I Used to Love Going to the Zoo

 When I was a child, I don't remember my parents taking me to the zoo. Mom was too busy pushing out babies and dad was engaged in work or looking for work. There wasn't the time nor the money for a ticket. I do recall being an early teenager and my aunt, who wasn't much older than me, would stop by our house, pile in some kids and we would head to John Ball Park Zoo in our hometown of Grand Rapids.

That place was simply amazing! It was another world full of the bizarre and outlandish. Around each bend, within each building something new and foreign and unexpected and real lurked and breathed. The animals were exotic and exciting to see. 

The first stop past the ticket booth was a large pond filled with waterfowl, ducks, geese and usually flamingos. I had to read the signage to learn the names of all these critters that I had never seen before, except for the flamingos, of course. Not only birds and animals from foreign lands but local fauna that I had only heard about like turkeys, swans and assorted geese.

The Zoo brought the external world that I had only read about and watched on television, into my reality. It broke through my Autistic tightly closed walls of miniscule awareness. It made the outside world real. Flamingos really did exist. Camels, monkeys, ostrich and elephant were all three dimensional, living breathing beings not just pictures on a screen. There indeed existed warthogs and zebras, lions and tigers and bears. Foreign countries like Australia, Nairobi, Kenya and Africa were indeed, actual places not just shapes on the map. I could have spent entire days doing nothing but sitting and observing, except that my aunt had limited time and there were so very many people clustered about. I could have done without the people.

When I became of driver age and had my own car, I would grab my available younger siblings and we did indeed spend many days and hours at the Zoo. I learned that rainy days and week days were the times that were less crowded. As in most things, less crowd equals more enjoyment for this Aspie. I loved the freedom of being able to go places and stay for as long as I wanted like that. The zoo enriched and enlarged my miniscule perspective and grasp of things in my external environment. 

Throughout my adult, being a mother years, I was grateful that my partner and I were able to visit many fascinating zoos scattered around the US from the kangaroo zoo in Kentucky to the huge Cincinnati zoo with polar bears, to the smaller, name forgotten place that had Howler Monkeys that completed enthralled me with their distinct yowlings. I loved them so much, as did my Eldest son, that we both became quite adapt at imitating their raucous howls. The in-person educational value and the pure enjoyment I received is immeasurable. Zoos provided a refuge and a sanctuary, a top-rated schooling and tons of enjoyment. 

As I became an adult, well, actually a later aged adult, zoos were more scattered as I lived in places that required a travel of an hour or more. My want and willingness to drive in big cities caused considerable stress. I haven't been able to drop by to see the animals much. My perspective or maybe it's my empathy and viewpoint changed as well. The last time I stopped at the Portland Zoo, I noticed animals that were nervous, stressed out and very unhappy. The  mountain goat that just stood there looking afraid. The elephants that appeared to be trapped in an environment too small that they could not escape from. I had to stop looking at the animal's faces because I was seeing pain more often than naught. I felt conflicted inside. Whilst I enjoyed my experience of marveling at these magnificents, at the same time my feelings of their grief and sadness loomed large. It was no longer fun for me because they were suffering, and I could readily see it.

My heart turned sad. The happy events of my youth began to fade. I don't know if I can ever feel positive emotions if I were to visit a zoo again.

They do have an aquarium an hour away that I have been to many times. It is different there. The fish and eels, sharks and rays that swim about in the monstrous, walk-through aquarium do not seem distressed in the least. Sure, I have witnessed the occasional sea creature who looked sluggish or appeared to be ailing, but they were rare, few and far between. I am not alarmed or saddened to peer into the tanks there. Maybe the fish adapt easier to their manmade constructs and require less intervention than their on-land counterparts.

Outside of the aquarium, on the grounds there are a number of habitats for otters and seals, waterfowl and mighty winged ones. In those places I am more likely to sense distress. It's as if the habitats all fail to provide the breadth and depth and width that these animals require. I do appreciate the rehabilitative facilities and it's wonderful to see a critter on the mend and being cared for. That is much more common than I previously noted. The pelican with the broken beak is a permanent fixture as is the eagle with the damaged wing. I do see the positives as some facilities have become more of a marriage of exotic animals and rehabilitation specialists. There seems to be more humanity, more awareness and consideration given to the care, housing and feeding of enclosed creatures. That part is heartwarming to see, much needed and appreciated.

Sometimes I miss the ignorance of youth when a pretty zebra was just a pretty zebra and not a sad, constricted, stress-laden foible of man put on for show. 

The lions were more majestic when I didn't see the thick glass, notice their neurotic pacing, or realize that being enclosed within a plaster clay arena devoid of any green or trees or running water or room to roam was detrimental and damaging to their sense of wellbeing.

Yeah, it was easier to see them when I didn't think to care or to look or to see. But know this, I will be forever grateful for the respite and the knowledge and the gentle way that these animals showed me that there was indeed a world outside of my self, and it was broad and diverse and magical in it's variety.

I love zoos. I Loved Zoos. 

A Mournful Waking Sleep

When your circumstances are such that events of the present and past cause irrefutable constant pain and it is daytime and there is nothing to do to change your situation. I call it, a mournful waking sleep. There is nothing I can do. Not really here. Not really there.

When one exists in a state of nonactivity.

The Consummate Hermit

 

My life is severely changing and challenging in new ways. I'm not sure what my life will look like next week. I'm not who I was or thought I was. Once a mother, now grown children considerable distance away.

I make a single friend once in awhile. I realize that the possibility of ever having a significant other grows more remote with each passing day. My family of origin is irrefutably gone. My depth of loneliness is sometimes the oily sheen upon the ocean whilst other days I am plunged within its depths so far not the tiniest trace of daylight can be found.

My ability to communicate effectively seems to be an idle thought with no engine. In-person people rarely understand me yet I think I am making my self clear.

I believe the only routes left are Crazy Little Dog Lady, Eccentric Artist and Consummate Hermit. Those three are me. They are appropriate titles that I fully understand.

My goal is to pare down my lifestyle, go out and interact as little as possible, reduce any lingering need for human contact and connectedness, and stop trying to make sense to anyone other than myself. Maybe the days of banging my head against a wall are over.

I need to stop searching for the impossible, someone who understands me and connects while accepting that this is all that I am, a single person with little value who bests functions in obscurity.

Life 

The Collective Unconscious Stream

Every now and then, I tap into the Universal Vibe, usually when I first wake up and before my daily personal thoughts and objectives wake up.

