Fiddy

Our summer adventures started in May, with a certain milestone birthday. We celebrated Mike with a surprise party, and in retrospect, scheduling said party 10 days after the birthday was an act of genius, since I spent his birthday weekend with a still-contagious case of pneumonia.

Mike's friend/former coworker Stacey used a golf game to get him out of the house. Somehow, even though she gave him a 10-minute head start, Stacey arrived at the party before he did. [Insert elderly driver joke here. We did.]

He was greeted by this:

Best. Party favor. Ever.

My sister Heather introduced me to the Face Kebab when she had a bunch of them made for my brother-in-law Kevin's 40th. I knew we needed them for Mike too. Since we still have quite a few of them left, it's possible the kids will all go as Mike for Halloween.

He ditched the head gear as soon as he could.

The party location was Putnam Lane's usual site for shenanigans: the shared driveway area across the street from our house. One driveway held the food (including County Line barbecue), another held the band, hidden behind a garage door until showtime. Their mandate: To play as many Who songs as they could.

Mike joined the band for a few numbers

He wasn't the only one enamored with the bongos. Leah was particularly enamored, and the band was really good to her.

The festivities continued well into the night. The next morning, Mike wasn't the only old who might have been feeling his age.

Some partygoers were exhausted by 11 or so ...

... And then found a fifth wind and kept going.

Not in my backyard

One of the hot topics in my news feed last week was a hateful, anonymous screed directed toward an Ontario family living with autism. I've mentally responded to the writer about 15 different ways, sometimes like a trucker, other times with a lacerating monologue (think West Wing in its heyday). It wasn't just the writer's vicious words that upset me -- the letter itself was a reminder that Leah's world may never be completely insulated from intolerance.

I left those responses in my head, because taking the time to type them felt akin to giving that writer more energy than he or she deserves. Soon another, happier thought rose alongside the anger: Not in my backyard. Whatever happens in the wider world, in this neighborhood, Leah is safe. We have awesome neighbors. And the good people are the ones who deserve the words, not the sociopaths.

Leah flaps and vocalizes and sometimes delivers 'yes' or 'no' answers in threes. Sometimes she doesn't answer at all when spoken to -- one thing she has in common with many 13-year-olds. At our neighbors' houses, she has made herself at home in upstairs bedrooms and in backyard hammocks and swings, usually without taking the trouble to ask permission. Once we had to stop her from breaking into the home of her favorite cat because she wanted to say hello.

How do the neighbors respond? With acceptance. With smiles. Sometimes with kindness we may never fully repay. Wherever the fun is on Putnam Lane, our family feels welcome. This week's story reminded me that we can't take that for granted.