RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME - California State University

ABSTRACT

RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME

This collection of essays explores physical movement and the role it has

played in my life. Subjects include raising my hyperactive son, my attraction to

foreign travel, my career as an orientation and mobility teacher for the visually

impaired, and my own mobility, placed in jeopardy after a fall, resulting in a

broken hip. In each essay, physical movement is at the front and center, but each

one bears the nuances of choices, in guiding my son, in teaching, and in the

recovery after my fall.

Sally J. Vogl May 2013

RESTLESS LEG SYNDROME

by

Sally J. Vogl

A thesis

submitted in partial

fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing

in the College of Arts and Humanities

California State University, Fresno

May 2013

APPROVED

For the Department of English:

We, the undersigned, certify that the thesis of the following student meets the required standards of scholarship, format, and style of the university and the student's graduate degree program for the awarding of the master's degree. Sally J. Vogl

Thesis Author

John Hales (Chair) English

Steven Church English

Corrinne Hales English

For the University Graduate Committee:

Dean, Division of Graduate Studies

AUTHORIZATION FOR REPRODUCTION

OF MASTER’S THESIS

I grant permission for the reproduction of this thesis in part or in

its entirety without further authorization from me, on the

condition that the person or agency requesting reproduction

absorbs the cost and provides proper acknowledgment of

authorship.

X Permission to reproduce this thesis in part or in its entirety must

be obtained from me.

Signature of thesis author:

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank John Hales, my thesis chair, for his unwavering support, for

his editing skills, and for the countless hours he put in, reading numerous drafts. I

also want to thank Corrinne Hales and Steven Church, the other members of my

committee, for their constructive feedback and helpful recommendations. Thanks

also to literature professors, Linnea Alexander and Kathleen Godfrey, for helping

me organize my thoughts on class writing assignments. Your advice on writing

critical papers also proved useful with creative writing. Phyllis Brotherton and

Jackie Heffron Williams, thanks for your support and feedback on my essays.

Finally, thanks to my children, Jillian and Robert, for making this journey called

life challenging and fulfilling.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

WHAT WE COULDN’T CELEBRATE ................................................................. 1

WITH EYES OPEN ............................................................................................... 12

A BODY IN MOTION ........................................................................................... 25

DESTINATION CAREER: FIRST STOP ............................................................. 36

DIMENSIONS OF THE LONG CANE ................................................................ 46

Straight Line .................................................................................................... 46

Materials and Weight ...................................................................................... 46

Color: White .................................................................................................... 47

Curved Line ..................................................................................................... 47

Tips .............................................................................................................. 48

Rhythm ............................................................................................................ 48

Diagonal Line .................................................................................................. 49

Longevity ........................................................................................................ 49

Slope .............................................................................................................. 51

Gestalt ............................................................................................................. 52

Arc, a Curved Line .......................................................................................... 53

Electronic Travel Aids .................................................................................... 54

Echo: A Sound Dimension .............................................................................. 55

Color: Reflective ............................................................................................. 55

IMMERSION: MY LIMBS DON’T END WHERE THE WATER BEGINS ...... 57

LEAPING FROM PLATFORMS .......................................................................... 66

TACTILE MAPPING ............................................................................................ 80

MAZE OF LIGHTS AND SHADOWS ................................................................. 90

Page

vi vi

MIGRATIONS ..................................................................................................... 100

TEMPTATIONS OF ENTROPY—DAY BY DAY ............................................ 106

ARRESTED MOBILITY ..................................................................................... 109

A MOBILITY TEACHER NOT VERY MOBILE .............................................. 123

WHAT WE COULDN’T CELEBRATE1

Whether the crime I committed at age twelve had anything to do with our

family’s move from the farm to town, or if new hormones crisscrossed and

misfired, I don’t know. I do know I missed the creek that flowed near the barn,

the smell of hay, and the way my brothers spun a milk pail without spilling a drop.

Mostly, I missed the easy relationship I’d had with my mom. She still looked the

same: dark, permed hair and the two-toned glasses, but she seemed nervous

around me. Maybe I wasn’t pretty enough and she didn’t know how to say so.

I tried to tell Mom my qualms about starting junior high. It was the first

time students wore PE clothes, actually funny-looking blue jumpsuits. Girls

undressed in the locker room, and I noticed two things about them that differed

from me. First, a number of them already had large breasts. Slightly built, I’d just

started to develop. Second, they didn’t seem to mind undressing in front of others,

before and after showering. When I told Mom about my unease changing in the

locker room, she didn’t offer comfort, but said, “Just do it.”

As a four year old on our farm, I watched my big brothers help Dad with

the animals, but my place, just mine, was perched on a kitchen stool at Mom’s

side. She crisscrossed strips of pie crust, and gave me leftover dough to pinch into

cats and dogs with big heads and long, skinny legs.

When I turned seven, I was given the job of drying the dishes and felt

important in this new role. On cold nights, Mom let me warm my hands in the

water—sculpting shapes out of soap suds—before she started washing dishes.

1 Some names in this collection of essays have been changed to protect privacy of individuals.

2 2

One such night, she reminded me to grab a towel and get started. I was

thinking about a pink invitation a classmate fluttered between her fingers, and I

dried the plates and the silverware in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asked. She’d finished washing and turned to face

me. “You seem sad.”

“The most popular girls always get asked to birthday parties,” I said. “But

not me.” I wiped the last drops of water from a glass.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Mom said. “Come here, please.” She took a corner of

my towel and dabbed my eyes. “When it gets closer to your next birthday, we’ll

plan a party for you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I knew she would organize games and give out prizes, the

way she always did. She’d also bake any kind of cake—carrot, red velvet, or—

“How about a shopping trip this weekend?” she asked. I nodded, but was

already thinking of the red cake.

The next Saturday, I bounced along at Mom’s side at Woolworths, the five-

and-dime store, walking past candles and vases. While Mom glanced at jewelry, I

rushed to the toy aisle and plopped down on the wooden floor, counting my coins,

wondering if I had enough to buy a new toy or just a coloring book.

When I was ten, Mom let me invite girls for sleepovers. One evening after

dinner she called us back to the kitchen for brownies, and we plopped into chairs

at the table. My mouth watered looking at the deep chocolate color. Mom smiled,

watching small hands reach for the gooey bars. Soon only crumbs lingered on the

plate. “We’ll have pancakes with syrup for breakfast,” she said. “Maple syrup?”

one girl asked. “Yes, and chokecherry syrup,” Mom said, pointing outside to our

3 3

bushes, but the sky had darkened, and we couldn’t see them. The gleam in her

eyes told me she would launch into a story.

“One time Sally grabbed a pail to pick chokecherries,” Mom said. “She

came back screaming and her pail was empty.” The girls’ eyes widened. “Do you

know what happened?” she continued. Two of my friends shook their heads.

“Sally pushed aside a branch to get more berries and a porcupine hiding under the

bushes jumped to its feet.” Mom paused long enough for the girls to wiggle in

their chairs.

“Did it chase her?” one friend asked.

“Sally ran to the house and didn’t turn around to find out.” The girls

laughed, fueling Mom’s gift of storytelling. Soon, she started impersonating TV

characters, like Gomer Pyle, and caused an explosion of giggles from preteen

girls. I alternated between feeling proud of Mom and envious of her; after all it

was my adventure she told. I wondered if my friends came to my house to see my

mother or me.

After we moved to town, I had more chances to bring my buddies home,

though we mostly talked on the phone, hours at a time. During summers, I rode

my bike daily to the city pool and alternated between swimming and sunbathing

with my friends. The pool, fed by natural springs, had a gravel bottom, resembling

a lake in appearance. Our family often picnicked there and Mom used to dive in

for a ceremonial swim before she set out lunch. I’d watched the thrust of her arms,

her rhythmic kick, and the fluidity of her body. Then to my surprise, her ritual in

the pool ended.

Mom had grown up swimming in the currents of Montana’s rivers and I

believed my thrill of diving into cool waters came from her. I loved gliding

4 4

through waves, my bathing suit fitting like skin, and water droplets forming on my

limbs. Why didn’t Mom enjoy this anymore? At first, I begged her to join me, but

she’d say she forgot her bathing suit or needed to take care of the food.

I tried again to confide in her, this time upset that my new crush hadn’t

noticed me yet. “Don’t worry,” she said. Later, I heard Mom share my distress

with her friends, embarrassing me. So I stopped telling her important things. She

bought me cool outfits for seventh grade, but shopping together was no longer fun

because the easy flow of conversation between us had stopped.

The shower stalls at my middle school lacked curtains; I pulled and

stretched my skimpy towel to avoid exposing myself. Usually the PE teacher

didn’t glance my way, so I faked a shower by splashing water on my arms and

legs. Afterwards, I quickly pulled on my undershirt. Perhaps a few other girls

didn’t yet have bras, but I felt it was just me.

With every locker room drill, I turned my back to as many girls as possible

and draped a towel over me as I disrobed. The tricky part was after the shower,

holding the towel and slipping on my undershirt at the same time. If a girl looked

at me when I pulled on my undershirt, I felt she was smirking.

I assigned a mythic quality to getting a bra; my rite of sisterhood and

passage to womanhood depended on it. Maybe Mom and I could become close

again. I hoped she would bring up the subject of bra shopping. I imagined Mom

offering to take me to a lingerie department, and I’d say, “I guess it might be all

right.” If she took me, what color would I choose? Most of the girls wore white or

beige bras, sometimes with lace at the top, but I wanted a lavender one, the color

of lilacs that bloom in late spring. If I had one, I’d practice putting it on, engaging

the tiny hook in the eye, until I could do it perfectly. When my breasts grew, I

5 5

might parade through the locker room in my panties and bra, later smoothing

wrinkles from my blouse with red-coated fingernails.

Mom didn’t mention bras at all that year, even when I filled out a bit. In my

mind, this dismissal seemed proof that she’d morphed into a different person, not

that I had changed and she’d reacted to me. Other girls said they’d had “the talk”

with their moms about their developing bodies. One day I found a pamphlet on my

bed about sexuality, or mostly how pregnancy occurs. I’m sure Mom had left it

there. I skimmed through it, but never said a word about it, and neither did she.

I was afraid to approach her for the thing I wanted the most; she might say I

was too young, or maybe reject me by just shaking her head. So I decided to buy it

myself. Both JC Penney and Wards sold underwear. Either place would do. I

counted out $3.50 of my allowance, since the price of bras started at about three

dollars. With another week’s savings, I’d have four dollars and could buy a lovely

one.

Asking a saleslady for permission to try on bras seemed as scary as talking

to Mom. I pictured the faces of the redheaded sales clerk at JC Penney, and the

lady with brown hair at Wards. Both worked in the Ladies’ section. Would the one

who helped me be kind or would she roll her eyes or even hide a sneer? What if

the clerk checked on me in the dressing room? Maybe I didn’t need a bra and

she’d know it. Or she might think it wrong for a twelve-year-old to be without her

mother. I was sure there were other clerks I didn’t remember, but Mom might have

known them, and they might mention my purchase the next time they saw her. My

plan seemed full of holes. Maybe it wouldn’t work, but I had to try.

When I’d saved the money, I placed three bills and four quarters in my

wallet. Two days in a row, I opened my purse and fingered each dollar bill,

making sure it hadn’t disappeared. On the morning of the third day, I couldn’t

6 6

stand it anymore, and sought Mom’s permission to go downtown with friends after

school. She said “fine.” I kept thinking of the shopping trip; my classes dragged on

and on. After the last bell, my friends and I dashed out, reaching Main Street in a

few minutes. We passed the bakery and Ben Franklin Store before we reached the

soda fountain. To have enough money for the bra, I bought only a vanilla coke,

though I could almost taste an ice cream sundae melting in my mouth. I told the

girls I needed to get something for a class and excused myself. Usually, I’d ask

someone to go with me, but I wasn’t ready to share my secret.

I walked to JC Penney, made my way to the lingerie section, and started

flipping through the different bras, clipped to small plastic hangers.

“Do you need any help?” asked the redheaded clerk.

“No,” I said, “just looking.”

Another saleslady with salt and pepper hair tidied the panties bin. Her

glasses, attached to a strap, hung around her neck. Most of the bras were white or

flesh-colored; black and red ones were in a separate section. When I saw a pink

one, almost lavender, I reached out to stroke the soft cotton, and then twisted a tag

to find the price. I didn’t see the clerk coming.

“This must be your first time,” she said. “I’d be happy to measure you.”

I felt myself flush and pointed at another display.

“Thanks, but I really came to look at shirts today.” I scurried towards the

blouses, removing one from the rack in feigned interest. Maybe I didn’t need a bra

yet, and I was just fooling myself.

I found the door and walked around the block to Wards, but stiffened when

I neared the entry, imagining the brown-haired clerk might also be too helpful.

Instead, I headed back to the soda fountain, then changed my mind about seeing

my friends, and popped into Woolworths. Pacing up and down aisles, I found toys,

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school supplies, crafts, socks and underwear. Panties and bras were piled in

shallow bins, the way one might throw stuff in a junk drawer. I rummaged through

to find the tags and read sizes: 34C, 36D, 38D, and the numbers kept getting

bigger. Most of the bras seemed huge. I picked up the 34 C, plain white, but with

lace between the cups. The price was $2.99. A bargain. Woolworths didn’t have a

dressing room, but I decided the 34C would do. In fifteen minutes, I’d be home,

dancing in front of the mirror.

If anyone in PE noticed when I wore it to school, I’d say my mom and I

went shopping. I’d find a way to tell Mom what I bought, and she’d realize its

importance.

In the next aisle, I saw my fifth grade teacher. She was sorting through

construction paper, and hadn’t seen me yet. I’d intended to take my bra to the cash

register, pull out my wallet, and give the cashier my money. I meant to do the right

thing, but I couldn’t chance running into my teacher at the check stand, because

she’d see the bra. Glancing in her direction once more to make sure she wasn’t

looking, I unzipped my purse and dropped the bra inside. To avoid eye contact, I

cast my head down, staring at the floor where I’d sat as a little girl counting my

change, eager to buy something. Over the years, the wood had darkened. The store

felt stuffy; the air was thick on my skin and stale in my nostrils. I wanted to get

out. The crafts, school supplies, and toys blurred as I rushed past them on my way

to the exit. Outside, my head cleared a bit when I didn’t see anyone I knew.

What had I done? I’d thought of myself as so grown up, ready for my bra,

but I was just a naughty child. In my mind, I tried to return to a stool at Mom’s

side in the kitchen. I’d blown everything and she might never want to sit close to

me again.

8 8

At home, I locked the bathroom door and hooked the bra in front of me, the

way I’ve seen others do, then turned it around, placing my arms through the straps.

The cups drooped. After the ordeal of getting it, I couldn’t wear it to PE or

anywhere. Why was it so big? Even with my shirt on, the wrinkles showed

through.

Several months later, Mom stacked an extra blanket in my closet, and

discovered the bra I’d tucked under some sheets.

“What’s this?” she asked.

I felt myself flush. “Some girl gave it to me because she didn’t like it.”

“Oh?” she said. Was it surprise or discomfort in her voice? I thought she’d

ask why the girl had chosen me for her discarded bra or why I’d stashed it in the

closet, but Mom seemed stumped for words. Part of me wanted to tell her the truth

because I still thought we might recapture what we once had. Another part of me

doubted that could happen. The rift in our relationship started before I hit puberty,

probably because I’d holed up in my room so much. It intensified in middle

school, and I blamed myself. After all, I’d shoplifted, and that’s a crime. Whether

Mom suspected anything or not, the guilt I carried added to the tension between

us.

The blanket Mom tucked on the shelf reminded me of being little and how

the two of us had cuddled under her quilt on winter mornings. We would steal a

few moments before she cooked breakfast for all of us. My dad and brothers

would come in from milking, their fingers red from the cold, and eat pancakes,

eggs and bacon. Now, Mom shut my closet door and walked out.

I had an urge to follow her and tell her how I got the bra, but the urge

passed. We didn’t even talk when I needed sanitary supplies. Instead, I wrote

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“pads” on the grocery list, Mom then purchased the item and placed it on my

dresser. I was almost thirteen and still fearful to say the word “period” out loud in

my own house. Had Mom talked to her mother about such things? I tried to

imagine my mom as a teenager, and then remembered her high school yearbook

nestled on a bookshelf in the living room. I pulled the book from the shelf and

settled on the sofa. In the photos, she wore flared skirts and cardigans; her hair

was cupped in a loose pageboy. She seemed to be a normal-looking girl, maybe

even stylish. Mom didn’t talk much about her younger years, and these pictures

didn’t reveal what she cared about or how she got along with her mother. I don’t

know how long I sat flipping through the pages.

“What are you looking at?” Mom asked, entering the room.

“One of your yearbooks.”

“Why is that?” She sat near me on the sofa. “That’s my friend, Ruth,” she

said, pointing to a photo of the two of them under a tree.

“I want to know what you were like as a teenager.”

“There’s not much to tell,” she said. “I was a good student, but not a

beauty. I graduated from high school a year early and attended Normal School.”

“And you met Dad during your first year teaching in a country school,

right?”

“You already know that part. One of his jobs as a janitor was to light the

coal stove in my classroom every day,” she said.

“It seems like he fired up more than the stove,” I said. Mom blushed. “Why

did you stop teaching?”

“I decided to get married.” Her voice became quiet.

* * *

10 10

During my junior year of high school, my brothers and I organized a

celebration for our parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary. We cleared a date with Mom

and Dad, since my brothers would fly home for the occasion. I enjoyed putting

together a guest list and menu ideas, eager to honor my parents. This event gave

me the chance to make them proud of me. Perhaps, I could recover some of the

closeness my mom and I had in my younger years.

One night several weeks before the party, I was addressing invitations,

enthralled with the swirls and loops I created on each envelope. Dad knocked on

my bedroom door. “Can you come to the kitchen?” he called out.

We sat at the kitchen table. Dad wore one of his plaid shirts. His dark hair

had thinned on top, but still curled in a band around his head. Mom fidgeted with a

spot on her burgundy bathrobe.

“You can’t hold a party,” Mom said. “We’ve only been married twenty-

four years.”

“What?” I added numbers in my head. “You mean…?”

“Your mom was pregnant when we married,” Dad said. He wrapped his

arm around her shoulder.

“So, I guess we have to wait a year,” I said, saddened that I couldn’t send

out the invitations stacked on my desk.

“There can be no celebration,” Mom said. I think I looked at them in

disbelief. My mouth got dry. I struggled to find my voice.

“If I messed up with the guest list, I can fix it for next year.”

“What we did was wrong,” she said. Her eyes welled up and she looked

down at her hands.

11 11

“I don’t hold that against you,” I said, thinking I could comfort her. But

when I stood up to hug her, she remained seated, and I only brushed the top of her

head.

“Please don’t make an example of us,” she said. I caught the sternness in

her voice.

My eyes stung, but I held back my tears. I’d cherished my role in planning

the party. What would I tell my brothers?

Dad must have read my mind. “We’ll call your brothers,” he said.

WITH EYES OPEN

He stretched his torso, leaning over my desk until we were eyeball to

eyeball. “Are you Clifford Morton, our new patient?” I asked. If so, he’d arrived

twenty minutes late.

“I need some new glasses.” As he leaned over, his gray hair hung in

patches over his left eyebrow. I sucked in my stomach and shifted to the back of

my chair.

“Medicare will pay a portion,” I explained. “Do you have private

insurance?” Something about him reminded me of an unkempt boy, despite his

weathered face, and I wanted to clip the hair dangling on his forehead.

He pulled out his wallet, house and car keys falling on my desk, and

fumbled through an assortment of plastic cards. “Here’s a blue one. Is this it?” he

asked, handing it to me.

“No, that’s a bank card.” I returned it to him. The optometric clinic, where I

worked as an assistant, served low vision patients, so it didn’t surprise me that he

couldn’t read the print on his card. Dr. Reynolds, on duty that day, specialized in

patients with severely impaired vision. Sometimes the glasses he prescribed had

built-in prisms; occasionally they had a telescope attached to one lens.

Most of the patients in our eye clinic used Medi-Cal or Medicare to pay

their bills, and the optometrists, like Dr. Reynolds, worked in a semi-volunteer

status, one day each week. The clinic granted me, a struggling student, the flexible

hours I needed to finish my bachelor’s degree.