I first noticed it around the holidays when I would awake and sense specific holiday songs in the air. Or around easter when the old catholic hymns of my youth would be found on the tip of my tongue. Those two occurrences even though I despise all holidays and especially those two family orientated ones.

Then there are the times I feel the dome of natural disasters that have taken place faraway from me. When the violent winds that caused high tornadic death and destruction blew into my area, the winds felt violent and carried fear and sorrow.

Violent tornados, tsunamis, earthquakes, large events that caused extensive, massive destruction on a personal level, often I feel them.

This past weekend, I awoke...and had the sudden abrupt thoughts that mudslides, landslides would be a terrifying way to die. I had this newfound and unwarranted sensation of what it must feel like to struggle drowning in mud. The sense was overwhelming and hit me throughout the remainder of the day.

I am weird as a rule, and I think unusual things that others don't, so I thought noting of these feelings in my mind.

Monday I turned on the news. I don't watch the news with regularity because it can overwhelm me so easily. I do turn it on for the evening news a few times a week to keep current with events.

Monday, they talked of a massive mudslide in Papau New Guinea.  Immediately I knew. A mass casualty event from a natural disaster half a world away. I knew. I had gotten "in touch", perceived the great cries of terror experienced by others I did not know.

The Collective Unconscious is a constant stream that carries the strongest or most prevailing vibrations throughout, the world. It seems like a general pulse or heartbeat, a headline all can read if they look in the right place.

I feel subtle energy easier than most. I guess you could readily say I am a highly sensitive. 

This reminds me of an event last month. I read about a hit and run fatality on a road that I frequent. The culprit, the driver was apprehended after a few days. The victim was not found for at least a couple of days.

I did not know exactly where the victim was found or where the egregious event actual happened but I had a general idea.

I hadn't driven that road in a number of days. Then I needed to get to the next town and drive on that road. As I navigated a turn, I felt like I hit a wall of scream. It felt like an invisible wall of pain that stretched from the concrete up about 20 feet. It felt big, big energy with bug force. There was a sudden surge of strong emotion. It was anger, like someone shouting "why didn't you stop! Why did you leave me there!" The woman, the crash victim, is who I was perceiving and she was so very angry. In a way, from my take, she was most upset that the driver did not stop than by actually being struck. Anger! 

And I kinda saw through the victim's eyes. The woman was struck and then, I'm guessing her spirit then stood on the shoulder of the road where she saw the black car continue driving for a bit. It must have been at least a block down the street before the black car pulled over, it was night and I see her brake lights, she pulled over after quite a delay. I don't know if the driver was intoxicated, distracted or in some altered state but it's as if the driver did not acknowledge or was not concerned or aware she fatally injured someone. When she did finally pull over, she got out of her vehicle to check for damage. It was nighttime. She saw her front end damaged and got back in her car and left. She never looked back. The victim "saw" her pull over and that the driver did not retrace her tracks to see what she had hit. This is where the victim stood screaming after watching her leave. At the exact spot she was injured. She stood.

It almost feels like the victim screamed angry at the driver and maybe to try and tell people she was lying there in the tall grass and wanted to be found.

I felt that anger that had been built over days. I can't help but wonder that if I had driven by the area, would I have been able to sense her angry presence. Would it have been a sensation strong enough to make me pull over and go search? I will never know.

On my return trip home, past the accident spot, I bid my sorrow and regret to the angry one. I told her the driver was caught. The driver has been caught and that I am glad the authorities had finally found her.

There had been no missing persons report filed anywhere. The victim was not missing or being looked for. Like me, if I would disappear for days, it would go unnoticed in the world. Maybe I just related heartily, heart and soul, to her plight. Maybe that's why I so readily felt her great pain.

I'm weird. I sense things others don't. And things that cannot be measured or verified or may sound illogical are difficult for me to share. But maybe I should learn to share.

Why bother talking

Or writing or trying to communicate...

Maybe it was because I spent a few hours with another Aspie, listened to her talk and wondered if I sounded the same: like a small child in a huge body, or ridiculous and using familiar words in strange ways.

I am in agony and have sent many messages to the counselor but it was only after many that I was able to convey my great pain and need for assistance. 

I can't even scream for help in a dialect others understand, even those trained to recognize and aid 

I fear writing will make me sound ridiculous. I fear talking will make me sound ridiculous to a much greater extent.

I think people can hear me. They just can't decipher what it is I require and need and am pleading for.

The fear of speaking grows great which is greatly interfering with my attempts to get aid.

I am lost and awash in anguish and grief. And I'm not holding out my hand properly or using the right words.

One of those days wherein the self critical, self awareness is so high I hate being Aspie.

My words are not being understood. Is it my bad or others. Doesn't matter. It's just bad.

I like staying home

Lack of Eye Contact

I noticed it again today. On a rare occasion when i am out about in the external landscape and I engage in a conversation lasting more than a few seconds. The look of confusion on another's face, hurts me. Makes me realuze I am inadequate and operating on a different frequency. 

The Mother Ship, my Aspie hopes and dreams, in exhaustion's breath and bed

A Girl and Her Blog

I'm old and I still call myself a girl. Some boys just need a dog. I knew girls that just wanted a man. I know people who want nothing more than a successful career or a loving relationship. Me, I'm good with having a place to write all the things I don't say because there's no one to say it to or I fear judgement or I'm just too shy to say aloud or admit to thinking.

Yes, my mind is a wild, beautiful junkyards with various piles of used and unused, discarded and missing, words, musings and thoughts.

Like, sometimes I imagine the blinking light of the smoke detector is the mother ship finally arriving to take me home having taken forever to realize I've been dropped on the wrong planet.

A little Turkey Vulture humor

I guess this specific photo is the one that spoke to me most. Yes, i know i am weird.

I try humor. I usually fail.

Woodland Walks, Hiking and Trail Exploring

This post will be challenging to write for two reasons; one, it shows the degree of extreme isolation and "in my own wordism", two, I have to figure out how to put into words something I have never talked about, something obscure. Bear with me.

I grew up in the city. Grand Rapids, Michigan is a pretty large metropolis teeming with small city parks but lacking in grand open areas of forest or nature. One could not go on a 5 mile hike within the city, of course. It's a city with all the pavement, sidewalks and buildings.

