Angel on the Porch: Story of a Loving Autistic Family

By Craig deSteiguer and Ann Carr

The first of a trilogy of three book about an autistic boy born in a Jewish refugee family from the Warsaw ghettos during WW II who learns to read and write poetry and becomes a successful writer and literary professor teaching other handicap persons the art of poetry and self-confidence from the heart.

"Poetry is the abstract language of the expressed rhythmic heart and it's fractured voices of the mind when emotionally spoken."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781639618392

Book preview

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Angel on the Porch

Story of a Loving Autistic Family

Craig deSteiguer and Ann Carr

Copyright © 2022 by Craig deSteiguer and Ann Carr

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

To my autistic brethren—to all born in the world of autism—to know we, as mankind, believe in you and appreciate your intelligence, hidden talents, worldly kindness to share your undevoted love given to all of us with the hope that our life’s journey shall be blessed as yours.

To the family of the past. With the greatest of human kindness and memories, to all lives lost in the Holocaust and their memories sketched in the generation of the future, may mankind never again shall perish in such domination.

Introduction

The story you are about to read is a wonderful southern love story of a young man born with autism, his Jewish heritage, his devout ability, and determination to learn and write poetry from his heart and faithful devoted love to his life’s strength, Anna. This is their story.

Chapter 1

The quietness of a warm springtime breeze soothingly blows in a time of peace and growth of mindful creativeness through one’s mind again in life. This was just a few years after the Second World War had ended for world civilization. Life finally settled down on Garland Street, a South Park neighborhood in this southern hometown city. Our street was a paved cul-de-sac street, best known as a dead-end street. It was lined with wooden A-framed pitched houses painted white—some single story and some two story—making the neighborhood stand alone in its postwar track housing boom lined with drainage ditches that were covered with grass to be mowed that filled during sudden rain bursts, protecting everyone’s yards and homes from flooding where crawfish flourished out of little mud castles. Approaching driveways were two strips of concrete heading toward a detached wooden garage. These were days when the mailman would walk through the neighborhood and deliver mail directly to the mailbox attached to the front of the house, and the milkman would drive down the street in his white Daisy Milk truck and stop in front of houses, walk to the backdoor with old-style neck bottles of fresh milk and cream good for a few days. All houses were fenced with new stylish hurricane metal fences as backyards were gracefully planted with soft St. Augustine grass and nice shaded trees for people to picnic under on holidays and family gatherings. Of course, our home had two large shading oak trees in the front yard. Our front porch, a Victorian decor, was large with comfortable easy chairs for relaxing in the afternoons and evenings after supper.

I enjoyed my midafternoon reading periods, sitting on the shaded front porch, reading short stories and poetry with a glass of minted iced tea to sip on, feeling the coolness of a slight breeze coming across the shaded porch. While I was reading this afternoon, I saw a young man in his adolescent years mowing the yard with every effort in each push of the mower. These old push mowers were hard to cut grass with as the blades turned in equal rotation. Of course, a little oiling always helped. The young man was the son of the neighborhood gardener who worked for everyone up and down the street, planting bushes and mowing yards to earn an honest living in his trade. Today, his son was given the task of mowing my yard, raking up, and cleaning the front lawn into its natural beauty. I was of course sitting on the front porch, deep in thought, and defining the interpretation of the poetry I was reading with the flowing beautiful lyrics of the author’s meaning, not really paying attention to the activity in the front yard when the young man, with sweating forehead, came up, stepped onto the porch, and asked if he could sit and rest a while from the hard work of the push mower in the spring warm air.

Of course, you can young man. Please take a seat and rest a while. Would you care for a glass of fresh iced tea? I asked as I motioned for him to sit on the other porch chair.

He said, Oh yes, please, and thank you.

I called for the housekeeper to bring out with another glass to pour him some iced tea from the pitcher.

As he drank the tea down quickly from being dehydrated and sweat dripping from his brow, you could tell he was tired and needed a rest. I introduced myself as Mr. Stevens and shook hands with him as he slowly stuttered back at me that his name was Adam. Adam was about fifteen years old. He was the son of a gardener. He was in his last year of middle school before advancing upward into high school. He was a tall, lanky, handsome young man and very polite in his mannerism.

He was considered handicapped by society in this day and time because he was autistic. Adam was diagnosed with a milder case with a higher-than-normal IQ. He was slow in processing his thinking pattern and in his speech, as though he were searching for the proper word to say and pronounce correctly. But in other conditions, he analyzed the thought of something in more detail quickly. In respect to his birth condition, children of this nature are generally highly intelligent and so misunderstood by the general population. As slow in many cases as one would think, an autistic person can be very curious and questionable about life itself and things in general. He will almost stare at you as you speak to truly understand your emotion to the words you are speaking. They are silently gifted in so many ways that have enhearten the lives of so many others.

Adam saw the several books laying on the porch table near where I was sitting and asked what I was reading, and I of course responded that I was reading poetry by a couple of famous poets. I in turn asked how he was doing in school and if he studied literature and poetry in class. He lowered his head in almost a shameful way and said, I am a slow reader and do not read aloud to my class. The teacher passes by me for others to read. I can read but slow in saying the words. He further said he did not remember ever reading or listening to poetry and did not know what poetry was. I asked if he would like me to read him a short poem so he could understand what verse was to poetry as in speaking. Of course, he shook his head yes. I read a short poem of a rhythmic nature to better define the beauty of writing and the smoothness of flowing words. I read slowly as to pronounce the words carefully and capture the expression and meaning of the emotion of the poem. Adam sat with a blank look on his face as though he was lost into another world and then turned and as he looked at me in the eyes. And he said, Those are beautiful words, and I understood some of the meaning. Can you tell me what poetry really is?

I told him that poetry has many different meanings because it comes from the heart and soul of the person writing it, and then it may mean something different to the others who are listening and interpreting it.

Of course, that definition was somewhat too deep for him to truly understand for the moment, and he would have to take time to comprehend it. I said there is a whole new world of poetry coming in each generation of life, and there were many old poems of centuries passed to read and learn about that are beautiful in meaning.

I asked Adam if he would like to read poetry and learn what the author was saying. With his slow speech, he said, I would like to do that and learn to read to children someday. The words are very pretty.

I said to him it was possible but would take a little time. I told him to start out reading short verses and taught him how to pronounce the words to capture the emotion.

Again, he stared with a blank look on his face of wonder and thought. I knew then he was seriously thinking about how to contemplate such a new experience in life.

Abruptly, Adam stood up and said in his very slow, stuttering speech, Thank you for the iced tea and the reading of poetry. It was very nice. But I have to finish mowing your front yard. He very politely excused himself, returned to the front yard, picked up the mower, and forced his body to push the mower over the yard, clipping the tops off in a harmonious way, leaving a smooth geometric carpet of grass. I resumed briefing through the books, looking for other poems to read, and enjoying the afternoon and spring breeze now with a scent of freshly mowed grass in the air.

The next afternoon, again I am sitting on the front porch reading when I heard a rake scratching the ground in quick concessions pulling leaves and cut grass into piles. As I looked out over the porch railing, I could see it was Adam in the yard with the rake. Apparently, he was unable to finish the complete job the day before and returned to finish cleaning up. I did not pay much attention after that. I dove back into my books and scanned for other short stories and poetry to mark as a possible selection