A Thorn in My Pocket: Temple Grandin's Mother Tells the Family Story by Eustacia Cutler Page B
Authors: Eustacia Cutler
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shop somewhere in the bowels of Boston. I hire a carnival Fire Engine, a pony and a small Ferris Wheel. That’s it. That’s all? Shouldn’t we have something more, something new and exciting? I talk it over with another mother.
“How about putting on a show during the lunch break?” I ask her. “We could charge admission and make some extra money.”
“Something geared to the younger children? Maybe a story like Ferdinand? Why not?”
“Ferdinand! Perfect! We’ll dress up the fathers and make them play matadors.”
“And sing a funny song to Carmen.”
“What a hoot! The kids’ll love seeing Dad make a fool of himself!”
By now, the Wampatuck Gang has picked up on our giggling excitement and is hopping all around us.
“We want to be in it too! Can we make scenery? Real scenery?”
“Yes, yes, we have to figure it out first!”
“I’ll call George MacLeany.” George is a Boston stage electrician. “I’ll see if he’ll lend us stage lights.”
I call George and he promises to bring stage lights the day before the fair and hang them for us.
“We can’t pay you,” I warn him.
“That’s OK. I’ll charge it to the circus.”
“Real lights!” the children squeal. “Real lights from the circus?”
We make up a script from Ferdinand and cast it. For rehearsals and scenery building, the school allows us full use of the auditorium every day after 3:00 p.m. The day before the fair, George arrives with lights and, most amazing of all, a flash pot.
“I thought you might like to play around with this?” A flash pot is a little gunpowder explosive connected to wires and lit by a ground spot. George demonstrates. “You throw the switch here, the gun powder goes off and the ground spot lights up the smoke. What color smoke do you want?” He holds out colored light gels to the children. “Pick a color, any color.” The children choose green. George throws the switch and the flash pot goes off with a green puff. The children pound each other and shriek. We swear them to secrecy, knowing full well they can’t wait to run outside and tell the whole neighborhood.
The show’s a great success. The fathers cavort around in matador capes singing: “Toreador-a, don’t spit on the floor-a. Use the cuspidor-a.” Someone’s child plays Ferdinand and sits under the cork tree smelling flowers and refusing the bull ring. Somebody’s mother plays his mother the cow, and sings, “I Didn’t Raise My Boy To Be a Soldier.” Then, a kindergartner in a black and yellow union suit buzzes on stage and stings Ferdy. POW! The green flash pot goes off, and Ferdy leaps into the bullring. I forget the rest. Ask Temple. I bet she can still sing the songs.
As usual Dick is annoyed.
“Why do you have to put on a play? Nobody else puts on a play at the school fair!” I keep my mouth shut and churn. Taking my silence for contrition, Dick continues. “Why do you have all these ideas? I don’t have them. You shouldn’t have them.” Then, in the following breath, “Everybody wants you. The children want you, Dedham Country Day School wants you, Sunday School wants you, and I want you.”
I feel a stab of distress for him. He’s in bad shape these days, but his temper’s grown much more ominous, leaving me swinging back and forth between genuine sympathy and genuine fright. The siblings, aware of it, are suffering from the constant undercurrent of anxiety.
Except for Temple, who at this moment is bicycling furiously around Wampatuck Circle, oblivious to everything but the bicycle kite she’s constructed. She’s hitched it onto the back of her bike but, as yet, can’t get up enough speed to make it lift out of the dust behind her.
“Rockabye Ferdy under a tre-e-e-e,” she sings, this time pedaling with all her might, faster and faster round Wampatuck Circle. “When you sit down, don’t sit on a bee!” The kite lifts and soars.
I leave the house, start the car, and head for Route 1, to Cambridge and
“How about putting on a show during the lunch break?” I ask her. “We could charge admission and make some extra money.”
“Something geared to the younger children? Maybe a story like Ferdinand? Why not?”
“Ferdinand! Perfect! We’ll dress up the fathers and make them play matadors.”
“And sing a funny song to Carmen.”
“What a hoot! The kids’ll love seeing Dad make a fool of himself!”
By now, the Wampatuck Gang has picked up on our giggling excitement and is hopping all around us.
“We want to be in it too! Can we make scenery? Real scenery?”
“Yes, yes, we have to figure it out first!”
“I’ll call George MacLeany.” George is a Boston stage electrician. “I’ll see if he’ll lend us stage lights.”
I call George and he promises to bring stage lights the day before the fair and hang them for us.
“We can’t pay you,” I warn him.
“That’s OK. I’ll charge it to the circus.”
“Real lights!” the children squeal. “Real lights from the circus?”
We make up a script from Ferdinand and cast it. For rehearsals and scenery building, the school allows us full use of the auditorium every day after 3:00 p.m. The day before the fair, George arrives with lights and, most amazing of all, a flash pot.
“I thought you might like to play around with this?” A flash pot is a little gunpowder explosive connected to wires and lit by a ground spot. George demonstrates. “You throw the switch here, the gun powder goes off and the ground spot lights up the smoke. What color smoke do you want?” He holds out colored light gels to the children. “Pick a color, any color.” The children choose green. George throws the switch and the flash pot goes off with a green puff. The children pound each other and shriek. We swear them to secrecy, knowing full well they can’t wait to run outside and tell the whole neighborhood.
The show’s a great success. The fathers cavort around in matador capes singing: “Toreador-a, don’t spit on the floor-a. Use the cuspidor-a.” Someone’s child plays Ferdinand and sits under the cork tree smelling flowers and refusing the bull ring. Somebody’s mother plays his mother the cow, and sings, “I Didn’t Raise My Boy To Be a Soldier.” Then, a kindergartner in a black and yellow union suit buzzes on stage and stings Ferdy. POW! The green flash pot goes off, and Ferdy leaps into the bullring. I forget the rest. Ask Temple. I bet she can still sing the songs.
As usual Dick is annoyed.
“Why do you have to put on a play? Nobody else puts on a play at the school fair!” I keep my mouth shut and churn. Taking my silence for contrition, Dick continues. “Why do you have all these ideas? I don’t have them. You shouldn’t have them.” Then, in the following breath, “Everybody wants you. The children want you, Dedham Country Day School wants you, Sunday School wants you, and I want you.”
I feel a stab of distress for him. He’s in bad shape these days, but his temper’s grown much more ominous, leaving me swinging back and forth between genuine sympathy and genuine fright. The siblings, aware of it, are suffering from the constant undercurrent of anxiety.
Except for Temple, who at this moment is bicycling furiously around Wampatuck Circle, oblivious to everything but the bicycle kite she’s constructed. She’s hitched it onto the back of her bike but, as yet, can’t get up enough speed to make it lift out of the dust behind her.
“Rockabye Ferdy under a tre-e-e-e,” she sings, this time pedaling with all her might, faster and faster round Wampatuck Circle. “When you sit down, don’t sit on a bee!” The kite lifts and soars.
I leave the house, start the car, and head for Route 1, to Cambridge and
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