Review of The Pornographer: Irish Novel by John McGahern

 Originally written for my column at SexualDiversity.org

RANDOM: I have not been seeking it out, yet the Universe keeps plopping Irish literature into my hands. I have no follow up point, just thought I'd share that random fact :D 

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The Pornographer by John McGahern is a novel about a writer named Michael. When we meet Michael he's living in a Dublin apartment making decent money as a writer of pornography, visiting his dying aunt regularly in the hospital with gifts of scotch to ease her pain, and going out dancing, hoping to meet women to have sex with.

We are invited along and introduced not only to Michael's attitudes toward this dance between the sexes, but also Josephine. They meet, she agrees to come home with him, they discuss with refreshing honesty their beliefs about what they want and why they want it.

They have sex. Josephine falls in love. Michael does not.

The rest of the story unfolds as each character and their ideas of love, sex, family, and death are brilliantly revealed, explored, and considered.

The diversity of characters and genders in this story, in the hands of this author, allows for an honest consideration of the different ideas and desires between genders, as well as the separate obstacles and expectations experienced by each.

Throughout the novel we are equally gifted with different interpretations, opinions, and actions of each person as individuals.

I love when storytellers give us space and reason to agree with and understand clashing perspectives. John McGahern is one such storyteller. (Amongst Women is another novel by John McGahern that I have read and he does an equally good job in that book.)

The protagonist, Michael, isn't cruel, but he is callous. He is continuously clear with Josephine, telling her he does not love her though he does enjoy sex with her. Meanwhile she feels as though she's in love with him and that he could, were he willing, learn to love her in time. Although she is a little older than Michael, he speaks to her as though she is a student and he is her teacher in all things love and sex. Michael is didactic while Josephine is romantic.

Even though Michael makes it known with clarity he could not love Josephine, his relationship with her continues because, after insisting that according to the calendar they did not need to use a condom (It makes a farce out of it, doesn't it? It's just not natural~Josephine) she becomes pregnant. Michael does not want to be the sort who would abandon her, but he is also unwilling to be a family. There are many revelatory conversations between Michael and Josephine, as well as with other characters who are invited to weigh in, while ideas of what to do are explored. The conversations reveal more than only the complexities of Dublin life in the 1970s, but the complexities of relationships in general.

Throughout the book Michael continues to care for his aunt and his uncle and write pornography; he meets a new woman who is quite independent and wonderful; he discusses life and death with his employer; he gets help and advice from his doctor friend and her wife. The diversity of beliefs in each character is well examined and fantastic to explore.

The story explores sexual behaviors and beliefs, which I expected from a novel called The Pornographer, and does so brilliantly, which I'd hoped for. The differences between the way sex is written in Michael's pornography (yes, we get to read some) is drastically different from the way sex is thought about and experienced in Michael's life. But each, of course, influences the other.

This is a great book, written by an author who is wickedly insightful.

With, perhaps, the greatest ending scene I've ever read in any book.

If you love to explore perspectives, as I do, I recommend The Pornographer.

"By not attending, by thinking any one thing was as worth doing as any other, by sleeping with anyone who would agree, I had been the cause of as much pain and confusion and evil as had I actively set out to do it. I had not attended properly." ~Michael, pg 251 of my copy

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!

(X.com @TsaraShelton) 

Book Review: Left Neglected by Lisa Genova

 

 

Left Neglected

Book: Left Neglected
Author: Lisa Genova
Publish date: July 2011
Paperback Pages: 352

 

I didn’t think my mom was lying exactly. It’s just – I don’t know, I couldn’t fathom it. I mean, she couldn’t see anything on her left? Only on her left?

My mom’s left hemisphere neglect – the result of an injury to the right hemisphere of her brain (she hit her head hard while working in Paris) - was short lived and minimally disabling, in part because mom is a brain and behavior expert with the skills, tools, and knowledge of how to help herself immediately.¹  Due to my mom’s ability to turn things around and make good use of them, it became like so many things happening to my mom: something that makes her seem weird while giving her a deeper knowledge and understanding of brain and behavior.

However, for so many others (including Sarah, the main character in Left Neglected) it is far more life changing and challenging.