When I was in my 40's and 50's, I had moved to northern Michigan which provided wide open spaces and bigger parks. I remember thinking the sidewalk along Grand Traverse Bay was quite the marvel as it stretched for miles. I hadn't discovered state and local parks that supplied trails, of any kind, really, short, long, wooded, pasture, etc.

While living in Manistee County, I had an acquaintance, a neighbor, who had children the same age as mine. One day she invited my son and I to accompany her to a local state park trail. Honestly, I had no idea what she was talking about. I was apprehensive but willing to try new things to enrich my kids life and to maybe make a friend. So, we went with her and her family.

The parking lot, if you can call it that says city girl, was a specified piece of cleared grass that had large rocks marking the area to be parked within. There was also a sign stating the parks name and a few rules.

I remember looking at the trail entrance. It was basically, a sheet, a wall of trees with a small, 4 or 5 foot pathway composed of dirt. It was scary because I could not see in, could not see what I was getting myself into. Out of visible range means the great and spooky and unpredictable unknown and I was quite dismayed that I was to be trekking in a place I could not mentally map for more than ten or twenty or thirty feet ahead.

It is important to, when at all possible, to have a guide on new experiences and adventures. I asked my neighbor how often she had been there to elicit whether or not she was familiar with the terrain and the trail. Her answer gave me an indication that I would most likely, though not certainly, be safe with her. She was pretty worldly and like, worked for the forest service or something so she appeared to be able to navigate the area quite well. I emitted a silent sigh of relief and closely followed her into the dark, shrouded woods of unfamiliarity.

It was terrifying, looking back. My pulse races as I write and I remember how incredibly close I walked next to her as we strode into this new experience. Trees on both sides and above me. Enclosed. Small and medium shrubbery, familiar but mostly unfamiliar. The ground was in continual...chaos. It was uneven. The surface texture and materials, branches, leaves, roots, pine cones, constantly was in flux. There was great uncertainty upon the forest floor. My vision was riveted to the floor the majority of time lest I stumble and fall. I was not used to this need to monitor and adjust to each step due to conditions. It was a lot of work to walk there. I had to remain focused on the ground, low hanging branches, changes in elevation. I rarely caught sight of the scenery during this first trail walk. I did admire greatly how the trails were well marked with numbers at specific intervals. I felt less lost whenever I encountered a trail marker like that.

I think the trail was about a mile or two. There was a multitude of trails and one had to pick how far and in which direction they chose to travel. My neighbor did pick a shorter route for which I was grateful. I was relieved to find that the trail ended back at the small grassy knoll. I was exhausted. This was all new to me.

A few days later, I asked my neighbor to allow me to accompany her a second time were she to go there again. The second time was easier, less stressful than the first. The third time was even less anxiety ridden and bordered on feeling pleasant. After many walks with an other, I was able to go for a woodland walk, on this specific trail by myself. It was such a huge accomplishment for me. I know, it seems an ordinary event but for Aspie, agoraphobic, PTSD ridden me, I did awesome.

I thought of this today, as I climbed up Vineyard Mountain, by myself, in the Willamette Valley on one of the many mountain, woodland trails that I walk. Today, I decided on a 3 mile hike. The views were spectacular. I am alone but it is okay. There is such such tremendous beauty upon the trails, especially here near where I live. I am so grateful that I was brave enough to conquer walking woodland trails, one step and one small hike at a time. I remembered how far, how courageous I really am.

Of Bus Pants and Dumpster Shoes

 I remember the first time that I watched The Big Bang episode in which Sheldon talks about having Bus Pants, trousers that he specifically wears on the city bus. I didn't understand why he required different trousers for the bus. For what reason and to what end and why???

It seems Sheldon found the city bus seats to be teeming with, well, filth, in the form of discarded gum and food stuffs and all manner of human oozes, I guess. I failed to understand why he needed an extra layer of protection against the remnants of humanity that gets left in public seating...then, I rode a city bus. My city is small to mediumish and the bus fleet is well-maintained, but I caught a glimpse of the people that were boarding and riding the bus. They brought food and drinks. Some riders emitted specific odors. I try and tell this joke about "I have not been smoking pot. I sat behind someone on the bus and well. I inhaled." Something like that.

People have odors, most of which are unpleasant and offensive. Okay, I'll admit, a couple of riders did smell freshly showered and had applied fragrances that were delightful, fruity and masculine alike. People smell.

Anyway, I digress from the meaning and spirit of this post. If you can understand Bus Pants, then you might understand Dumpster Shoes. They are the specific shoes that I wear to dump my trash in the communal dumpster so that my good, everyday shoes do not encounter filth, usually in the form of leaked batches of kitty litter, broken glass and discarded foodstuffs that almost made it to their large green metal destination.

More often than naught, there is a debris field of some type in that parking area right before one encounters the dumpster. 9 times out of 10, kitty litter is there, hence the need for alternate footwear.

I was going to call the Dumpster Shoes, Trash or Garbage shoes, but both of those monikers were rather harsh and unpleasant for two footie devices that save my 120$ Brooks running shoe. (No, I do not run but these are the shoes I love that fit and cushion and endure.)

It's kindof odd because my Dumpster Shoes are indeed a pair of Brooks runners yet of an on-sale, poorly fitting, bought the wrong ones online, type. 

It's the little things that make my life easier that I am grateful for. I'm glad I figured out Bus Pants and enlisted Dumpster Shoes.

I am happy

I deserve food that tastes good and doesn't hurt me

It wasn't until my 60th year that I realized the ingestion of food need not hurt.

The first time I baked homemade buttermilk biscuits, I cried.

The first time I was able to accomplish the complex task of creating a homemade chicken pot pie, I cried.

The food did not hurt to it. It tasted good, wonderful, warm and synergistically insync with my inner body.

It taste like the feeling of finishing a marathon or how one feels atop a tall mountain after an arduous climb. It tasted pure, unaltered, soft. After and as I ate, my digestive system wasn't fighting or working overtime or trying to neutralize or work around hazardous conditions, as it does with the majority of food.

This was different. Eating the biscuits. Eating the pie. There was no dissension. Eating was actually a highly pleasant experience, for the first time in my life.

My body has oft reacted negatively to food. I have a low tolerance for histamine which are found in leftovers, anything fermented like cheese or yogurt or yeast, many fruits and vegetables, as well as processed meats. If I eat too many foods high in histamine my entire outer body, my skin, contracts itchy hives.

I discovered I had a low tolerance for histamine when I tried eating an avocado. Then another time, it was when I ate zucchini. Foods that are supposed to be good and healthy make me feel bad and sick.

