The old woman with the old house on University. (Part one.)

In 1982, Ohio was part of "The Rust Belt." The economy was terrible. Jobs were scarce. People were flocking south in search of a better life. This was the year I graduated from The Ohio State University and started looking for a job, and the result of my job search was pretty much what you might expect.

There were no results.

Looking back on it, I didn't know what I was in for and I clearly didn't know what I was doing. A job search requires focus and a full-time commitment. I was about as unfocused as one can be and still have a pulse, and I'm not confident now that I ever gave it my all. Perhaps that's because I was looking for a job as a reporter, and even though my brand-new journalism degree still had its fresh lemony scent, I was dreading the idea of working for a newspaper. I didn't want to write about local sports, which is probably what I was going to have to do, and I didn't want to write about people's misfortunes, which is something that I would definitely have to do. So why did I get a job as a journalist?

Two reasons:

1. Because I was really good at writing, and not particularly good at mathematics, science or business.
2. To avoid having to endure a forlorn life as a hopeless and bullied store manager at Radio Shack.

I worked at a Radio Shack store for a number of years before I woke up and went back to college. What finally woke me up was the fact that I was headed down a road that I didn't want to be on. I knew all of these really nice people who managed Radio Shack stores, and each one of them suffered daily under the pressures and bullying of their District Managers (who probably were suffering under their Regional Managers, etc.). They truly lived lives of quiet desperation.

When I realized that my life was becoming quietly desperate, I tried to join the Navy. I was moments away from taking the oath when the doctor who had just given us physicals pulled me aside and said, "I'm sorry, son. Because of your asthma, I can't let you in." 

So I went back to school, met Jane in the summer of 1980, graduated two years later and got engaged on the same day, and started sending out resumes into a big and indifferent world. 

I got one interview. A newspaper in Willard, Ohio was looking for a reporter and called me in for an interview. I'm sure Willard is a wonderful place for those who live there, but to me it was dark, dirty, desolate and depressing. I remember it in shades of gray, with lots of boarded up old buildings and railroad cars parked near the downtown area. I didn't impress the editor of the paper, and I didn't get the job.

Shirley, my future mother-in-law, was getting impatient with me in her sweet, "I just want to help, dear, so do what I tell you" way. I still worked at Radio Shack part time, and one day she suggested that I apply at Radio Shack advertising. To be honest, the thought had never occurred to me. Copywriter? Write advertisements? I guess I could maybe do that. 

So I applied, and much to my surprise, they flew me to Fort Worth, interviewed me and hired me. Just like that. It happened so fast, my head was spinning. Jane and I were due to get married in March of 1983, which was still months away. We said our goodbyes, promised to write and to call a lot, and with a big hug and a kiss, not to mention a lump in my throat, tears in my eyes and a lot of uncertainty, I drove off to Texas.

Jane and I had CB radios, and as I was driving away I talked to her until the signal gave out. When I could tell the connection wouldn't last much longer, I told her "I love you!" CB radios weren't exactly the most private form of personal communication, because some bloated middle-aged woman wearing a tutu and with a face smeared with grease from eating fried chicken broke in at that point and said, "I love you, TOO, hon-ey!" and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. I shut off the CB at that point and never turned it back on the entire trip.

When I finally drove into the Fort Worth area, I was on westbound I-30 and somehow got turned around and ended up on the north side driving south down I-35 toward Fort Worth. Don't ask me how I managed to do that. I still don't know. It was late, and I was tired and I saw a Motel 6. I paid the guy behind the bulletproof glass, unloaded everything that I had in my car into the room so it wouldn't get stolen, and called Jane from a pay phone.

"Jane, I'm in the stockyards!" I practically wailed.

I went to bed that night thinking that cows were getting slaughtered nearby. I was certain that I could hear them mooing as they were being lead to their deaths. I had no idea that it was really a touristy area with bars, restaurants and Billy Bob's. 

The next morning, I bought a Fort Worth Star-Telegram and started looking for a place to live. I couldn't afford an apartment, so I looked through "Rooms for Rent." I called the very first one I saw. The lady who answered said, "Yes, the room is still available. If you're interested in it, I only have two requirements. You have to have a job, and you have to be white."

