." is, I think, a bit more like a category of several days that are in the running for the title, though this one really was awesome and could win it for her. I agree that it was AWESOME and I feel pretty guilty that Ben and John didn't get to experience it, but I digress.)
We left the house as if we were a normal school/work day, heading out at 6:30 am, so that we could be in plenty of time to get breakfast and catch the 7:55 bus north of Baltimore. For those of you in the area, we took the Megabus from White Marsh and it was great - just as fast (or faster) than the train and much cheaper; they also leave out of DC and they have free wifi, 110 outlets, and bathrooms (all in a double decker bus!).
Alexa was invited on this junket by Tino, a friend from her high school theater group. In a convoluted way he knew a woman named Sharon whose cousin (Jennifer Hope Wills) plays Christine, the female lead in Phantom of the Opera. As we were driving up we got to hear about Jen's upbringing in a "theater family" who lived in Ocean City Maryland and made their living doing shows on the boardwalk, at the Carousel Hotel, and at the Jolly Roger. I also learned that Sharon was a single mom with a son (her only child) who died at age 18 just 3 years ago. Sharon had never been to New York and had been looking for someone to go with her to see her cousin. It became clear that we were helping her (for companionship as well as providing the eyes of teenagers) as much as she was helping us.
The ride took about 3 hours and we arrived in New York (essentially at Penn Station) just after 11 am. Sharon had done her homework and found a great deli near Madison Square Garden, where we ate lunch and grabbed snacks for the bus on the way home. If you are ever in need, Lenny's Deli was great - awesome selection of salads and sandwiches at a very reasonable price. However, Lenny's had no public rest room (presumably because they are predominantly carry-out - there were not many tables to sit at), so we had to find one. As luck would have it, just outside Lenny's door was a massive Borders's book store, which we know always has bathrooms. Now, you may be thinking that we clearly missed the show because of the difficulty of getting Alexa out of a massive book store (plus several of her friends who are also voracious readers). Well, thankfully we had plenty of time ;-) Dropped the mandatory chunk-o-change at Borders, used the restroom, and got a great bag in the process. Score!
From Borders we headed up to Broadway, walking along Macy's from 7th avenue. We did a brief stop in Herald Square for photos (we were with Theater Geeks - did you think we'd miss Herald Square?) and headed up Broadway toward Times Square. On the way we found a cupcake store (I've heard about them on NPR but never been in one). It was so cute and of course we had to get cupcakes for the way home - should you ever be on Broadway between Herald and Times squares, check out Crumbs! And we also did a quick stop in a shoe store where Sharon scored a great pair of boots for $30. Clearly a good call to take that route!
We made it to Times Square in time for a few photos then headed down 44th street to the Majestic Theater, where Phantom has been playing for over 20 years continuously. As we walked down the street we noticed that Enron The Musical is still playing (who goes to see this stuff?) and we passed Sardi's the famous restaurant. We got into the theater in time for bathroom/drink/souvenir stops and found our seats. (We all bought separately, most of us through a great discount online site called BroadwayOffers.com - use the code SAVE17.) Alexa and I were in Left Orchestra, just under the overhang for the Mezzanine - fabulous seats, on an aisle even!!!
I have never seen Phantom before (and have only ever seen one other show actually ON Broadway). Amazing doesn't even begin to describe the show. Gorgeous costumes, fabulous music, sets beyond your imagination, plus a flying chandelier and magical illusions. Un-believable. And knowing we were about to meet Christine, whose voice was magical with a phenomenal range made it all the more amazing.
After the show we made our way to the designated "Jen meeting place" and she brought us onstage. The first surprise was the chandelier - it looks so gorgeous and real from the audience, but lots of it is made of plastic! Jen was so great the whole time about letting us ask questions and telling us tidbits. She showed us the stage floor with it's trap doors for EVERY candle (which is A LOT of trap doors) and told us that things have remained essentially the same for 20+ years (which has its issues with dust/mold and keeping folks healthy). We got to see the boat that is used to navigate the Phantom's under-world (its just an old metal thing painted black) and when we asked her how it moved she told us its remote controlled from back stage - how cool!
It was VERY DARK backstage (Jen had a flashlight) and its amazing to think that she and the Phantom have to climb up a narrow metal ladder (that's moving) to get them to the bridge that they walk on during their journey down. We also found out that they have "doubles" that help them by taking some of the trips across the bridge until they can get from under the stage to the ladder. The wings along side of the stage were not as deep as I would have thought (which means not a lot of room for storing pieces of the set) but they are HIGH. So, lots of the pieces of set are stored ABOVE the wings. Very interesting. And, for the scene "Masquerade" where there is a grand staircase, we learned that the set is really a folding riser (with some spare mannequins to make it look like there are more people) which gets folded and then hoisted up above stage, much like a backdrop. Clearly, the height of the stage (probably at least three stories up and one down below) is a big advantage.
Then we went downstairs, under the stage. Very cool. We could see the candelabras and candles that get raised up, the crewbies hanging out, and the pit area. There was a box with various show names/logos stenciled on it that we were all totally impressed with and Jen was like "Oh, I don't know what thats for, they just stuff things in it." Very nonchalant. We passed through what passes for a green room (a bunch of chairs by the exit from the backstage area) as well as the bathrooms and shower rooms and then went to the hair room. This was awesome - there were three hairdressers (who were actually cutting people's hair!) and wigs everywhere. The show needs a lot of wigs, but what I hadn't thought about was all the people needed to maintain them. And, the hairdressers cut the actors' hair, but also members of the crew's hair. Its a little family there, you can tell.
