Though I lived only two years in Bay City, Michigan (1975-77) as a very young boy, I’m able to visit it occasionally and still do to this day.
I have relatives there, an aunt and uncle I’m fond of. I’m likewise fond of Bay City in an absent way, because it hardly ever changes, and this comforts me. I lived in Toledo, Ohio from 1982-96—my formative years—but upon return find my old stomping grounds greatly built up, much altered, and far busier. Traffic on McCord and Central is crazy now. My little sister’s elementary school is gone. Big box stores are stacked one on top of each other far as the eye can see; condo developments and townhouses, meanwhile, are squeezed into any remaining space. I strain to locate familiar landmarks. Semi-rural is now urban.
By contrast, Bay City is roughly the way I left it in 1977. The churches, the corner bars, the old lumber baron mansions on Main, are all still there along with my old house on Sherman—repainted, but hardly changed and a hundred years old by now. The house had a creepy old coal room and woodwork, good wood which you can’t afford these days. My upstairs bedroom faced the street.
My aunt and uncle live further east, in Essexville, and have lived there in the same house since 1976. Details have changed, of course, but the essentials remain the same; I am able to visit the past again, my past, as soon as I step through the door.
My personal belief is that autistics spend much of their lives in the past—is their ability to retain names, dates, places, and events because they wish to hold onto something familiar in the face of continuous change, if only in memory? Maybe. Autistics are not fond of change, and I’m more the rule than the exception. But I’ve grown more tolerant of change as I’ve grown older, seeing it much like weather—complain if you must, but understand it’s happening anyway, and prepare for it if possible.
My aunt and I get along famously; to this day she remains one of the easiest people for me to talk to, perfectly willing to segue from the present to the past in our conversations, from topic to topic almost without pause.
During my last visit I think we set a world record talking, from about one in the afternoon until two in the morning. We only stopped for dinner and a brief visit from one of my cousins and her husband.
It was a social filibuster. Strom Thurmond holds the record in 1957 for 24 hours and 18 minutes against the Civil Rights Act. My aunt and I managed 11-12 hours by comparison. We did not cover politics.
We agreed Bay City was still mostly the same, but my aunt said that I had changed—for the better. In what way? Well, you’re comfortable in your own skin now, she said. Didn’t I recall my fidgetiness in company, the restless hands picking, the fleeting eye contact? The need to suddenly leave the room and go elsewhere without explanation?
Yes, now that she mentioned it, I did remember. And other things as well: autistic meltdowns when I was younger that later became somewhat more socially acceptable shutdowns; infodumps of information on uninterested parties; the obsessive interests; the cockeyed sense of humor; the aversion to all things new: what, try different food, are you insane?
Remarkably, neither of us were tired by the time two-o-clock rolled around but felt that we had to go to bed at some point. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s social conditioning or habitual masking but I lay there in the dark of the spare bedroom and tried hard to recall what I’d been like before my informal diagnosis in 2015. It wasn’t easy.
I think I was a decent person. My chief trait was loyalty. If you’re autistic and have a real friend, it’s a blood bond—very serious business—because you will likely never have many. My youth, it seems, was a long career as faithful sidekick to various protagonists, and not all of them good people. Not all of them were Frodo or Batman in need of Samwise or Robin.
The past is a foreign country, to quote L.P. Hartley, they do things differently here. Even after all these years, Bay City remains the same. I’ve become the foreign country. I’m the one who does things differently now.
Mike Minnis is a guest blogger and client. His books can be purchased on Amazon. Visit his website at: www.michaelminnisbooks.com/index.htm
I have relatives there, an aunt and uncle I’m fond of. I’m likewise fond of Bay City in an absent way, because it hardly ever changes, and this comforts me. I lived in Toledo, Ohio from 1982-96—my formative years—but upon return find my old stomping grounds greatly built up, much altered, and far busier. Traffic on McCord and Central is crazy now. My little sister’s elementary school is gone. Big box stores are stacked one on top of each other far as the eye can see; condo developments and townhouses, meanwhile, are squeezed into any remaining space. I strain to locate familiar landmarks. Semi-rural is now urban.
By contrast, Bay City is roughly the way I left it in 1977. The churches, the corner bars, the old lumber baron mansions on Main, are all still there along with my old house on Sherman—repainted, but hardly changed and a hundred years old by now. The house had a creepy old coal room and woodwork, good wood which you can’t afford these days. My upstairs bedroom faced the street.
My aunt and uncle live further east, in Essexville, and have lived there in the same house since 1976. Details have changed, of course, but the essentials remain the same; I am able to visit the past again, my past, as soon as I step through the door.
My personal belief is that autistics spend much of their lives in the past—is their ability to retain names, dates, places, and events because they wish to hold onto something familiar in the face of continuous change, if only in memory? Maybe. Autistics are not fond of change, and I’m more the rule than the exception. But I’ve grown more tolerant of change as I’ve grown older, seeing it much like weather—complain if you must, but understand it’s happening anyway, and prepare for it if possible.
My aunt and I get along famously; to this day she remains one of the easiest people for me to talk to, perfectly willing to segue from the present to the past in our conversations, from topic to topic almost without pause.
During my last visit I think we set a world record talking, from about one in the afternoon until two in the morning. We only stopped for dinner and a brief visit from one of my cousins and her husband.
It was a social filibuster. Strom Thurmond holds the record in 1957 for 24 hours and 18 minutes against the Civil Rights Act. My aunt and I managed 11-12 hours by comparison. We did not cover politics.
We agreed Bay City was still mostly the same, but my aunt said that I had changed—for the better. In what way? Well, you’re comfortable in your own skin now, she said. Didn’t I recall my fidgetiness in company, the restless hands picking, the fleeting eye contact? The need to suddenly leave the room and go elsewhere without explanation?
Yes, now that she mentioned it, I did remember. And other things as well: autistic meltdowns when I was younger that later became somewhat more socially acceptable shutdowns; infodumps of information on uninterested parties; the obsessive interests; the cockeyed sense of humor; the aversion to all things new: what, try different food, are you insane?
Remarkably, neither of us were tired by the time two-o-clock rolled around but felt that we had to go to bed at some point. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s social conditioning or habitual masking but I lay there in the dark of the spare bedroom and tried hard to recall what I’d been like before my informal diagnosis in 2015. It wasn’t easy.
I think I was a decent person. My chief trait was loyalty. If you’re autistic and have a real friend, it’s a blood bond—very serious business—because you will likely never have many. My youth, it seems, was a long career as faithful sidekick to various protagonists, and not all of them good people. Not all of them were Frodo or Batman in need of Samwise or Robin.
The past is a foreign country, to quote L.P. Hartley, they do things differently here. Even after all these years, Bay City remains the same. I’ve become the foreign country. I’m the one who does things differently now.
Mike Minnis is a guest blogger and client. His books can be purchased on Amazon. Visit his website at: www.michaelminnisbooks.com/index.htm