Under normal circumstances, I would have moved on at that point and looked elsewhere. But these were not normal circumstances. I was away from home for the first time in my life, I was away from Jane, I had no friends and no family, I was in a strange city and about to start my first "real" job, and there were lines and lines of cows being slaughtered nearby. I was frightened, and in my fear I decided that I couldn't let my own personal values get in the way of my immediate need of finding a place to live.

"I fit both requirements," I replied.

Taking care of Dan

My brother-in-law, Dan, is mentally retarded. Even though he is now 54 years old, Dan will never grow up. Something apparently went wrong when he was born, and he suffered irreversible brain damage. Although he is "high functioning," he will always have a mind that's similar to that of a child, yet lacking a certain emotional perceptiveness that even children possess. When you look at a photo of him from his childhood and compare his expression to how he looks now, despite the passage of 54 years, the look is still the same. Detached. Distant. Blank.

Dan has been living with us since Saturday, October 26, 2002, which was nine years, four months, and 14 days ago as of the time of this writing. The reason I know that date to such perfection is because Dan just told me. He knows dates, and he is always correct.

We always knew that he would eventually become our responsibility, but when my mother-in-law died and it actually happened, it was a huge adjustment for my family. And even though almost 10 years have passed, it can still be a struggle. He tries so hard, and thrives on praise, just like a child. But he can also do things and repeat doing things, despite his and our best efforts, that are extremely frustrating to deal with. The last 10 years have been one long lesson in patience and understanding.

I first met Dan when I started dating his sister, Jane. We went to her house one day and she introduced me to her family. I had no idea that her brother was retarded until he shook my hand. It was the oddest handshake of my life. He took my hand and squeezed the meaty portion of my hand between my thumb and forefinger. I could tell immediately that something was "off" with him.

As I dated Jane, I learned more about Dan. He loves records. It doesn't matter who the artist is, if it's on a record, he will love it just the same. It could be Buddy Guy or Guy Lombardo, Dan can't get enough. He will sit in his room and listen to records for hours on end.

The only type of humor Dan understands is pratfall humor. Basically, if it involves a big stack of dishes crashing and smashing to the floor, or someone slipping and falling, he "gets" it and just laughs until there are tears in his eyes. However, Dan does not understand irony, or sarcasm, or any form of subtle humor. They just don't register with him. Unfortunately for me, I am full of subtle humor (as well as many other things), and sometimes trying to communicate with him via humor is a losing proposition. He doesn't laugh. He just gets puzzled. Sometimes he gets upset, and I have to explain to him that I'm not serious and only joking with him. For example, the last thing that Dan would ever do is to drink beer. Wouldn't happen. Sometimes I'll find Dan digging around in the garage refrigerator, and I'll say to him, "Dan, are you getting into my beer?" And he'll say, "Noooo! I wouldn't get into your beer, Steve. I would get in big trouble!"

Dan pretty much lives in his own world, with a routine that he follows with an almost machine-like perfection and regularity. When he lived with his parents, one of his chores used to be to put the cat in the basement at the end of the day.

One evening when I was dating Jane, we were in the downstairs living room of her house, "necking." It was pretty late, her parents had gone to bed much earlier, and we had lost track of time. Suddenly, Dan was standing over us, holding out a cat just inches from our faces.

"Would you like to pet Barron?" he asked.

Jane and I just looked at each other.

"No, Dan." Jane said. "Just put Barron in the basement and go to bed."

"Yes, Jane." he replied.

I went home soon after that.

I don't think my mother-in-law, Shirley, ever fully accepted the fact that her only son was retarded. She always rejected any idea that he might be slightly autistic. Yet, just to look at him, you'll see that he often stares into space and is obviously not fully connected to what's going on around him. (Although it's surprising sometimes what he does understand.) During one of our last visits together, my mother-in-law and I were talking, when Dan came into the room, asked her a question, and then left.

She looked at him as he was leaving and said to me, "Oh, I think he's getting better, don't you?"

In retrospect I should have been more sensitive, but instead I replied, "In what way?"

That pretty much ended our conversation.

When Shirley died, after the funeral, Jane had to stay in Ohio for a couple of months to deal with the aftermath. Her father had passed away years before, so now it was just her and Dan in the house. She sold the house, auctioned off most of its contents, and had to get rid of most of Dan's huge record collection because there just was not enough room in our little house for all of them and him, too. (Really, there wasn't even enough room for him.)

