Having passed the paper anniversary of my blog, I celebrate the beginning its second year. Thanks to all of you who have dropped by and special thanks to those who've stayed. Of the two hundred and more who come by monthly, some stop but once, others several times. Like butteflies, they light briefly only to return later that month. They like my rocky garden here among the leafy growth and lily of the valley.

Beyond my garden, a world of smoke and mirrors. By months end, forces in Iraq down 90,000 from January 2009 with forces in Afghanistan up 30,000--with a bemoaned draw down to begin there a year from now--while a transitional force of 50,000 stay on in Iraq. And when all the balls settle from the air, the actual difference in troops in the two countries to the best of my count is, overall, a draw down of 30,000. And I ask myself is there something wrong with this picture? Why did I think a draw down would be 90,000 from the two theatres? Why was I so confused as to think of them as one? Was there really anything wrong in my doing so?

Now the chess pieces move from a corridor in Iraq--where deaths were fewer--to one in Afghanistan--where deaths increase as more of our military fall. Surely this cannot be what I wanted--what I had in mind when Obama said a draw down of 90,000. Am I alone in this thought. Surely not.

Yet hope springs anew that the Gulf oil spill has been topped and stopped. Hopefully forever.

And New York State now has a budget! Relying on spending cuts while avoiding borrowing, last night New York State passed its 2011 budget. Although 125 days late, it have been worth the fight as reputedly it will close the $9.2 billion deficit, eliminating the likelihood of New York claiming bankruptcy any time in the near future. Definitely news to applaud.

But on to lighter things: Over the weekend in Rhinebeck, New York, Chelsea Clinton and Marc Mezvinsky exchanged vows in a story book wedding that turned the town on its ear with excitement and preparation. All that week prior through the day following there were the constant reports of sightings of Hillary or Bill or Madeline. Even stories of how many of the Mezvinskys chose to stay in an elite but quiet bed and breakfast--where one of the staff in the school where I do therapy managed to grab a part time job on the hope some of the Clintons might also stay there. And my son and one of my grandsons wound up in some of the Bill Clinton in Rhinebeck UTube and TV clips. (My son is the guy with dark beard and a camera. My grandson is that handsome blond boy with the longish locks.) As for me, I had hoped to do a book signing at the Zen Dog on the day of the big event, but I was unable to pull it off as they do not open until August 8.

Roberta in Po-Town, Schleppin'

Serendipity recently has led to three books I've read feeding into the theme of the psychology of war and the military:

--War, the documentary commentary by Sebastian Junger, is dedicated to the realities and psychology of Americans serving in the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan.

--The Human Stain by Philip Roth includes among its all-compelling characters, Lester Farley, a returning veteran of Viet Nam so overwhelmed by PTSD that his own behaviors cause to visit upon him no second thoughts, regardless of their extremity.

--And now Watery Grave, a paperback I acquired somehow. It has that dry feeling about it and is brown around the edges. Its author is Bruce Alexander. It was published in 1996, tauted as A Berkley Prime Crime Book. And where does this book of crime take me? Somewhat to my surprise, directly to a discussion of the psychology of the military.

This time, however, the year is 1769 and the action centers around a death witnessed on a frigate of the English Royal Navy. There, everything is different.

Well, not quite entirely.

In contrast to today, conscription for the English Royal Navy in the eighteenth century as characterised in the book consisted of the brutal kidnapping of twelve to fourteen year old males from shore to shipboard. Once on board, they were expected to work as men, conforming, in the process, to military norms. Those who failed to do so, faired poorly. 

Another area of interest explored in Watery Grave is military law and, in particular, the efficiency of the military tribunal in contrast to the complexity and greater flexibility of English civil law. The results smack of bitter satire, offering by no means a positive comparison for the system of tribunals.

Watery Grave is a fascinating story of the motivations of the classes. And into the mix, a blind judge teams up with a mother willing to facilitate the chance for her son to join the uncertainy of life on a military frigate. In doing so, she hopes to help her offspring to do as he would choose while preventing his uncertain past from hampering his prospects for future. 

As for the Judge, Sir John, an extremely well-portrayed tragic character, larger than life, yet, oh so human.

Roberta in Po-Town, Looking to a drawn down

I am not doing therapy. It is the second week of a two week break before summer school. Still resting up.

The end of the school year was grueling. In the last week I think I wrote for thirty-plus hours over the course four days. If you are not a writer, this may not sound like much of a feat, but as writing is my business (so to speak), I think its a humongous number. For instance, when I am working on a book, my schedule is nine in the morning to one in the afternoon, Monday through Thursday. More than that and I become a zombie. And the more I go over sixteen hours a week the longer I remain one.

But it was an odd end of year. My first in this setting where I found most of the students' evaluations to be either incomplete or outdated. So I wound up with seventeen to do all toll. The eval results helped me to write better IEPs for 2010-2011. But there was no time in the year to write them up. So, in addition to IEP updates and regular monthly summaries on the twenty or so students on my caseload, I also finished some seven evaluation write ups. It was they that did me in.

My experience has been that the analysis of the test results and then the need to summarize the findings succinctly and simply is extremely mentally fatiguing and for me results rapidly in brain-drain.

