While talking with someone from a local agency, she asked me if I hadn’t written in a local publication. Your name seems familiar she said. Yes, for several years I wrote for this small monthly paper, mainly as an outlet after having written in Cincinnati and having met really interesting people.The sneak previews of swank fundraisers and zoo and museum attractions were good perks, as well.

Somewhere along the way up here, I started writing about an imaginary family – The Wickhams*- and their quirks. Quite frequently some of the members of the extended Wickham family resembled people here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse. I suppose if I were still writing about this genetic pool, an upcoming episode would involve an older member of the family on a wild and crazy theme park ride.

Anyway, when this lady asked me about writing, I had a feeling she wasn’t thinking of stories about the Moving VietNam Wall* or fairs or festivals or local economic conditions. I paused and then asked, “Wickhams?” Ah, that she recognized. Me and my Wickhams. Perhaps they are the ones thumping in the attic.

* See Stories from the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse folks are experiencing an emotional time these last few days – those of us who are regulars and those who check in on us or chat on the sidewalk corner. The middle grandson here, the one who is autistic and has other issues, has reached a stage in his needs where he is now on the path for residential care.

Like a person who was born blind, rather than having gone blind after experiencing the world of sight, this boy has never truly grasped the “what is real” part of life. He has become frustrated and more and more agitated and, unfortunately, more and more violent. This Sunday night, in an impulsive rage, he broke his mother’s wrist with the baluster from the banister. It was a defensive injury – the wrist part. He had been aiming for her head.

It is not something he would choose to do on a multiple choice test. It is not something he would think is an acceptable thing. But, more and more, he cannot choose and think. We are hoping that with professional and intensive treatment, he will get better.

His mother is heart-broken.

We would not have chosen this situation, but there was no choice . . . and here we are.

Now, we will go on with our stories and zaniness here because that is what life does – it goes on.