Sometimes the Waiting is the Best Part

I think I've written before that I have an autistic son. No, I should say my 22-year-old son has autism. Anyway, he is or does.

He's a bright, mostly-happy young man who does not quite get what the larger social world is all about. He tries his best to accept it, but has no real desire to "fit in" beyond the part-time jobs he has (and would just as soon not have). He loves numbers and data -- ask him about any element and he can tell you its number and atomic weight, ask him to name the presidents, ask him how many days till Christmas -- but simply has no interest in translating into something "useful."

He is a classic case of living in the moment but talking of the past.

He has a good sense of humor, but he takes awhile to process things. So he refrains from regularly joining in conversations, because he simply can't keep up, can't frame his responses quickly enough. So when he and I talk -- other than the few times one of us is sharing current personal issues like bed-time or piano practice -- we usually make the same jokes over and over, but with different iterations. Or sometimes we will re-visit a previous conversation, and go over it almost word for word,

This is especially the case as we stand outside the garage waiting for the van to take him to work. He leans against me and puts his hand in my pocket or his arm around my back or holds onto my hand -- this man who doesn't usually care much for physical contact -- and we re-discuss really mundane things, like why one should never stand under a tree during thunderstorm, what elements do what or who discovered them (I have learned so much, just to keep up), whether "one" is or is not a prime number, why the Milwaukee Brewers are a frustrating team to follow, how many days till Christmas, or even what is the best season. Things we talk about every day, the same way, same words, reaching the same conclusions.

In one sense it's a safe way to pass the time, but I think it's more than that. It's making good use of the time.

Many years ago, during summer vacation, I would accompany my traveling-salesman-dad on his "route." We would spend 4 or 5 days on the road, staying in small town hotels (such things thrived in those days). On some of those longer rides time would hang heavily (this was central Nebraska after all, mostly flat and filled with cornfields). Invariably at those moments we would drop back into some old conversation, about things that happened years before, or that our family had done, or things like re-visiting games played (and usually won) by the then-might Cornhusker college football team. We weren't saying anything new, the purpose was affirming common ground.

I picture those conversations as river rocks, subject matter rounded by the tumble of time, jagged edges worn off, safe to pick up and put down as needed.

I loved those talks with my dad as we waited to see the next town's water tower. I love these talks with my son as we wait for the van to roll into our driveway. I think my son does too. In fact, I know he does.