It is Indigenous Peoples Day. We are in Vermont, ready to leave today to return home. Julia’s day center is closed today. It will rain for most of today and tomorrow. I hope to stop to do some food shopping on our way home and make butternut squash soup for tonight’s dinner.

There the scene is set. 

It disturbs me greatly that trump proclaimed today a celebration of “the original American hero, a giant of Western civilization, and one of the most gallant and visionary men to ever walk the face of the earth.” It goes on to say that “[u]pon his arrival, he planted a majestic cross in a mighty act of devotion, dedicating the land to God and setting in motion America’s proud birthright of faith.”

Why does he—or they because that man cannot speak a single coherent sentence. There are way too many grammatically correct sentences and way too much warped “history” to believe that trump had anything to do with the drafting of his proclamation.— but why does he need to lie ALL of the time?

Just to correct one of those lies of this single day: Columbus, landing in the Bahamas in 1492, did not erect any cross. Columbus and his crew landed and then spent time exploring other islands, including Cuba and Hispaniola, before returning to Spain. During this time, they exchanged goods with the native people, observed their culture, and searched for gold. It was gold and land, not god that the explorer searched for. This comes not from some revisionist version of the past but based on the abstract of Columbus’ own journal, made by Bartolomé de las Casas. The cross, possibly the one trump writes about located on Long Bay Beach on San Salvador Island, was erected in 1956.  

Much of what is written referring to today’s Letters from an American, Heather Cox Richardson’s Substack column. Her writing is good, clear, honest, and liberal. Read it.

That proclamation goes on to label the rest of us, those Americans who have not drunk the trumpian Kool-Aid, as “left-wing arsonists who have sought to destroy [Columbus’] name and dishonor his memory.” Is it arson to replace lies with some truth? Possibly some arson with a flaming sword of truth. I could paint some pictures of angels sweeping all his wicked lies away with flaming swords, but that sounds too much like Julia’s favorite manga series. Read Richardson. 

And back to Vermont.

Morning.  The sun did not make a dramatic entrance this morning, although I could have seen it from my perch here in bed.  No worries about that. It is blue—even the clouds are blue. The scene in light holds an incredible quiet, and I am most grateful.

Yesterday was a good day. 

I was pretty grumpy after picking Julia up from Zeno. Not to her but to myself.  She had ruined our weekend, but we had a lovely dinner at Barkeaters Restaurant in Shelburne.  Julia’s veggie curry and my chili were excellent, and Ed enjoyed his veggie burger.  We missed the Brussels sprout appetizer that I was lusting for, but I will be searching for some recipe for Crispy Brussels Sprouts (topped with a maple-Sriracha sauce, pickled apple, and crispy bacon) in the coming weeks. We each had an interesting drink, Julia’s a non-alcoholic fizzy cider mix, and slept well.  Okay, to finish the dinner description— Ed had a pumpkin maple beer (interesting to drink once a year), and my cider sangria was a very interesting treat (I could drink that more than once a year). 

Sunday morning, we visited the UU church in Burlington.  This is not at all a usual start of a vacation Sunday, but I felt a need for community and peace.  And the iconic New England church building sitting as it does at the top of Church Street beckoned.

We did well by going. The service was built around a short dharma talk by a Buddhist monk about the teachings of silence. It took me back to Quest and my dear friends in Madison and the healing of my soul that happened with the help of silence.  Afterwards, of course, there was coffee hour and the embrace of a community of chatty Unitarians. Although plunging into a new coffee hour experience always comes with some trepidation, it was good for all of us.  Julia settled herself in a small, cozy library, Ed found a farmer Ph.D. with a Santa Claus white beard, and I talked to the welcoming committee and a woman who was thinking of joining the church and wondering if she would find a place to fit in. She was in need of some healing and friendship, having recently moved to Burlington to be closer to adult children. The only thing she had to offer was, in her own words, listening to others who might need it.  I assured her that she would find a place.

After church, we walked to the water of the lake and had lunch at a place that Ed may have visited many times many years ago when he and his daughter were driving up to Montreal.  For them, it was a morning pit stop on the way. The little restaurant was completely renovated and near unrecognizable, but if it was not the absolute correct place, it was a decent replacement. Enough to prompt memories.

Then we were off, back to the Shelburne Museum, which was indeed an interesting place.  A rich woman’s collection of European art—some Manets, Monets, and Cassats—early American painting, lots of folk art, and whatever seemed to strike the founder’s fancy.  From the website: “Founder Electra Havemeyer Webb described Shelburne Museum as a ‘collection of collections.’” 

Indeed. 

