Buster, the First

I’ve often thought that it would be of great entertainment for people to have a camera follow J and me around when we go out in the world to do errands. His particular brand of wackiness is so dear and charming and it is also really funny, sometimes. As with many people who have autism, the concerns and the limitations that we neurotypicals have due to societal pressure just don’t apply or make sense to him. Let me tell you, that is really refreshing, sometimes.

Have I told y’all that he wants to be a kazoo player for his living? He is very good on the kazoo. Indeed, on the way home from church the other day he tried to do Flight of the Bumblebees with his kazoo. It was a really decent attempt at the tune, too. But mostly, he plays Zydeco music on it right now. Oh, yes, he also plays along to songs in the car.

The other day, we finished our academics early (or as he says, THOSE BLASTED A-KEY-DEMICS!!!) so we went to the library to pick up a few things.

Now, our library is wonderful. It is small, though, and very quiet, even for a library. In fact they have a librarian there who so embodies the characteristics of the stereotypical librarian that it seems that she must have been working in the library for half a century, at least. From her tan orthopedic shoes to the “Shhh” that seems to be hardwired into her DNA — everything about her says order and decorum and silence.

So, you know, it was a good thing she wasn’t there that day.

We were at the end of our library visit and I approached the desk to check out books and DVDs while J flopped down on a nearby wooden bench to wait for me.

All of a sudden, I heard some beautiful kazoo music in the background. I turned around to ask J to hold off playing until we were out of the library when he broke off and said, “Mom, I’m playing Nearer My God to Thee from the movie Titanic.” He played a few more measures and then added, “I’m playing the song in memory of Mary Burtram. She died and someone bought this bench for the library so that she would be remembered.” And he gestured to the brass plate affixed to the back of the bench as he wrapped up playing the first stanza of Nearer My God to Thee.

How does he do it? He does wacky-sweet-hilarious-thoughtful like nobody else.

Later that day, we went to Wal-Mart for a few items. We had just entered the store and had (narrowly) missed the employee with lots of gold teeth. J is just in love with interesting teeth, y’all. Thankfully, J didn’t see his friend, the guy with the gold, so we kept on going and I thought that we were in the clear.

Why, oh why do I ever think that I’m in the clear? Maybe I’ll learn someday.

We were making our turn into the chip and coke aisle when J spotted a family who was passing by us. Now, I don’t know precisely the nationality or religion of these folks, all I know is that the lady of the family was completely covered, head to toe. All we could see of her was her eyes. They were barely past us when J whispered loudly (he might as well have shouted it), “Mom, that lady is shrouded in mystery!”

Which was totally right, of course. Anything that shrouded is going to be a little mysterious. We kept walking and looked to see what kind of drinks to buy. I thought J would be diverted by the soda. Wrong, again. I suddenly found out exactly what he was thinking as he shouted, with conviction and while stabbing his index finger in the air to emphasize each word, “Mom, we’ve got to find out more about that lady’s husband and FIGURE OUT WHO HE’s WORKING FOR!!!”

It’s interesting that J thought there was something wrong with the whole arrangement.

The last little J tidbit I want to share today happened on our recent spring break trip. As we were first pulling up to the hotel, my mom, sister and nephew walked over to greet us. J hopped out of the car and, approaching my pregnant sister without bothering to say hello first, exclaimed to her, “You must PUSH Aunt Deana! PUSH!!!” Aunt Deana knows enough about J to appreciate the humor of the whole situation.

Also, for some reason, J is very concerned about the name for his soon-to-be male cousin. So, I told him the name that Aunt Deana was considering. Do you know how he’s been waking up our household ever since? By bellowing, at the top of his lungs, “Henry Shaw is the DUMBEST name EVER!” Guess what he wants her to name the baby instead?

Saint Nicolas.

What a buster.