“I’ll check at home,” Mr. Morton said. “Maybe it’s in my wife’s purse.”

“Would you like to call now to get your policy number?” I asked.

13 13

“Oh, no,” he said, his voice shaky. As I was typing a patient card for Mr.

Morton, and I looked up to see him sniffle, then dab his red eyes with a

handkerchief. Perhaps the poor guy was embarrassed because of memory

problems. I wondered why his wife hadn’t come today. Maybe she didn’t drive;

many women from his generation never got behind a wheel.

“You can phone later to give me the number. May I see your glasses please,

so I can read the prescription?”

“I could only find this pair. It must be ten years old.” The lenses looked

filmy, but I couldn’t tell if they were distorted or needed cleaning.

“You don’t have a current pair? Never mind, then.” The phone rang just

when I planned to direct him to the waiting room, so I asked him to wait. Wendy,

the full-time assistant, was out sick and I dashed back and forth between the front

desk and the dispensing table many times that day. I finished the phone

conversation, and remembered Mr. Morton still standing at my desk. Realizing I’d

been a little short with him, I offered to clean his glasses before guiding him to the

next room. Besides his hair and smudged lenses, I noticed his shirttails hung out in

places.

After his exam, Dr. Reynolds brought Mr. Morton to the reception area and

asked me to call a taxi for him.

“I don’t drive anymore,” our patient explained. “The Olds sits in the

garage.” I moved a chair near the front door for him. He thanked me profusely.

“Why didn’t you prescribe glasses for him?” I asked Dr. Reynolds, after

Mr. Morton was out of earshot. “He couldn’t read the print on his bank card.”

“Neither could he follow directions.”

“Think he has Alzheimer’s?”

“Maybe. The old guy was confused and…” Dr. Reynolds seemed on the

14 14

verge of saying more but stopped himself. “I told him to call back in a few weeks

to reschedule. Let’s hope I get better readings next time.”

Dr. Reynolds and I both saw the symptoms: disorientation, confusion, and

sadness, but neither of us recognized them as signs of bereavement. Perhaps

because I was enrolled at the time in a class on senescence, the study of aging, I

assumed Mr. Morton’s characteristics fit the senile profile. When psychology

students learn about new conditions, they often want to apply the label to

themselves or someone they know. I did the same. The optometrist and I didn’t

notice Cliff’s reluctance to mention his wife in the past tense, because we didn’t

know she had died.

If I’d known he was grieving, I might have thought about the many roles

his wife had probably played in his life: best friend, helpmate, confidant, lover,

social partner, housemate, supporter of his career, and many more. Many of those

roles my own grandmothers had taken on for their husbands. Perhaps Mr.

Morton’s spouse had filled other functions, too, like keeping track of papers and

appointments.

I’d signed up for a senescence class because it fit my schedule and gave me

the units I needed to complete my behavioral science major. In Professor D.’s

class, we learned about cultures that honored their elder members, and often

extended families included the grandparents. When he introduced the topic of

senility, I immediately thought of my maternal grandmother, Hilma. In her last

few years of life, she made Jell-O and stuck it in the cupboard instead of the

refrigerator. She also accused one family member of cutting up her clothes. My

mother and her siblings eventually placed Grandma in a nursing home for her own

safety. Grandma died when I was thirteen. As a preteen, I’d felt embarrassed by

15 15

my grandma and once scooted down on the church pew to give space for a late-

comer to sit between us. I’d hoped this appeared to others as a polite thing to do.

Actually I was separating myself both physically and emotionally from grandma,

and her process of decline. I paid customary visits to see Grandma, but didn’t

encourage long talks with her. I wonder today whether she would have spoken

about the loss of her husband, Gustaf, and how she managed in the weeks and

months following his death. My mom had told me that Grandma had sewed and

peddled garden vegetables to raise her four kids. I’d held onto this romanticized

image of Grandma “making it,” rather than noticing the loss of her mental

abilities. Seeing a loved one lose faculties can be a form of grieving, too, but I

wouldn’t have realized it. As I grew older, I regretted the selfish actions of my

youth and wanted to make it up to Grandma. Of course, I couldn’t remedy

behavior from those years.

My paternal grandfather, Joe, had a different experience. He’d developed a

condition that prevented him from feeling pain. One time while building a house,

he fell through a roof, stood up and said to my brother, “time to get back to work.”

Until two days before he died, Grandpa still took long walks and did daily

pushups. Because he maintained his stamina and his mental alertness, I don’t have

recollections of his deterioration.

Two weeks after Mr. Morton’s visit, I was helping a patient with frame

selection. I looked up from the dispensing table when I heard my name, “Sally?”

As I scanned the room, I saw Mr. Morton’s arched figure in the doorway. He

shuffled to the appointment desk, and started speaking to Wendy, apparently

mistaking her for me. Besides the old guy’s poor vision, he had seemed foggy, so I

16 16

was surprised that he’d remembered my name and also the correct time of his

appointment.

Dr. Reynolds called me to the examining room about fifteen minutes into

Mr. Morton’s appointment. When I entered, he pushed the ophthalmoscope away

from the old man. “Sally, I’m recommending cataract surgery for Mr. Morton.

Please give him names of two or three ophthalmologists.” He turned to Mr.

Morton. “After the surgery, come try our new Soflens if you like.”

I ushered Mr. Morton to my desk, thinking that his brain must be more

lucid today. On paper, I wrote down the doctors’ names in large letters. “Here you

go, Mr. Morton.”

“Thanks for giving me these names. It means so much to a suffering old

man,” he said. He held out his right hand. I squeezed it lightly. “And please call

me Cliff.”

An article on senescence stated, “Each stab of pain a mourner feels when a

desire for the missing loved one goes unfulfilled ‘teaches’ him again that the loved

one is dead.” Was this how it had been for my Grandma Hilma and Grandpa Joe,

both widowed? I never met my maternal grandfather and had few recollections of

my paternal grandmother, Frances, who’d died when I was seven.

At five feet, ten inches, Hilma was a commanding presence. She wore long,

shirtwaist dresses and black oxfords with a chunk heel. After Grandma became a

widow in her early forties, she told my mom she wouldn’t marry again, because

she didn’t want her children to have “some stepfather.” But I wonder if she ever

looked at a man with longing or watched a father pass a ball to his kids.

Grandpa Joe showed up at our house more often after Grandma Frances

died, bearing a long face, but kept his signature plaid shirt tucked into his trousers.

17 17

Mom invited him for dinner once a week. It seems I tuned in to his sadness at ages

eight or nine more than I sympathized at age thirteen with my grandmother’s

frailty. It’s as if my sensitivity was a soft spot that became calloused during

adolescence and continued until adulthood.

When I think back on Cliff, I wonder if it had taken dozens and dozens of

these painful experiences—waking up eager to say good morning to his wife or

plopping down on the sofa, ready to watch their favorite television show, his hand

reaching out to pull her closer—for him to know in his gut what he knew in his

head, that his beloved was irrevocably gone.

I didn’t learn that Cliff was a widower until three months later when he

returned for contacts. In the dispensing room, I placed a contact lens on his eye

then returned to a stool on the opposite side of the table.

“It might take a few minutes before you can focus.”

“I’m already seeing pictures on the wall, and your face. Maybe I’m not

ruined yet.” I handed him a tissue for the tears, not knowing if they resulted from

his emotions or from contact solution running down his cheeks. “Was I a wreck on

my first visit here? I heard the doctor call your name, so I said it over and over to

myself.”

“You made it back. That’s the important part,” I said.

Cliff struggled on his first few attempts to put the lens in and take it out,

one time dropping it on the dispensing table. For that reason, I’d been taught to set

a lint-free towel on the table whenever a new patient practiced insertion and

removal. “It’s a good idea to keep a magnifying mirror handy and also make sure

you have good lighting,” I suggested. “And remember to keep your eye wide open

18 18

by holding onto the upper eyelid with your free hand.” Cliff managed to get the

lens in and out on the fourth try.

Dr. Reynolds checked him one more time, then brought Cliff to the front

desk.

“Sally, please come to lunch next Saturday,” Cliff said. “Maybe we can

have roast beef.”

The invitation took me by surprise, and I blurted out, “Thanks, but I don’t

eat meat.”

“That’s okay. Hazel can serve Blue Lake beans, corn, and homemade

biscuits.”

My mind scrolled through the upcoming weekend to think of prior

commitments. I didn’t know how to answer. I wouldn’t mind going; the old guy, a

grandfather figure, had grown on me. But was it against company policy?

“May I call you to let you know?” I asked. He nodded. “Thanks for inviting

me. It would be nice to meet your wife.”

“My wi-wife died five months ago.” He paused. “Hazel is my

housekeeper.”

After saying goodbye to Cliff, I asked Wendy to cover for me, so I could

“use the restroom,” the only source of privacy in our clinic and a place I could

clear my head. Two patients in the waiting room looked up from their magazines

as I rushed past them. Sitting on the closed toilet seat, I thought about Cliff’s

weeping and forgetfulness, and how I hadn’t guessed he was a recent widower. I

felt saddened both because I’d lacked sensitivity to his situation, and because I’d

just learned of his loss.

I’m sure Cliff struggled each time he relayed the message of his wife’s

passing, the words would catch on his lips, sounding foreign and menacing. He

19 19

also had to deal with reactions from each new person learning the “news.” Some

would tear up, some would say, “Oh, at least she lived a long life,” others would

look away, feeling guilty that they hadn’t been in contact. Wanting to avoid our

reactions could explain why he hadn’t broached the topic with us earlier.

Before closing time that day, I mentioned the invitation to Dr. Reynolds. I

wanted to know if he thought it inappropriate to see a patient outside of work. “I

can’t see any harm in it,” he said. “My God, he’s almost eighty years old,” he

added as a joke.

On the following Saturday, Cliff met me at the door. He wore a pressed

blue shirt and khakis. His hair looked clean. I stood in the entry glancing around

the room at the moss-colored carpet, sofa and recliner. On wooden shelves,

bowling trophies and ceramic animals competed for space. Eyes of cats, dogs,

ducks, and even a skunk seemed to peep out from the towering trophies.

“My wife’s hobbies,” he said. He flipped a ceramic dog, then a cat upside

down to show me the name, Bea, sketched on the bottom. “She didn’t make

horses. Not sure why.”

“And you were the bowler?’ I asked. He shrugged as if to say, that was in

the past.

“Hazel is helping me sort through my wife’s belongings. I’m afraid the

house looks like a junk yard.” Until then I hadn’t noticed a few boxes, stacked in

one corner. “I’ll go find her,” he said.

I could hear pans rattling in the kitchen. Soon Hazel entered the room. She

held out her hand and shook mine lightly.

“I’ll put your jacket in the closet,” she said. A good-natured face rested on

top of her plump body. She wore a skirt, a sweater, and brown flats. “I’ve heard a

20 20

lot about you and that dear Dr. Reynolds,” she said. “Cliff is almost ready to

declare you both saints.”

“Oh, I certainly hope not,” I said, embarrassed. “What about you? Is this

overtime today?”

“No, no. Bea was one of my closest friends so I’m glad to help Clifford sort

through stuff.” She looked over her shoulder to see if he’d stayed in the kitchen.

“Bea was an amazing cook. I’d be spoiled from a lifetime of her food. But I’m

encouraging him to make some simple dishes, because I can’t come every day.”

I envisioned possible routines for Cliff and Bea. He would come home

from his job, skim through the mail, then relax in his recliner until she announced

dinner. After retirement, he bowled more often. She sometimes joined him, but

preferred playing bridge. Even though his skills at cards were mediocre, he tried

his best so he could spend more time in his wife’s company. He mowed the lawn

(until his vision deteriorated) and she still prepared meals.

The words, bereave and rob, derive from the same root, which implies

having something valuable stolen or having something withheld in an unjust

manner. So Cliff might have entered the kitchen to be greeted only by silence.

Bea—not only his wife, but also his cook—had been whisked away from him.

And affection—sometimes just a warm body to cuddle with, sometimes more—

was stolen from his own bedroom. Did his stabs of pain come more often in the

kitchen or the bedroom? In addition to the loss of his wife, his advanced years

robbed him of physical stamina and of his vision. We were at opposite ends of the

life spectrum. I looked forward to earning a master’s degree and starting a career.

He looked backwards.

* * *

21 21

“How’s it going with the contact lens?” I asked Cliff at the kitchen table.

“Oh, these clumsy old fingers. It takes me a lot of tries.”

“Keep practicing. It’s only been a little over a week.”

“How’s the food?” Hazel asked. She served the beans, corn and biscuits as

promised. “Delicious,” I said.

Hazel recounted some of Bea’s recipes then talked about her own

grandchildren. Cliff offered only a comment or two throughout the lunch. He

pulled his face close to the plate, hoping to see the food better. She asked how

long I’d worked at the optometric center and I said about two years.

“I hope you stay at the clinic a long time,” she said, glancing at her friend.

He looked up from his food, waiting for my answer I guess.

“Actually, I have just one more quarter to finish my degree then I plan to

get a master’s in blind rehabilitation, or possibly in gerontology.”

Hazel stacked plates to clear the table. I grabbed the silverware and glasses.

Cliff left the room and I assumed he’d gone to relax in the living room. “Tell me

about gerontology,” she said. “We might be your clients.”

I shared ideas from my class on senescence, the value of exercise and

activities for the mind, like crossword puzzles or other word games.

Earlier that month I’d felt inspired when Professor D. read bios of older

athletes, a mountain climber and a kayaker, and on a whim I sent an application to

a college with a gerontology program. I knew that not all elderly people

deteriorate like my grandma had in her mid-seventies. Grandpa never lost his

mental faculties. I also knew I would be kinder to my parents when they reached

old age.

I needed to make a choice between the two fields, especially since

acceptance letters from both programs had recently arrived. I leaned towards

22 22

working with the visually impaired, and later committed to that choice because of

the many options for employment, such as schools, rehabilitation centers, and even

in veterans’ hospitals. It was with some regret that I let go of gerontology.

“Let me see what Cliff is doing,” Hazel said, putting the last pan away. We

found him in the living room watching television. Or was he nodding off? “I have

some errands to do. Are you going to be all right?” she asked him.

“Sure,” Cliff said. “I have some photos I want Sally to see.”

“Well, goodbye then.” I thanked her for the lunch.

“Follow me to the dining room,” Cliff said. “I’ll bring the pictures.”

I sat at the table and he placed wedding pictures in front of me. He scooted

his chair next to mine.

“This is lovely.” A handsome couple with a serious, yet serene expression

appeared in the black and white photograph.

“Which one?” His head bobbed toward me. “Oh, yes.”

“Bea was a beauty,” I said. “And you had thick, black hair.”

I turned to pass the photo back to him, and noticed Cliff standing at my

side. When had he gotten up? Moments later, I sensed him behind me, then felt

pressure on my chest. I looked down to coarse, chapped hands cupping my breasts.

My heart thumped under his hands.

“It’s been so long,” he said.

‘No,” I shouted, pulling his fingers off me. I pivoted under his arms,

turning to see his gaze shift down to his shoes.

Now I found myself the person robbed, because I’d assumed a lunch

invitation was innocent and meant no more than time to chat over a meal. The

empathy I’d developed for Cliff in the past months shattered in those few seconds

when he grabbed me. Dr. Reynolds had joked about “no harm,” meaning, I

23 23

thought, that the luncheon might be a little boring. Did he think it improbable to

fraternize with a patient of this age? I wanted to blame Dr. Reynolds for

encouraging me to go to the old man’s house. Unable to focus the blame where it

belonged, with Cliff—he seemed too pitiful—I circled around it.

I kept thinking how much Cliff missed Bea, and probably he did. But I’d

assumed that without knowing her, and without knowing if they fought often, if

they agreed on where to spend their money, or if they had frequent sex. If she had

been ill for a long time, physical intimacy might have been absent, or only a

memory. I didn’t think Cliff’s gesture was premeditated. Rather, I believed that in

his grief, the longing for contact became so intense that he acted out sexually.

Several times in my early twenties, men close to my age had made sexual

advances, which I rebuffed. I might have ignored them at parties or turned down

dates from them, but I hadn’t held them in the same contempt I’d felt for Cliff

after he groped me, when my emotions had bounced about, going from shock to

anger. That day, I lost my ability to place his actions in context. This only

happened after many years and sexual relations of my own, both negative and

positive.

It seems unfair of me to have placed him in the “dirty old man” stereotype.

Maybe he’d had a flash of himself as a young man in his sexual prowess. I only

saw old and failing faculties.

I’d planned to meet a friend at the park that afternoon. But feeling sapped

of energy and confused, I no longer looked forward to our meeting. I thought I

drove my usual route, but I ended up in a different section of town. By the time I

24 24

arrived, my friend had apparently given up on me. I walked around the lake and

then circled it again, trying to get my bearings.

A BODY IN MOTION

My son, Robert might talk about green cheese, I wrote to Mrs. C, his

kindergarten teacher. It doesn’t have anything to do with science fiction or green

food coloring; Robert substitutes color names when he doesn’t retain the actual

names.

Do you remember when he visited his sister, Jillian, in your class two years

ago? He has looked forward to your class for months now. Robert, an active and

enthusiastic child, likes to ride his bike, swim, and do gymnastics. He also enjoys

eating, music and being a team helper.

Robert’s birth mother used methadone and either heroin or cocaine

(medical reports conflict); his impulsive behavior stems from her life-style. He

went through drug withdrawal in his early weeks, was placed in foster care at six

weeks, and lived in eight homes before coming to our family on his second

birthday.

Robert may stay in his chair for only a minute or two at a time. He might

tickle children in an effort to engage them. I don’t see these actions as

misbehavior, but as an invitation to join his world. He feels safe when he’s in

motion. One child might dream of a world of video games. My son dreams of

living in a gymnasium or a touch museum.

I told Mrs. C. other things, too, like when Robert came to our family with

one box of worn clothes and toys, and fragments of medical diagnoses:

Microcephalic and speech delayed—he started talking at twenty five months. I

summarized results from the special education testing team: Robert has difficulty

with auditory processing, is fidgety and has a fine motor delay. Then I felt

compelled to add: None of the evaluations revealed Robert’s great dance moves

26 26

at age two, his ability to ride a two-wheeler at four, or that at five that he conned

the ice cream man to exchange ice cream for grapefruit from our tree.

In writing this letter, I’d surprised myself. I realized that somehow, I’d

harnessed the confidence reflected in the tone. From the time he came to our

family as a two-year old foster child, I straddled an emotional edge, alternating

between being keyed up or worn down. Therefore, I didn’t tell Robert’s teacher,

Mrs. C., about four years of negotiating the adoption maze, about the struggles I

had disciplining a hyperactive child, or how often I went to bed feeling deflated

and pummeled, thinking I could have done better as a mom on that day. I didn’t

tell her that her classroom was part refuge, affording me a few hours to go to a

part-time job. One more thing I withheld was my internal response when Jillian,

aged four, asked after the honeymoon following his placement, “Mom, can we

send him back?”

“No, of course, not,” I said. But sometimes I questioned my sanity or my

naiveté in taking on this adoption, and wanted to say, “Maybe.”

I never said the word “maybe” out loud, because I wouldn’t have wanted

my husband, Chris, to hear. In hindsight, I know that all parents have moments of

doubt about the 24/7 job they’ve taken on. Even though Chris and I had tossed

around adoption as a way of building a family ever since our engagement, I

always knew my desire exceeded his. (The social workers said it’s common for

partners to have differing levels of interest and still favor the process.) It seemed at

the time we had Robert as a foster child that my determination was on trial. If I’d

shown any serious sign of wavering while waiting on the courts to free Robert for

adoption, Chris might have questioned my resolve. Perhaps I feared he would

change his mind if I didn’t remain steadfast. Because I’d reached my late thirties,

this seemed my last chance to add a second child to the family.

27 27

Times of joy piggybacked on moments of uncertainty in Robert’s first two

years with us. He loved meeting new people and going places like the zoo or the

park, and would eat almost anything, in fact too much. At the end of the meal, he

scrambled under the table to retrieve scraps, his version of “seconds.” We had to

teach him to say “more” while still seated.