The wall of beer steins that all looked the same to me, duck decoys, carousel animals, and a completely intact side-wheel steamboat on the grass along with two or three rooms full of very old hat boxes blew our collective minds. Had Mrs. Webb been of another generation and another economic stratum, she might have been considered a hoarder. Interestingly, on one of the explanation plaques in front of rows and rows of not particularly beautiful glassware, it said something like, ‘her children did not want what she was collecting.’ Have I read a better reason for starting a museum? How many museums are started by private collections that have nowhere else to go? I have visited too many, and they always spark my imagination.

Oh, and about the Ticonderoga—a massive steam boat pulled from Lake Champlain 70 or so years ago that sits on the grass.  It is beautiful, odd, and thought-provoking, and possibly the only preserved boat of its kind. The story of how it got from the lake to the grass is worth the price of the tickets!  Thank you, Mrs. Webb. 

We walked a good deal—no trouble getting in my days’ steps—and ended up with pizza and beer at the place we started at on Thursday night. A dressed-up pepperoni pizza, enhanced with onions and a honey glaze, and small conversations with staff and other diners put us all in very good cheer.

Back at our inn, I fell into thinking about the week behind and the months ahead. Just some of it follows:

DDS (Department of Developmental Services) is a hard master, but it is the only show in town, in the state really, when you need support for individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. 

One of the things I talked about with our M, our new DDS coordinator, was residential placement. For a few months now, I have been looking into housing for Julia. She is on lists for rent vouchers and subsidies, federal, state, and local. Lists that are years long, but you have to start somewhere. I go to Zoom meetings monthly to find out about what is out there and what is possible. DDS does some housing, but I have assumed that there would be nothing there for Julia unless I was too incapacitated to keep a home or dead. 

People with disabilities are assessed for their housing needs and ranked in two priorities. I have been told that if someone has a safe home and a caregiver, it is almost impossible to get more than a priority 2 ranking. Priority 2 clients are almost never placed in housing. People with a need for a safe home, as well as other difficult needs, can qualify for a priority 1 ranking.  Priority 1 doesn’t guarantee housing quickly, but there is some chance of getting placed.  An emergency can bump someone up to the top of the Priority 1 list. And then even with a #1, the placement needs to be appropriate, and everyone must agree to it.

So, what I have been learning about is housing that parents privately arrange and pay for with DDS providing support services to the extent possible. Considering Massachusetts housing prices, I don’t know if private pay is feasible for us. I don’t know if I could afford buying into something for Julia while maintaining housing for myself. 

Julia’s old coordinator was not willing to talk to me at all about DDS housing until I was willing to say that Julia could be placed somewhere within the year. (I don’t know anyone who has been placed in one year, but that scared me. Am I ready to let her go within a year?) And he told me that if they did the preliminary assessment and she was placed and she/we refused to take the placement, future placement would be jeopardized.  I’m not sure how Julia’s DDS funding would be harmed, mainly because he was not willing to say anymore.  

M told me that there were a few housing options, that Julia could possibly be classed as priority 1 because I am old (not her exact words but the gist), and that if she was offered a place and we refused it for a good reason, Julia’s subsidy would not be penalized.  

Honestly, I don’t know how much of this or anything is true. Who to believe? But what M said gave me some breathing room and more to think about than the private pay options, which feel prohibitive. According to M, we can get an assessment and not proceed further, and then use the assessment for a few years.

Taking one breath, however, what comes flooding in are my feelings of failure and so many fears for Julia’s future. I don’t know if I could have done a better job of raising Julia and preparing her for an adult life. Maybe I could, maybe not. What I know, however, is that she is not prepared. She has learned to take some care of herself, but as the weekend demonstrates, she cannot regulate her feelings enough to make it through four days away from me. And there is understanding, time, money, work, forging relationships, agency, and initiative. And that is the list that comes without contemplation. I do believe that some of that list can be taught. Julia has learned so much, but I cannot possibly live long enough to teach her everything she needs. Whether she will live long enough is questionable.

But how to give up on that learning? There’s where I go next. If she could be placed somewhere tomorrow, could I bear to give up on the next days’ lessons? 

And I don’t know what a group home or shared living would look like. I have no idea what DDS means when I read “support services.” 

Just one step tomorrow.  Another question.

I have come to the end of this wormhole and I am done.

But just one more thing. A week ago tomorrow, I did something that truly scared me.  I have never been comfortable reading or acting Shakespeare. I had a very small part in a production of Mid-Summer Night’s Dream, but the Wall had very few lines and I was encouraged to mug. There is a group of Shakespeare enthusiasts at HILR who have a few open readings every year and this time, I was asked if I wanted to join them. I agreed and was given a short speech by Iago from the first act of Othello to prepare. Oh, many too many words to fit into my mouth, but I managed. I read the speech with all the evil intent I could muster and I left feeling proud that I had faced my demon. 

And if I can find it in myself to play Iago, . . .