After my chicken pot pie rapture eating wherein I ate nothing but it for days on end for most meals, I reverted back to baking up an individual sized homemade pizza with nothing but a little sauce and cheese. It did not sit well with me. It made my digestive system, as well as all other systems it associates with, I'm sure, unpleasant, ill at ease, as if I had been sailing pleasantly on a calm sea and now I felt the hidden rumblings of storms beneath the waves. It's an unpleasantness that is subtle yet definite. I felt off kilter, like something was wrong but I didn't know exactly what. Reminds of the fairy tale, the Princess and the Pea, wherein something so small that most would never notice, was huge and obvious to me.

Eating, relishing the pure homemade foods that agreed with my body provided a barometer allowing me to recognize these sublime unhealthy and troublesome foods I had been ingesting.

I'm paying much greater attention to how I feel and the clues my physical body is giving me every time I eat. 

I am actively working to provide my body with food it doesn't have to fight.

I don't push the blue square

 I carry around a thin, rectangular box that some refer to as a phone. It does not look like any phone that I have ever known. It cannot hang on the wall; it has no handle or dial. It is, for all intents, constructions, and purposes, a "black box" that fits into my pocket.

A Black Box can be defined in at least two ways that relay my meaning. It can be - anything that has unknown or mysterious internal functions or mechanisms (this definition by happenstance, also appears to convey my attempt at meaning) or a device that records and stores a wide, varying array of personal information.

I have difficulty calling it a "phone" as I grew up when true phones were large, loud and attached to kitchen walls with noticeable, usable handles with whch one spoke and heard via. I shall refer to my thin rectangular device as "the little black box" because that is physically what it appears to be.

 I rarely use my little black box or LBB. I have no outside employment. There are no relatives or friends that I routinely communicate with, thus it has little use to me. Leaving it off is something I do most of the time these days. I answer to no one.

On those times when I used to turn it on, I oft would touch with my index finger, that blue square with rounded edges and the letter "F" in its center. The blue square is not a button as I consider buttons to be raised, tactile, three dimensional objects that take up physical space. Those variously colored rounded squares upon the black box take up no physical space. 

The blue square with F, used to be the small area of my LBB used most often. If I was attuned, aware and somewhat present enough to feel the subtle vibrations of universal energies that continually swirl and twirl around us in invisible, fairy-like form, making the motion to touch the blue square felt like walking from quiet solitude into a loud, burgeoning crowd. My own thoughts, if I had any at the time, would quickly recede and cease to exist, ah, maybe more like the thinking, creative part of my brain took a siesta, fell asleep in the back room because the boisterous meanderings of memes, repeated routine hashings, recycled gossip, pleas and righteous indignations (lots and lots, reams and reams of righteous indignations whereby individuals scream and plead for your approval for their minutiae, and petty and grandiose ideals) are deafening and override all sense of self and calm and peacefulness.

Upon the touch of the square, one enters into an imperceptible contract wherein one must agree to self-disclose and share while acknowledging and doing the same with others, like a computerized, impersonal series of conversations with people you know, people you don't really know and those few that are complete and utter strangers but you like something about them or want them to like you or you went to the same school but never met twenty years ago so you must have something in common to share and like. Yes, the amount of strangers who agree to call you "friend" is a measure of your self-worth and right to exist on this planet. Ludicrous but, apparently, a much sought after goal. The higher the friend count, the more worthy you are before God, nature and all you hold as dear. A faulty, illusory, disingenuous sign of false popularity that makes certain people glow a little brighter in their own mirror and show the lines and scars a little less, in thine own eyes, of course.

Here's the thing. One is free to choose how they spend their set hours of each day. It is of no consequence to me of how you do you. It's all okay. As a rule, I do not like sharing in person. Sharing on an open, constantly streaming group chat of repeated old sayings and celebrity quotes just isn't my thing. The blue square which I used to compulsively push each morning, evening and hour, does not own me or hold any value to me. I do not wish to share or communicate or divulge or say the things that I hope others will like and love. I do not care about others reactions to my odd, queer, curious life and its subsequent style. I'm okay just being me without anyone else knowing my business or how I choose to spend my hours.

When I was a child, I wanted my parents and family to love me. In school, I wanted my fellow students, my teachers to acknowledge me. In high school, I want others to like me, and desire to be around me. 

I am 60 now. 

I do not require anything from anyone. 

No family demands. No work or social obligations.

I do not require the rounded corners, blue square box like I used to. I can think for myself. I don't have to pretend anything. I don't have to pretend to like anyone or anything that I, in truth, do not.

You do you. I'll respect that whatever that is. I do me. I do not push the blue square.

Afraid of darkness

One of my neighbors has forever perplexed me. They have a room where the lights are always on. I cannot figure out why they do what they do.

Tonight, I noticed that their living room lights are also forever on. This leads me to conclude that someone living there is afraid. Afraid of darkness. Either of their past or present.

It feels normal to go by the clock of the sun and extinguish light when time to sleep. Maybe they do not wish to sleep. Maybe the darkness of their dreams propels them to try and stay perpetually in light, artificial or not. 

All is not right with them. 

Their windows betray them.

They are living in fear of darkness and working to attempt to create inner peace, a sanctuary  with artificial light. 

New Window Sounds

There is a plethora of virginal, unfamiliar, and mysterious sounds emitted from the windows of my home. The sounds and the environment on the outside, in my neighborhood, has dramatically altered, it seems like overnight, or rather, within the last couple of weeks. Like small waves making squeaky sounds, gathering together, rising into a crescendo till nothing of old is heard, just this new, obnoxious wave of flotsam and jetsam, debris of unknown origin and questionable morals. Lots of loud voices, both in mirth and anger. 

I live amongst three mediocre, mid-sized apartment dwellings, complexes. Residents continually ebb and flo yet, this month seems to have exceeded the norm as all the sounds drifting and pulsing in through my open window are unfamiliar.

What it was outside my house last month, in my neighborhood, is no more this month. The familiar has been replaced by the strange. It's unnerving, disturbing and a bit of tingly stress. 

I have moments whereby I am curious of that which is new. It smacks abruptly with the calming sense of routine and patterns.

There are many new individuals with new voices. There is more laughter than I have heard before which is alarming as laughter is strange and mysterious meaning good cheer or tearing someone down. I rarely can figure out which so I tend to treat laughter from a distance and envision it as neutral but slightly alarming.

