As September ended I was involved in what seemed to be a minor traffic accident. I was rear-ended while driving our 18-year-old Jeep Cherokee. Unfortunately, the accident was too much for the Jeep: the frame was bent by the impact. The Jeep was the "real" last Cherokee Classic. Not a Sport. Not cheap decals of the model name. A 4.0L in-line six-cylinder 4-by-4 we took off-road and used for everything. It hauled furniture, cats, trees, bikes, friends, and family. Over the 18 years, it was like a family member. We knew it couldn't last forever, especially since moving to states with salted roads in the winter. But, we wanted it to keep running for another two or three years. Losing the Jeep is weird. I knew how it should sound. I knew how the steering and braking should feel. I could recognize its engine when my wife drove it to and from work. Now, it's sitting in a lot, waiting to be hauled away to an unceremonious ending. It doesn't seem fair, for some
At birth, doctors suggested I would be mentally disabled, in addition to the physical injuries I suffered. I have never been described as normal. “High-functioning autism” (HFA) is just another way to describe a few aspects of “me.” The autistic me is the creative me, the curious me, the complete me.