BAREFOOT PINEWOOD

by Kimberly Jensen

I had just stepped out of the front door on my way to the mailbox when I was greeted with a warm smile by Bennett's Cub Scout leader who was on her way up my stairs.

"It's Pinewood Derby time again. Here is his car," Sherry said as she handed me the familiar box with the bright yellow derby car plastered on every side.

"Oh great. Thank you. We'll see," I said as I placed it on a table just inside the front door.

"We hope to see him there next Wednesday, " Sherry said as she waved a friendly wave and headed off to the next boy's house.

"We'll see," I said quietly to myself a second time.

When Bennett arrived home from school that day I showed him the box with the derby car parts inside.

"Bennett you get to do the Pinewood Derby this year. Do you want to build a car?" I asked with enthusiasm.

"Build a car." Bennett repeated as he quickly put the box down and ran up the stairs to play with his beloved Legos.

Bennett has always been short on communication. It took years of therapy and patience but at nine years old he now seems to understand everything he hears, but he can never quite master expressive communication. I guess that's why they call Autism a communicative disability.

I put the car and the derby quickly out of my mind. We had participated in the Cub Scout derbies with my older son Clayton, who planned for weeks on what his car was going to look like, what he was going to name it, what color it was going to be and how fast it was going to go. My husband Mark joined him in the pinewood frenzy and I often wondered who had more fun in the preparation, planning and racing.

During Clayton's years of Cub Scouting, race night for the Pinewood Derby was an event. On race night, father and son stood at the track as the cars sped by, holding their breath, hoping the one they had built together would pass the finish line first.

It was different this time around. It was always different with Bennett. He just didn't seem to care so I often opted out of activities to save me time and what seemed to be unnecessary frustration.

Bennett had joined Cub Scouts when he was in the third grade. We bought him the Wolf book that he loved to flip through and look at the campfire pictures and we bought him the blue Cub Scout shirt he refused to put on, but just carried it over his shoulder. After a few meetings, his hyperactivity, failure to follow rules and sheer frustration on my part ended his scouting career early that year. His leaders stopped by on a regular basis and invited him to come back to the pack. I thanked them kindly and told them we might make it to the next meeting. We never did.

When Bennett entered fourth grade, I decided to give it another try. I packed his book and his shirt and picked him up from school every Wednesday afternoon to avoid transition breakdown.

The first week I showed up at school with his scout garb he grabbed his shirt and quickly put it on. He buttoned it with a smile and asked, "Going to Scouts?"

"Yes. We are going to Scouts," I said a bit surprised by his enthusiasm.

We arrived at the church where the den meetings were being held and he immediately flipped off his shoes, pulled off his socks and began running up and down the hallways. On the positive side, he kept his shirt on.

After several reprimands, he finally came into the Scout room and joined the boys in a semi circle on the floor. He mimicked his favorite cartoons but stayed in the semi circle, occasionally glancing up and watching what the leader and the other boys were doing. He loved reciting the Pledge of Allegiance and stayed in the room for the rest of class, joining them for parts of the activities, barefoot and all.

"He did great!" said he leader following class.

"He really did. Thanks. We'll be back next week, " I said as I gathered Bennett's shoes and socks and coaxed him into the car.

I was not a stranger to Cub Scouts. I had led my older son's den for four years and had two special needs boys in it. I knew what it was like to make modifications for those two great kids and I was thrilled to see that that same spirit of scouting was alive in Bennett's den.

Bennett had been attending scouting for several months when the Pinewood box arrived at our home. I left it on the table after Bennett scampered upstairs and put it out of my mind.

"Hey. Is this Bennett's Pinewood Derby car?" I heard my husband, Mark, ask as he walked into the kitchen, holding the box.

"It's in two weeks. What do you think?"

"We're going to make a cool car, aren't we buddy?" Mark said as he high-fived Bennett who was working on a Lego tower on the kitchen table.

"Car," was all Bennett said as he continued his building.

Mark didn't seem to notice his youngest son's lack of enthusiasm and went directly into the garage, carrying the Pinewood box and rummaging around for his Dremel, the tool made the car that took Clayton's Pinewood derby to District Championships one year.

"I guess that means you think it is a good idea," I said to nobody in particular.

Two weeks later, Mark took Bennett into the garage to transform the hunk of Pine into a sleek machine that would smoke all other cars on the tracks.

Two minutes later, Bennett was back inside looking for his Legos. I walked out into the garage. "Hey I thought you were going to do this together," I asked Mark.

"He sanded a little and ran the Dremel and then said, 'Dad you do it,' " Mark said not looking up from his work in progress.

Bennett didn't do anything else on that Pinewood car. He said "Dad you do it," and that was that. Mark did it.

The night of the race, Bennett ran around the church and barely stood still enough to see his car race down the track. He was more interested in running down the dark hallways and chasing the younger kids until all of them were giggling and laughing in mass hysteria. But he did wear his scout shirt, minus once again the shoes and socks.

Bennett's car didn't win, but you wouldn't know it by looking at the face of my husband who, despite his son's lack of interest stood proxy for son and proudly ran the race for him.

What we have learned with Bennett is that we may not win the race, or even be in the same race with others, but we are there and our presence is wanted, needed and celebrated, with or without shoes.

Kimberly Jensen was born and raised in Sandy, Utah and graduated from the University of Utah in 1991 with a B.S. in Communication. She worked as a radio news anchor for KBOI/KQFC and as a public relations specialist for the Idaho Transportation Department in Boise, Idaho. Kimberly and her family moved to Battle Ground, Washington in 2001 where she became a full time mom and writer. Her first children's book, Always the Elf by Cedar Fort Publishing came out in Fall 2007. Two of her stories have been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Children With Special Needs. She is an avid cyclist and loves spending time with her family and taking them on outdoor adventures. She now lives in Utah with her husband Mark, her three children; Tasia, Clayton and Bennett and her two dogs Simba and Ruby.