There are new animal pets. In particular, the large German Shepard barking one who always sounds viciously annoyed and irritable. That sound frightens me especially on my frequent walks with Little Dog. I am vigilant. These new pet creatures are highly unknown to me thus highly unpredictable with sharp teeth and strong jaws.

The temple of my familiar, the only link to past days, is the delightful sound of the trains and their horns, each roar as individual as each being. Everything is made better by the sound of a passing train. I love hearing them through my window, my most welcome audible guests.

I've said much much and yet it feels like more words await.

The leaves are now full out, not bud or immature. The adult leaves soften the strange sound with a rustle and a tuck.

The birds, oh my, I do not know if there has always been such a euphony, a cornucopia of various pleasing notes and songs and alarms and whims. The cottonwood trees seem to reek of pleasant foul much to my excitement and surprise.

The window, open or shut, is my most utilized cue as to what is happening in the world outside.

All the sounds are strange. The shut the window half-way, and move my chair a bit more towards the center of the room. My drapes are more drawn these days. At some point, maybe, the strange may become not so scary. Familiarity is a fickle, tiny bird with wings that beat erratically, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Spring, the time of great change and strange sounds.

Sparrows Dance, so these two people have a conversation..

I love this movie...it's a faraway dream...

The woman, the agoraphobia, poor eye contact, unnamed woman is a lot like me.

If I ever dared to dream again, it would look like this..

I'm very tired

Overly tired these past few days, to the point of mostly sleeping, resting or inanimation with eyes partially open.

It's not about motivation or depression. It's about the physical exhaustion from every day events.

I have about 10% of my normal energy available each day. I've put it to good use and managed to procure food from the store, cook and freeze meals for days, and keep Little Dog on her daily walks albeit much much shorter walks.

I continue to figure out the pitfalls and troubleshoot the making of chicken pot pies, the only meals I've eaten for a week or two. So many stages. So complex.

Here is what my veggies look like before I add the chicken and make the gravy. I can't tolerate peas but I do utilize the standard online, carrot, celery mix. To that I add about a cup of assorted cauliflower chopped and a mushroom. Today, I also picked up fresh parsley which, I shall dehydrate and store the remainder of. Plus, I used the thickened remains of the cooked chicken I had strained and refrigerated. I don't know what they call that jelkylike stuff but I believe it is healthy. I used it in place of most of the butter I typically have been using for the rue, the gravy.

I have figured out the spice ratio. Salt is a teaspoon and pepper is a half teas. Pepper is still new to me. I do remember it from the store bought chicken pot pies of ages past. It continues to be a new, unexpected taste sensation.

I like parsley, as a rule, even plain. Adding it to the pie does enhance the flavorability. 

I've been sleeping in late, having a few hours to do low level tasks, then I fall back asleep by 6. I'll wake a couple hours later to eat and walk puppy, then it's a little tv or right back to bed.

It's just what it is.

I Like Children's Books because

Authors tend to provide information in a curious and easy to understand way. They are interested in the basics, the primeval and oft highly factual information without conjecture.

I recently purchased three different books on Stars from the thrift stores. This 1923 classic is my favorite. 

Best friend meme, really?

So, my first Aspie thought upon reading this is... How?

Someone has more than one friend?? Wait, what?

Now I'm thinking, if I have observed the neurotypicals correctly, they have much more than three friends, more like a couple dozen people they can stick that moniker to.

Weird. So very way weird.

How Aspergers Works In Me

 I am like a freight train that drives around the same long loop day after day, in a content sort of way. My speed varies but I am always going fast enough to have the external world be nothing but a blur I don't really see or pay attention too. It is not in my path, or field of vision therefore I have no interest in it.

Everything I need, is on my train of many cars. 

When I lived with my son, it was like I always had to have my first boxcar's side door wide open and my speed would have to slow so I could holler, interact, you know, throw the mailbag onto the hook and pick up more mail off of the hook. My engine had to slow enough so I could see and hear and interact and think about him.

It has been almost two years of me living with me now. My train typically moves pretty fast. I do have a therapist that I talk with once or twice a week. I have to slow down my train. Stop at the station. Disembark in order to have an hour long interaction. Then, I jump back on my train and it takes me quite a while, hours, mostly days to get back up to the speed whereby the outside becomes that pleasant, inconsequential blur again; back to my old Aspie self.

Because my train slows down for the therapist station, I sometimes find other smaller stations to stop at. My normal speed slows way, way down and seeing the outside world I end up engaging in it because I see something I want to experience. The one therapist station, week after week after week, is like a platform that leads to other stations.

When the therapist takes one of her many multi week vacations, that station is gone. My speed stays high and may go even higher. The outside is a bigger blur. My inner world becomes more engaging, richer, headier. It becomes challenging to slow down enough to function and interact even online. It's like with that station gone, the rest of the world is completely gone, too.

I get lost into my train and my track and nothing else matters. And, and this is important, I am perfectly content on my speeding train with no one to talk or interact with. Truly. So all is well and good, until therapist returns.

This gets me each time, but, it takes weeks to slow my train back down enough to stop by that station. It's like therapist is standing near the tracks waving, and I don't know how to wave back but I kindof want to. I have to go countless circles of loops and loops, applying the brakes ever so bit by bit to slow my engines down. Weeks and weeks, every single time. 

I am a person of patterns, clearly as any good Aspie is. Having that station to stop at, especially when it is twice a week, allows me to be a part of something outside of my self, that external world. When that station is closed and boarded up, even though I know, I know when it will open again, I cannot easily transition to slowing down and stopping.

If I have one person, one station on the Outside, it allows me to see and interact with other stations.

I hope that makes a little sense.

That's all this writing really is...I'm trying to make sense of it all.

Meaningless Conversations Throw Me, Stymie Me

 I just had another one of those casual conversations with a complete stranger because we were both in the same time and place and watching the same thing. 

He starts talking to me. We engage in conversation back and forth for about an hour. We share phone pics and innocuous personal information careful to never say our names or give away too much personal information.

This has happened before recently. I was at a public park taking pictures and someone else was doing the same. He started talking. I verbally engaged. It went on like that for 20-30 minutes.

All the while, I'm trying to figure out what his objective is or what mine is. Is he trying to be friends? Or something more? How much should I be sharing of myself to this potential stalker?

To what end?

Then, this guy at the park, Leaves. No goodbye. No thanks for the chat. Nothing. Cold. Done. Put it in the fridge and shut the door. My feelings were hurt. I thought this was inappropriate etiquette. Do you not say goodbye when you have met and engaged in a 20 minute chat? 