So the first week I of my vacation rested. No choice. Which is not to say I did nothing. Just nothing too heavily mental like writing . . . although I did edit some paragraphs to be used on the cover of Drum Machine which kept me up until 1:30 a.m. on at least one night. Then on another night I again pushed the envelope by communicating online with Corinne with Smith Publications about developing some kind of a media blitz for Jolt . . .except given my funds for the effort at this time, the word blitz has to be an exaggeration.

But here I am in Port Henry, New York, where there is almost always a breeze. And as my house overlooks Lake Champlain from the west, the weather is generally dryer and cooler than most places around.

Can you imagine? Almost everyone in Port Henry goes without air conditioning. That's because when one might be needed is usually only a week or two a summer. I do, however, have some ceiling fans which I use at times. But last night they were not needed. The temps dropped into the fifties and around three I had to get up to close the windows because the cold wouldn't let me sleep.

I should be doing nothing, whatever that is. But I have this need to blog. Like maybe someone is waiting to hear what I have to say. It's probably an illusion, but no matter, that's me.

Roberta in Port Henry, Workin' on Chillin'

It's Memorial Day weekend. Life, while ever interesting, crawls and I wonder if others lives are similar in texture and given to hills and valleys rather than ragged peaks and cliffs.

Never having been one to set easy objectives, most of my projects take months or years. As such, news along away is simply small blurbs like: I met Jesse Saperstein. Or, last night near the FDR home I dined in a place filled with GIs and their families. Or, I'm reading War by Sebastian Junger. Or I sent an email off to Lorna Tychostup in Iraq to let her know I was thinking of her. 

But somehow on this Memorial Day weekend, they are related. All stories of people struggling or fighting, each on his or her own front: Jesse on Asperger's, the military in their odd search for peace, Sebastian and Lorna on the search-for-truth-humanity-and-understanding one.

So did I tell you I met Jesse Saperstein? Just happened into B&N when he was doing a local-author book signing. Wonderful guy. Pretty much who he says he is. Honest, unflinching, with high expectations. When I told him what a wonderful book Atypical is, it was through tears that welled in my eyes as I was reminded of his courage and determination.

Once Saperstein learned I was a speech language pathologist, he queried me on my take on prognosis in Asperger's Syndrome. We discussed brain plasticity through the lifespan and though I have not done therapy with people with AS who were older than twenty-one, I could attest to the fact that with motivation, intervention, and support, its symptoms continued to ameliorate over time from which I hypothesized the possibility of continued growth and positive change over a life time. Chin up, Jesse. You're very young and look at what you have already accomplished.

Oddly, Jesse's mom had referred him to this web site so he had read the reference to his book I had written (Blog for 4/14/10). . . which he quoted from by rote, pretty much verbatim. Said he liked it. Told me he thought I write well and that blogging was something he didn't think he could do. (Well, not yet:)

We hugged before we parted. It was only appropriate.

Then there were the military families. Men in their pale Desert Storm fatigues. Women with their '40's hair styles. Beautiful children. Most were meer toddlers. Babbling. Trying out first steps. A reminder that no matter how far away the war is physically, it's really here.

And then there is my reading of War by Sebastian Junger. He's the NYTimes photojournalist (video) and author of The Perfect Storm. Very special . . . videoed hours in the Korengal Valley and then in War wrote about it pretty much as a he-said-they-did-I saw report. Which is possibly the reason I can handle it. Just as years ago I was able to read Stephen Crane's Red Badge of Courage.  

I wrote to Lorna how I hate war. Hate the thought of it. Yet the dearest, most devout, kindest family man and fire chief, my uncle Arthur, fought in WWII, almost starved there, wound up with malaria, and shared with me in a special letter how the question of having enough food to eat can lead a man to kill in battle. Heart rending.

So far I've finished the section in War on Fear. I'm not sure I can tackle the one on Killing. I probably will.

In my work as a speech-language pathologist I've known a lot of kids. Many remain memorable for their special skills or the endearing things they did.

Some days were longer than others and only the laughter got us through. Sometimes it was the mild sense of being entertained. Like today when a boy with whom I work drew a picture of a child with only one ear.

The student, a ten year old with special needs, apparently had developed a sense of perspective and recognized that when the head is turned to the side, two eyes remain visible but one ear may be hidden. So when the boy drew a person and looked at the results, he pointed to the side to the right of the paper where no ear was visible.

"There's an ear there," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "It's on the side. Where you can't see it."

"Well," he said. "There really is an ear there."

After a bit of thought, he again picked up the pencil and drew an arrow pointing left to the side where the ear was out of view and near the arrow's end he wrote, "ear" and put the pencil down. He looked at it a bit more, picked up the pencil and above the word "ear" he wrote "left."

Yup. There it was what we couldn't see: the left ear on the right side of the head as it faced us.

. . . .Then there was the boy who always tied a string to the corner of his pictures and carried them homeward like kites.

. . . And the one who started on the left side of the page and never lifted his pencil and drew the most elaborated pictures of people and scenery while never lifting his pencil from the paper until he had reached the right edge of the page and so was done.

Each of these children was some mom's child and special in his own way.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms of the world wherever you are.

You are all special.

Roberta in Po-town, Remembering her mom