Left Neglected is the second novel by Lisa Genova, author of Still Alice. Both books center on super successful women who are compelled to re-frame their own versions of success when confronted with neurological dysfunctions.

In Still Alice, the dysfunction is early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. 

For Sarah in Left Neglected it is left neglect, an arguably less famous but still significant condition.

The novel begins by dropping readers into the non-stop chaos of Sarah’s home and work life. Both Sarah and her husband, Bob, are competitive high achievers. They have three adorable children (I fell in love with them instantly!) and their oldest – a first grader – is struggling both at school and at home to follow directions and complete assignments. With both parents working all hours and paying for two homes they are blessed to also have the help of a twenty-two-year-old nanny, Abby. She lives ten minutes away, has a degree in psychology, and adores the children. 

The pace of their life, of the story, of Sarah’s inner dialogue, is go go go. There is always something needing to be done, someone needing to be delegated to do it, and goals to keep an eye on. It is hurried, but not unhappy. The group works well as a team and though they rarely take a moment to enjoy it, they are enjoying it. It fits into the dream they have for their lives.

However, Sarah is in an accident on her way to work and wakes up missing the entire left side of her vision. She cannot see or attend to anything on her left. The speed with which she moved through her life is no longer available to her.

It is hard to describe what it’s like to have left neglect. In Sarah’s experience (as in my mom’s) she thinks she’s seeing everything. Everything appears whole to her, yet she is consistently unable to see, feel, or attend to the left. For example, she’ll finish eating all the food on her plate, be certain it is all gone, yet everything on the left remains. She is not seeing it, but she also cannot recognize that she is not seeing it. Walking and dressing are nearly impossible at first because her left side does not exist for her. It isn’t paralyzed, it isn’t missing, it just isn’t.

In therapy she practices focusing on moving, seeing, feeling, and being aware of the left. These descriptions are fascinating and hard to hold onto. As a reader I both could and could not quite understand. Which, of course, is true of trying to understand anything completely foreign to our experience.

As the story goes on, now hindered by Sarah’s inability to see the left, we slow down. (Though Sarah does not do so easily! As in keeping with her character she plans to beat this thing; to impress everyone with her ability to win therapy.) In slowing down we see new things. Sarah’s mom reenters her life and it is a turbulent reunion. Sarah has anger toward her mother for not being available to her as she grew up. She struggles to allow her to be there for her now.

Sarah’s hardships inspire a new kind of connection with her oldest son, and together they discover creative ideas for their challenges with homework and reading.

Sarah’s internal debates about being handicapped are candid. At first, she refuses to accept herself as a disabled person. She feels certain that she can push and work her way out.

Hence, as adaptations are presented, she wrestles with the question of whether it is giving up to accept tools designed to assist her as a disabled person. Is it giving up to snowboard with assistance when she really wants to ski without it? Will she become complacent? Will she stop insisting on healing?

Lucky for us she chooses to accept the opportunities offered by the New England Handicapped Sports Association (NEHSA)² – a real organization – and we go snowboarding. Sarah’s world becomes bigger.

With this new movement, this new momentum and adaptations, Sarah sees a new idea for a different life that might suit her and her family well.

The book does a lovely (though not exactly subtle) job of reminding readers that many of us are voluntarily neglecting entire aspects of our own lives, for a variety of reasons in a variety of ways.

Because of Sarah’s brain trauma she gains a new beautiful relationship with her mom, she finds time and meaningful ways to be with her children, she accepts employment that feels holistically fulfilling. She does not judge the life she was living before, and indeed misses elements of it. However, by adapting she has also created something more suitable and sustainable for her family.

It is a nice reminder that we can be proud of who we were even when we choose to be someone new, evolving and progressing does not have to include disliking or disapproving of the past.

Left Neglected is a good book with a lovely message: that left neglect is a real thing so maybe my mom wasn’t making it up when she said she couldn’t see anything on the left.

(Hmmmm? Pardon me? I see, I’m being handed a note that tells me my mom was not, in fact, the moral of the story. I will rewrite that.)

Left Neglected is a good book with a lovely message: that a single moment can derail everything you’re becoming but if you do the work of adapting, if you do not neglect the opportunities and people around you, life can become a different yet equal success.