I no longer had down time. Robert had two speeds: go and sleep. He

wouldn’t sit for a story or wouldn’t let me hold him for more than two seconds.

Often he cruised too close to the hot stove. One time he wouldn’t move away, so I

picked him up forcefully, accompanied by a loud “no” in his ear.

At night, Robert thrashed against the walls, waking me up, two rooms

away, a result of a type of listening a parent develops with babies or toddlers.

Many mornings I rose feeling anything but rested. A few nights after Robert came

to our home, I heard a loud bang and went to his room to scope out the situation.

Robert had fallen out of bed, rolled across the floor and was curled in a ball near

his closet. Still asleep. The next day, Chris and I retrieved Jillian’s crib from the

garage and placed it in his room.

During Robert’s kindergarten year, I volunteered in his class occasionally.

Just before Halloween, I helped a group of five kids seated at a table to glue ears

and tails on black cats. I glanced at Robert clustered with others at the reading

table. He slouched in his chair, only a sliver of his butt making contact with the

plastic seat. His feet shifted—forward, backward, then sideways on the rug every

few seconds and his arms crossed and uncrossed, sometimes reaching to scratch

his head.

In my own grade school more than thirty years earlier, if a teacher had

glanced at me, she would have seen me anchored to a chair, my butt fully on the

28 28

seat and my feet on the floor. Most likely, she believed I was “paying attention.”

Often I didn’t, especially when the teacher read a story to us. Most children enjoy

listening to a story, but I grew restless in my seat. My mind drifted to the window,

to the sky and the trees. Sometimes, I added my own setting to the book’s story

line. Soon, the teacher’s voice became a drone and I reached into my memories of

more active experiences, like playing hide-and-seek in my cousin’s backyard. My

older cousin was it; his footsteps thudded on the dirt approaching the tool shed,

where I hid, not far from his sister. He opened the creaky door, spotted me, and I

ran to the base, my heart thumping, knowing I might not make it in time. When

the teacher said, “the end,” I could only guess what the book’s plot or message

might have been.

Robert’s challenges increased as he progressed through school. In first

grade, he struggled with sounding out words and with understanding their

meaning. I hand-picked a teacher with a multiple-grade class of second, third and

fourth graders. This teacher gave him extra tutoring in reading, and I liked the fact

that older students helped the younger ones.

About this time, I heard about the Mozart Effect. While no definitive results

had yet been attained, scientists hypothesized that hearing complex music actually

excites the cortical firing patterns that are analogous to those used in spatial

reasoning. John Hughes, a neurologist at the University of Illinois Medical Center

in Chicago, examined hundreds of compositions and concluded that music

sequences regularly repeating every twenty to thirty seconds, such as Mozart’s

compositions, parallel many functions of the central nervous system, such as the

onset of sleep and brain wave patterns, which also occur in thirty second cycles.

29 29

Although the results were debated and different meanings read into them

(some researchers also claimed improvement in math reasoning), an exposure to

classical music couldn’t hurt. Robert and I attended a keyboard concert when he

was six years old. We listened to the chatter of people in the seats around us for a

few minutes, absorbing the conversations. “I hear it’s all Beethoven tonight,” he

said to me, apparently overhearing this comment. I signed him up for piano

lessons.

Robert learned the names of the keys fairly easily, but labored over the

notes on the page, those circles with stems arranged on the staff. During one of

his early lessons, I pulled up a chair next to him on the piano stool. I pointed to an

F, the first note of the song.

“What is this note?” I asked.

“An A?”

“No, it’s an F.”

Robert scowled.

“Remember F A C E? Well, it’s the first space, which makes it an F. Where

is a C?”

He played the middle C. “Now where is it on the paper?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” Robert slammed on the keys in frustration.

I kept hoping he would learn to sight read, as did his teacher. After about

six or eight months, I stopped forcing him to read notes. Maybe I’d pushed the

whole idea of the lessons on him.

“What should we do?” I asked one day, turning to him. He’d opened the

cover and propped up his sheet music. “This isn’t working.”

“Just let me do it my way,” he said. So I continued to read the notes to him.

He put his hands on the correct keys and repeated the patterns over and over, until

30 30

he memorized them by touch, showing himself to be a kinesthetic learner. Only

after his hands knew their positions measure by measure, and song by song, could

he look at the written notes and follow. I thought of a former student of mine, who

could see enough to read large print, however, he preferred braille, and made

better progress reading by touch.

My husband and I separated when my son was in second grade, over three

years after adopting him, something I couldn’t see coming at the time of the court

hearing which severed ties with Robert’s birth mother. We’d celebrated his

adoption with a party. Family and friends arrived from out of town; we popped

open champagne for the adults and sparkling cider for the kids.

For a while, we had seemed like a fully connected family. Jillian had

adjusted to sharing our attention, and the four of us biked around Woodward Park,

walked to Baskin Robbins in the evenings, and on weekends went to the

mountains when we could. Mrs. C., Robert’s kindergarten teacher, commented on

“our nice family” at a class presentation. When the kids shouted, “alli alligator,”

Robert slapped his hands together on cue, resembling the beast’s jaws closing.

After the kids acted out the alphabet and sang songs, Chris and I clapped the

loudest, or it felt like we did.

Perhaps I underestimated the amount of work and emotional toil a

hyperactive child can bring to the family. Robert didn’t entertain himself. If the

neighbor children came inside, I got a few moments of reprieve. Sometimes they

played on the porch and became impatient with him when he interrupted their

puppet show or their Candy Land game. I had to be within an arm’s length of my

son, because in these moments, he tended to wander, looking for more action.

Robert didn’t develop a sense of street safety until he was a fourth or fifth grader. I

31 31

could not risk his running in front of a car. If Jillian or other children weren’t

available to play, Robert followed my every step.

One day, I suggested we play paddle ball. It turned out to be great exercise

because neither of us had a great serve, so we were always scrambling to return

the ball. Our wild hits also sent a number of balls over the fence. Instead, we

switched to Koosh ball because the ball didn’t travel as far. We didn’t always

manage to keep a volley going, but we enjoyed the physical activity and the

chance to unwind from the day. Our Koosh ball matches continued until Robert

moved out, although they became less frequent during his high school years, due

to his participation in water polo.

On weekends, Chris spent considerable time tinkering on his bikes when he

was home, and Robert liked to hang out with him in the garage. During these

occasions, I announced a trip to the grocery store, but didn’t head inside after

parking my car in the lot. Instead, I reclined the car seat and enjoyed a few

minutes of freedom. Often, I took a nap before proceeding inside the store to shop

for needed food items.

Statistics reveal that parents of a handicapped child divorce at a higher rate

than other couples. Although in our case this might have been a factor, intimacy

between us had waned in the months leading up to my husband’s decision. Prior to

meeting Chris, I’d considered myself fickle. I’d developed interests, crushes, and

infatuations toward men, but within months, I’d grow edgy and was ready to move

on. Chris and I had similar political views, valued exercise, and enjoyed cultural

events such as concerts and plays, but this connection wasn’t enough. I had fallen

for a guy who had his own version of wanderlust, not the kind of mobility I sought

out. Although saddened by the failure of our marriage, I think this scenario would

have occurred with or without Robert.

32 32

* * *

All my life, I’ve experienced a form of restlessness different from Robert’s,

which can be physical, mental or both. I often equate this with a northerner’s

yearning for spring. In Montana, beginning in February, my dad would call out,

“the days are getting longer.” By March, he’d start checking for the first tree buds

or the first crocuses to poke through crusty snow. I’ve followed his example, but

taken it further. Since childhood, with the coming of spring, I’ve felt ready to bust

the doors open and scramble outside, to wear summer on my shirtsleeves, feeling

the sun’s rays on my arms and face. This pattern has become intertwined with my

career in special education. Each May, I’m ready to cast aside the teacher role, and

imagine the places I’ll go and the people I’ll see that summer. Will I visit my

cousin in Oregon, pursue eco-tourism in Ecuador or take my customary dip in

Shaver Lake? For sure, I’ll walk the loop at Woodward Park.

I don’t often skip exercise, because if I do, my legs twitch in bed. My

limbs’ bedtime dance lacks artistic merit: one flops up like a jumping bean, then

the other. Then I flip from right to left and front to back trying to outfox my legs.

If the tics don’t stop, I rise, go to the living room and do calf stretches. In most

people, restless leg syndrome shows up less in the daytime due to routine

movement. Fortunately the condition is not considered serious, because no cure

exists.

Awakened one night with spasms in my calves, I pulled back the covers

and did knee bends, then leg extensions. I wanted someone or something to pull

my legs, to pull the aches out. I wondered if this is how Robert’s body feels all the

time, tics and twinges firing from both his arms and legs. I’d read about Attention

Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and mentally checked yes when considering

whether Robert showed these characteristics: Fidgeting with hands or feet or

33 33

squirming in a seat, difficulty waiting for a turn in tasks or games, shifting from

one activity to another, difficulty in following through on instructions and in

organizing tasks, difficulty in listening to others without being distracted or

interrupting. I often saw Robert twist and writhe in a chair during paper and pencil

tasks.

My restless legs gave me tools to understand the physical part of Robert’s

ADHD in my own body, made me toss about on a mattress the way he did in a

chair. When Robert turned eight I talked to him about trying Ritalin. The drug has

remained controversial over the years due to mixed results and because some

children become sluggish when taking this medication. He agreed to try, hoping it

would help him concentrate. For two months, he thought it helped, then the

differences on and off the drug seemed negligible. We discontinued Ritalin.

I was quick to recognize Robert’s difficulty in focusing—but not my own,

even with a background in special education. One major difference separates my

son and me. Although an active person, I lack the hyperactive/impulsive

component. I don’t tend to squirm in a seat unless sitting for hours, and I don’t

blurt out answers before a person finishes asking questions. My teachers called me

a daydreamer and then dropped the matter. From time to time, I’d questioned my

lack of attention during oral activities, but dismissed it, thinking of myself as a

visual learner.

It would be decades before I’d notice that my tendencies were similar to

Attention Deficit Disorder. A fellow writer suggested it when I described my

writing process, and how I tend to impose a linear structure on myself. Otherwise,

I’ll never focus. I want a template of my life, to help control it. If I can order my

life chronologically, maybe no important piece will drift away or dangle in space.

34 34

If I can map it out, I might contain my narratives within well-secured borders, free

from foreign invaders who might steal my memory.

Another trait I recognized in myself involves my difficulty in organizing, a

characteristic I share with Robert. If I have no immediate commitment, I allow

myself the disorganization, the unsorted mail or half-cleaned room. I even laugh

about my tea cup that I lose several times a day. But if a deadline approaches, I

become anal with list making and categorize the duties. I’m motivated to complete

a task spelled out on paper, and eager to check it off my list. Another trick to

prevent distractions involves placing a list in multiple locations. One by my

kitchen table, another taped to the bathroom mirror, as reminders to focus on the

task at hand.

It’s easier to notice my distractible nature in day-to-day tasks than in a

larger picture of my life. As a result of my urge to keep exploring, I’ve lived in

seven states, have attended seven colleges in over forty years, and have traveled

on four continents. My finding a career that has nurtured my love of movement

seems remarkable. On a daily basis, I drive to a number of schools then teach my

visually impaired students about their community, compatible with my need to

walk. About April, I start counting the remaining days of school. I may have

skewed my view to think of big summer trips as rewards for completing another

year of work. Perhaps travelling has served as a necessity to feed my restless itch.

All this has helped me understand Robert’s restlessness and frustration.

I wonder if Robert, as he grew older, ever thought about his method of

organization or his restlessness. I tended to analyze the workings of my mind;

Robert was more likely to stay in motion until he dropped. Two hours of practice

after school for the swim team and water polo seemed to satiate his demand for

35 35

movement, the way food satiates hunger. Generally I picked him up from practice

about 5:30 P.M., and we ate about 6:00. I asked him to do his homework before

eight, before he became too sleepy. Even on weekends, Robert crashed early. If

we watched a movie on a Friday or Saturday night, Robert would fall asleep

midway through the film.

Robert needed to navigate through his school career, and my training in

special education helped him do so, because I understood the processes of

identifying a disability, and my parent’s rights, including the right to agree or

disagree to a suggested educational placement. In high school, Robert’s teachers

placed him on a certificate track, not a diploma track, because during fifth grade,

someone labeled him as developmentally delayed. At each meeting held to discuss

his progress, I expressed my concerns regarding the label. Finally the psychologist

at his high school phoned me to ask for my concerns. She agreed to use different

tests than had been used in the past. In addition, she interviewed him, noted his

vocabulary, that he dated popular girls and that he played on the varsity water polo

team. The tests still confirmed a cognitive learning disability, but also placed him

in the average range of intelligence. As a result, Robert’s special education team

changed his course of studies and when he graduated, he received a diploma, not

just a certificate of completion.

Robert’s hyperactivity leveled off as he became an adult. Now, when he is

off work, he relaxes, and he can keep his butt on a chair. But I still think of him

flying down the sidewalk on his bike, or pacing by the edge of the pool, waiting

for me, so he can jump in. Or I imagine we’re playing Koosh ball after work,

because the next best thing to being is motion is to imagine being in motion.

Thanks to Robert, I do that often.

DESTINATION CAREER: FIRST STOP

Having completed my college training to become an orientation and

mobility teacher for the visually impaired, and anxious to begin my career, I flew

to Duluth, Minnesota for an interview, arriving just ahead of a December blizzard.

Paul, the program coordinator at the Lighthouse for the Blind, met me at the

airport and said we were headed for the Radisson Hotel in the heart of the city.

Snowflakes danced on his car’s windshield in between the rotation of the wipers.

Flurries that circled around streetlights and headlights morphed into blankets of

snow during the twenty minute drive to downtown. Snow banks towered several

feet high on the roadside. Over dinner, in the restaurant of the hotel’s top floor,

Paul pointed in the direction of Duluth’s fine features: Lake Superior, the

drawbridge, and the harbor. I looked out the window, but the storm blurred any

distinguishable landmarks.

“We have an active blind outdoor club,” he said. “In the winter, the young

and the fit ski at Spirit Mountain. There’s beep baseball in the summer.”

“How do blind people ski?” I asked.

“Members of the ski patrol volunteer as guides. They ski next to a blind

person and call out the paths and the turns.”

He sipped the last of his coffee. “Dessert tonight?” I thanked him, but

declined. “In that case, I’ll say goodnight.” He pushed out his chair. “What time is

your interview tomorrow?”

“At nine o’clock.”

“How about meeting at 8:45 in the lobby?”

The next morning, before I stepped into Paul’s car, my eyes scanned rows

of fir trees, the frozen lake, and the harbor. The snow glistened on tree boughs and

37 37

the sun reflected off icicles hanging from eaves of buildings. At the Lighthouse, I

met with staff and received a tour of the new rehabilitation building. The director

shared his vision and asked me about my training. Most of the words exchanged

have faded except for “We’d like to have you on our staff.” Adrenaline rushed to

my head, and I wanted to hold on to the excitement. I think I bobbed my head up

and down before I remembered to say, “yes.”

My job experiences in a hospital kitchen, a pickle factory, and the

optometrist’s office had given me the impetus to get my degree and find work that

suited me. In the first situation, the Catholic nuns in charge of the hospital kitchen

allowed only work-related talk. Conversations, were limited to counting the food

trays or the amount of dishes to put away, and didn’t last long. And I didn’t

discover any recipes worth saving. In the pickle plant where I labored for a

summer, workers hunched over conveyers belts for eight hours every day. I

watched the minute hand circle the clock until time for coffee break, then lunch,

then dismissal. At five o’clock, I left the factory smelling of brine. Working as an

optometric assistant had some plusses, like chatting with patients and learning

about optics. But the physical space, cave-like, drained me of energy.

I convinced myself that the beautiful Minnesota setting would provide

stimulation, vitality and a chance to help my students. What more could I ask for?

Duluth over Atlanta, Georgia, my other job offer, became an easy choice, although

the latter presented a balmy climate. I learned that my classmate, Marsha, from

Western Michigan University had also applied, and this swayed my decision, as

did my parents’ excitement about combining a visit to see me and some Wisconsin

relatives, just across the state line. Hoping it was the right choice, I said “yes” to

38 38

Duluth and sought ways to put a positive spin on it. I signed an apartment lease;

my parents sent me an oak table and a dresser set built by my grandpa. In my mid-

twenties, I reveled in the idea of a job that provided a salary, rather than an hourly

wage of $2.75.

Seven years earlier, when I was twenty, I’d rented an apartment, my

initiation into independence. During my first week there, I’d opened the cupboard

doors several times a day to touch the plates. Real. I’d also poked food in the

refrigerator. Real. A similar shiver of excitement now traveled up my spine in

anticipation of my own place—this time not a dump in college housing.

Having grown up in Montana, and having lived in Colorado and Michigan,

I thought of myself as schooled in winter. Since my job was to begin in January, I

envisioned a few months of snow, blizzards, icy roads, and temperatures well

below zero. In my head, I’ve often played with weather statistics, smiled when

scanning the minutes of added daylight, the moderating of temperatures. In Duluth

that first year, this involved counting January days and subtracting seven—for

surely the first week would be filling out papers, learning policies and meeting

staff, and then voila—only three weeks would remain in the month. Each morning

of awakening and turning down the covers would bring me closer to a longer and

warmer day.

This mode of thinking served me in Montana and Michigan, where even in

the winter months, the mercury rose and fell. I’d started my O&M degree in

January 1977 and had worked one-on-one with an assigned professor to acquire

the skills I would eventually teach. At the beginning of the daily lesson, I’d

grabbed my cane and pulled the sleep shade over my eyes. Learning sighted guide

and basic cane techniques took place inside the multi-storied education building

39 39

and lasted for two months. By the time we reached March, Michigan thaws

resulted in crusty, dirt-flecked snow on lawns and rivulets of water ran across

sidewalks.

In the seventies, an expansion of services for the visually impaired was

underway nationwide. Agencies competed for new graduates to work as

rehabilitation teachers and orientation and mobility specialists; the Lighthouse

posted two positions for mobility instructors. The job description included

teaching white cane skills, familiarization with the rehab facility, residential and

business travel skills, including trips on the city bus.

My supervisor introduced me to six new students who he said “were eager

to start mobility lessons.” I measured each student for height and length of stride,

and fitted that person with a white mobility cane. Most lessons would take place

on sidewalks in nearby residential and business neighborhoods. Sidewalk is a

loaded term here, because in Duluth I couldn’t see or feel this concrete feature

buried under snow and ice.

To prepare for my new job, I purchased mukluks, a woolen scarf and a hat.

I was ready to summon a student and march through the snow, breathing in the

crisp air. But most of my lessons ended in frustration about fifteen minutes after

they began. No one had told me that Lake Superior wouldn’t thaw until almost

Memorial Day, and no one told me that traversing the walks meant snowy ruts that

had partially melted and frozen over again, because some people didn’t bother to

shovel. Why would someone tell me? Minnesotans probably assumed I knew this.

And I did, but not in a practical, what-will-we-do-for-our-lesson kind of way. It

seemed too treacherous to take older students outside; many of them were in their

sixties and seventies.

40 40

Driving students to indoor lesson sites in Duluth had its own hazards,

assuming I made it to work safely. I purchased an “engine warmer” that I attached

to my car and plugged in every night, so the fluids wouldn’t freeze, and this

strategy worked if I didn’t forget to do it. City crews used salt like crazy on the

roads. Even so, icy spots could reemerge. On some days, I started up a steep hill

with my tires spinning, not gaining traction, and had to back down. The choice for

lessons often came down to bundling up like an Eskimo and attempting a short

walk or climbing into a company car and hoping to avoid a collision.

At the Lighthouse, a few of the younger students had a level of hardiness,

and accepted the challenge of winter travel, although snow banks mounted to two

and three feet, making it difficult to know whether one walked on a buried

sidewalk or had drifted into a street. One of my university professors had said that

“snow is a blind person’s fog,” meaning that all tactual cues are covered. A side

effect of the elements was walking at a snail’s pace, not a rate that generated

warmth. I wiggled my fingers inside my mittens to boost their circulation, but still

looked forward to taking off my boots when I returned to the Lighthouse and

placing my toes near the heat register.

