A Norman Rockwell painting it wasn’t. But we wanted it to be. No one called it autism, much less Asperger’s back in the sixties when we were growing up. They called it weird, odd, different. We were a tight knit family in our little town, where my parents were teachers at the local school. At times it seemed a childhood filled with conflict about my older brother John. He was quiet and sweet. Yet, at times he would also make strange noises, shake his hands and fingers, while being completely consumed in his own thoughts. My confusion grew in trying to make sense of his differences, the over protectiveness of my parents, the teasing and bullying of him at school. Loved him, sometimes hated him, and really didn’t want to be like him. Felt guilty about all of it. The years following school rolled on, until both family and personal crisis brought me back home. I quickly became aware that there was a significant distance between John and me. This is where our real journey began. Step by step, as I tried working my way back into his life, my perception of him began to change. Yet, I couldn’t have imagined that he would one day become my hero and a teacher I could only hope to emulate.