And what was the purpose of me saying anything at all? The exchange of superficial information. I think it was the abrupt end without any warning that threw me.

Tonight, as the guy and I chatted. I was too bust watching the sights to wonder too much about his intentions. Well, and he did say that he was heading home and he had a nice chat. Okay, that was different and made me feel better. He stipulated that the conversation was done. And I understood. He was polite.

It is so weird though, these small chats with strangers, people that you will likely never, ever see again. Small talk is like giving away little parts of yourself, your story, history and privacy, to someone you do not know. The conversation is short, dry and ultimately dead. There goes an hour of me sharing and to what end?

It was a social nicety that I decided was okay to partake in. 

It still feels a little like, hanging out the clothes to dry and forgetting they are there. The clothes will stay on that line forever.

I don't know if I enjoyed the nature experience more or less having shared part of it with a stranger. I don't know. I kindof liked the sharing verbal stuff and the science info we did share. It was like having a tertiary friend for an extremely short period of time. Like making a snowball and throwing it at a wall. Did I benefit in some way by the talk? Well, it did not harm nor stress me, so that I recognize. The first meaningless, park conversation was much more unsettling and abrupt and rude and left me in more of a quandary.

Maybe the first park conversation helped me better understand the second, tonight one. And the guy tonight had a friendlier, more open disposition, less potential stalker.

I'm learning.

People routinely engage in small, meaningless conversations with complete strangers they will never ever see again. I think this is weird. 

 

Homemade Chicken Pot Pie for the first time ever

 I decided to try something new, homemade chicken pot pie. I have never eaten one before as my family did not make them nor would I have tried one at a potluck or gathering as they tend to have a lot of unknown stuffs in them. I did grow up with the occasional cheap, frozen kind of pot pie that came in either chicken or beef flavors. While I did enjoy them, they were a good deal of work as I always had to remove every single pea and those white chunks of potato. I mostly liked them for the crust and gravy. The chicken ones, even moreso than the meat variety, tended to have questionable gristly pieces of meat.

So, I decided this was my next goal. Having never witnessed the process of creating such a dish, I used the new fangled internet channels to locate short videos on how to go about this. 

Chicken Pot Pie is a complex, all-in-one dish. Many steps, most of which I had never tried before. Let's start with the pie crust. I have never, in my life, my 60 glorious, fun-filled, sarcasm ridden years, made a homemade butter pie crust. I had always used the frozen kind on those rare occasions that I made a pie. I had witnessed and marveled at my sister, Joy, when she would whip out or rather rollout a pie crust with the greatest of ease. And she said it was sooo easy. Well, maybe for her and many others but the whole crust process stymied me. It seemed to rely a lot on observation and iffy, unmeasurable things and variables. I did not understand the process. Video after video, as I am an extremely slow learning who requires multiple exposures and instructions in order to attempt the new, I watch and rewatched. It took me probably a week of watching videos and mentally planning this meal.

I started by making a list of ingredients and going shopping. I did not own a rolling pin so I first shopped online at my store of choice to see what was available, price and quality and materials. I decided on the standard 5 dollar wooden rolling pin seeing as I had not used one in the past 7 years, I figured I would not require anything of high quality or high price.

The filling was the next topic to deeply consider. It was kindof like a dream, to be able to eat a chicken pot pie, for the first time in my life that I wouldn't have to pick through and discard half of the innards. What did I want as the filling? That was a big and most important question. I settled on chicken, onions, carrots, celery, one fresh mushroom cause I just wasn't sure, and yellow and purple cauliflower because I love me some colorful cauliflower, and it would take the place of both the "normal" peas and potatoes. Filling figured!

The chicken part was next. I thought I would just buy a couple of pieces of white meat on the bone but my store did not have any in stock. The pieces they did have cost more than a whole chicken. I bought the whole chicken. This decision took the longest time standing and comparing and thinking over the meat counter. In my mind I wanted the simpler task of just a couple pieces of meat to cook. Now, I was committing to cooking an entire chicken, removing the meat and utilizing as much of all that other stuff as possible...it would make the process much much longer timewise. Okay. Got the chicken.

I decided that I needed to break the cooking down into individual steps that did not overlap. I do not engage in multi-tasking because, well, I cannot do it. So, my first task was to bake the chicken and get the meat off. While the chicken was baking, I took a break. I did not start the filling. I did not making the crust. it would have been too confusing for my Aspie brain. With the chicken in the oven, I need to chill, calm down, keep cool, so I played my Towermadness computer game because its repetitions calm and soothe me. Doing new stuff raises anxiety and stress. It Just Does. Even if it seems like a relatively mundane task like cooking a new dish, it reads as anxiety in my Aspie head. I give my self credit for finally realizing how to do something in the least upsetting way! Slow, one at a time, and with many low-stress, unwind time breaks.

The chicken was cooked. I had harvested the two cups of meat. Then it was time for the filling. I chopped all my vegetables nice and small, just the way I like them. I cooked them in a pan on the oven. This was new. Then, another virginal experience, I figured out how to add flour and butter, mix and then add 2 cups chicken broth and half and half. I had never used this stuff before. I had never been able to figure out how to make a rue, I think they call it. So, I'm watching these floury vegetables get this gravy going. It was like watching a creation that you had only seen but thought you would never be able to do, if that makes any sense. Not to be overly dramatic, as that is not my nature, but, it did look like a small miracle I was creating. Word. And I could see how creamy it was getting and I had to make spot decisions about how much more liquid to add and when to stop and when to take it off the burner, so many decisions that I had to kindof guess at. I could feel the adrenaline going. Reminded me of how it felt that one time I rode that small roller coaster at Cedar Point.

Okay. The filling was complete. It was pie crust time. I did watch the pastry video again while the chicken was cooking so I remembered to put my butter in the freezer. I remembered watching my sister and the tips she said. Then, I cut my butter into my flour, salt mixture and started slowly adding the cold water. Tablespoon by tablespoon. At one point, I'm like, heck no this is not the way to go, but I held on. I continued and did not give up. It didn't look like I was making any progress for what felt like forever (because when you have ADD everything does take forever, or feels like it anyway). Then it started happening. The dough started coming together. I gasped and was amazed at this. Another small miracle, something I had never been able to do before was taking place before my eyes. I marveled. I did. I may have shed a tear. Simple things. I thought I would never be able to accomplish and I Was Accomplishing. Rolling out the dough. I could see it, feel it, I was actually being successful. It was really really. I put the first crust in the pan followed by the filling. Then I rolled out the second crust which looked even better than the first because I had gotten the hang of it.

