Here's a strange and wonderous Aspergian tale from deep in the heart of the Redneck Riviera, a.k.a. Northwest Florida. Where all the Aspie women are strong, all the Aspie men are good-looking, and all the Aspie children are way, WAY above average. :-) (With apologies to Garrison Keillor.)

When those of us on the autism spectrum develop an interest in something, we tend to focus in on it with laser-like intensity - oftentimes, to the exclusion of anyone and/or anything else around us.

It can be both a strength and a weakness. Many of the greatest inventors (Einstein, Edison, Tesla, etc.) are now thought to have been on the spectrum; their focus allowed them to take ideas into new realms of thought, action, and creation. But at the same time, that focus can be a source of some unusual and embarrassing scenarios.

Two years ago I was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome. I am also, among other things, a flute maker. I create bamboo flutes in both transverse and Native American styles. Making flutes, especially Native American (NA) style flutes, is both difficult and time-consuming. I spend hours hunched over the bamboo with a variety of needle files, saws, sandpaper and other tools, muttering to myself, striving to get the sound holes and finger holes just right.

Otherwise, the flute won't toot worth a hoot.

Recently I was working on an NA style flute with a 1-inch bore. The larger flutes are much more problematic than the smaller ones. I'm sure there's a scientific explanation for it, but I have no clue what it is. I just say that they have prima donna personalities and enjoy being difficult.

This particular flute was giving me an especially hard time. It sounded like crap and I couldn't figure out why.

I finally stopped to have lunch. I decided to nuke one of those Michelina's "Lean Gourmet" frozen dinners. (Hey, they're only a buck apiece. Ya can't go wrong, bubala.)

So: I'm thinking about the flute, brooding about the flute. I take Mama Michelina out of the freezer. I'm thinking flute, flute, flute. I tear open a corner of the dinner like you're supposed to. Flute, flute, flute. I open the microwave door. The microwave is mounted on the wall alongside the kitchen cupboards. Flute, flute, flute. I stick the dinner inside and close the door. Flute, flute, flute. I go to set the timer....

And mash my finger against laminated wood. As the fog clears, I realize I've set the frig-froggin' dinner inside the frig-froggin' kitchen cupboard next to the microwave.

Says I: "Well durn. Probably take a while to cook in there."

I put the dinner in the microwave where it belongs. It cooks. I eat lunch.

As I eat, I ponder the fact that I'm glad no one was around to see me show off my culinary skills. Martha Stewart and I agree - that was a Good Thing.

Note: fortunately, after much toil, trouble and tribulation, the flute turned out well.

I told this tale to a woman at our local Asperger's Support Group meeting. She said, "Remind me never to eat dinner at your house."

Love & Blessings,

Paul

www.myspace.com/paulmcauliffe