 

1.    If you are interested in my mom’s work as a brain and behavior expert, or simply curious about such a weird and wonderful mom of eight, you can visit her websites to see books, videos, and so much more, here: www.lynettelouise.com / www.brainbody.net

2.   To learn more about the New England Handicapped Sports Association you can visit their website by following this link: https://nehsa.org/

 

Hugs, smiles, and love!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)

Autism Answer: Ample Breasts

 

Me sleeping and breast feeding

 

"Can I give feedback that's personal?" 

 

"Of course, that's pretty much the feedback she wants. While you read the manuscript make note of where you get bored, if you feel confused, where it seems redundant, and especially any personal reactions to the story. That's totally interesting and useful to her."

 

"Okay. Like, when she writes about granny's ample breasts, that's yucky. That's not something the reader needs to know, it's yucky."

 

Meagan, an eighteen year old college student, was reading and reacting to the first draft of my mom's upcoming book, the true story of a woman with multiple personalities. A woman my mom is living alongside and becoming good friends with. [If you have not already read some of my mom's published books, I highly recommend them! Follow this link to have a peek... of her books... not breasts... tee hee!: Lynette Louise, The Brain Broad, Books ]

 

UPDATE: The mentioned memoir is now published and wonderful and available here: In Search of Teressa

 

Granny's ample breasts are, in fact, a relevant part of the story. 

 

"Did you just read that now?" I asked, wanting to know if she was reacting simply to any talk of "ample breasts" or if she'd continued reading and still didn't see the relevance. 

 

"Yes. It's yucky, mummy."

 

I was chopping veggies in the kitchen and Meagan had just come down from upstairs where, clearly, she had begun reading the book and was now feeling, well, yucky. 

 

"I don't think it's yucky. In fact, I think of that part often. I loved the image of a woman baking in her kitchen adeptly, after years of honing the skills necessary. Including contending with her ample breasts. They are in the way, they are heavy, and they are part of her. In fact," I added, while moving the chopped veggies from my cutting board to the skillet on the stove, not at all having to contend with my own not-so-ample breasts, "as you continue reading you'll discover that for many characters in the family, ample breasts are a relevant aspect of the story."

 

"Oh, so there's a reason for mentioning her boobs? That's different. I didn't know there would be a reason."

 

"Honestly, there's a reason for everything you'll read. But that doesn't mean mom won't want to know how you felt. She wants to know, for sure!"

 

"Okay, well I thought the ample breasts part was yucky." 

 

"And yet you are the one telling me you want to have a skinny body with ample breast," I teased. 

 

We giggled. She was getting herself a bowl of cereal while I was making a stir fry and as we moved fairly smoothly around each other in the kitchen, I added, "You know, granny would have had a harder time sharing a small kitchen with another person. Her ample breasts took up enough space as it is. And since people sometimes find ample breasts yucky she might have felt self-conscious and awkward and, in fact, told you to leave." We giggled again and Meagan went back upstairs to continue reading.

 

Can you imagine how much it could hurt if you were told it is yucky to talk about how you have to manage your own body? If you have a disability or difference that is natural to you but uncomfortable to others and you are told, or lead to feel as though, it is yucky to hear about?

 

When I was in grade eight I knew this girl, Roxanne. She had dark hair and olive skin. She was pretty and petite. And when I met her, her breasts were huge. She dressed to try and hide them, her posture attempted to do the same. But there was no getting around them. They were more than ample. She had to get a reduction, the first time I ever heard of such a thing. We knew, or at least I know I knew, there was so much more to her than her breasts but when we saw or talked about Roxanne, it was about the breasts. We were forever offended or interested in or otherwise occupied by the fact of her breasts. 

 

Even now when I think of Roxanne, I wonder how that must have been for her. Still, it is about her breasts. 

 

Now, I was not a friend of hers. I merely knew her. My bet is that her friends think of her more completely. Her family as well. But that does not mean her breasts were not part of her story. They obviously were. You cannot have something that drastic be unimportant in the story of you. Certainly it can be something that isn't impacting you later in life, I'm not saying we can't get past our past, I'm simply saying that telling the story of who we are involves the story of things we dealt with, including our bodies.

