Now that I have long since reached the acceptance stage with my seventeen-year-old son Kyle and his autism, I’m able to enjoy the precious, wonderful quirks that make him so unique. His matter-of-fact approach to the oddities of life brings humor into even the most mundane or tense moments. I’m grateful for that. I look back at the early years when autism felt like a horrible intruder in our lives–a vicious thief– and now see a different side. Kyle is the greatest teacher, the most tender friend, and the sweetest surprise life has decided to give me.
A few weeks ago, for a Halloween activity, our family decided to venture into the “Haunted Forest.” It’s an outdoor spook alley loaded with creatures, ghouls, creaky shacks, junkyards, graveyards, and dark mazes. The younger kids were a bit nervous, but since I had gone through it before and survived, I knew it wasn’t over-the-top on gore or terror. It was a fun, creepy and spooky journey through tunnels and dark woods, while somehow remaining family-friendly. So as a group of eight, we paid for tickets and went into the gate.
We met our first evil hosts and were instructed to go down a path in total darkness. My ten-year-old clutched my hand, and my six-year-old clung to her daddy. Our teenagers hovered close. As we pushed ourselves along, feeling along the walls to guide us, Kyle called out, “Where’s the light switch? Hello? Light Switch?” And when we could see again and things got really eerie– with dark shadowy figures hiding and ready to spring– Kyle would laugh hysterically, for reasons known to only him. But most amusing was Kyle’s encounter with THE JUNKYARD MAN.
As we stepped into a dark junkyard with rising mist, a strange and horrible-looking fiend appeared. In reality, this was a guy in his twenties who had obviously spent many hours in makeup to become this hobbled, disfigured creature. Still, we shuddered as he scuffled toward us. “GET OUTTA MY JUNKYARD!” he snarled, waving a phony rifle. “GET OUTTA MY JUNKYARD!”
This is when Kyle approached him. “Excuse me, what is your name?”
This caught the creepy dude off-guard. “My NAME? I am JUNKYARD MAN!”
Kyle blinked, curiously. “Your NAME is Junkyard Man?”
“Yeah. NOW GIT OUT!”
“You mean your middle name is Yard?”
The junkyard man growled. He waved his rifle.
Kyle wasn’t deterred. “When is your birthday?”
Now the Junkyard man couldn’t possibly have known that Kyle was autistic, and that this is how he categorizes all the people he meets. Name. Birthdate. Then he commits the information to memory, making a mental reference file. It’s a file he can access years later and remember precisely. Kyle can run into people five years after meeting them and still recall their names and birthdates. So I could just envision the file that was being created right now in Kyle’s brain.
JUNKYARD MAN. First name: Junk. Middle Name: Yard. Last name: Man.
“My birthday?” the horrible fiend hissed. “I don’t gotta tell you that! GIT OUT! OUTTA MY JUNKYARD!”
“Kyle,” we whispered, “Come on, let’s get going.”
“But what is your birthday?” Kyle continued.
“You’re not gonna have any more birthdays if you don’t GIT OUT!”
Kyle didn’t move. This did not compute. People have birthdays. So the Junkyard Man must have one, too. It was only logical. Maybe the Junkyard Man couldn’t hear him. “WHAT IS YOUR BIRTHDAY?” Kyle asked, louder.
This is when the creepy dude seemed to get it. This was not an ordinary person, and the spooky banter didn’t work. He had to play along. “May 6, 1972.”
First Name: Junk. Middle Name: Yard. Last name: Man. Birthdate: May 6, 1972. Now the Junkyard Man was committed to memory. And we quickly left his territory. Kyle was satisfied. He had his information. And the Junkyard Man was satisfied too, but perplexed. He had to break character to get us “OUTTA HIS JUNKYARD.”
Autism vs. The Junkyard Man. Autism wins.
And with Kyle in our lives, our family wins.
Kristyn Crow is a picture book author and the mother of seven children. Learn more about her books by visiting her website, www.kristyncrow.com.
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