It was time to crimp the edges. I did nothing fancy because I did not want to ruin this creation. Yeah, I was scared I'd break it or I just wanted it in the oven before I messed it up. I put the 2 inch slits in the top. That felt and looked really cool as the crust so easily parted and the top of the pie just looked really really good after I created those vents. Oh, I was so pleased looking at it. In the oven it went.

Thirty-five minutes later, I pulled it out and let it cool. Slicing it, man, the texture felt just right. The first piece looked excellent. The first bite, priceless. Made me cry. Stress relief and I'd done it. And it tasted so very good. No additives. All natural ingredients. All things I liked! And the texture of that crust and the filling, man! It tasted awesome. It's the most biggest thing, task, goal, whathaveyou, that I have successfully accomplished in a very very very long time.

Tons of work. Lots and lots of thought and planning and decision making and perfect execution and guesswork, and everything worked out!! Absolutely Amazing!! The best meal that I have ever cooked thus far!!!

I am not, nor have I ever been a Spice girl

 Yeah, shocker. Anyway, the only spice in my kitchen cupboard that I utilize with any regularity is salt. I had a small can of pepper that lasted me ten years. I believe my son used it most or I sprinkled a bit here and there for show. I do have the necessary spices for pumpkin muffins but that's it.

I bought a small shaker full of pepper that one must twist to grind and disperse. I was feeling adventurous. This week I have sparsely applied some coarse black pepper on my eats. It is indeed quite spicy and highly unusual to my ultra sensitive palate! It does surprise me greatly with its taste and its odor and texture. I continue to linger in the curious phase so I will use this for a bit and sprinkle it on different foods to see if it is something I want to keep using.

People would probably laugh and be in disbelief if I shared with them my extremely limited taste in spice.

Rapture Eating and Homemade Chicken Pot Pie

 "Rapture Eating" is the neologism, the newly created term for - eating one food or meal, consecutively forsaking any other foods until the one specific food or meal is completely ate up.

Case in point, yesterday I made a homemade chicken pot pie, which is an entire story in and of itself, and for the next post, and I ate two slices immediately after baking. I then had a late night snack piece. For breakfast, yes, another slice. Lunch was the same and dinner, which will consume the last piece, shall also be homemade chicken pot pie.

I had never eaten chicken pot pie except for those inexpensive, dollar apiece, frozen ones from my youth. My family did not cook them, and if anyone did, I would have had to refuse it or pick through all the unpleasantness such as peas, which seem to be "standard" for this dish. I made it my way, Edible and delicious.

I care not for any other foods until this pie is completely devoured. And, I will make another one very soon.

Rapture Eating, it is what this Aspie actively engages in.

A Boy Called Po movie review

 I watched "A Boy Called Po" last week, a story of an Autistic child and a single father navigating challenges. Honestly, I have mixed feelings regarding this movie. I think it is helpful, insightful and positive for parents of Autistic youngsters but I found little value personally and information wise for Aspie adults such as myself.

The widowed father is the focus point here. He is diligently, faithful working to find solutions for his son's schooling and problematic behaviors. You can readily see how much he loves his child. He enlists the aid and advice from others and is willing to try almost anything to assist and make his kid more content.

I guess that I did gain a newfound appreciation for parents with kids on the spectrum who require much more assistance. I can't imagine the difficulty, the consternation involved in trying to decide what is best for someone you love. I saw the father's uncertainty and grasping and gasping for answers and help. The movie did portray that well and probably accurately.

The Boy Po, is an interesting short, rather, young guy around 9 or 10, I would hazard a guess. The actor portrays Autistic traits well. I could readily see and recognize he was on the spectrum with normal characteristics. He is being harmed at school, bullying and harassed, to the point of sustaining bruises and physical injury.

The state agency to protect children is called in suspecting the father of child abuse. This was a newer situation to witness but I am certain it does happen, hence a good movie about parental difficulties. A social worker presents the father with options on placing his son so that he might better thrive and avoid more harm from other students.

I guess, the movie made me uncomfortable in its realism. It hurt to watch because I know that all that the movie presented actually does happen out there in the real world. Sad and others being hurt is painful for me to watch, hence no glowing review.

I did, overall, like the movie and its main ideals. I did not find any misinformation. A good movie.

I Have To Stop Thinking I Am Normal

 I keep forgetting I am Aspie, socially inept and a basket case of anxiety whenever another human draws near. I daresay, an average being can tell that I am "off", different, a variant, quite alien in thinking and being, within engaging in conversation with me for, oh, 5 to 7 minutes. My quirks tend to leak out readily, whether they be the nervous shifting of body weight from foot to foot, my repetition of words, phrases, and entire paragraphs; lack of eye contact and generally having little comprehension of whatever it is that they are speaking to me about. I think I may have mentioned previously that I am a validated recluse and rarely leave the house and more rarely do I engage in human-to-human conversation except with the baristas at my coffee shop and my therapist for an hour or two a week. Seriously, that's pretty much my adventure into neurotypical world, scant and infrequent.

I am on social media to maintain a thin hold of everyday reality, the happenings, the new lingo and catchphrases, and for news of the world outside my home. I see these events, group events, outings, classes, that interest me greatly, so I sign-up or express interest or ask for more information or, dare I say, I even haphazardly commit to attending. Then, reality sets in like a cold, bitch slap to the face on a warm, sunny day. My biggest issue with group events, is that other people will be there. There will be interaction, either required, thought about or wistfully entertained. I will undoubtable have little clue as to what is going on and yet I would need to remember to not look stupid and ask any questions, at all. Heaven forbid, I would be required to complete a task or series of sentences for all to see or hear amidst my roiling anxiety and shaking, shattering disposition.

I did that again, today. I had expressed interest in an event that I would have loved to attend. Then I just emotionally melted within myself with, not cowardice but awareness. Awareness of my challenges. Awareness of past events that I have disastrously attended and the fallout of emotional exhaustion for days or weeks after. Shoot, I actually kindof committed to two events in the past two days. What was I thinking? 

I am not normal. I cannot do what others seamlessly engage in. It's wishes and torture to see happenings that appeal to me. I need to be smart and aware and, quite frankly, much more realistic about who I am and what I am capable of doing.