I attributed job jitters to the harsh conditions of this frigid climate.

Certainly, impassable sidewalks and icy roads challenge any pedestrian. But my

tentativeness as a new teacher played an equal role. On a mobility lesson near the

end of January, Becky, a pregnant, twenty-something student, sauntered through a

narrow path, bouncing her cane off the wall of snow on both sides. Strawberry

blond hair created a fringe outside of her stocking cap, and light flurries dusted the

sleeves of her parka.

41 41

“My cane just sank again,” Becky said. She yanked it to the surface,

leaving a hole shaped like a shaft in the snow.

“I think this is enough for today,” I said.

At the last corner, she slipped and dropped to her knees. I moved to her side

and offered an arm to help her up, then examined the ground. Kicking aside snow

and a loose piece of ice, I glimpsed an uneven storm drain underneath.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Why hadn’t I planned a lesson in a grocery store

where she would have been safe?

“Sure, I’m fine.” Her voice sounded matter of fact.

Back inside the building, she pulled up her pants so I could check her legs.

I could see no obvious cuts or bruises. I worried however for months about the

baby, but never let my thoughts crystallize into a specific scenario. My form of

worry was accompanied by a heavy stomach, and a dulling of scary mental

images. I blurred lines before I could visualize the bleeding of a miscarriage. If

Becky harbored fears or concerns, she never showed it. In June, she delivered a

healthy boy.

Perhaps her fall became magnified in my mind because of my inexperience

at the time and because of the responsibility I carried. I longed for Western

Michigan, for my professors, fellow students, and my master teacher at my

internship site, a rehabilitation center. One of my professors or my master

teacher—if only they were here—would say words that would help me gain

prospective. Marsha, who had accepted the second job position, might have

helped, but she wouldn’t start for another month.

It became easy in retrospect to idealize our life at the university. Every day

had been filled with discoveries of how to use other senses. I’d marveled at the

simplest facts, like the idea that I already knew the relative height of door knobs,

42 42

based on years of kinesthetic practice. Therefore, I didn’t need to see them. And

most stairs within a single staircase are uniform, so once measured with the cane, I

could anticipate their height and depth. I filled the learning mode at the university,

not the teacher mode and the stress that comes with this role.

I hadn’t figured out the best ways to work around the limitations in Duluth

and find a rhythm when lesson plans were stymied due to weather. I sensed that

experience would help me become a more effective teacher to my students, with

their individual needs and challenges. However, after thirty years in the

profession, no other situation with a student has affected me so deeply as the one

with Becky, although many students have presented greater emotional challenges.

In summer months, a warm sun and clear streets and sidewalks brightened

my mood. I enjoyed my students more and more and began to have confidence in

myself as a teacher. My students could learn neighborhood routes, such as a walk

to a business because they could locate curbs and could cross a street, recognizing

the crown with its rise and fall. The sight of gray concrete, pieces of loose gravel

and even the rainbow image from drops of oil on blacktop held a new attraction

for me. In addition to cooking, braille, money management and orientation and

mobility classes, our agency held picnics, and took students on boating adventures

at various lakes. Beep baseball games took place in a local park, the one that

contained a ski jump.

On an evening in July, I arrived to join the game under way. Before I put on

my sleep shade, a requirement for sighted people, I recognized some of the blind

athletes who had skied at Spirit Mountain the previous winter. What a reminder of

my own cowardice; I’d cheered on others but hadn’t attempted downhill skiing. It

was a reckoning with what I knew about myself: the range of my activities had a

43 43

more narrow scope than I’d admitted. Give me ice skating or cross country skiing

any day, but not a sport where speed causes me to reel out of control.

That summer, I invited two visually impaired staff members, Diane and

Carol, on a backpacking trip in Northern Minnesota, a new experience for both of

them. Carol required dark sunglasses, because of photophobia, but she did have

some useable vision. Diane only saw objects a few inches from her eyes. I led and

called out trail information second by second: “Step over this boulder of about one

foot,” or, “tree down, veer left.” Diane used a mobility cane in Duluth, but the

brambles and uneven terrain of the trail prevented effective sweeping of a cane. At

one point, she stumbled over a tree stump. “Grab this fir tree on your right to

steady yourself,” I said. That was our only close call in the two hour hike to our

camping site. Backpacking rituals, like cooking with a propane stove and setting

up my tent, seemed more adventuresome with first-timers. Diane wanted to stir the

potato soup, so I guided her hand, protected by an oven mitt, to the pot. The two

women had many questions. “What if it rains and the matches get wet?” I showed

them the sealed plastic containers for matches. “What if it rains at night?” I

pointed out the extra cover on the tent designed to repel water. “How do you

pound the stakes in?” I found a good sized stone. That first night we climbed into

our sleeping bags exhausted. After an oatmeal breakfast the next morning, we sat

on a fallen log and listened to the soft laps of a lake. Old growth forests of black

ash, cedar and balsam fir surrounded us. Carol walked to the edge where the water

touched her toes. “It’s so clear that I can see the bottom,” she said.

Back at work on Monday, both brought up the weekend to other staff,

dropping hints of their accomplishments: “We hiked for four miles.” “I learned

44 44

how to set up a tent.” Introducing my colleagues to backpacking allowed me to

enjoy Minnesota, not fight against it.

In September, Marsha and I paddled a canoe down the St. Louis River, with

our teacher from the adult education class yelling out, “Watch for the V’s,” When

we approached an especially rocky place in the river, the master took the helm,

and I gasped at the possibility of overturning, and then felt thrill as he steered

through hazards. The water appeared black in shady areas, but glimmered when

the sun hit it directly. During times like this, I almost forgot about the harshness of

the winter season soon to arrive on the heels of autumn.

By early November, I faced my second winter in Duluth. I’d admitted that I

wasn’t as hardy as I’d once believed. It’s easier to attribute my discontent, even

struggles with my job, to Duluth weather than to personal traits. Weather, after all,

has shape, volume, and color. Shape manifests as mounds of snow on treetops,

volume as banks of snow as tall as stop signs, color as the salt and pepper effect of

dirt mixed in with snow. In addition, the combination of temperatures below zero

and icy roads kept me confined in my apartment on many weekends.

But I didn’t yet know myself, or foresee the arc my life would take. I’d

already lived in a number of states, two because of family moves, and the

remainder the result of my own choices. Perhaps I was still at heart the twenty-

year old who’d dropped out of college in Seattle and moved to Denver on a

Greyhound bus. Having less than one hundred dollars, I’d had to find a job

immediately. I responded to a classified ad for a “credit clerk” in a large clothing

company and was hired. All day long, I shuffled through purchase orders and

looked up credit scores. I was so firmly stuck to my desk that I thought rigormortis

might set in. After three months working under a most kind mentor, I walked out

while I could still gather my wits and make a game plan.

45 45

Under my two-fold plan, I returned to college at nights and found the

position as an optometric assistant during the day, staying in Denver until I could

complete my bachelor’s degree in behavioral science, hardly a door opener for

great jobs. My break came when an orientation and mobility teacher brought a

visually impaired student to the optometric office to explore special lenses that

might provide a small improvement in vision. I had never heard of an orientation

and mobility instructor, but when this man told me he worked one-on-one with

visually impaired students, teaching them to walk in various settings, it piqued my

interest and I didn’t let him out the door. I fired so many questions at him that he

finally invited me to observe a lesson or two, which I did. So I applied to his alma

mater, Western Michigan University, without checking out other colleges offering

this major within blind rehabilitation.

Although two years on the job had helped me gain confidence as a teacher,

I began to feel the urge to move on, so characteristic of my personality. I

wondered how I’d find a job setting, an environment that I could embrace. If I’d

accepted the position in Atlanta would that have suited me? Somehow I didn’t

think so. This time I wanted more cultural diversity. When I’d considered

Volunteers In Service to America years ago, I didn’t pursue that route because I

lacked tangible skills. But now, I felt I’d gained enough practical knowledge in my

field to be an effective volunteer. But why limit myself to VISTA, a domestic

program? Traveling to another country and learning a new language would surely

engage my interest and curb my restlessness. I phoned a Peace Corps office to

request an application. In early December, almost avoiding another Duluth winter,

I boarded a plane bound for Lesotho in Southern Africa.

DIMENSIONS OF THE LONG CANE

As we start introducing ourselves, I feel both excited and nervous. It’s

1977, and I’m one of seven students in training at a University-based program to

become an orientation and mobility teacher. Though I’m in my mid-twenties, and

have moved across the country before, this is a new beginning in many ways:

resigning my job at the optometric clinic, leaving behind family and friends, and

relying on my meager monthly stipend.

Straight Line

I’m assigned to a professor to work with him one-on-one and given my

own cane that reaches just above my xiphoid process, approximately the height of

my armpits. Now that I’ve met my companion, I notice that its straight shaft with a

metal handle seems more male than female; my professor tells me it’s designed to

detect physical properties, like texture and material composition. Wood feels very

different from metal; a tile floor can be easily distinguished from carpeting.

My cane is 48 inches long and the rigid type; this last word means the shaft,

all one piece, provides durability and good tactual feedback. (This fact hasn’t

changed in over thirty years.)

Materials and Weight

If I placed a cane in your hand, you’d notice that it’s made from aluminum

and weighs about a pound. You’d feel the rubber handle, generally a golf grip

placed on the top of the shaft. Metal handles aren’t common anymore. Folding

canes, a good choice for convenience purposes, come in sections and can fit in a

briefcase or backpack. With your fingers, you can feel the elastic cords inside the

joints. A great feature of this cane is that when you slip off the elastic that holds it

47 47

together, the sections automatically align, snap into place, and the cane extends to

its full length.

Color: White

Throughout history, the cane, staff, and stick have existed as traveling aids

for the blind and visually impaired. Records from biblical times show that a

shepherd's staff was used as a tool for solitary travel. The blind used such staffs to

alert them to obstacles in their path. For centuries, the cane was used merely as a

tool for travel. It was not until the twentieth century that the cane, as we know it

today, was promoted for use by the blind as a symbol alerting others to an

individual’s visual impairment. The American Council for the Blind’s website

states that in 1930, a Lion’s Club member watched a blind man attempt to cross a

busy street using a black cane, barely visible to motorists. The Lion’s Club

decided to paint the cane white and to nationally promote the use of these canes

for blind people. The first White Cane Ordinance, passed in December 1930 in

Peoria, Illinois, granted blind pedestrians the right-of-way while carrying a white

cane. These were still the short, support-style canes. Present day canes have white

reflective tape wrapped around the shaft, which shows up in the dark, and a strip

of red reflective tape just above the tip.

Curved Line

For the first lesson, I secure a sleep shade over my eyes, as I will do for all

my lessons. I’m instructed to center the cane in the midline of my body, using my

navel as a reference point. I hold it about six inches in front of me, extend my

index finger on the straight part of the handle, place my thumb on top and wrap

my remaining three fingers around the handle; my palm in the position that one

uses to shake hands. Next I slide the cane from my left side to my right, practicing

48 48

until I’m covering about two inches beyond the widest part of my body. This

“constant contact technique” is easy to learn and is useful for locating any drop-

off, such as curbs or stairs. Next, I learn the “two-point technique,” which means

touching the ground on the left, raising the cane an inch or so, then arcing it

towards the right and touching down again. The latter technique has a number of

advantages: First, it will not snag on every crack in the sidewalk, second, it allows

a user to go at a faster pace, and third, it sends out a sound which returns via an

echo when close to a wall or building. A few environmental features can’t be

detected with a cane even with the best technique. Examples are the underside of a

staircase, when approaching it from the side, or a guy wire, because the latter is

connected to a pole in a diagonal manner, and person’s head may make contact

before his cane detects it.

Tips

Both metal and nylon tips were common on mobility canes when I began

teaching, but nylon seems to have emerged as the material of choice. It has great

conductivity and durability. Tips can be a pencil-style, a rolling “marshmallow”

style or even a rolling ball. The latter two types don’t require as much wrist

movement to create an arc, so are assigned to students with cognitive disabilities,

who might not understand the purpose of arcing the cane for ample protection.

Regardless of the type, the cane doesn’t work very well on shag carpeting or on

grass, because the tip snags. By contrast, support canes often use a rubber tip to

prevent slipping.

Rhythm

Walking in step means when the left foot steps out, the cane is arced to the

right side and vice versa. The purpose is to check the spot where the next footfall

49 49

will land. One cane movement for each stride is a requirement to walk in-step.

Doing so assures an even rhythm, which looks effortless, as do most

accomplishments. A number of students don’t fully acquire this skill. However,

unless the student has a very fast pace and might overstep the area his cane has

cleared, it’s not usually a major problem.

Diagonal Line

I’m ready to try stairs. I hesitate, scoot my toes forward a few inches at a

time, and then hesitate again—this my body’s way to show its worries. The fear of

falling seems to span different age groups and cultural groups when people are

deprived of vision. My cane tip catches the texture strip on the edge of the first

step, and I relax, let the tip drop over, then hold the cane taut against that step. My

professor tells me to keep my weight on the back of my feet when going down

stairs and on the balls of my feet when going up. After practicing for a week, I can

estimate the depth of steps in a staircase by tactual feedback; these ones today

seem about six inches. Next, I pivot the cane to a diagonal position and raise it

about an inch from the edge of the first step in preparation to go down. If I hold it

steady, it won’t make contact until reaching a flat area, and I’ll know I’ve located

either a landing or the bottom. If I hold it too low, the cane will bounce off the

steps, which isn’t necessary. Some people, though, prefer to touch each step

lightly when going down.

Longevity

Following the return of blinded veterans from World War II, Dr. Richard

Hoover, a sergeant in the Medical Corps, introduced the “long cane” or “Hoover”

method of cane travel at Valley Forge General Hospital in Phoenixville,

Pennsylvania in June 1945. About 80 per cent of these soldiers had no sight at all

50 50

and had a great need for rehabilitation training. In January of the previous year,

President Franklin D. Roosevelt had signed an executive order declaring: “No

blinded servicemen from the war would be returned to his home without adequate

training to meet the problems of necessity imposed upon them by his blindness.”

Hoover and a blinded veteran named Russ Williams developed techniques for

using the long cane as a navigational tool. Much of the methodology currently

used in the field of blind rehabilitation can be traced to Russ Williams’s

experiences as he coped with his own traumatic loss of sight and learned assistive

techniques from others. Williams took his ideas to Veterans Administration

Hospital at Hines, established in 1948, convinced that the corrective therapists

there were the most suited to teach orientation and mobility, due to their physical

education background and their knowledge of kinesiology, anatomy, posture and

gait. Early pioneers at Hines refined Williams’s techniques, and led the way for

developing a sequential training program for the patients. Blinded soldiers learned

to appreciate the safety afforded by this travel device used with a scanning

technique. Since 1948, the goal at Hines has been to offer every veteran or active

duty soldier entering the program the respect and training that he or she deserves.

The methodologies developed at Hines and in other veteran’s rehabilitation

programs for the blind became further refined when universities established

training programs for teachers to work with school age visually impaired children

and also with visually impaired adults through state or private rehabilitation

programs.

One of my professors was an original “corrective therapist” in the blind

rehabilitation program at Hines. Without Dr. Hoover and without Williams’s

work, I wouldn’t have benefited from this training, nor would my students be

using a long cane. I can’t imagine trying to navigate through space with a short

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cane. It would not be possible to fully arc it from the left to the right, and it

wouldn’t clear the length of a person’s stride. The short cane would require a

person to slow down and to bend over at a curb.

Slope

For most sighted people the fear of becoming lost doesn’t reach the same

magnitude as the fear of falling. Even before the invention of cell phones and

GPS, people with vision could read street signs or pull into a gas station for

assistance. However, the same has never held true for the visually impaired.

Nearing the completion of my cane training at the university, I’m dropped

off at a location with no verbal clues regarding my whereabouts. My professor

says the only “given” is that I have previously encountered the setting. With sleep

shade in place, I’m driven around in circles, and I hear him chuckle, obviously

having fun getting me disoriented. He parks his car and leads me to a sidewalk. I

center myself on the sidewalk and begin arcing my cane. The parallel cars are on

my right, and the traffic is heavy enough for me to determine it’s a major street. I

heed the advice my professor gave me prior to the lesson, which is to start walking

and continue until I come to a curb, then “read” my traffic at the intersection.

Because it has a flow of north-south traffic then east-west, I realize it’s a traffic

light. If it had stop signs, I would hear a stop-start sequence for each car. It’s still

morning and I feel the sun on my left side, so I know I’m heading south. I think

I’m walking along the major avenue, but can’t remember the name of the nearest

side street. If I turn left and find the gas station on the next corner, the one we

came to a couple of weeks ago, then I can confirm where I am. I feel something

closing in on me and get claustrophobic, so I raise my hand in front of my face,

fearing I’m going to run head-on into a big truck. It’s only a low-hanging branch

52 52

on a tree, but it unnerves me. When I reach the next curb, I know I’ve completed

another block, but I don’t hear cars going in or out of a driveway or the ding ding

sound of gas pumps, and still don’t know where I am. My professor is silent and

lets me stew for a minute or two. I feel sweat on my forehead.

“Talk out loud,” he finally says, “to fill me in on your problem solving

process.”

“Okay, I went south on the major avenue, then turned east, and thought I

was coming to the gas station. But it isn’t here.”

“You’re mostly correct, but you missed one clue.”

“But I can’t hear any business on this corner.”

“The clue isn’t about a business.”

“Tell me then.” I hear my voice rise.

“Remember the slope mid-block after you turned the corner? It’s not a big

hill, but you can detect it, if you’re paying attention.”

Of course. I was so tuned in to all the sounds that I’d missed tactual

information. How negligent of me. “It comes in the block before the gas station,” I

say, “so I have one more block to go.”

Gestalt

I remove the sleep shade when we return to my professor’s car. He notices

my face and my lingering frustration, and the real lesson begins.

“You’re learning cane techniques and ways to utilize your other senses,

because soon you will be teaching. You will never know what it’s like to be blind

or severely visually impaired; the closest you can come is to experience frustration

and even panic on a lesson. Your students will experience these emotions if they

believe they’re lost. Think back to this day and to your own feelings so you can

53 53

empathize with them. But stay calm so you can help them to use problem solving

and restore their confidence in themselves.”

I’d allowed my level of performance on this lesson to take precedence over

my purpose for this training. I was reminded by his words to focus on becoming

an effective teacher.

Arc, a Curved Line

My cane training at the university prepared me to teach either students in

public schools or adults in rehabilitation agencies. Either way, the lessons I’ve

taught have been structured in a sequential pattern, beginning indoors and moving

outdoor to sidewalks, and going to other buildings on the same compound. A

student later trains in residential and business neighborhoods, unless limited

cognitively and unable to make judgments about traffic flow patterns. A major

goal is building self-assurance. Friends or family members will sometimes

question the abilities of visually impaired and blind people; it’s important to

override these doubts. My instruction under a sleep shade followed a similar

pattern, but with a time constraint due to the nature of university classes. The main

objective was to develop trust in the methodologies I would later teach to my

students.

I worked at a rehabilitation facility for two years following college

graduation. Most of my clients there became blind in their adult years; this is

called adventitious onset. Two major causes are diabetes and macular

degeneration. One main advantage in teaching this population is the use of visual

memory. If I tell a person who previously had vision, that the motion of the cane

makes an arc of a circle, he or she would understand. Or if I mentioned an S-

shaped sidewalk to a person blinded later in life, he could picture it in his mind.

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In contrast, the school-age children I work with often have congenital eye

conditions, like retinopathy of prematurity or optic nerve disorders. These children

don’t usually “grieve” a loss of sight, the way an adventitiously blind person does,

because they have never had it. But they don’t have visual memory they can

access. Before telling a student about an “arc,” I would make sure he or she

understood the shape of a circle. Once I told a second-grader that I would teach

her to do stair techniques with her cane. We proceeded to the steps in the cafeteria

and she asked, “Do they go up or do they go down?” I realized she needed to

touch the steps going both directions to learn that one can go up and down on the

same set of stairs.