After her mother's estate was settled, Jane and Dan flew home. Our house was less than 1,000 square feet, and we had no extra bedroom. Our daughter, Stacy, let us put Dan in her room while we began the search for another house. She slept on the sofa until we moved.

Eventually we found another house in McKinney, far closer to where I worked at the time, and with room for all five of us. I had wanted to move closer to work for years, but we probably never would have actually done it if Dan hadn't come into the picture.

We suffered from a certain amount of resentment when we first started having to take care of Dan. I would like to say that we were all completely understanding and welcomed him with smiles and open arms, but that would not be true. It had always been the four of us, and we were happy that way. Now our little family unit was being invaded by someone else. Someone who would require constant guidance and supervision, like a child who would never grow up. It was really stressful, and our lives and routines were being disrupted by circumstances we did not have much control over.

We talked about putting Dan in a group home, but after researching it, we realized it was not an option. The waiting list for group homes in Texas is absurdly long, and the quality of care is questionable and sometimes frighteningly poor. We couldn't subject him to that.

One time, Jane took Dan to be evaluated for assistance by the State of Texas. The woman Jane spoke to had the gall to suggest that Dan was not retarded at all, and just a little "slow." My wife is usually incredibly patient with people, but at this she just blew up.

"My brother IS RETARDED! He has always BEEN RETARDED! What are you TALKING about??!!"

Jane said that the woman sheepishly backed off and agreed that Dan was retarded. Apparently the state can deny help for people based upon how they're evaluated, and this woman was probably under pressure to keep costs under control or something.

So, the whole group home idea was off. We just had a bad feeling about it.

There were times, especially early on, when dealing with Dan could be rough. He would scream like a child at the top of his lungs if we got on him about something that he did, which totally freaked out my kids. I had to warn him a couple of times in no uncertain terms that he was NOT to scare my children. Fortunately, he hasn't screamed in years.

His personal hygiene is not always the best. It's something he's just oblivious about, and we have to constantly get him to wash, shave, brush his hair and the like. One time, we sent him upstairs to do a better job shaving, and he came back downstairs all happy and asked "How do I look?" He has perception problems and doesn't see the world like a "normal" person does. There were big patches of  stubble all over his face. In frustration, I finally did something I swore I never would do. I shaved him myself.

He's got some strange abilities for someone who is limited in other ways, including knowing the day of the week for any date you throw at him. I just had to replace a fluorescent bulb in one of our kitchen lights, and it seemed as if I had just replaced them. Dan told me that I replaced them on Sunday, August 22, 2010. (The company said the bulbs would last seven years. Yeah, right.) If it's your birthday, he knows the exact day of the week you were born. If you need a phone number, Dan knows what it is.

And now, almost 10 years later, Dan is still with us. We've come to accept and finally appreciate his presence. In the "shut up and count your blessings" department, if this had to happen, there are many things about him that we're darn lucky about. Despite his challenges, Dan is a good person. He is sweet. He is caring. He loves to do chores like filling and running the dishwasher, the clothes washer and the dryer, reads appliance repair books for fun, and probably knows more about their internal mechanisms than a trained repairman.

All Dan wants is to be told that he's done a good job. When you do that, he looks like he's about ready to explode with happiness.

Taking care of Dan is not something we would have chosen to do, but we've done it anyway and will continue to do so. He's part of our family. We love him.

I need to get out more

One of my new bosses was talking with me about food and wine the other day. Although he and his wife like to eat out a lot, he often cooks at home and said he once took about three hours just to prepare the salad for a meal. He mentioned the name of what he was preparing for the main course, and it sounded incredibly cultured and sophisticated to me. So much so that I had no idea what he was talking about. I nodded my head and pretended to understand, as I so often do. I hope it doesn't get out that I do that. I wouldn't want my wife to know. Or my boss.

I wish I knew more about cheese. Yes, cheese. I would like to take a course just on cheese alone. Is such a thing out there in the world? I hate to be unpatriotic, but I don't care for American cheese all that much. I like cheddar. I like Swiss. I may even like the various cheeses I see stacked at the counter at the grocery store, but how can I know for sure? Some of them are really expensive, and I would hate to buy some and take it home only to find out that it's horrible. Buying some of them would entail risk. That frightens me. If I could take an Introduction to Cheese 101 course, I could perhaps get over my fear. Maybe I should check with SMU.

Maybe I should check with a psychiatrist.

