Serendipitous Girl

My daughter and I are all too familiar with rude looks, glaring stares, and insensitive comments. The cause? A handicap placard, Jayde-Rhiannon in her wheelchair, boarding first on an airplane or skipping the line at amusement parks. My favorite retort to the insensitive comments is, "And you don't look like an asshole, but that just goes to prove you can't judge a book by its cover." My retort tends to stun and silence the ignorance long enough for us to escape. Yesterday, I was excited to meet four childhood friends for lunch. We started meeting up a few months ago. One of the women I've known for more than forty-five years. We are all on our way to becoming empty nesters. Although I am functioning on minimal sleep, I don't care. I am dressed and comfortable in my own skin. Or I was, until I heard a shrieking scream from Jayde, only to discover a fiasco with one of our cats. Fifteen minutes later, the crisis is handled, but now I need to quickly change. Inst...

Though they are seventeen years apart, from the time he was an infant, my daughter Jayde-Rhiannon and my nephew Stephen shared an undeniable connection. As Stephen aged, the pieces of the puzzle began to slide together. It has been over twenty-five years since my son Brady was in Kindergarten, and I began volunteering in our school district. In that time, the world of Autism has come so far. There was this little girl I regularly worked with. Not long into the school year, I remember asking her aid what she was diagnosed with. She brusquely responded, "We don't know. She is a tough nut to crack." The aid's response saddened and angered me. I quickly informed her that the idea of any child being described this way was unacceptable.  When Jayde began Kindergarten, there were a few autistic children in her class. Two of the autistic classmates were sweet and responsive, while one was primarily nonverbal, headstrong, and occasionally combative. I quickly understood I coul...

Over the last eighteen months, I came to truly know a man I could only dream of having in my life—my Dad. Finally, he wasn't just the Dad I wanted, but the Dad I needed. He had come and gone too many times. Now, it didn't matter why he had returned to our lives. It just mattered that he did. Through our countless hours of conversation, I finally understood why he was the man he was, which made coming to terms with our sometimes volatile relationship much easier. Yesterday, my Mom said, "Take time to process and feel what you need to feel." I told her, "I need a month or two alone in a tiny, secluded beach town where I can just listen to music and write." I've been through enough death and grief to understand the process is anything but linear. This past week, going through my Dad's things has been a rollercoaster of emotions. He saved everything. At first, it was almost annoying, but I couldn't find it in me to be annoyed—only sad.  I know that h...

The day after finding out my Dad had passed, my best friend checked in on me, "How are you holding up?" My answer was simple, "I'm not." I told him, "I am blocked. I can't write." A few minutes later, I scrolled through my music library and found my muse—the words and music of David Gilmour and Rodger Waters. As the music of Shine on You Crazy Diamond began, the tears and words magically flowed like a fountain. Today, we celebrate and remember the man, the myth, the legend—my Dad, Bill Garrett. My Dad was an enigma. Quirky even. He marched to the beat of his own drum, living life on his own terms—even until the very end. I've met many stubborn individuals in my life, but I can unequivocally say he was the most headstrong, stubborn person I ever knew. It was a blessing and a curse all in one. We often laughed about nature vs nurture and our shared traits. He was proud to claim he generously shared that headstrong trait with me and his grandchild...

Today, I received a phone call that no amount of time could prepare me for. We often laughed about nature vs. nurture. He gave me a passion for music and concerts. "If you aren't in the first few rows, you might as well stay at home and listen to the radio." Dad, you gave me my stubbornness and your smile. I will miss our three-hour minimum phone calls, being able to talk about everything and nothing at all, your pearls of wisdom, your stories, and your sense of humor. Your laugh was the best. I love you, Dad. #ForeverYoung #MyDad