Electronic Travel Aids

In orientation & mobility training at the university, we practiced traveling

with a laser cane or with ultrasonic devices that could be worn like glasses or

fastened around the neck. The instruments provided feedback of nearby objects by

means of beeps at different pitches or by vibrations. The sophistication

mesmerized us briefly, until we learned the hefty prices they commanded. At that

time, costs approximated a thousand dollars. The price of a regular cane was under

fifteen dollars. But a more important consideration was that the electronic travel

aids couldn’t detect drop-offs or anything below surface level. A building or a tree

would send a signal, but not a curb, stairs going down, or a manhole. Detecting

uneven terrain and drop-offs such as curbs and stairs is a primary need for totally

blind people and also important for the partially sighted. A number of eye

conditions, albinism, for instance, result in poor depth perception, and a travel aid

helps to find changes in surface terrain. The long cane has served this purpose

from its inception.

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Echo: A Sound Dimension

It’s a commonly held belief that other senses become more acute if a person

loses his sight. Although blind people have different capacities regarding tactual

and auditory skills, I believe training helps everyone develop them more fully.

Such is the case with using reflected sounds. As mentioned earlier, this skill helps

to locate a building, and the two-point technique of tapping on the left side then

the right side, sends out noise, resulting in the strongest reflected echo. Imagine

walking on a campus with the goal of finding a science or a sociology class

located in the third building to the right. You would listen to your cane tapping

and with practice you could learn, as most students do, to distinguish between the

sounds of open spaces and buildings. Many can even detect alcoves and staircases

by the hollow resonance. The ability to use reflected sound is also useful when an

object is in one’s path, such as a truck that extends from a private driveway into

the sidewalk. One young man I worked with developed his echolocation skills to

the point that by listening to his cane as he approached an intersection, he could

identify it as regular, T-pattern, or an offset intersection.

Color: Reflective

The reflective tape on the cane helps draw attention to it in dim lighting,

alerting others of a visually impaired person’s presence. From the beginning, I’ve

thought of myself as the one in the background, the one asking directed questions,

encouraging a student to try again, or calling out a caution, if necessary. In my

work, I’ve generally focused hour to hour and student to student; after all, the long

cane’s protection is limited to the length of a stride. But the larger picture includes

the benefits of serving students from age three to eighty over the last thirty years,

and using the tool that has gone hand in hand with this occupation. Fortunately

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most students have learned to arc a cane with enough protection for personal

safety.

I’ve noticed that the most gifted of my students have also generally been

good at math and physical education. Orientation skills and math seem to come

from the same part of the brain. And those with physical abilities tend to have

good balance and agility. Many of my students attend the Junior Blind Olympics,

participating in such events as discus throwing, the high jump, the broad jump, and

rock climbing.

Occasionally I see a former student, walking independently in the

community, or on the city bus, and I know that the arc of learning continued for

that young man or woman. Although this former student probably doesn’t think

about how far the mobility cane has come since the old wooden style, because of

this tool, he or she navigates safely up a curb, around a pole, or down a slope.

IMMERSION: MY LIMBS DON’T END WHERE THE WATER BEGINS

All my life, I’ve gravitated toward water, inheriting the thrill of a rushing

river or the coolness of an alpine lake from my mom, who learned to swim in the

currents of Montana’s rivers. Our ancestors of Swedish and Finnish stock sweated

in a sauna, and then cut a hole through ice for a cooling dip. Mom bore their

genes, although she waited for ice to thaw before jumping into a lake.

According to Scandinavian mythology, Fosse-Grim were male water spirits

who took on human form and played enchanted songs on the violin, luring women

and children to drown in lakes or streams. However, not all of these spirits were

evil; in many stories they appeared harmless, attracting not only women and

children with their sweet songs, but men as well. Stories also exist in which the

Fosse-Grim agreed to live with a someone who had fallen in love with him,

though the water spirit often returned to his home, usually a nearby waterfall or

brook.

Before I did the crawl or breast stroke, I dog-paddled, and before that I ran

along the shores of Montana lakes and let the waves lick my legs, or I bent down

to blow bubbles on the water’s surface. The temperature of these lakes, created

partially by melting snow, and also the temperature in the spring-fed city pool in

Lewistown, hovered in the 60s during the hottest months of July and August. I

swam every day until the season ended, packing away my bathing suit by Labor

Day, saddened that family outings in the autumn might include boat rides, but no

swimming.

My attraction to the water has never faded. To this day, I bring a bathing

suit almost every place I travel and am disappointed if I don’t have a chance to use

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it. Passing my love of swimming to my kids, Jillian and Robert, seemed natural,

and over the years, it became a bond, deepening our relationships.

Water sports have always been an antidote for long, hot summers and antsy

children, including mine. Robert, a hyperactive child, needed constant movement.

When I added one restless adult, me, to the mix, swimming offered the best

solution for smoldering afternoons in Fresno. Sharing our need for motion, I

understood when Robert grew antsy or irritable.

Most of the summer days with the kids resembled one another, like same-

colored beads on a string. I couldn’t single out any one; the collection of them

represented a simple adornment of the season. After breakfast, we did errands, had

play time until lunch, and then headed to the pool. We allowed the water and our

moods to guide our movements. On some occasions, we practiced underwater

routines; other times, we skimmed the surface to improve our strokes.

Both Jillian and Robert learned to swim by age three, taught by a skilled

teacher who called himself “Coach.” Although I enrolled them in lessons for

safety reasons, I also benefitted when the children grew to enjoy water activities as

much as I did. My work as a special education teacher gave me summers off, so I

tended the kids from eight o’clock until five, when my husband returned home

from work. By the time Jillian was eight and Robert six, the three of us often

walked five blocks from our house to our athletic club, and then spent a couple of

hours in the pool.

On the walk, my skin baked in the sun’s rays and I imagined the water

inviting me in, and then embracing me in liquid coolness. When we arrived,

Robert would rush through the guys’ locker room to the outdoor pool. Our gym

requires parents to supervise children under 14, which meant he couldn’t jump in

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the water until I appeared. Jillian and I usually found him pacing the deck, barely

able to contain himself.

My routine began with the breast stroke, scooping the water in a gentle

motion, to stretch my limbs and establish a rhythm. Next, I sneaked in a few laps

of the crawl before I became the sole member of the kids’ audience. Jillian would

practice performing a surface dive with the perfect arch and pointed toes. I had to

watch her countless times, and if I looked away, she summoned my attention back

to her. “Were my legs and toes straight, Mom?” Unlike Jillian, Robert didn’t care

about form. He could do a forward dive, but he preferred to cannonball into the

water. He asked me to measure the height of his splashes, again and again. “As

high as the door handle to the locker room,” I said, or “two-thirds of the way to the

roofline.”

Sometimes we played Marco Polo, or practiced diving for rings. We mostly

preferred our own inventions, such as “going through the hoop,” that is, the kids

stood on the pool’s edge and leapt through my encircled arms. They earned a point

if they cleared my arms without making contact. Or they played “submarine” and

slunk along the bottom of the pool going under my outstretched legs. If they had

friends with them, I looked down on a procession of a small fleet passing under

me.

I viewed our times together in the water as safe and positive. Swimming

preserved my sanity, in light of the difficulties in raising my son. During the

summer of his twelfth year, however, I worried that swimming with his mom and

sister might no longer hold Robert’s interest. If he didn’t have a fun and structured

physical activity, he would seek out other ways to stay in motion, such as going to

the streets with his skateboard. This option made me nervous, because I didn’t

know how far he would wander. And who were the boys in that crowd?

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I signed Robert up for swimming classes with the City Recreation

Department, which met every afternoon at the local high school. He also entered

competitions. This choice seemed to pan out for both of us. When I dragged him

out of the pool at closing time, he showed off his red or blue ribbons, and held

them up like they were fish on a string.

Water has a benevolent appeal, but also a perilous side in the form of

floods, hurricanes and tsunamis, and what is submerged in lakes and rivers can

also be menacing. As a child, scenarios of danger rarely entered my thoughts

regarding water activities. But we couldn’t have played the submarine game in my

hometown pool, more like a pond, really, with its gravel bottom and murky

waters. Not until I became a lifeguard at a modern pool with chlorinated and clear

water did I consider the risks of swimming in rivers and natural ponds, including

the large one in Lewistown. Every time I began my shift, I thought about

retrieving the “dummy” from the bottom, a task we practiced during lifeguard

training. How would a person do that in murky waters? I also mentally rehearsed

rescue moves, such as bringing the victim to shore with the chin pull. Fortunately I

never had to save anyone. Jillian also worked as a lifeguard, and her single

“rescue” involved applying direct pressure on a boy’s bloody head when he

banged it on a shower faucet. He and another boy had horsed around in the

shower, and the smaller boy slipped.

I wondered how the lifeguards of the Lewistown pool scanned for

swimmers in jeopardy. Not only was the water dark, but the immense pool tripled

Olympic dimensions. Unless lifeguards saw someone go down and not come up,

they would never know there was a body at the bottom. It amazed me years later,

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when I read through archives of the Lewistown newspaper, that I could find only

one incident of a drowning.

The water in my hometown pool resembled Shaver Lake in California,

where the kids and I made a trip every year. On one of our outings, when Jillian

was eleven and Robert nine, we walked from the parking lot and placed our towels

on a big rock to stake out our spot for sunbathing. I don’t think we needed the

water spirit’s violin to beckon us to the lake; warmed from the boulder, we rose

and waded into the water, layers of heat stripping from our bodies. Sometimes we

picked up a handful of sand; shiny bits of rock sparkled in the sun. We had

different approaches to immersion in the lake. Robert took off with gusto, while

Jillian and I eased in a few inches at a time. Then we swam with vigorous strokes,

at first to get warm, but later to feel embraced by the water. The kids and I didn’t

talk much while swimming in the lake, partly because we could spread out in this

vast setting, but I also think each of us communed with water in our own way. I

couldn’t find a point where my limbs stopped and the water began; they flowed

together.

At some point, I’d slow my pace and switch to the breast stroke. Then I’d

roll over to float on my back, with complete trust in the water to support me.

Meanwhile, Jillian and Robert had moved to a shallow area and tossed a beach

ball back and forth. I watched shadows of puff clouds on the surface, their

billowing shapes drifted beside me. Waves lapped against the shore and trees

swayed in the wind, approximating my idea of perfection, and it felt like nothing

could taint the experience.

Once I went there alone, planning to swim to the other side of the lake. This

didn’t seem like a big deal, just a long distance endeavor. I didn’t think of myself

an adventurous person, considering that I’d never tried sky diving or climbing El

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Capitan. But my friends would often refer to me that way, reminding me of my

Peace Corps encounters in Africa or my hiking nine miles to a friend’s cabin at

age sixteen. At age twenty, and with $100 in my purse, I moved from Seattle to

Denver on a Greyhound bus. So maybe I possessed an iota of adventure after all.

The day that I wanted to swim across the lake, I began with the crawl to get

my blood flowing and swam out fifty yards or so. Motor boats and water skiers

roared past, and I diverted my route to stay out of their path. It wasn’t my lack of

ability, or the distance to the opposite shore that kept me from continuing my

swim. But a vague feeling of a dark force seared through me. In some traditions a

tie-snake which lives at the bottom of a lake clutches human lives. Native

American writer Craig Womack, states that the Creeks associate the tie-snake as

both a river-dweller whose pull can drown a victim, and a creature with horns of

powerful medicine. I didn’t believe in such a creature, at least not literally, but

maybe this myth had lodged itself in my subconscious mind. I wanted to choose

power over fear, but in the end, wresting with my apprehension, I finally returned

to the swimming area near the shore. Afterwards I regretted my cowardice and

wished I had pushed through my fear and swam across the lake. The story of

mythology might have played a larger role in my psyche than I cared to admit.

Since I had come to the lake by myself, no one could talk me out of this notion of

some mysterious presence, or reassure me that all was well.

Following this experience, I started thinking about the personal misfortunes

my mother suffered as a child. Perhaps the spirit of Fosse Grim had followed her

family when they immigrated to America. She and her four brothers grew up in a

rural area in Montana, without access to a city pool, so Mom and her brothers

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hiked to the nearest river. They all became strong swimmers and didn’t fear a

strong current or an undertow. The accident didn’t happen that way.

Elmer, the middle child in Mom’s family, along with her other brothers,

liked to dive into the river. On a summer day when he was thirteen, he dove in and

hit a sharp rock, deeply cutting his leg. My grandmother cleaned it and bandaged

it, but infection still set in. The doctors could do nothing more, because his

accident occurred before the availability of penicillin. Most likely he would have

healed, if he had been given antibiotics. Instead, blood poisoning took over his

body, and he never recovered. Elmer gradually grew weaker, and then hovered on

the brink of death for days before he succumbed.

Mom rarely spoke of Elmer’s accident. I wonder what she did with her

memories of him, shaped by her six-year-old perceptions, the age she was when he

passed away. I’ve seen a black and white photo of Elmer, but I don’t know enough

about him to match a personality to the image. Did her mother instruct her

children to bear the loss stoically?

Mom suffered an even greater tragedy two years later, when her father died

from black lung disease, contracted from working in the mines. She did talk about

him, while we were growing up, mentioning his gift of music and storytelling.

More often she discussed the hardships resulting from the loss of the family’s

breadwinner.

I never saw Mom swim in rivers, but Elmer’s accident may have had

nothing to do with this. Central Montana offered other options, such as lakes and

the municipal pool. As a child, I watched her glide through water, looking so

comfortable, using a strong, even stroke. Mom didn’t boast; however, she did

claim swimming as her best sport. My brothers and I all followed her lead. We had

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an advantage that she never had—swimming lessons in the summers. Mom didn’t

discourage us from improving our abilities. But she stopped swimming about the

time I reached adolescence, and never explained why. I often reflect on the sensual

nature of swimming. It seems a stretch, but I wonder if she decided to stop

revealing the sensual side of herself because she feared my sexuality and the

choices I would make in my teen and young adult years, the time she and I

stopped talking about what was happening to me.

Perhaps the connection between water and sensuality explains the number

of traditions with mythologies about water gods, that on some level, the god who

pulls a girl under the water’s surface represents a Casanova who dupes a young

woman into having sex. Telling the story of a god or a tie-snake to a daughter

cautions her to be wary of men she doesn’t know. In the stories of Fosse Grim, he

generally chose women and girls over boys.

To me, however, the myth is more a lesson of caution. Common wisdom

states that we should never swim alone, and to be wary of currents, undertows, and

storms. Every year people who don’t follow these precautions lose their lives in

rivers, lakes, and canals.

In my youth and young adult life, I perceived swimming as a benign

activity, and also a great way to engage kids and offer them a sport they could

enjoy for life. Certainly a long walk can provide exercise and also curb

restlessness. But when the mercury rises above eighty degrees and sun’s rays bake

the skin, nothing refreshes more than a swim.

My perceptions shifted in later years with the advent of numerous

hurricanes and floods. Mom’s loss of her brother, even though it resulted from

infection and not the inability to swim, reminded me that tragedy is personal, not

something that happens just to strangers. A family experience with this type of

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heartbreak often awakens empathy towards others with similar losses. I also

believe the reverse to be true: catastrophe on a grand scale can accentuate an

individual loss. Knowing that a possibility of an accident could happen deepens

the experience. When I consider myth’s power to portray life and death, I take

stock of shared moments with family and friends. Any event that offers the

anticipation of fulfillment also carries a risk of disaster. Living occurs in the

suspension between the two.

On a recent morning, I sat near a favorite water fountain, watching elliptical

sprays shoot up, while liquid sheets fringed on the edges, lace glistening in

sunlight. At the fountain, the center wall of water plunged into the vessel. This

pattern repeated itself over and over, thoughts merging with the rising and falling

action.

LEAPING FROM PLATFORMS

My harness, linked to a cable, keeps me from plunging into the rainforest,

but I dangle in midair. I try again to reach the landing platform, but my feet miss

by a meter. Gliding through air is the easy part, like flying. It’s taking off and

landing that present a challenge. An hour ago, I’d tried to finagle myself out of the

zipline adventure, thinking I might get queasy, like I do when standing on a

balcony of a skyscraper. My twenty-two year old daughter, Jillian, would consider

no excuses. She reminded me of my earlier pursuits, specifically gallivanting over

much of Southern Africa, and asked if I was abandoning that spirit. So here I am

in Costa Rica swinging on a cable and looking down on treetops.

A year before, Jillian had requested a trip together, “traveling the way you

did in the Peace Corps.” I didn’t recall how much I’d relayed to her or to what

extent I’d glorified my African experiences in the early 1980s. Like other

volunteers, I walked miles nearly every day, but that doesn’t translate as adventure

in my mind. I’m certain I told Jillian about being wedged into minivans with a

dozen or more people and a few live chickens tied to women’s backs. Volunteers

traveled the way Lesotho locals did when going from one town to another, on the

minivan taxis or sometimes on big buses. And I let it slip that I had hitchhiked

once on my way to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. Of course I pointed out that I

had gone in the company of two other women, and to me the hitchhiking was a

small point in a larger story.

The trip to Botswana began when Kate, Rose and I stood at the roadside for

a half-hour, sweeping our hands toward the ground, the code for slow down,

please. When a truck driver stopped, the three of us squeezed into the red semi;

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Rose was wedged next to the floor shift and every time the driver changed gears

the knob pressed into her knee. Kate sat next to her and I was by the passenger

door. After Sesotho greetings and a few phrases, we switched to English, chatting

with the guy about his family and our teaching jobs in Lesotho. Within a few

hours, we found ourselves coasting through the Kalahari Desert, one of the most

unspoiled places in Africa. We were hoping to see some wildlife because Lesotho

had none except for baboons in one corner of the country.

Kate requested a stop, and I was grateful because I didn’t think I could hold

my bladder much longer. The driver pulled to the side of the road. He averted his

eyes and we got out to pee. Rose and Kate finished, and hopped back inside. I saw

Rose jumping up from the seat. “Watch out for the lion,” I heard her call out. In

my squatting position I scanned the field and I spotted a lioness roaming in the

brush about fifteen feet away. I scrambled to get in the truck, but fumbled with my

pants and dribbled on the floorboard before slamming the door. The driver tried

unsuccessfully to suppress his grin.

I sensed that Jillian sought more than adventure, that she wanted a glimpse

into the life-style of a Peace Corps Volunteer. She’d seen my photos of landscapes

and of my visually impaired students: Violet sitting in front of a brailler, and

Tseliso using a cane on a dirt path. Jillian had modeled one of her paintings after a

photo of a Basotho hut at dusk. Could I capture the essence of being a volunteer

in a two-week vacation? I also wondered if I’d imparted to her an awareness of the

opportunities growing up middle-class in America had afforded us. From our

station in life, we could board a train or plane to almost anywhere.

* * *

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Restlessness preyed on me during college and I didn’t finish my bachelor’s

degree in four years. I dropped out, seeking not theories, but experiential

knowledge. I’d considered VISTA (Volunteers In Service To America), but at the

time I didn’t have tangible skills to offer. Perhaps I could have stayed put and

found meaningful work. Instead I equated change with locale and saved enough

money to move via Greyhound Bus from Seattle to Denver. I’d travelled to Estes

Park and Rocky Mountain National Park the previous summer and found Colorado

to my liking. Three years working there as an optometric assistant, an interesting,

but low-paying job, convinced me to finish my education. After earning a degree

in rehabilitation for the blind, I taught visually impaired adults for two years. I’d

enjoyed my job teaching but still longed for a new challenge. The thrill of having

money to buy things: furniture, a camera, a car, wore off. I think many people are

sustained by the sense of familiarity with work, friends and family, and I didn’t

know why that wasn’t enough for me, why I had a restlessness for experiences

outside of the mainstream. Did Jillian inherit from me that unknown gene—an

impatience with day to day routines?

The first venture I planned for Jillian and me involved a trip to Ecuador.

Developing nations share common features: long bus rides, overcrowded buses,

vehicles that often break down, housing without creature comforts, and unusual

illnesses. I assumed we’d encounter one or two of these conditions, but didn’t

know I’d end up putting a check mark next to each one.

I chose Rio Muchacho Organic Farm in coastal Ecuador for the first part of

the trip because it offered Spanish lessons and vegetarian meals. To reach the

farm, we boarded a noon bus in Quito, the capital city, situated at over 8,000 feet.