I like, no, I love my little world of One in which I am whole, complete, and perfect exactly as I am. This world only exists within my home that I inhabit solo with my little princess puppy and two dozen thriving and dying plants. You know, I got to be real. I need to stop looking at impossible dreams that present themselves like candy too high up on the shelf. 

Be real. Be me. Stay home. I'm good.

That's my great-great grandmother who looks beautiful and cold as ice and awesome. I've been doing genealogy again.

Watercolor Painting for Aspies

And When the Pod People Arrive They Will Eat Us All

Because I am learning how to do something through play, I think. (Maybe play is defined as not taking oneself or one's actions too seriously. Not sure. Sounds maybe right.)

And every once in a great while, i find this thing called humor, a funny, lol.

Let's get rattled, upset easily

I went out to water my porch planters and found a momma bird sitting on a nest of eggs. I jumped back, screamed a little, swore a lot and said many words aloud. It's probably, well, I'm sure of it, it is the most my neighbors have ever heard me say, out loud and to myself.

I'm so upset, rattled by this. I can't water the flowers, so they will die. I don't mind that too much except dead flowers won't further hide this very inconspicuous nest. 

What if the babies hatch and neighbor cats hear them? I don't want to deal with injured or dead baby birds as the mere thought of that brings me to tears.

Momma bird must think it's safe. In reflection, I have seen her fly off my porch only to land nearby and monitor me. She must think they are safe there.

I mean, I know I don't leave the house much, so she has made note of that and deems my porch a worthy location.

I'm wracked with worry now. My pleasant activities and ideals of the rest of the day have stopped. I'm jumbled, bumbled and in a quandary of a quagmire and just plain rattled.

Bummer. I hope they make it.

I was playing with my new watercolors this morning....

Time

I lead a quiet quiet life

Happily living alone. I have little to no need for in-person, human interaction. I have very little that I feel requires saying.

Observing, it seems like I am anomalous in my verbosity.

My life is good. I just don't talk much nor do I want to engage with others.

I am just as important and vital as any other being. This girl does not have much to say. I am okay.

I get fixated and write and write and write until it makes sense

 When I come across weird facts that boggle my mind and I just cannot comprehend them, I will unrelentingly write and rewrite and write the information repeatedly, and over and over, ad nauseum until it makes a little sense, I just don't care anymore or I've become fixated on something else.

Case in point, when I was doing genealogy research, a great fun hobby interest that provides tons of research opportunities, I discovered that not only was my double great grandmother a whore, prostitute in Grand Rapids, Michigan in the earl 1900's, but also that my 3rd great grandmother was married and divorced five times from the mid 1800's until her death in 1917. Five times. Five husbands. Eight Children, At least four divorces that I have found actual records for.

I am related to this person. It fascinates and boggles me. I did not even know divorce existed in the second half of the 1800's. Really. I did not know this. True, it was a somewhat rare phenomenon but my grandmother utilized the system with great frequency.

It appears that she usually married someone at least 10 years her senior, an older man.

Here is me, her great-great-great granddaughter (I think I got that right, not really sure) writing about her life. I think she is one of my most fascinating relatives and it would have been fun to meet her and find out why she married and divorced so much.

And, oh yes, I continue to write about it, currently in a new notebook, to further discover and make sense of it all.

My 3^rd Great Grandmother

Harriet A. French Bates Lee Taylor Merritt Rice

Harriet A. French was born to Marvin and Annie Amy Heath French in Ohio, probably Freedom, Woods County on January 10^th of 1841. The 1850 census is the first record for her and that is in the aforementioned location.

1858 At age 18, Harriet marries George S. Bates, a 30 year old painter who was born in Vermont. They live in Homer, Calhoun, Michigan. How and when did Harriet move from Ohio to Michigan and how did she meet George?

1859 Son Charles Franklin Bates is born on July 15 (d. March 10, 1909 at Michigan Hospital for the Feeble Minded & Epileptic, Lapeer Michigan, at 49 years old. He is buried in Coopersville Cemetery alongside his mother.)

1860 Harriet, George and son Charles Franklin are living in Homer, Calhoun County, Michigan.

Divorce of George Bates

1862 Harriet’s 2^nd husband is David Lee. They marry June 21, in Homer.

1865 Her son William J. Lee is born in Illinois.

1869 Daughter Hattie Lee is born in Coopersville, Michigan

1870 Harriet is 28. David Lee 53 a carpenter born in New York, along with Eli Lee 20 born New York, Franklin 14, Ida 9, William 5 and Almira 1, are living in Byron Township, Kent County, Michigan

1872 Son Walter Lee is born (He dies in 1893 at 21 years old and is buried in Coopersville Cemetery along with his mother and brother.)

 Divorce of David Lee

 Move to Kansas

1873 Marriage to John A.J. Taylor June 7, in Ottawa, Franklin, Kansas

1874 Son, my Great Great Grandfather, Frederick Herman Taylor is born on February 28 in Ottawa Kansas.

1875 March 1 Kansas census finds Harriet Taylor 34, born Ohio, from Michigan; Ida Bates 14 born Michigan, from Michigan; Allie Lee 5 (Almira) born Iowa, from Michigan; Walter Lee 3 born Michigan, from Michigan; John A. Taylor, 49 born Michigan, from Michigan; and great great grandpa Fred Taylor born Kansas

 Move to Michigan

 Divorce from John A. Taylor

1880 Harriet is head of household and has moved back to Coopersville, Michigan with son Frederick H. 6; Franklin Bates 20; Mary I. Blackmer 18 daughter, Harley J. Blackmer 2 months old, grandson; William J. Lee 15 son.

1893 death of son Walter Lee

1894 Marriage to Gerrit Merritt August 13, Croton Township, Newaygo CO, Michigan

1900 Divorced Gerrit Merritt

1900 Living in Polkton Township, Coopersville, Kent County Michigan with son Frank Bates born July 1859; her status is listed as widowed, married 42 years and mother of 8 children, 4 still living. Living next door to dauughter Hattie Almira DeShane.

1901 Marriage to Asa Rice March 20, Coopersville, Muskegon County Michigan. She listed her name as Hatty A. Merritt French, so I am sure its her.

1909 death of son Charles Franklin Bates

1910 Mrs. Harriet Rice, Polkton Township 

1917 died January 14, 1917, Polkton Township, Ottawa County, Michigan.Buried Coopersville Cemetery with headstone.