As we moved toward the costume room we passed photos of all the casts. They do a photo every time someone leaves a role. There are just tons of these shared memories hanging everywhere, and it reminded me of a college apartment (or probably more like a sorority or fraternity house, I suspect) - where there are lots of posters and books and things that are really the collective property of the inhabitants who are there at the time... but they belong to the apartment/house/theater not to any one person. Books, posters, lots of little fun things scattered everywhere.
As we were walking we learned about the employment arrangements in a Broadway show. Jen and the other principles (the Phantom, Raoul, Carlotta, etc.) are on 6 month contracts. That is, every 6 months they could be kicked out of the show or re-signed. The ensemble and the crew are on contracts for as long as the show runs. With a show like Phantom, this is an incredible deal, because its been running for 20+ years - so its very stable for them. Benefits (like health insurance, retirement, etc.) are through the union and are only available when you are actively working (in conjunction with the number of days worked per year or something). Many shows open and close within a week - can you imagine how precarious employment would be for those folks? So its really really really beneficial to be in an active contract. Jen has been with Phantom for 4 years (though 9 months of that she was on maternity leave), which she said she'd never do because she knew how coveted a role in Phantom is for its stability. There are ensemble members and crew members who have been with Phantom from the beginning and stay because of the incredible stability it provides. We met one of them in the costume room (more below).
For those who have never been in a theater production of any kind (even a high school one) - costume changes can be challenging and harrowing. So on Broadway they have "dressers" - the principals have their own dresser who helps them in addition to the ones for the whole cast. These dressers are basically responsible for getting the costumes on and off the actors and keeping them organized and in place. Between scenes the actors come off stage and just stand in their designated spots while the dressers (and hair people) go to work - taking clothes and shoes off and putting others on. Jen said she just stands there and one person works on her costume while another works on her shoes and a third takes care of her wig. Privacy and modesty go out the window.
One of the dressers who has been with the show from the beginning came into the costume room while we were there. He was a really nice guy (and very stylish - he makes sure they look good as well as himself!). When I asked him if he was glad for the stability he said "Well, things come up in life and you get through it. I'm glad I'm still in this life." Something about the way he said it made me say "I'm sure you've seen lots of friends who have not made it through," and he said "You better believe it." The interaction made me think about AIDS and how hard it hit the theater community in the late 80s (when Phantom started its run). Long running shows like Phantom have, I am certain, literally saved people's lives because they have provided stable healthcare. I don't know what the situation was for this dresser, but somehow the interaction brought the issue to mind.
Jen answered all sorts of other questions (yes, some of the costumes are very heavy; the Phantom has four layers of wig/headcovering to allow for his 'nice hair' and his 'ugly face hair'; men attach their wigs to a headband; the wigs are sort of like hair sewn into lace; she went to Salisbury State in Maryland for her bachelor's before getting a masters in music from Indiana; when she was Belle in Beauty and the Beast they used a combination of costume/mask layers and a hydraulic lift for the Beast's transformation). It was absolutely fascinating and she was so kind and sweet and open.
It was time for us to get to our bus (and for her to get to the fans at the stage door), so we headed for the stage exit. We accidentally went up the stairs and saw that there are some (very small) private rooms for the principals, but we really were there by accident and scooted back down quickly. One of our group had left a coat in the theater and so while she and Jen went on a search, the rest of us hung out by the door and talked to Wally, the stage door manager. A nice guy who lives in Queens and monitors the monitors that show the fans in the alley. It was here that I was struck by the combination of "typical workplace" stuff (timecards, "Cover your cough" posters, notices of seminars and union events, etc.) and the "particular to Broadway workplace" stuff (particularly the items focused on the dancers - seminars about dancing injuries, career seminars for when they can no longer dance). This clearly is a job and a workplace, but also a very special kind of job.
When we left, we first walked into a private alley which is shared with another theater (the Jacobs). I don't know what I thought we were walking into, but I guess I expected the street/sidewalk. Then, when we walked out of the private alley, we were in a 'real' alley where the fans immediately congregated around Jen and Paul A. Schaffer (the person who played the Phantom who had left right before us). Of course, our kids were thrilled with the opportunity to also get his autograph (both he and Jen carry a silver sharpie - a good thing because the Phantom playbill and program are both black - clearly something born of their experience).
It was as we were walking onto the street that Alexa said "Best. Day. Ever." I was so happy for her and so happy to have shared it with her. She was so delighted and thrilled throughout the day - many many looks of pure joy. I was so pleased to have been able to be a little part in making it happen (i.e., paying for it and agreeing to go). And I was so amazed to see her asking questions, engaging in conversation, etc. It will go down in my mind as a best day ever simply because 10 years ago I would never have dreamed it possible to do that kind of a trek with my adorable and inquisitive Aspie.
We left the theater at about 5:20 and had to hoof it just about 15 blocks to Penn Station (from 8th and 44th to 8th and 31st) where we caught the 6:00 bus back home. The kids were all so excited. They chatted about how awesome it was the whole time we waited in line for the bus (and part of the way home). I reflected on how John and I have often said that money can't buy you happiness through stuff, but to the extent that having money available to have these kinds of experiences, it can provide some amazing and happy memories. Its kind of like a Visa commercial - two tickets to a Broadway show - $160, bus ride there - $60, having the best day ever - priceless.
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