We traversed mountains and green valleys, lupine blooming on hillsides. The bus

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clung to the swells of curves as it descended thousands of feet. I closed my eyes

whenever the bus swerved to avoid another vehicle. After five hours, the twists

and turns diminished, also the elevation. We exited the bus in the coastal town

called Bahia de Caraquez at 9:00 P.M., and flagged down a young man with an

ecotaxi, a large tricycle equipped with front and back seats and a luggage rack.

Our “driver” loaded our heavy suitcases and smiled between huffs and puffs as he

pedaled to our hotel.

After breakfast the next morning, we crossed the bay on a small boat, and

then departed for the farm in a van. The vehicle heaved through deep ruts in the

road and eventually stalled. We started walking, but only went fifty feet or so

before stopping; the wheels of the suitcases kept getting stuck. We rested, and then

tried again with limited success. Dario, the farm’s owner, must have guessed the

situation, because he arrived with Rio Muchacho’s Land Rover about thirty

minutes later and loaded our luggage in the back. “Sientate,” he said. I sat on the

front seat and Jillian in the back. Dario paused enroute to the farm, and motioned

for us to get out. He pointed out gourds used for making bowls and also noted

coffee bushes with jeweled red berries. “These are the highest quality,” he said,

“because companion plants shade them.” We guessed that is what he said, piecing

together his gestures and the Spanish words we knew.

Thus began our introduction to organic farming practices. I caught a hint of

Dario’s enthusiasm, but didn’t yet realize his degree of commitment. Upon arrival,

Dario mentioned that he and his wife, Nicola, lived in the main house, next to the

kitchen where we would all share meals. Jillian and I were the only tourists; guests

from Germany, Denmark, the U.S. and Japan came to Rio Muchacho as

apprentices and stayed four to six weeks.

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Over the next five days, we harvested cacao, squash and peanuts in between

our Spanish classes, tours of pigpens, worm beds and what they called chicken

tractors, the clawed feet functioning as hoes. Cows raised for their milk and their

manure, were not slaughtered. Neither were the pigs. Talk during meals revolved

around the value of each animal’s manure. “Guinea pigs rank near the top,” said

one apprentice. “What about worms?” someone else asked. Humanure, dug out

from the compost toilets, was near the bottom of the scale, but still had value as

fertilizer.

Dario showed us banana groves planted in circles, both at the farm and at

the elementary school that he and his wife, Nicola, started. Compost mounds rose

in the center of the bananas. He seemed as proud of the scrap heaps that would

nourish the soil as he was of the children’s development. We learned that many

families sent their children to Rio Muchacho School rather than the government

one.

Sleeping cottages, built from local bamboo and thatched roofs from banana

leaves, shielded us from rain showers. I’d developed an interest in housing

materials ever since residing in Lesotho and travelling to neighboring countries.

Most Peace Corps Volunteers lived in huts made from mud and dung, usually

plastered by women. Men thatched the roofs, sealing the huts from wind and rain.

In Ecuador, our bamboo tree house, perched about forty feet above the river,

contained a screened bedroom, a living room with a hammock, and our private

dry-compost toilet. We didn’t anticipate critters that penetrated the thatching or

found entry somehow. I awoke to hear Jillian say, “no, no.” When my eyes

adjusted to the darkness, I discovered her swatting at the air above her head.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Mosquitoes?”

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“No, bats and they keep swooping down by my head.” I noted her anguish

from the higher pitch in her voice.

“I’ve heard that it’s a myth they go for hair,” I said.

“That’s not the problem, Mom. They poop when they fly over.” Jillian

pulled the sheet above her head and kept it there.

When we told the staff about the bats, they smiled and said, “Bueno

suarte,” because it’s considered good luck if bats choose to bless you in this way.

The casualness in which these comments were offered felt welcoming; we weren’t

singled out as tourists. Although the bats seemed to prefer Jillian, the next night I,

too, slept with the sheet over my head. I think bat droppings rate high on the

fertilizer hierarchy.

The charm of being in a developing country results from the mix of the

unexpected, like this world-class farm that defies chemical practice. The soil at

Rio Muchacho, unlike the fields with chemical fertilizers, where crops aren’t

rotated, is alive. Every inch of earth hosts crawling worms and vegetable scraps in

some stage of decomposition. When in another country, I feel most alive when I

speak the native tongue of that country, even though I struggle with tenses,

striving to make myself understood. I can’t explain this phenomenon; maybe it has

to do with the volume of brain activity and the few moments of down time.

Serving in the Peace Corps gave me the opportunity to express myself in the local

language.

One night at Rio Muchacho, a bunch of us stood around the kitchen

watching Juanita, a staff member teaching Jillian how to make cheese. Juanita

pressed a weight on top of the cheese cloth to squeeze out the extra liquid, and

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then set it aside. When asked who wanted to roast cacao beans, three of us raised

our hands. So we took turns stirring the beans in a wok on the stove. After about

ten minutes, an aroma filled the kitchen and the beans were ready for grinding.

Participation in these daily tasks and speaking Spanish rendered this a travel

experience that came close to my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer. In Lesotho, I’d

spoken Sesotho, the local language, and learned to cook papa and meroho—firm

maize and steamed spinach and also local doughnuts. In both cases, I learned to

prepare local foods in the warmth of my hosts’ kitchens.

Jillian and I journeyed to the Black Sheep’s Inn in the Andes for the next

part of our Ecuadorian vacation. This time we slept in an adobe cottage, air-tight,

to our relief, and ate meals in the main lodge. Llamas grazed on the grassy hillside,

but we witnessed no other animals close to the Inn. Believing ourselves to be in

good physical condition, we planned a hike for the next day, but became winded

climbing the hill from the lodge to our cottage on the first night. Although we

knew the base elevation at the Inn started at about 10,000 feet, we’d pictured

ourselves immune from breathing problems and other symptoms.

The owners of Black Sheep Inn suggested Jillian and I go on horseback to a

cheese factory, as an alternative to hiking. We rode through a cloud forest, feeling

a mist on our arms. I kept thinking we’d adjust to the altitude; on our third day

we’d hoped to trek to a crater, formerly an active volcano. Again, we altered plans,

this time paying a pickup driver to take us there. On our fourth and last day, we

managed a walk to the nearest village, probably one mile round trip.

Four of us from the Black Sheep Inn shared the cost of a jeep and driver

back to Quito, the capital. By the time we arrived, I’d developed nausea, possibly

a combination of altitude sickness and being a little dehydrated. My mobility was

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limited to our hotel room and I hung close to the bathroom. Jillian went to dinner

without me. This was the first time in twenty-five years that I couldn’t hold food

down.

An Outward Bound course in Lesotho, offered as part of our Peace Corps

training, primed us for active lifestyles and countryside more rugged than we

typically encountered at home. In the United States, we might have hiked for

recreation, as I did with Jillian recently. But volunteers’ jobs required traversing

mountainous terrain by foot, especially if living far from paved roads. Lesotho’s

topography started at approximately one mile high in the “lowlands.” V olunteers

were stationed in sites ranging from 5,000 to 7,500 feet, with peaks towering

higher. Hiking in the Andes proved more difficult than in Lesotho, because of

even higher altitudes. No doubt remained that I had fulfilled the physical domain

of traveling like a Peace Corps Volunteer. Of course, the physical is only one

aspect of navigating in another country and culture, and I couldn’t impart to Jillian

the difference between travel and working in another nation. A tourist is free to

move around at will and plan each day’s activities. Volunteers in Lesotho, hired to

teach, work in agriculture or fisheries, committed to working full time and also

studied a new language, Sesotho, at times our only vehicle for communication. In

addition, we lived close to a politically charged region of Africa.

From the 1940s until the 1990s apartheid laws governed the Republic of

South Africa. Those who worked for civil rights endured imprisonment, beatings

and often death, all covered up by authorities. The ramifications for Lesotho, an

enclave within South Africa, were many, including economic and political. About

forty percent of Basotho men worked in South African mines under segregated

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conditions. In addition, they were granted leave to visit their families in Lesotho

only a few times a year, including Easter and Christmas. This meant children grew

up seeing their fathers on rare occasions, and that Basotho women took on the

work of their absent husbands. The Basotho’s limitations in social mobility

resulted from Lesotho not having enough jobs to employ its citizen work force,

and also from South Africa’s restrictions.

For Peace Corps Volunteers serving in Southern Africa in the early

eighties, apartheid seemed so wrong and so antiquated. When I applied to the

Peace Corps in my late twenties, less than two decades had passed since the Civil

Rights Act became law in the United States. How quickly I’d overlooked that fact.

During civil rights marches and sit-ins in the United States, I’d been an adolescent,

more focused on my social life than on larger movements. My political awareness

started to develop in college, and I regretted my earlier indifference. Every trip to

or through South Africa became a reminder of my own country denying people

rights based on skin color. Each time I ventured across the border, whites initiated

conversations. When they learned I volunteered in Lesotho, they quickly moved to

justify their system with phrases such as, “they are better to stick to their own

kind,” or “they fight among different tribes, so how could they run a diverse

government?” I disagreed, but my words were met with either arguments or glazed

expressions.

In their own nation, Basotho moved about freely without restrictions. But

living and working in South Africa, they could not frequent places reserved for

“Slegs Blankes.” Whole communities with upscale housing, nice grocery stores

and restaurants were off limits. In addition, because Peace Corps volunteers and

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staff are considered ambassadors for America, there’s an implication that we will

have cultural sensitivity and treat all ethnic groups with respect.

We also needed awareness for practical reasons. Because South Africa

surrounds Lesotho, we passed through the country on our way to any other place.

Legally, American passports should have granted every volunteer exemption from

apartheid. But in the event a border agent would try to single out an African

American or an Asian volunteer, we clustered—whites and non-white volunteers

together—on trips across the border for supplies or for medical purposes. In 1980,

a Peace Corps group travelling to Lesotho missed the connecting flight out of

Johannesburg, so they traveled by road on the last stretch. Only the Caledon River

separated the South African and Lesotho border posts and each side was visible

from the other side. South African border patrol detained this group of new

volunteers, scrutinizing their visas and asking numerous questions. When the bus

finally crossed the river to the Lesotho side, Basotho patrol welcomed them,

saying, “We heard you’d be late, so we stayed open for you.”

Even at St. Catherine’s High School in Maseru, the Anglican mission

where I was assigned, opinions about South Africa were murky. Lesotho didn’t

manufacture supplies or special equipment for visually impaired students, so staff

sometimes made trips across the border to the town of Bloemfontein. In addition

to braille, my students listened to books on tape. Volunteers of an organization in

South Africa recorded books and sent them to us free. We condemned apartheid

but accepted charity from that country, and lived with the contradiction of being

dependent on a neighboring country more developed technologically, but one with

a terrible civil rights record.

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I’d been hired as a “braille teacher,” although I’d only completed an

introductory course in the subject. Fortunately the headmistress, one of three

Anglican nuns, agreed to tutor me, a young adult well-scrubbed in idealism, but

lacking practical experience. The students already knew braille, but my job

required transcribing print textbooks for the visually impaired kids so they could

keep pace with their sighted classmates. In the United States, we depend on

specialists called braille transcribers to do this task.

“My degree is in orientation and mobility,” I’d explained to the

headmistress when I met her. While we sat in the staff work room she restored a

lamp, threading new wires into a connection. “I’m trained to teach white cane

skills and street safety.” The shortcomings of specialization had dawned on me;

becoming well-rounded would better serve these students.

“There will be time to orient the students to Maseru,” she said, referring to

the capital city where I lived. I watched her deft fingers work the wires, and

noticed that her thoughts stayed anchored to our conversation. “Orientation,

sounds like geography,” she said. “Can you teach that?” Historical sites we

visited as trainees included cave paintings and a small museum, both close to

Maseru. I’d seen a small section of Lesotho, nothing in the highlands. These

experiences, and others crisscrossing towns on dusty footpaths, leaving a film on

one’s shoes, didn’t add up to a comprehensive background for teaching

geography. But, of course I agreed.

For a number of reasons, our students would be the first Basotho with

visual impairments to get diplomas. First of all, high school education isn’t

mandatory in Lesotho. However, the nuns had invited the students from the

primary school for the blind to attend St. Catherines. It was a hardship for most

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families to buy uniforms and pay tuition for their children. Fortunately, our six

visually impaired secondary students had sponsors, and I believe those at the

primary level did as well.

All students in Lesotho took part in the Cambridge curriculum out of

England; if they passed the exams, they could qualify for college. I disliked the

fact that one exam, not accumulative grades, controlled a student’s future choices.

While I stewed over this practice, the nuns fretted over the braille tests. “What if

the men in Cambridge lose their papers?” the headmistress asked. Since we

weren’t allowed to read student exam papers, the testing staff in England arranged

for unbiased readers. We learned that they outsourced this task to English

prisoners who had learned braille. “What if a murderer is having an off-day when

he reads our student’s exam?” another nun asked.

Passing would matter to Violet, our most dedicated student, who wanted to

become a teacher. For the other two, the results represented completion. Of course

they hoped for a good outcome because of their hard work and to set an example

for the younger visually impaired students who would be in their shoes in the near

future. Unfortunately the teacher college didn’t accept Violet. It had everything to

do with prejudice against her visual impairment and nothing to do with her

abilities or her ethnicity; she was a Swazi. The college administrators had no

experience with blindness. I wanted to stay to fight this decision, but I’d already

extended for a third year of service and had a counterpart from Lesotho ready to

do my job. Violet accepted the decision with grace, but I didn’t. One of the roles

as a teacher working with disabled students is to advocate for them. If Violet had

been allowed to follow her chosen career path, she would have been a role model

for others, both handicapped and able-bodied. Peace Corps volunteers earned a

stipend of about two hundred rand per month (close to two hundred dollars), but

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the government of Lesotho paid local teachers about twice that much, enough that

Violet could have been instrumental in helping younger family members with

school fees and a chance to improve their lives.

When the time came to leave Lesotho, I did so riding in the back of our

school pick-up truck with our three graduates. We were bound for Johannesburg

where Violet and two other visually impaired students would train to become

switchboard operators. I couldn’t overlook the irony of South Africa, still

governing under apartheid, offering a program for our students to advance.

Many years later, Jillian and I traveled with relative ease in Costa Rica. A

package deal at Samasati, a yoga retreat center, included food, lodging, kayaking,

and private transport to the lodge. We made it to the 6:00 A.M. yoga class three

times and applauded ourselves for getting up that early.

If Samasati guests wished to go to Puerto Viejo, the closest town, we put in

a request with the staff. Unless their drivers were committed to other trips, this

worked out well. The kayaking excursion included a guide for both the river and

the Caribbean. Jillian and I took photos of each other gliding, following the S-

curves of the river. Because I’d read about the dangers of getting caught in the

riptides, I opted out of kayaking in the open sea. I watched Jillian bouncing among

the waves, smiling, and I regretted my decision. Nothing in the way she handled

the kayak looked menacing.

That evening, a bullet ant bit me when I flipped on the bathroom light

switch. A stabbing pain shot through my finger. Prior to our coming to Costa Rica,

I’d never heard of a bullet ant, aptly named because of the sensation it causes

when piercing the body. I nursed my finger that night with lots of ice, Benadryl

and pain pills.

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By morning, the swelling had gone down a bit, but the finger was stiff.

Jillian and I had signed up for the zipline outing that day, and when it came time to

depart, I got the jitters. “What if I get dizzy?” I asked. “What if I can’t hold on

because of my finger?” Jillian knew this doubting side of me too well.

“You did Outward Bound. You traipsed all over Southern Africa,” she said.

“Are you going to cop out now?”

Those who had completed the last jump over the trees, including Jillian,

circle the platform, glance towards me struggling to inch forward on the wire.

They burst into laughter. The operator yells out instructions for propelling

forward, but I can’t figure out what he means. In front of the others, mostly in

their twenties, he reels me in. My arms buckle when I try to pull up to the

platform. I slide backwards on the steel cable, before he puts his hands near my

waist and lifts me.

“Hoist up the mama,” the zipline operator says.

TACTILE MAPPING

I’m partial to physical maps. Whenever I’ve moved to a new state or when I

plan a trip to a faraway place, I open the creases in the map, the folds to another

world. I take in the names of towns, rivers, or lakes, depicted by bubbles, blue

wavy lines, or irregular splotches of blue inside of squiggly lines. I study the scale

so I can measure the distance between destinations with my thumb and index

finger. With a cup of tea in front of me, I linger over the map, becoming absorbed

by featured landmarks.

Before my move to Duluth in 1978 to begin a job teaching visually

impaired adults, I traced the outline of Lake Superior, its southwestern part shaped

like a bold index finger. The tip of that finger pointing to Duluth seemed to be a

personal response to my tracing, and I read into that a beckoning to go there. Next,

I measured the space between the bubbles for Duluth and Minneapolis and

compared it to the scale. I estimated the distance at about 150 miles, an easy three

hour drive to see friends or go to the quirky Garrison Keillor show in St. Paul.

Given my predisposition to physical maps, I’ve found it easy to incorporate

tactile maps as a teaching tool for my visually impaired students in Duluth, in the

Peace Corps, and later in Fresno. A map can demonstrate the shape of a T-

intersection to someone who has never seen one or it can represent a large area

like a high school campus. To model an intersection, I use Wikki Sticks on a

magnetic board, or plastic strips that adhere to a Velcro board. For a larger area, I

simply flick the “On” button of a thermoform machine and wait for it to heat up.

Then the machine converts my paper map of a campus to a plastic one with raised

lines.

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* * *

In my childhood, physical boundaries meant fences to contain animals, not

county or state lines. On our farm, I explored our barn, a creek, and climbed the

apple tree. When I was eleven, my family relocated to a small town in Central

Montana, small enough that a person could walk from one end of town to the other

in less than an hour. I enjoyed venturing out without adults: walking to a

neighborhood store, later walking to school with friends, and returning home after

a movie. I considered each jaunt by myself or with friends as a rite of passage. By

the time I entered high school, I wanted adventure on a larger scale. A friend and I

nursed the idea of hiking nine miles to her family’s cabin in the foothills, and our

parents gave their consent. My friend’s mom restocked basic supplies in their

cabin the week before our expedition, which kept the weight of our backpacks

manageable. (We weren’t as self-sufficient as we wanted to believe.) However, we

spent two glorious days on our own before her mom picked us up and drove us

back to town.

My passion for movement and exploration led me to become an Orientation

and Mobility teacher, although I didn’t realize this until after many years in the

field. Throughout my career, I’ve hoped that my visually impaired students would

share my enthusiasm in learning about each place in their environment, whether

it’s a campus, a route in a mall, or a route from a school to the nearest mini-mart.

Thus they could gain independence one step at a time. If they could understand the

conceptual make-up of environmental features such as crosswalks and driveways,

then they could move with safety and efficiency. Of course, this theory fit some

students better than others.

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At the rehabilitation center in Duluth, I met Molly, a middle-aged widow

with diabetic retinopathy. Molly harbored little interest in learning to navigate in

her community. She preferred to hover near male students in our facility, and one

time cornered a guy in the common area, reached out and with a head hold pulled

him close enough to “have a better look.” Molly could see about six inches in front

of her face, but when I armed myself with large print maps or tactile maps for a

lesson, her attention wandered. I felt it was my responsibility to motivate her to

learn some independent skills.

I initially puzzled over lesson locations for her, and chose the mall, thinking

she could practice finding a department store from the main entrance. The “route”

involved one turn at the corner where the hallways joined together. I’d made a

tactual map of this L-route but left it behind on my desk, opting instead to point

out floor textures in the mall’s hallways and inside the store. If Molly couldn’t

distinguish the differences between the hallway and the store with her cane, then

perfumes near the entry would provide a clue that she’d arrived. Molly, however,

smelled the bakery as soon as we entered the mall. Her nose worked well enough

to guide her to the counter.

“Are your chocolate éclairs good today?” she asked the sales lady.

“Of course,” she answered. “They’re delicious every day.”

Molly ordered two of them, and ate one on the spot.

On each subsequent lesson, Molly asked to learn the location of bakeries.

So I taught her to travel on the city bus, with destinations to downtown Duluth and

other neighborhoods with delectable eateries. Her motivation, in the shape of a

donut or stacked like a napoleon, helped her acquire tangible skills, but I was still

concerned about her, a diabetic, eating all that sugar. Molly mastered bus routes to

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all the pastry shops in town, and her nose, not my maps, helped her zero in on

exact locations.