 

For many of us, our bodies didn't give us much out of the ordinary to manage or deal with. Which is why, I think, we might find it yucky to hear about people who do have much to manage or contend with in their own bodies. But we should probably not let the knee jerk reaction of "yucky" stop us from learning more. From caring to care and listen or read on. 

 

When someone includes their ample breasts in a story it is likely because that is a relevant part. Not simply to shock or sensationalize. Though, yes, that can be the case too. Which, of course, can also add something relevant. Learning why we are wanting to shock, or why we are feeling shocked. 

 

I turned off the stove, scooped some rice and veggies into a couple of bowls, and as I carried the food upstairs to where my love was working I caught myself wondering, would he be pleased if my body had ample breasts? Does he wish they were at least a little more ample? Should I wish they were ample? 

 

Interesting. Turns out not-ample breasts can take up space, 

even if it's only in my head.

Hugs, smiles, and love!!

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

 

Random Addition: I included the pic of me breast feeding only because as I was thinking about what type of pic to use for this post, scrolling through my photos, I came across that one. It reminded me that I have had ample breasts before, when feeding my babies, which actually gave me an experience that helped me understand the relevance of the breasts in the story. When my boobs were full of milk they were in my way, they attracted a different kind of attention (not just by their size but also my comfort with their function as food for my babies), they were heavy and sore, they were something I had to contend with. These kinds of experiences can help us find empathy. At first, in the specific places where we have experiences but as we get older and have more exposure, we can better generalize and understand and believe in the experiences shared with us by others.

Book Review: "Of Women and Salt" reviewed again but differently - Because One Thing is also Several Things

Today is publication day for Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia! 

I invite you to read my review of this book on Disabled-World. I decided to write a separate review for SexualDiversity.org - a site highlighting news and stories related to LGBTQ love and sexuality as well as other underrepresented or commonly misunderstood relationships - because I want to highlight the theme of the book that struck me as most relevant for those of us creating romantic relationships while contending with the romantic relationships that came before us.

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Of Women and Salt is an expertly weaved tale starring five generations of Cuban women. All of these women are connected either through family or happenstance, affecting each other's lives regardless of distance in time and place. And all of these women are both extraordinary and ordinary; like so many women we know.

The mothers in Of Women and Salt are all living in places and times where building a foundation of stability is darn near impossible. Revolutions rage around and inside them, husbands rage around and inside them, and the threat of ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement) rages around and inside them. These mothers find ways within the chaos to bring safety and stability to the lives of their daughters and, in so doing, build their own unstable stories and frameworks. It is beautiful and human and real and raw.

The daughters in Of Women and Salt (of which some are also mothers) struggle to understand themselves and their pasts. Because their mothers are strong and unwilling to yield in areas they believe best for their daughters, they make strong barricades between them. Again, it is beautiful and human and real and raw.

As the daughter of a strong woman myself, one who never built barricades but was perhaps unnecessarily open and honest in order not to do so, I felt my own connection to these women grow deep. As they (mothers and daughters) made choices and took actions in love, choosing to hold onto or, in dark and dangerous ways, get rid of husbands, they were teaching each other what love is, what we do and don't allow in our relationships, who we become in order to make it all work. And each woman chooses to see what they are being shown in ways that are both unique to them and built by their relationships to each other.

I watched my mother struggle with relationships. When my step-dad molested me and she left him, becoming a single mom with six kids – four of whom were small adopted boys with various disabilities and challenges – my mom worked with passion and vulnerability to learn what the “cycle of abuse” is and to take any action to break it. Mom rarely dated (six kids doesn't leave a lot of room for romantic love) but when she did she was careful. Whether dating men or women she watched them closely for any signs of prejudice or cruelty. And because we all have some prejudice and cruelty, she always had to let them go. Not trusting herself to choose well.

My sister and I learned different things from watching this play out before us, but we both learned from it. Lucky for us we are all close and supportive and believe in consistent growth so the times we found ourselves needing to make changes we were not alone. We had help. We had each other.

