I wanted to post my 10,000th post in the Cafe I know and love. Here is a little excerpt from my autobiography for your perusal and edification.
What I have are my reminiscences; most of them are worn like ancient prayer beads strung on the steel wire of my memory. Old cares and worries clack and rattle on the thread as I tick them off: this memory . . . perhaps fifty years old . . . charges this other memory perhaps from last week with the residue emotions. And then that one, brown as a cacao bean, which resonates from thirty years ago, but it will sensitize any sort of feeling that feels even vaguely like what happened back then. Beads clacking. . .
I was born at the in the autumn of the first year of the last half of the twentieth century on the same day as Victoria Eugenie Mendenhall. In the post world war baby boom the maternity ward was forced into double duty and proximity dictated two children to be born in the semi private room- born seconds apart in the same hour.. moon in Aries, sun in Scorpio when the Virgo constellation was rising above the horizon of 37 N 97 W…
My family and her family were not in the same social circles and Vicki Jean became my mother’s template for what ever it was I lacked. I seemed to lack quite a bit for I heard of this paragon of the girlish virtues from my cradle. Goodness knows how she gathered the information of Vicki Jean’s progress, but mom thought it should be envied and even surpassed by none other than myself and was somewhat disappointed I had not risen to the challenge.
If I hadn't the characteristic 'round nose Rosie' of the Lundbergs and was the image of mother, I am certain Mom would have questioned the hospital about the children being switched. She was always of the opinion there must have been a mistake in the nursery , or a fairy spirited away her sweet baby and left an ugly charmless Changeling in its stead.
Vicki Jean and I met much later in high school where she was an accomplished pianist, the debate club president with high marks and wore her hair in a lovely bob. I was disheveled and needed a shower, shampoo and a good deodorant. As a favor to my mother, and only because of the accident of our birth, she played Chopin and though I recognized the Polonaise, when I had been given piano lessons the bigness of the music was too much for my immature emotions to handle and at the grandness of the moment I was helpless to do anything but grin uncontrollably, bridling and giggling and bobbing my head.
I was not like Vicky Jean at all. Few things got though to me, to my consciousness, but even that got through to me.
Grinning uncontrollably and bobbing my head was something I must have done a lot. Of course, that is not how I saw it at the time. At the time I was emotionally moved at her masterful handling of the instrument, I was hoping to show my familiarity with the music by vocalizing along with it, as to somehow join into the moment. Looking back with the eyes of being aware I am autistic I see how my appearance, my aroma, my vocalizations and my bobbing and grinning must have painted a truly different and disturbing picture than what I was hoping to project for both Vicki Jean and her mother. I must say I have noticed when people treated me with exaggerated kindness and phrases like “Well, we are really glad you came to see us, Robin, we won't keep you from the rest of your day” it was time to gather your things and walk out the door. After a while it became common place in social situations.
I have found my memories have several layers of understanding. Once for how I perceived life at the time of it happening, then again when my alcoholism had been effectively dealt with; and then again when I finally perceived my being Asperger’s Syndrome and looked back to write my memoirs from the perspective of being an autist.
Merle
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Alis volat propriis
State Motto of Oregon