I don’t know if I thought, in those early days, of teaching going in two

directions. But I certainly learned things from students, and I still do. With a

tactile map and lots of practice, Chuck, a newly blinded fifty-eight year-old,

learned the two-block route from his hotel to our center. Not an urban person, he

gladly departed Duluth every weekend for his home on a small lake. I knew he

preferred to fish from his boat, so I asked how he found his way back to his pier.

“I put a radio on my dock, and leave the volume on high,” Chuck said. “It never

fails.” He had figured out his own auditory map.

After two years in Duluth, I’d gained confidence as a teacher, but yearned

to explore life beyond Minnesota’s boundaries. This time, I decided on an even

bigger leap and applied to become a Peace Corps volunteer in Africa. The map of

Lesotho, the country where I would serve, was dotted with inverted V’s indicating

mountains and shaded ranges that covered all but a strip of land on the western

side of Lesotho. I knew I’d live in Maseru, the capital, and I found the blue threads

of the Caledon River, which separates Maseru from the Orange Free State in South

Africa. Next, I traced Lesotho’s border with my finger and I thought of Maryland,

approximately the same size. During my three-year stay in Lesotho, the

topography determined my mode of travel: by foot, bicycle and a minivan taxi in

the lower elevations, and by the national bus, pony and airplane in the higher

altitudes.

My daily trek, though, was in Maseru, from the high school where I taught,

to the downtown area. This half-mile journey is a route etched in memory. It

began on a dusty path, across the street from my school, and forged past the

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fenced palace of the king and queen. I don’t recall the palace imprinted on my

Lesotho map, and the Basotho people didn’t treat it as a special attraction. Except

for security guards patrolling the grounds, the building seemed not so different

from the conference center or other large buildings in the area.

When I reached downtown, I often went inside Frazier’s, a general

mercantile, for personal shopping. After I’d familiarized myself, I brought my

students there. I purchased a notebook or soap or a cooking pot. My interest in

mapping the lay of the land extended to the arrangement of aisles and merchandise

in stores. What guidelines determined the arrangement of items? It was a no-

brainer for canned goods to be placed together, rows of soups and sardines

claiming an entire aisle. But who decided if shoe polish would be adjacent to

sewing notions or mouse traps? Would skeleton keys sell better if housed in a

section next to ladies hosiery, rather than near motor oil? Did companies in

Southern Africa do trial and error studies on these matters? Four or five sets of the

M-16 skeleton key, the one which fit the door to my flat, hung on a hook between

the M-15 and the M-17. If a friend or a stranger needed a key to my place, he or

she could purchase one for about a dollar.

A generic key that would fit hundreds of doors seemed an oddity to me

when I first arrived in Lesotho. I made a mental notation, a kind of cultural

mapping, of distinctions between life at home and life in this Southern African

country. Other differences which made my list included the reversal of seasons in

the southern hemisphere, and even funny things like how water funnels down the

drain in the opposite direction. Over the course of my three year service, these

things became the norm for me.

On the other hand, right from the beginning, I felt perfectly at ease with

women selling peaches and pineapples, potatoes and beans sprawled on the

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sidewalk outside of Frazier’s. Of course, a street map wouldn’t include these

diligent vendors, but it also wouldn’t yield a complete portrayal of the setting.

Most stores, including Frazier’s, remained closed on Sundays, but the women

clustered near the entrance on the other days. Many juggled the act of selling, one

hand bagging fruit or vegetables, and the other supporting a baby suckling at her

breast. I greeted the women in Sesotho, the local language, and exchanged small

talk before asking Ke bokae? What is the price?

If I walked to the shops in late afternoon, sighted students from our high

school passed me. Their brown uniforms, together with the V-neck brown pullover

they wore, complemented the rich tones of soil on the walking path. Occasionally

one of these students recognized me and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Vogl.”

I wondered if my visually impaired students would be able to learn the

route to town. Before I could teach them, I needed to adjust to motor vehicles

driven on the left side of the road, and to learn local terms: “robots” for traffic

lights, and a “rotary” for a traffic circle. This was the time to make mental maps of

Maseru to utilize on later lessons with my students. Cultures don’t exist in

isolation; Lesotho, a British protectorate until 1966, absorbed traditions from the

Commonwealth nation.

When my student Lebohang in Form C (third year of high school) learned

the route downtown, he smelled fish and chips at a local cafe and suggested we

sample some. Our order came wrapped in newspaper, greasy from the oil. Bottles

of orange squash, which tasted like Tang, polished off the meal. I don’t think

Lebohang thought of the fish and chips as a remnant of British influence, and it

took me a minute to make the connection.

Another student, Tseliso, signed up for biology, and I made many tactile

maps for him, starting with a human cell. First I shaped clay into a roll about one-

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eighth inch in diameter to replicate the cell wall, and then fashioned a nucleus and

mitochondria, and arranged all parts on a large piece of cardboard. Tactile models

require lots of space, so the fingers can distinguish between one raised area and

another. Tseliso didn’t have the luxury of putting his map of the cell in a folder or

backpack where it could get squished. We housed it on a classroom shelf. Braille

also took up much space. If a blind person wished to read from an unabridged

Bible, he or she would index the chosen section from forty-three volumes.

Exchanges with my students often took the form of social comparisons,

types of cultural maps. One day we sat in a circle in our cinderblock classroom,

discussing the geography of the Americas. This was one of many times they

steered me off topic by asking questions about the United States. “Why don’t

Americans belong to a clan and a totem?” Violet asked. I had no explanation.

Shadrack, a Form B student, asked, “Is everyone rich?” I explained that not

everyone is rich, but public schools didn’t charge fees, so all kids could attend.

“Why are there so many divorces?” Lebohang asked. I tried to clarify reasons for

divorces: infidelity, people growing out of love, etc., but Violet, a student who

returned to high school in her twenties, came to a different conclusion. “If you

don’t have to pay a bride price, then it’s easier to leave a marriage,” she said. I’m

sure my students knew that affairs sometimes occurred in Lesotho, as in all

countries, but Violet spoke the truth about divorce; it happened rarely in her

country, possibly because bride price played a role. In 1981, a woman in Lesotho

with a college degree could command about 200 head of cattle in exchange for

joining her husband’s clan. No family would want to be required to pay back this

investment.

The Basotho’s cultural mapping included definitive kinship patterns, and

we volunteers observed some child rearing practices new to us. The most positive

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practice involved the use of blankets to secure babies to a mother’s back; if the

mother wasn’t available, an aunt or an older sister would carry the infant. I never

saw a child in a stroller, unless it was an expatriate family. I assumed that carrying

a child for the first two years influenced his or her temperament. It seemed the

norm for Basotho children to sit quietly for hours on bus trips or wait patiently at a

mother’s side in a bank or government office.

When Violet asked that day in 1981 why Americans don’t belong to a

totem, I had no ready answer. The totem, often an animal, is thought to interact

with a given kinship group or an individual and to serve as their emblem or

symbol. After thirty one years, I still have no answer. Perhaps the lack of a totem

has created a void in Americans’ lives and is a factor in the genealogy craze of

recent decades. Many families are scattered, living in different houses, cities and

states from their extended families. Most of us don’t know our ancestral history far

beyond our grandparents.

How much did my grandmother Hilma know about America—its climate,

topography and culture—before she boarded a ship in the early nineteen hundreds

at age eighteen? I wonder if she traced her ship’s route across the vast ocean she

would cross, or if she studied maps of the United States. Grandma told my mom

that she left Finland to get away from the thumb of the Russian tsar. Hilma passed

away when I was thirteen. I wish I’d asked her about the details of her long

journey, and whether she regretted her decision to leave behind her parents and a

sister. Although she had plans to meet a brother in Wisconsin, who had emigrated

earlier, she traveled alone and didn’t speak English. Hilma became a widow in her

forties and raised four children as a tailor. She also milked cows and fixed roofs.

I believe my grandmother influenced my passion for new lands and

cultures, and the urge to explore led me to the map of Finland, the place she

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referred to as the one with the long summer twilight. I seized the opportunity to

travel to her ancestral land after completing my Peace Corps service. The shape of

Finland resembles a partially melted snowman with one raised hand. It could also

be a Santa dragging a heavy bag of toys. When my boyfriend Chris and I arrived

there in late March 1983, enough snow had receded to reveal patches of pavement

poking through. Hilma’s nephew, Helge, met us at the train station in Esbo, not far

from Helsinki. During our visit, we met many members of my extended family,

and I can attest to their hardiness; many followed the Finnish tradition of jumping

into an icy lake, followed by a sauna bath. Helge designed his house with a sauna,

a customary feature in Finnish homes, and certainly part of the Finns’ cultural

mapping. The ritual and the sweating offered Chris and me the opportunity to

bond with my relatives: Helge, his wife, their grown children, and other cousins.

I don’t know how many of these Nordic relatives share the wanderlust

nature of my grandma and me. We met her sister, Vendla, the one who stayed in

Finland. Perhaps Grandma’s emigration was politically motivated, and not based

on restlessness as I like to think. Still, my predilection for movement, for travel,

comes from somewhere or someone, and why not from Grandma, who shares my

clan and my totem, at least the one I envision in my mind? I believe our totem

animal would be one known for its movement like a gazelle, speeding over land

with swift leaps, or a migratory animal like a caribou.

When Chris, who became my husband, and I came to Fresno in 1985, our

decision was based partly on an NPR story we listened to about Fresno’s cultural

diversity. A map of Fresno County featured vineyards, and my thumb and index

finger measured the distance to the inverted V’s, indicating the Sierra Nevada, less

than eighty miles away. I pictured farmers’ markets, ethnic restaurants, and nature

walks. Replicating the pattern I’d created in my life, I thought our stay would be

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short-term, perhaps two or three years. Then I would open my Rand McNally

Atlas and pinpoint a new city, perhaps close to the vast blue seascape of the

Pacific or even closer to the Sierra Nevada. Although Chris and I would later split

up, our jobs and two kids kept us here.

I haven’t discovered a gazelle or a caribou totem in Fresno; in fact since my

children grew up and moved away, I have no relatives here. However, I’ve shaped

a life-style that suits me, and I shaped this the way I always have, the way I

continue to teach my students. I’ve cultivated a career learning about layouts of

campuses, positions of street hardware, (street signs on a sidewalk are generally a

foot and a half from the curb), and traffic flow patterns, so I can transfer the

information to my students. My high schoolers learn the major twenty-one North-

South and the same number of East-West streets in order, to help them mentally

map the layout of Fresno and recognize their location when hearing street names

called out on the city bus.

I anticipate my next vacation, short or long, pull out my maps and chart my

next destination. Will it be catching up with my grown children in their new

locations or traveling to Cuba, Japan or Eastern Europe? Long summer breaks

provide opportunities for extensive travel. In recent years, I’ve supplemented

physical maps with digital photos and I’ve learned to use online map sources, but I

still prefer representations which allow me to trace with my fingers the places

where my feet will soon tread.

MAZE OF LIGHTS AND SHADOWS

Most of my visually impaired students either don’t see contours and

shadings, or if they do see some semblance of them, their experience is different

from fully sighted persons. For example, students sometimes trip on a shadow cast

on a sidewalk, because their brains might not register the difference between a

change in lighting and a change in elevation. In my role as instructor to these kids

from pre-school through high school, I’ve attempted to understand their sensory

experiences as much as possible so I can teach them to move safely and

independently. I’ve also hoped that they’d gain an appreciation for movement,

going when and where they desire, as a basic freedom, one I’ve cherished my

whole life.

Over thirty years ago, when I began my college program to become an

orientation and mobility teacher, I was as naïve about the visually impaired as

most people outside the field. It took one class period to debunk stereotypes, such

as the notion that most visually impaired people perceive the world in darkness.

Actually, the number of legally blind persons with no light perception

approximates ten to fifteen percent.

Photophobia, or extreme sensitivity to lights, occurs more often than total

darkness. The sensation of being blinded when an approaching driver doesn’t dim

headlights provides an example of what visually impaired people might

experience. In my own case, I squint in bright sunlight or look down if I forget my

sunglasses. I brought home a permanent crease between my eyebrows from my

Peace Corps years in the African sun, because I didn’t always wear sunglasses.

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These students’ sensitivity is much more intense than mine. Tinted glasses can

reduce glare for them, but can also reduce their already limited vision.

Photophobia generally goes hand in hand with the condition known as

albinism, because of abnormal development of the retina. Poor depth perception,

often associated with albinism, results in students not knowing how high to raise

or lower their feet when stepping up or down from curbs. Many times I see my

students take a “false step” up at a blended curb, the kind that has just a lip and

doesn’t require stepping up. I try to gage how each student might miscue so I can

offer suggestions to compensate. Normally, this involves arcing the cane slowly

whenever detecting a slope. After either missing an actual curb and falling off, or

raising the feet for a nonexistent curb, the students recheck their position with the

cane and proceed.

One day I began a lesson at traffic lights with Philip, a seventh grader who

has albinism. Philip decided that his prescription dark glasses were not cool, so he

squinted instead. Normally on a lesson, we cross all streets at the intersection,

sometimes in a clockwise pattern and sometimes counter clockwise. Most of my

students with albinism showed problems with depth perception, but Philip didn’t. I

never saw him miscue at curbs, so I didn’t require him to use a cane. Although

doctors’ reports and symptoms of eye diseases prove helpful to a point, no two

people with the same eye condition see or function exactly the same.

With the sun on his back, Philip could distinguish the pedestrian signals,

but when facing into the sun, he saw only the glare and looked down to relieve his

eyes.

“What else can you use to time your cycle?” I asked.

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“The cars.” Philip often used the minimum number of words possible, a

habit of many middle-schoolers. I smiled, considering how much he resembled his

peers, visually impaired or sighted, but I didn’t think he could see my expression.

“Which cars?” I asked.

Philip pointed to cars at his side. He towered over me these days, and I

remembered standing next to him two years earlier when the top of his head had

reached my chin. I looked at his frame—tall and lean—a good candidate for cross-

country or track.

I continued my gentle interrogation about crossing safely. “And what do we

call them?”

“Parallel cars.”

“Yes,” I said, pumping the air with my fist. And we continued in this

manner, I, digging for his responses, and he, with a faint smile and a shrug,

supplying the responses.

I provide my older students, including those like Philip, a copy in large

print or braille of the major Fresno streets. We live in a city arranged mostly in

grids, lending an orderly north to south or east to west continuum. It only requires

memorization to gain understanding of Fresno’s major streets and relate them to

city landmarks, such as the main mall at First and Shaw. I’ve taught in other

American cities also built on grid patterns. On a trip to England a few years ago,

however, I struggled with the layout of towns, where all streets radiated out from a

major traffic circle, and for one minute longed for Fresno.

The purpose in memorizing street names relates to traveling to unfamiliar

areas on the city bus system, and being able to decipher an approximate location

based on the street names called out by the bus driver. Phillip didn’t feel the need

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to learn the street names. Like many of my partially sighted students, he relies on

visual landmarks, if he can see them.

I didn’t have to encourage Miguel, a former student, to learn techniques to

move about independently. Despite being legally blind, Miguel played on the

varsity soccer team at his high school. His teammates shouted out the ball’s

position, so he could follow the game and also prepare when it came close to him.

As it entered his range of vision, about ten feet away, Miguel planned his move. If

the ball skirted the grass nearby, he could feel its vibration on the ground.

Another seventh grader, a boy named Jesse with cataracts, learned skills to

cross at traffic lights. He spoke so softly that I often couldn’t hear him. Jesse also

had a habit of hesitating before he answered questions. About the time I thought

the lesson had bombed because I hadn’t found a way for him to remember his

streets, he would mumble the answer. One time, on a lesson involving the city bus,

I asked him how he could confirm that he had the correct bus before he boarded.

We waited at a transit center where numerous buses pulled up. He squinted at the

numbers in the vehicle’s windshield just inches from the door, but apparently

couldn’t bring them into focus, possibly due to glare.

“You need to step back,” I said. Jesse stood on the sidewalk, not in the bus

lane, but it still felt too close.

He did so, pulling his face away from the windshield.

“Did that method work for you?” I asked.

“No.”

“What’s another option?” I wondered if the driver would leave before Jesse

figured out the route number.

“I can ask the driver.”

“Yes, you can.”

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Again Jesse hesitated. I almost asked the question myself, instead of

waiting for him. But a lesson would stick with him more if I let him make a

mistake, an error of omission in this case, possibly missing a bus. He finally

stepped next to the open door to ask the driver if the bus was route #32, but she

couldn’t hear him. I wanted to yell out “volume;” however, I doubted it would do

any good. The driver decided to get out of her seat and walk towards the door. She

leaned close to him and understood his words.

“Yes, it’s #32,” she said.

We boarded the bus. I let out a sigh of relief that Jesse would make it to his

next class on time. When I let out the sigh, I also thought of the trust required for

Jesse to do things he didn’t enjoy doing. I had worked with Jesse for a number of

years. Over this period, I assured him, as I assure all my students, that I would

keep him safe. But I also asked in lesson after lesson for him to stretch himself, in

order to become more independent. I knew he didn’t feel comfortable seeking help

from the driver, but he still asked.

I often reminded myself that most kids feel awkward in middle school; their

bodies are changing, they compare themselves to their peers, and adults start to

ask them the question, “What do you want to do when you grow up?” Most

students have no idea, and struggle to come up with a response.

For the visually impaired, traveling to destinations beyond a comfortable

walking distance requires another person willing to drive them from place to

place, or for them to use public transportation. My students will never drive. I

don’t think this reality had sunk in yet for Philip or Jesse, and it wouldn’t until

they reached high school and learned their friends not only drove, but also bought

their cars to school.

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I generally waited until students entered high school before initiating a

conversation about driving. By then some of their parents had spoken to them, or

some students had realized that they wouldn’t drive. One of my current students, a

ninth grade girl, recently told me she wanted a guide dog and also wanted to drive.

I’ve never known an individual to do both. This girl has retinitis pigmentosa, a

progressive eye condition, resulting in tunnel vision and difficulty seeing in dim

light. At this point, she only has problems with the latter. She and I will have to

have a conversation.

Another stereotype about the visually impaired is that most use a guide dog.

The actual numbers who do so fall below five percent, due to many reasons. Dog

guide users, also called handlers, must have an active lifestyle, walking the dogs

daily. They need to be able to seek out veterinary services if the animals become

ill, and treatment can be expensive. If the handler or any member of his family has

an allergy to dogs, then of course, this option doesn’t work. The amount of useful

vision also factors in. For example, if a dog would veer widely around an obstacle,

a handler might question the appropriateness of the dog’s action. Some partially

sighted people compensate well without a dog.

When crossing at traffic lights, dogs respond to their handler’s commands

and to cars, but not to lights. Although dogs are not totally color blind, as people

once believed, they don’t derive meaning from the different colored lights.

I revisited the complicated process of adjusting from full sight to no sight,

after I learned that sixteen-year-old Julie, blind due to an accident, was assigned to

my case load. (Most of my students’ vision problems stem from birth.) Of all the

senses, vision provides the greatest range—humans can see for miles and miles.

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Vision also aids in balance by providing the nervous system with information

regarding the position and movements of body parts in relation to each other and

the environment. In the first few months after losing her sight, Julie felt tipsy. She

would find a crack in the sidewalk with her cane, but instead of just picking up her

feet a little to step over it, she would poke at the crack over and over, concerned

that she might fall. Unsteady balance, common among newly blind people,

gradually improves with time and practice walking. Julie, too, eventually learned

to negotiate the numerous sidewalk cracks.

Vision often serves the role of what is called the confirming sense. For

example, when you hear a sound, perhaps a fire truck, or someone calling your

name, you look around to see which direction it’s coming from, and sight confirms

the source of the sound. The loss of confirmation goes hand in hand with losing

vision.

After her doctor cleared her to return to classes, Julie became determined to

regain her independence at school. She focused on sounds and on her visual

memory of the campus layout. The latter, generally helpful, can also hinder. Julie,

relying on her memory of the placement of trash cans, and how they were chained

to poles, swerved the wrong direction one time and ran into the pole. Someone had

repositioned the can. Her visual memory contradicted the new situation.