My mom, though, did not. Like many of the women in the book my mom had to do it all alone. She made choices that were near impossible to build the support and strong foundation we – my siblings and I – were able to take for granted.

While reading Of Women and Salt I was moved by how well the author shows these relationships between women, the way we are influencing each other and how we are both unable to insist on the way our influence is received and how we are responsible for being careful with it.

There are moments in this book that break your heart; there are moments that reach out and acknowledge you; there are moments that give you power while simultaneously reminding you how little you have.

Ultimately, though, for me the novel was a moment of feeling connected to women around the world and finding comfort in that.

We are building society together, fathers, mothers, daughters, sons. We are connected, regardless of time and place. And though we can't be certain of how our influence will play out we can be careful. Be inclusive, open, and willing to make changes.

Like my mom, we can work with passion and vulnerability to learn the places we are perpetuating cycles of abuse (in our homes and communities) and take actions to break them.

Like the women in Of Women and Salt, we are all bound to environments that we can only partly create. And like the women in the book, who are expertly crafted and imagined, we are influenced by our environments.

These women will influence you.

Of Women and Salt by Gabriela Garcia
Publish Date: March 30, 2021 (today!)

Pre-Order via Amazon: Of Women and Salt

 

Image: me reading "Of Women and Salt" with the novel cover fully in view.

Autism Answer: We Are Not Responsible For Creating Kindness For Everyone Though We Can Always Be Kind

Confession: I read a story in the above video of the time there was a ghost at my door, and how our small one-time conversation had meant much, and how small kindnesses can have large effects, and how (and here is the small lie I tell in the true story) I have easily been able to partake in these small kindnesses because I am not afraid of Kevin Reese. 

Well, it is true that I am not and was not afraid of Kevin Reese, but it is also true the reason for that largely has to do with a difference in us that was not too different. 

The truth is I often have been, and sometimes still am, afraid of people drastically and vastly different than me. People who are so different that I am unusually challenged to find common ground for understanding, relating, and exploring my empathy.

With these people I try harder. I take the time to re-think and examine my worry and fear, while I impress upon myself the value of growing by learning from a person or perspective farther from my own. But I also know that kindness can include letting go and not getting in the way of someone else who may be more capable of caring and getting to know that person in an active and maybe even longer lasting way. I remind myself that sometimes my fear or worry is correct, and pretending it isn't speaking to me doesn't keep me or the other person safe. Often, it is wrong to push a connection in the name of trying to be caring. Sometimes that ignites an otherwise avoidable explosion hurting everyone involved.

We are always able to be kind, even when we are afraid, but we are not responsible for creating kindness consistently in the lives of everyone. I truly believe that we are all - every single one of us - uniquely able to care about and connect with people, and we are able to be connected with and cared about. However, we are not all built to connect with everyone. 

So, let's let go of fear and find our tribes. Let's give away our time in small moments of unexpected kindnesses. Let's know we can and believe we will.

But if you're a little too afraid of Kevin Reese, don't despair. Take the time to explore why, forgo the temptation to blame and judge, then move on to a new person meant for you, comfortable in the knowledge that I am not afraid of Kevin Reese. 

Though, please also know, I am relying on you to care about and connect with someone far outside my comfort zone. Someone I decide is not right for me but right for another. You see? We are a good team, you and me!

Together we care for and connect with, are cared for by and connected to, the entire world!

Now, with that confession out of the way, I hope you'll take a moment to listen while I read my true life ghost story just in time for Halloween. 

Happy Friday, friends!

Hugs, smiles, and love!!!!
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook) 

*The above video is from my personal YouTube channel, but this following one I was honored to share with Blank Spaces, a Canadian Literature magazine that published my story. I invite you to watch the video here and check out the description. Take advantage of the links to their sites! The magazine (print & digital) is beautiful and each year (they are now in year two) they publish an anthology of stories and poetry from the magazine. They do a wonderful job of bringing Canadian literature to audiences in a variety of ways.  I'm grateful to be part of the Blank Spaces community. I hope you'll join us!*
 

 

Autism Answer: Everyday People: The Color Of Life (Book Review)

Many of you already know that one of my wishes for this world is more diversity in our storytellers. Writers, actors, directors, painters, comedians, producers, etcetera etcetera, need to be of every type. All genders and identities, colors and cultures, abilities and handicaps, styles and beliefs, economic distresses and blessings. In my idea of a perfect world, our storytellers and performers are like The Muppets! Unusual and mismatched and entirely encouraged and embraced. 

