the end is not yet

Kids with special needs like autism are very schedule reliant. Change the schedule without warning and you risk a blowup. Because of that, social stories are very important. They're also very important to help soothe such a child when they really want to do something that it's not time to do yet.

At the camp I worked at for the last three summers, these social stories would often sound something like, "First we play games, then we have lunch, then we go swimming."

I woke up feeling particularly antsy last Friday. I was going to Kenny's Cottage after work. Kenny is a friend of my dad's and every summer for years, we've had the cottage for a week.

MSN was on in the background as I got ready. I keyed the following in for my username:

"First we pack, then we work, then we flee."

When work ended Friday, I fled. Right up to Tait's Island on Lake Manitouwabing near Parry Sound. It's a long drive by yourself, but I wasn't particularly bothered. I wasn't exactly seeking social comfort.

For a number of reasons - chiefly a brief stop-over at my parents' house and a minor fender-'bender' in Aliston - I didn't arrive until late. Late enough to start to worry my parents, who had been there since Tuesday and are still going to be there for a few days.

I stayed up to talk with them a bit and to read. Then I crashed.

I got up early on Saturday, though I don't know what time. My watch had been placed on the nightstand the night before, not to be looked at again.

I was on cottage time. For the uninitiated, it goes like this. You get up when you wake up. You eat when you're hungry. You swim when you want to. You sleep when you're tired. Time is measured by how much of the sky the sun can still traverse. Anything more precise just kills the cottage experience. This is all the more important when you're only there for a weekend.

After breakfast, we drove into Parry Sound so I could stalk through the secondhand bookstore in search of Parker books. I found one that met my criteria. I also picked up The Three Muskateers by Alexandre Dumas, And No Birds Sang and A Whale for the Killing by Farley Mowat.

We got back to the cottage and fixed ourselves lunch. I still felt very urban and was a little unsettled by that. My bare wrist kept floating up so I could check the time. The knot of tension in my shoulders hadn't left yet. I kept feeling like I had a full dayplanner of stuff to do.

A few minutes after realizing this, I was sitting on the end of the dock easing my feet gently into the cold lake. That's what did it. Abandoning the watch was the first part of the ritual. This was the completion. The tension drained away into the lake like it had never existed.

I'm never really at the cottage until my feet are in the lake.

It's kind of like how I'm never really camping until my hands have been plunged into the soil.

If I'm to relax on such mini-vacations, the rituals must be followed. Otherwise I'm just a slightly citified country boy going through the motions.

Sitting here at the computer, I can't help but notice that I know exactly what time it is, the tension's got a hold of the back of my neck and my dayplanner is full.

Grrrr.