I wish I knew more about wine. I would love to take a course about it. Not that I'm a big wine drinker, but honestly, I am so pathetic that my favorite wine in the entire world is Reunite. I love it. It tastes great to me, and if all of the other wines in the world other than Reunite were to suddenly die on the vine, I would be totally OK with that. I have tried various other wines, and I can't stand them. Other people love them. So what's wrong with me? Some wines taste so bad to me, I want to spit them out. My whole body shivers with revulsion. It is because I lack the culture and sophistication that practiced wine drinkers enjoy, or is it possible that they hate it just as much as I do, and only pretend to enjoy it?

It's probably me.

I wish I knew more about beer. When it comes to beer, I pretty much stick with Miller Lite. What does that say about me? I hate to ask. I've tried others, and a lot of them have this strange aftertaste that sticks with you long after the fact. To my uneducated pallet, Miller Lite is great. But I can't help but ask myself, what else am I missing? A guy I used to know would make his own beer. He would slave over it, brew it until it was perfect for his pallet, and then share its golden deliciousness with his friends. He gave me some once. He was really proud of this particular batch and asked me to take some home, try it out, and let him know how I liked it. I took it home, took one sip, and ran as fast as I could to the sink. How can I describe how horrible it was? It was as close to drinking liquid weed killer as I ever hope to get. When I saw him the next day, he asked me what I thought. I told him it was the best beer I ever had.

And finally, I wish I knew more about food. My wife has tried her best over the years to educate me. When we were dating, we went to eat at her Grandmother's apartment. She was an amazing, brilliant lady who lived into her 90s. I was so lucky to know her. She made dinner for us one night, and it was just fantastic. And then came dessert. It was bread pudding. I had never had bread pudding before. She served it to me, and I looked down and saw this lump of stuff that looked for all the world like cat vomit. While she went to the kitchen to fetch something, I whispered to Jane, "I didn't think I can eat this." Now my wife is about the sweetest, most even-tempered woman in the world. I can count on one hand the number of times she has snapped at me over the years. This was the first time. "Eat it!" she hissed, in a tone that meant business. So I took a big bite and immediately washed it down with some water. I gagged, and then did it again until the stuff was gone. Her grandmother came out of the kitchen and saw that I had eaten all of the bread pudding. "Oh! You've already finished your bread pudding! Would you like some more?" she asked sweetly. I politely thanked her, but said I was full. She gave me some to take home. My parents really liked it.

My wife is a really great cook and I appreciate everything she makes us for dinner. She works so hard and cooks up some amazing dishes for us. But if dinner is not sourced from a bag or a box, it's often outside of my fast food frame of reference. I want to appreciate good cuisine more, but where do I start?

Tonight, I had an idea and acted on it.

Instead of going to Taco Bell like we usually do, we went to Taco Bueno.

The grieving process

You know, it's odd. I'm blessed to have another job. I'm really REALLY happy about it and so relieved to be working again. The people I work with a so incredibly nice, and my new supervisors couldn't be nicer. I really like both of them a lot, and it feels as if I've known them for a lot longer than I actually have. I look forward to going to work each day and learning new things. But, still, every now and then, I feel a pang of sadness go through me. I'm still apparently grieving for my old job, and I just don't understand it.

Sometimes it happens when I'm driving home. I have to take the North Dallas Tollway part of the way home, and I just go with the flow. Or lack of it. Sometimes it happens when I'm watching TV with my family. It's unpredictable, and doesn't last long. I don't dwell on it, but you'd think that by now the grieving process for my old job would be a thing of the past. Apparently, not so.

I was there for quite a while, and I guess it just became part of my identity. Although I am a son, a brother, a husband and a father, my job was also part of how I defined myself. When I lost that job, I lost part of my self-definition of who I am. And even though it's only part of who I am, losing it was so much a part of my prior self image that not having it became at times simply gut-wrenching. For me, it was like a hole that couldn't be filled located somewhere below my sternum. I can't explain it any better than that.

In some ways, it reminds me of the grieving process I went through when my father died. I would be fine for a long time, and then his loss would hit me upside the head. It came and went, came and went, but never, even now, has gone away.

Still, the grieving process I've gone through after losing my old job is definitely getting better. Even though I still feel deep sadness about it even now, I expect that as the weeks and months roll by I will notice it less and less until it's gone. Totally gone.

That's what I hope for. It's time to move on.