Art imitates life and life imitates art and our stories and world should be so diverse and interesting that we are comfortable with being uncomfortably surprised by unexpected people. Until we are rarely uncomfortable because it's just so darn common for folks to be unexpected and different. 

So, knowing how important I feel it is to expect and invite diversity in storytelling you can imagine how excited I was to be offered an advance copy of Everyday People: The Color Of Life - A Short Story Anthology, edited by Jennifer Baker with story contributions by established and emerging writers of color. 

HINT: If you imagined me nearly dropping my computer, jumping up off a couch, squealing and dancing with excitement while my friend looks over at me from her kitchen with a curious expression and asks without a hint of sarcasm, "Did you just win Publisher's Clearing House?" you'd be pretty close to correct. The only thing missing in your imagining are her dogs. But close! Good job, friend! tee hee!

When Everyday People arrived last week I dove in immediately!
  
The book took my breath away in brilliant and unexpected ways, over and over. Reading so many powerfully crafted stories written directly from (not about) cultures unfamiliar to me felt like experiencing a series of reincarnations. It was dizzying and delightful and eye-opening and awesome!

This book was so well curated - the writers have voices that are confident and vulnerable and authentic and compelling, and every story seemed to understand the necessity of the theme completely, ignoring any temptation to exploit it -  that it reinforced and gave new passion to my belief in diverse storytellers. It was a strange feeling, being dropped over and over again into foreign values and cultures and ways of life. But it also made clear the world of difference between writing ABOUT something and writing FROM it. How enlightening! 

When the world pretends it is being diverse, by adding characters that are colorful (disabled, gay, strong women, sensitive men, people of color, poverty, differing cultures, and the like) but the tellers and actors are not diverse, well, it isn't true. It isn't diverse. It isn't okay. 

Preorder your copy of Everyday People on Amazon!

I always try to be inclusive in my storytelling but I can't tell a story well that comes from a place I've never really been. "Write what you know," is all we can do, although the more gifted storytellers are able to discover untold imaginative treasures in that reality. And I am inclined to believe that if more people were telling their stories and writing what they know, we would all know more.


Everyday People: The Color of Life - A Short Story Anthology is made up of stories that dive deep into expectations, reasons, justifications, self-exploration, insights, hopes, fears, and identity. No two stories feel the same and yet they are all equally moving and engaging. 


I felt myself both missing and found in each story. 
As it is with all the greatest stories.

I am going to keep this book on my desk so I can revisit these feelings often.

I encourage you to get a copy so you can do the same. 


Hugs, smiles, and love!! 
Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)


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 Thank you, Books for the Soul, for giving me this great gift. I owe you one! 
Hopefully coffee and dancing one night. 
I would freaking love that!

Short Story: Lonely Spirit (Flash Fiction)

*Author's Note: I wrote this spooky short story in response to Chuck Wendig's most recent Flash Fiction Challenge - Create Your Own Monster.  I had fun trying to invent a monster, but I had even more fun watching my son edit this piece for me. He's got some serious skill! His ability to point out where the story was saying more than necessary and where there was not enough honestly surprised me. Also, I wonder if he tells all the other authors that their stories are cheesy? tee hee! 

I hope you enjoy Lonely Spirit. Be sure to check out some of the other invented monsters in the comment section over on Chuck's blog and maybe even write one of your own! Hugs! ~Tsara

Lonely Spirit

“What’s that man, mommy?”

She sits at the edge of the woods, her bum soaked from the damp ground. Over and over she hears his tiny tinny voice: “What’s that man, mommy?”

Her arms float up involuntarily, reaching for her son, desperately willing him to appear and join his sweet sweet voice which she replays in her heart, trying to believe that if she never lets it go he’ll come back. That man will give him back.

But she doesn’t know which one in this forest of possibilities is him.

