Connections (from July 7, 2011)

(This post has been edited beyond recognition on the original blog, so here's the previous version.  I didn't want to lose it.  Oh, how the butterflies in my stomach fly when I think about my reasons for altering this.  Anger, guilt, fear, and a desperate need to save the thinning threads of familial structure for Samantha's sake.)

I've written about the town my father grew up in and I spent so much time with my grandparents in before.  It's a little town, about the size of a postage stamp, nestled between Philadelphia and Atlantic City, a little town called Woodbine.  Yes, I am pretty sure it's the same Woodbine from which Woodbine House publishing gets it's name, but I can't confirm that anywhere, try as I may.

Woodbiners are no strangers to disability.  The Woodbine Developmental Center, opened in 1921, is a large intermediate care facility supporting developmentally disabled men and boys, and is also currently the primary source of employment in Cape May County.  The Developmental Center's residents would and can often be seen around town, with caregivers or even on their own, working and interacting in the community.  This surprises me, because the place is so small, its population so diverse and its poverty level so high.  Not like that should really have anything to do with anything, but somehow it still surprises me.  Most of the original families who came from Russia and settled the town in the late 1800s have gone (aside from ours in the form of my father), replaced by new immigrants and new families struggling to keep it, its one pizza place, its one restaurant, its two blinker lights and its volunteer fire department, alive. 

This past weekend, we visited Woodbine, making a trip to the beach and attending my high school reunion nearby.  As mentioned in my previous post, we went to pick blueberries on Saturday morning.  As we were leaving, the farm's owner shared with me that she hosts a summer program for young adults with developmental disabilities, a program that keeps them active and busy, doing something enjoyable and productive with their time, rather than sitting cooped up in a home somewhere or working a mindless, nothing-type job.  Steve spotted a young man he assumed had autism, interacting with one of the men who helps with the program.  The farm owner also revealed that she is the adoptive mother of 5, four of whom were born with fetal alcohol syndrome.  She had been drawn to Samantha for more of a reason than just seeing a cute 5 year old - she understood her. 

On Saturday afternoon, we went to the local ice cream stand on the main drag.  Seriously, this place has the BEST ice cream ever, and buggy picnic tables and a volleyball court outside to go and enjoy the day, enjoy the ice cream, enjoy being out in the fresh (humid) air.  As we sat at one of the tables ("Go 'way, bug!  Shoo!" said Samantha.  Then, smack!  "Got it!" - ugh, who taught her that?  Sure wasn't me, rescuer of all things creepy-crawly...), a young man in a white wifebeater and jeans, covered in tattoos (not the cool kind of tattoos, but the scary, gang-looking kind) over his arms, up his neck, onto his face, a man we would ordinarily have avoided, who we certainly avoided eye contact with, sat down at the table next to ours.  His voice was gruff as he called to someone in line, but we didn't look up to see who he was talking to (hoping for a woman or someone else less-threatening to join him), as we didn't want to attract any unwanted attention...  "Your little girl is beautiful," he said.  Huh?  You talking to us?  Crap.  I thanked him quickly, then looked back down at my vanilla peanut butter ice cream cone.  "I have a little cousin up in New York like her."  Aha!  There's that connection again!  He was then joined by another guy and two little boys, one of whom called him Dad.  Eavesdropping a bit on their conversation, I heard him tell his friend that he needed to get back to work at the Developmental Center.  Again, more connection.  I wonder how much his little cousin may have influenced his job choice...

We attended an outdoor event in town, last year, where we were approached by a young girl who spotted Samantha and said her baby brother is like her.  The last time we were in Woodbine, we spotted a young man with Down syndrome and his caregiver picking up a meal to go at the pizza place where we were having dinner.  A pizza place just down the road from the Developmental Center.  Nobody blinked an eye.  Just another day, just another customer.  Just part of everyday life in Woodbine.

Connections are everywhere, whether we see them right away or not.  If we know about those, in just this one little, tiny town, think about all those connections we never make but still exist all around us anyway.  Invisible, but comfortingly ever-present, waiting just as we are.