*

“What’s that man, mommy?” Dylan asks, eyes looking curiously out the front picture window of their home, toward the forest.

“What man?” Ramona questions, looking up from the nature magazine she’s been flipping through, comparing last year’s winning photos to her own recent submission.

Both of her boys have vivid imaginations. Particularly Dylan. At four years old he seems capable of building worlds with his imagination that Ramona herself would love to photograph.

But he’s never imagined seeing a man out the window before. Ramona feels the hairs on her neck stand up – existing perhaps only for moments of mommy fear – and her heart beats quickly. “Where?” she asks Dylan while walking toward the window carrying a confidence constructed out of pretend.

“Like a tree. In the woods. Oh, it’s the tree-man!” Dylan exclaims, suddenly uninterested in the window and finished with the topic.

Ramona purposely breathes a sigh of relief meant to tell her not to be afraid. Obviously, a tree looks to her big-haired boy like a man and he let his mind bring it to life.

But Ramona still feels a fringe of fear and walks the perimeter of her small house, looking carefully out every window into the woods that surround them. Living in nature is delightful (not to mention convenient) for a nature photographer and single mom of two wildly wonderful boys. Hidden out here, away from most of the dangers of man, was not only affordable but also a purposeful choice. Allowing her sons to explore freely was one of the most important things to her as a mom. But she hadn’t fooled herself into believing that no dangerous people would ever find them out here. Or that nature herself was without danger.

“You know what kiddo? We should get your brother to join us and check out the tree you’re talking about.”

Ramona’s suggestion is more for a change of mood than an interest in the tree, but Dylan is thrilled to introduce her to the tree. “Darrin!” he hollers, “Let’s show mommy the man!”

As Dylan runs toward the bedroom that he shares with his brother Ramona feels the fear stir again. Darrin saw a man, too? Why hadn’t she followed up on those self-defense classes last year? Refusing to own any real weapons rarely felt like the wrong decision, but this evening felt differently.

Darrin came out of his room with an almost guilty expression. “You know about the man?” asked her ten year old almost shyly. 

Ramona’s mouth went immediately dry. “Get your hair out of your eyes,” she croaked instinctively. These words were uttered out of habit and yet she also felt an almost frightful need to see his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

Picking Dylan up she moved toward Darrin and glanced out the uncovered windows as she did. Damn that brilliant idea to shun blinds or curtains or anything else that blocked nature from their view. When she had made that point to her boys she’d felt clever. Rather than complain about being broke, she’d turned it into a statement. It was beginning to feel like a dangerous statement.

“Not a man, a tree,” Darrin explained. “But, like a tree-man, sort of. It’s hard to explain. He’s just lonely. He just wants people to talk to.”

Ramona stared at Darrin feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. It was a game! Oh, thank God!

“Oh, a tree-man? That makes sense. I’ve always known trees had spirits and personalities. But how can he be lonely? Look at that forest!”

Dylan giggled and wriggled out of Ramona’s arms, then ran to the front door. “Come on,” he called. “See tree-man!”

“Don’t…” Darrin whispered. “Wait for me.”

Ramona shook her head in appreciation, still willing the heebee-jeebees to settle down and stop prickling her skin. “Darrin, go out with your brother. I’ll be right there. The sun’s going down and I think I can get some gorgeously lit pictures of your tree-man.”

Darrin didn’t need to be asked, though, and had already donned his old sneakers. Letting his hair fall back over his eyes he followed the excited energy of his little brother carrying a nervous energy of his own. As she watched her oldest son close the door behind him Ramona felt his unusual nervousness fill the room. Had the two of them turned this game into something scary?

Or, and it surprised Ramona to hear herself wonder this, maybe the nervousness had nothing to do with this “tree-man” and everything to do with what Darrin had been up to before they’d called to him. She hadn’t ever caught her ten-year-old chatting inappropriately online or anything of that sort. But there was a first time for everything. She’d always felt pretty safe in that regard because he didn’t really have a lot of outside influences. But, of course, he had some.

Ramona grabbed the camera from her bedroom and then decided to take a quick peek in the boy's room before meeting them outside. Not snoop exactly, just peek.

The beds weren’t made, that was certainly not unusual. Heck, Ramona didn’t ever make her own bed and would have been far more uncomfortable if the beds were made. A video game was paused on the small television screen, the image of a black werewolf stood almost still, bouncing slightly and looking around; menacing without movement. Maybe this rented game was what had caused the nervousness.

On the floor, Ramona recognized some pictures she’d seen Darrin drawing the other day, but now they had more meaning.

They were drawings of a tree-man. He was truly frightening, not a Mother Nature spirit type like what she imagined when walking in the woods surrounding the house. This was menacing. Mean.

And he looked lonely.

Ramona felt the fear well up again. Was this something for a child psychiatrist? No. She didn’t believe that. But she was feeling a strange fear of the picture that she couldn’t explain even to herself.

Leaving the drawings where they lay she headed quickly for the door.

“Boys,” she called out, heading in the direction of the fire pit. Even without a fire burning she knew that’s where they would be.

Indeed, that’s where they had been spending most of their evenings these past few weeks. Why was she just now realizing this? The fire pit, right near the edge of the woods, right out the window where Dylan had asked about the man.

They stood there now, looking out into the woods, surrounded by a light breeze, the sound of crickets, and the smell of old campfire.

“He’s mad at me,” Darrin explained as Ramona got closer.

The sun was receding to the left of them, tinting the sky a light pink that rarely failed to move them into a thoughtful quiet. But tonight it colored Ramona’s mood, mocking her with a feeling of weakness. Suddenly she felt alone out here in the woods, only her to protect them.

“Why would he be mad, honey?” Ramona asked, bringing the camera to her eye so she could look into the woods with an ability to focus.

Darrin was digging his sneakered toe into the grass at his feet, an entirely uncommon habit for him. 

Dylan had picked up a stick and was using it as a sword, fighting the mosquitos and smiling winningly at his victories.  

“I was supposed to bring Dylan yesterday, but I changed my mind.” Darrin looked up from his feet and into the woods. Ramona could feel her son’s fear now, but there was nothing she could see in the woods. Sure, lots of trees and weeds. But no men.

“Where’s that man now, Darrin?” Dylan asked absentmindedly. “He’s lonely, remember? He needs my imagination and my stories.”

Ramona began to see this for what it was. A child’s game, enhanced by scary rented video games. Time to put on her big girl pants and stop it before it grew into something permanently damaging. As children’s games sometimes do.

“Okay, boys, cute game. But now we’re going inside to watch a family movie. How ‘bout a Pirate Movie?”

“Ya!” Dylan poked Darrin with his stick and laughed.

Darrin shrugged, trying to feign indifference, but he was already headed toward the house stealing furtive fearful glances into the dark woods.

“And first thing tomorrow I’m returning that rented game, buddy.”

“No!” Darrin whined, suddenly unconcerned with the forest and purely worried about the game. “I haven’t beaten the game yet! One more day, please!”

Ramona didn’t feel like arguing so she said nothing. Instead, she scooped Dylan’s snuggly four-year-old body into her arms and said, “Anyway, I don’t want to share your imagination and stories with the tree-man. I want them all for me!” She then kissed and kissed his soft, soft cheeks.

*

Darrin stood quietly at the window, watching his mom call out silently to the trees. He wanted to hold her and tell her he was sorry. He wanted her to hold him and tell him it was okay.

But he wasn’t all the way sorry. The tree-man had been lonely. And for a while, it was enough that the boys would sit and talk with him while he stayed hidden in the shadows. But Dylan’s stories had captivated and obsessed the tree-man, making him bigger. He started to frighten Darrin with questions and requests. Could he keep Dylan? He didn’t need mom or Darrin, but he needed Dylan with his unlimited imagination and energy. He became dangerous and threatening but promised to disappear if he could have Dylan. Only Dylan.

He wasn’t all the way sorry because he knew that he had helped the tree-man and saved himself and his mom. And anyway, Dylan liked the tree-man.

He wasn’t all the way sorry, but he was all the way sad. And he knew it wasn’t going to be okay.

He closed his eyes and whispered with his mom, “What’s that man, mommy? What’s that man?”

*

The End 

Autism Answers with Tsara Shelton (Facebook)