With repeated practice, Julie fine-tuned her awareness of overhead objects,

such as tree branches, a by-product of sound waves. I didn’t have to teach her to

put her hand in front of her face when walking past trees at close range; she did

this on her own. Most of the branches would clear her head, but the raised hand

provided self-protection if needed. I recalled when I trained under blindfold, and

the sensation of something closing in on me, so I understood Julie’s actions.

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In addition to perceiving trees or other objects close to her, Julie sometimes

assumed the presence of an entity that didn’t exist. One day, we walked from her

high school to a street corner. In the middle of the second block, she yelled out and

took a step back.

“I felt something close,” she said.

“There is nothing here.”

“I guess it was another phantom vision,” she said.

“Can you describe it?”

“This one was dark and oblong, but the visions can be any color, pink or

blue and also any shape.”

“Does this also happen indoors?” I asked.

“Yes, but it only messes up my mobility outdoors. I’m familiar with things

indoors, and I can tell if something is really there or if it’s a phantom.”

The other totally blind students I’ve taught didn’t have visual memory, so

they would not experience this condition. Rods and cones, photoreceptors in the

eye which function to perceive light and color, stop working if people become

blind later in life. If there's no data coming in, the cells compensate by making up

images. The brain continues to interpret visual imagery, just as it sometimes

continues to process pain signals from a limb that's no longer there.

Julie was my first student to speak about the phantom vision. I thought of

her new reliance on non-visual cues like sounds, tactile information, distances, etc.

It took so much concentration for her to walk from one part of her campus to

another, that she didn’t have the luxury of daydreaming or talking. If a classmate

tried to start a conversation with her, Julie would respond and often become

disoriented. On top of learning to compensate with her other senses, Julie’s brain

now interfered by sending her false pictures. Relearning to get to all the places on

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her campus—her classrooms, the office, the cafeteria, the restrooms—took about

three months.

It seemed important to recognize Julie’s difficulties in processing so I could

suggest the most helpful methods for her safe travel, but I also needed to remain

objective if she became discouraged or used a harsh tone with me. In the first few

months, she had days when she didn’t want to learn braille or to use a cane, and

once she threw the cane on the ground.

On my first job out of college, I’d worked with adults, many of them new

to blindness, so I knew her reactions fit the norm. Sometimes, I abandoned a

lesson and just listened to her concerns. I strived to be knowledgeable, but not a

know-it-all. I hadn’t experienced losing all my sight or had to reshape my identity,

or lived the moment to moment challenge of interacting with people and the

environment in a new way.

In time, Julie’s attitude shifted; she yearned to adapt as well as possible,

earning the respect of her classmates and teachers. She had good days mixed in

with the difficult ones. Her interest in academics and her grades actually improved

after her accident. In her senior year, a friend and classmate asked Julie to their

school formal. When Julie lost her sight, she didn’t lose her sense of style and

fashion. She seemed as excited as any other teenager, describing to me her formal

dress: a white strapless gown, fitted in the waist with a billowing skirt.

Julie progressed enough in her mobility skills to begin lessons on crossing

at traffic lights. Another stereotype about visually impaired people is that upon the

loss of vision, they instantly acquire a type of super hearing to compensate.

Although some of my students focus more acutely on sounds than other students,

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all can be trained to better use cues, such as echo detection to locate buildings and

traffic flow patterns to help in orientation.

I started with having Julie identify parallel and perpendicular traffic, based

on localizing the sound for each. She grasped this quite readily. Next, I taught her

about the surge of traffic which identified her pedestrian cycle. We spent months

standing at corners to practice these skills. I positioned myself next to a building,

the fence or grass, not between Julie and the cars. I explained to her that I didn’t

want my body to act as a sound shadow, possibly blocking or reducing the noise

from cars.

Julie hadn’t totally mastered street crossings at traffic lights when it was

time to switch gears and orient her to her chosen college, a large university. Once

students receive a high school diploma, school districts no longer serve them;

however, she would continue to receive orientation and mobility training from the

state rehabilitation department. My opportunity to teach her lasted just two years,

and then I had to hand her over to the next teacher who would guide her through

the maze of lights and shadows.

MIGRATIONS

After the incident, yellow road signs depicting antlered deer seemed

ubiquitous. I trembled each time I saw one of the florescent warnings, thinking a

deer would leap from that exact spot. Any area of dense vegetation or forests

along highways offered the potential for deer crossings. In my mind, even tree

branches morphed into antlers, ready to charge forth.

Enroute to Bozeman, Montana, from Great Falls, I’d chosen the scenic

route. My cousin had recommended this two-lane highway, and on this clear day, I

marveled at the freedom of mobility that I experienced driving in Montana, a

feeling replicated each time I returned to my home state. The expanse of spaces

between towns, the scenery of the conifer forests, and the uncrowded roads all

helped to ease the restless itch I’ve had all my life.

I take my freedom to travel anywhere and drive anywhere for granted. My

career as a teacher affords me a lifestyle that I’ve enjoyed for decades. I root

myself in Fresno during the school year, with occasional weekend trips out of

town, but then indulge my nomadic side during summer migrations to other

places.

Travel, particularly foreign travel, has often provided an adrenalin rush that

satiates my need to explore. But in the summer of 2012, I was still in the recovery

stage from a partial hip replacement, following a January fall and a broken femur

where it joins the ball and socket. With physical therapy and exercise, I regained

most of my mobility, but uneven terrain, bending down and sitting for long

periods presented challenges. Some of my out-of-country adventures had included

lodging on the fourth floor of hotels with no elevators, or walking on cobblestone

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streets. I deemed it best to stay in familiar territory, and also to avoid the long

plane ride to an overseas destination.

Since I couldn’t venture overseas, Montana became my next choice for a

vacation. Every few years, my migrations have included circling back to my roots.

I wanted to touch base with the landscapes that had nurtured me in my youth. My

last trip to my home state had taken place five years earlier; I was overdue. The

opportunity to visit relatives in various cities also influenced my decision.

Driving up a gradual slope, something in my peripheral vision interrupted

my thoughts. I sensed movement on the left side of the car and looked up and into

the eyes of a deer leaping from the left ditch bank. In less than a second, it was a

foot away, advancing towards the driver’s door of my rental car.

A few days earlier in Helena, enroute to a store, my daughter and I saw a

buck sprint across a street at a traffic light. Fortunately the driver of the car with

the green light stopped in time. My daughter mentioned that a deer sometimes

slept under her shade tree on hot afternoons, although I didn’t meet that one.

Helena represents a phenomenon common in the United States—deer have

become urban dwellers. Some argue that deer are invading cities. Another view

contradicts that notion, claiming that subdivisions, built on rural land, leads to

increased herd size. In other words, humans’ migrations have invaded the animals’

habitat. The suburbs have become incorporated, and laws in these areas prohibit

hunting, thus protecting the deer.

Some cities, including Helena, have considered an unusual solution:

officials in Montana’s capital have proposed an open season for bow and arrow

hunting inside the city limits. In Hope, Arkansas, the owner of an auto repair shop

spotted a deer between his service bays and the police station. Other in town

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sightings led the city to issue twenty one urban bow permits which resulted in

eight deer kills in less than thirty days. The city of Ames, Iowa, has also used

archery to manage the deer population. The number of urban deer dwellers has

continued to rise, so Ames’ city leaders chose bow hunting as a way to decrease

damage deer caused to vehicles, and also to landscaping.

Perhaps something about shiny surfaces—the gleam of a car, or the sparkle

of glass—attracts the animals. I don’t think deer recognize windows as physical

barriers, but instead see them as extensions of their world. In 2006, a deer jumped

through a window into a fifth-grade class in Arkansas City, Kansas, The Wichita

Eagle reported. As a teacher escorted the children out of the room, they

encountered a second deer in the corridor. That one apparently came through a

window in an empty room. Both deer managed to leave the building hurriedly, one

via a glass door and the other through a window. Classes were scheduled to

resume when the windows were repaired.

On Labor Day weekend in September 2012, customers enjoying pancakes

and bacon in a Mission Valley, California IHOP watched a deer crash through a

window. The confused animal stumbled about until it found an emergency exit the

restaurant manager had propped open. Other incidents of a deer crashing through a

window include another school in Ohio, a beauty shop in Michigan and restaurants

in Atlanta and Detroit, and the list goes on.

Because of the high number of car and deer collisions in Montana, my

daughter’s car insurance increased when she moved there from California. The US

Census Bureau states that Montana has 436 white-tailed deer for every thousand

humans, coming in third after Mississippi and West Virginia. With so many deer

crossing roads, accidents are common. The odds of hitting a deer are one in eighty

in Montana, and she had an encounter when she first moved there; a deer brushed

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against the truck she was driving. Fortunately, the truck sustained only a dent, and

the deer then leapt into the woods. My daughter didn’t know the extent of its

injuries. I’m sure she had no idea that she’d have to be vigilant even while driving

in town, for example, after returning home from dinner out with friends.

Nationwide, cars hit at least 1.5 million deer a year, according to Highway

Safety reports, causing more than a billion dollars in vehicle damage.

In the early 1900s, deer were so scarce in many areas of the country that

hunting was curbed. The white-tailed species, in particular, quickly rebounded.

The population didn’t explode until the second half of the century, because

predators declined and human development altered the landscape. To thin the

present numbers, one blogger suggested longer hunting seasons, while another

from Ohio promoted reintroducing wolves in areas where the latter’s numbers

have dropped significantly.

No blogger suggested that humans change their habits of driving through

dense vegetation, or of fleeing cities for the suburbs. I enjoy living within a city,

but some of my friends have chosen to relocate to the suburbs, based on

perceptions about better schools and less crime, and the media reflects these

assumptions. Certainly the habits of wildlife aren’t considered important factors

by most people when they set up households in subdivisions.

When I’m driving on highways, I admit to considering my freedom first,

and the freedom of the deer second. In previous decades, when deer had more

predictable patterns of migration, that is returning to higher country during

summer months, my odds of having a collision would have been smaller.

Guidelines posted on various websites didn’t help me avoid hitting a deer.

A number of the rules still run through my mind: Watch carefully for the animals

at sunrise and sunset; Blink your high beams if you spot a deer. This action can

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help wake up the animal from a trance state; Honk the horn when you see deer

next to the roadway or highway. This will help scare the deer away from the

roadway; Brake firmly; Stay in your lane of traffic.

When I looked out the window on the driver’s side into the deer’s eyes, I

didn’t know which of us was more startled. I wanted to shout, “Go, go, don’t come

closer.” but no words came. A tangle of brown advanced toward me. My body

stiffened, in anticipation of the jolt. Only glass separated us, and I thought the

window on the door might smash, leaving me unprotected. But the deer struck

lower, hitting the car door with a bang. And then something—I think a hoof—

rounded the curve to the front windshield. The thrust of the hoof did crack the

windshield, but it stayed intact. After that, the animal disappeared from my sight,

but I felt another thump and knew it had hit the car again. I had sensed fear in the

deer’s eyes; perhaps I only saw a reflection of my own fright. Either way, I relived

that brief moment over and over.

My brain was so involved in watching the animal, not believing this was

happening, that I didn’t consciously think of driving strategies. Somehow I braked,

but I think the action stemmed from an automatic response, not a plan to minimize

damage. I’d guess that I had less than a second to react, and I think the scenario,

from initial impact to the deer ricocheting off the rear panel, lasted another two

seconds.

Fortunately, I didn’t lose control, or swerve into the lane of oncoming

traffic. I steered onto the highway shoulder, and stopped the engine. I stared at the

broken windshield, and how the cracks and fissures radiated out in a circular

motion from the puncture.

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Finally, I looked up to see a number of motorists who had pulled over,

approaching my car. Two motorcycles and a sedan had stopped. I attempted to

lower the window, but it went down only part way.

“Are you all right?” a woman asked, then a man asked the same thing.

Another car had stopped on the opposite side of the road and more people came

my way.

“Are you okay?” another person asked.

“I think so.” I tried to open the door, but it was jammed. Wires dangled

where the side mirror had been. “Is the car badly damaged?”

“The buck made some hefty dents in your door, and also the rear panel,” a

man said.

I crawled over the floor gear shift and over bags on the seat to the passenger

door. Not exactly agile with my reconstructed hip, but I made it. The soreness in

my hip didn’t set in for a few hours. It would ache again for about two weeks after

the accident.

I think I saw relief on people’s faces when I emerged in one piece.

“Let me call 911,” a woman said. A few moments later, she declared that

she had no reception. Neither did anyone else.

“I’ll notify the authorities when I get down the hill,” the same woman said.

“What happened to the deer?” I asked.

A man pointed behind us. “It’s still alive,” he said.

I walked around to the rear of the car and saw a heap on the yellow divider

lines about fifteen feet away. The side mirror lay on the ground about ten feet from

the deer. I stepped onto the highway to retrieve the mirror, but looked away from

the buck, not knowing if his eyes would show pain. He caught my attention,

nevertheless, when his legs let out a spastic kick or two, then stilled.

TEMPTATIONS OF ENTROPY—DAY BY DAY

I packed away the Christmas rush, along with the ornaments, and settled in

for the last glorious week of winter vacation. Free of any scheduled activities, I

thought of the week as a gift to myself—I could choose what to do day by day.

Partial to daily exercise, I thought of working out in some form every day, keeping

my body in motion as much as possible. Even with command of my own destiny, I

talked myself out of some of my favorite activities, due to inclement weather.

That’s right; I allowed wet conditions to influence my choices.

On Monday, clear skies blazed overhead, yielding an invitation to walk,

bike or do aqua aerobics, with the January sun on my face. First, though, I finished

writing a poem, and I arrived late for the aqua class, joining others in doing Esther

Williams, a move with the knees brought to the chest, then pivoting to the side,

outstretching the legs. The instructor then called out the cross-country ski exercise.

Although I enjoyed these elements of the work-out, I kept thinking of jumping

jacks or frog hops I’d missed, due to my tardiness.

On Tuesday, choosing between physical activity or laziness proved more

difficult. Skies had turned overcast and dreary with high fog. Part of me wanted to

stretch my legs and quiet my mind during a neighborhood walk. Another part of

me rejected that notion, considering the grey skies and the chill. I brewed some hot

tea, and started reading a novel.

On Wednesday, a friend asked me to stay overnight in her Shaver Lake

cabin, located about an hour away in the Sierra Nevada. This would provide the

chance for a vigorous walk—I anticipated the crunch of snow under my boots, my

breath visible on exhale, and wind-born snow on my cheeks. After a brisk walk,

bringing up my heart rate, I would return to my friend’s cabin and sip hot cocoa

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with her. Rain had begun in the Central Valley, where I live, and was predicted to

last for four days. In the nearby mountains, precipitation would come in the form

of snow. I feared icy roads, blizzards, or possible difficulty staying warm in the

cabin. As it turned out, a power outage cancelled our plans, and I consoled myself

by reading my novel. Somehow, I didn’t think about going to my gym.

Restless Leg Syndrome struck while in bed that night. My limbs twitched

and finally at 2 A.M., I pointed and flexed my toes, then did leg raises for about

fifteen minutes, in an attempt to stop the sensations. I entered the morning hours

cranky and unfocused, a victim of interrupted sleep.

When I looked outside on Thursday, I noticed the rain still pouring down.

After a night of poor sleep, I made excuses to stay inside, such as: the tantalizing

novel, I’m tired, it’s too cold, I’m tired, it’s too cold, I need to clean. I had no

excuses not to clean. Besides, doing housework would provide some exercise,

although it didn’t fit the idea of gifting myself. I lifted a stack of newspapers and

stirred up dust, sneezing twice. Sweeping and vacuuming helped to relieve the

stiffness that had settled in my legs and back during the two previous days. When

I considered cleaning out my unheated garage, my tiredness magically returned, so

that idea died quickly. However, I made a pledge for action on the following day.

By Friday, I’d finished the novel, but still the rain poured down. Going to

my health club seemed my only option for exercise, but my mind, in its

sneakiness, thought of a vicarious workout: watching reruns of the Olympic

Games on a sports station. You can feel the lilt of the downhill skiers, and the

twirls of the skaters. Just put yourself into it. I was almost tempted by the visuals,

but couldn’t lilt in an armchair. The spins also proved to be pathetic. My mind had

tricked me, had stolen my chance for exercise, the way Lucy tricked Charlie

Brown by snatching the football before he could kick it.

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On Saturday, the fourth day of rain, my mind seemed to split into two

camps: To Walk or Not to Walk. I envisioned a scoreboard with positives and

negatives. It looked like this:

To Walk Not to Walk

+ Dynamic + Warm

+ Toning & Stretching + Dry

+ Aerobics - Untoned muscles

+ Smells of rain - Lethargic

- Wet clothes - No nice smells

- Wet feet - Static

The stay at home camp had only two plusses, while the walking camp had

four plusses. Actually, the only disadvantages to walking involved wet feet and

clothing, easily remedied with a change of clothes and a hot shower. My back and

legs had started to feel stiff as a result of my sedentary condition. I didn’t want

another night of lying awake and squirming. Avoiding restless legs in bed would

add another point to the walk column. I’d squandered many opportunities for

exercise and couldn’t end the week on that note.

With some hesitation, I began my walk, but soon found a rhythm, and I

marched through wet leaves, splashing through puddles. Why had I avoided

something so pleasurable? My back and my leg muscles started feeling good

again, and I lost track of time. Raindrops the size of plums (and just as succulent)

bounced off my skin.

ARRESTED MOBILITY

Dana phoned me in mid-December to say she’d come down with the flu.

I’d seen Dana, a psychotherapist, professionally following my divorce five years

earlier. In the years since that time we’d become friends.

“I called my clients to let them know I’ll be off work,” she said. “I don’t

have the energy to go out, but I need to pay some bills. Sally, could you deposit a

few hundred dollars in my bank account, please?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said, knowing Dana would do the same for me. She had, in

fact, loaned me a similar amount to cover the closing costs on my house the year

before. “Do you need any food or medicine?” I asked.

“No, but thanks for the offer. As soon as my stomach settles down, I’ll be

up and about.” Dana’s voice had it usual lilt. How could she sound cheerful,

despite the fact that was throwing up? “I have presents to give out.” she added.

Just before Christmas, she stopped returning phone calls from her friends.

Perhaps she had gone to the coast to be nursed back to health, we reasoned. Dana

had an on-again, off-again boyfriend who lived there. She had a cell phone, but

turned it on only for emergencies. When the days stretched into a week, and Dana

still returned no calls, I realized the time had come to check her house.

I wanted to know what happened to her, so I phoned a mutual friend, Meg,

to find out if she had heard from Dana. She hadn’t. I felt scared. Meg, and her

husband, Russ, drove with me.

A storage bin towered over her two cars in the driveway. Boxes of tools

and crates of oranges, potatoes, and other food lined the sidewalk, resembling a

food giveaway program. In the back yard, the pets’ food bowls were empty. Two

dogs eyed us, then circled around their dishes, sniffing for a crumb. Dana normally

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took her dogs when she traveled to the coast, or occasionally she dropped them off

at the original owner’s home. Why were they left here? My thoughts scrambled for

explanations.

We knocked on her door and waited for a reply, but none came. I jiggled

the knob. It was locked. A sheriff’s deputy responded to our call. While waiting

for him, I rang a neighbor’s bell. Yes, she had seen Dana about a week earlier,

stringing Christmas lights on an outside tree, and they had waved. The neighbor

said that the last time she spoke to Dana at any length was when Dana propped an

Americana banner on top of her mail box, following September 11.

The deputy’s car pulled up and we returned to Dana’s house. He forced the

door open and we followed him inside. Books and papers were strewn on the

coffee table and the floor. Piles of clothing buried the couch and chairs. Dirty

dishes filled the sink; pots cluttered the counter tops and the kitchen table. “This

place is a mess,” he said. We’d helped Dana move to this home in early summer,

and even with unpacked boxes, her place was less chaotic then.

I kept thinking about the dogs and the way their eyes had followed our

approaching steps, continuing to watch us when we walked away. On my fingers, I

counted back the days since we had heard from Dana. Seven. Had they been

without food all that time?

“Let’s keep going,” the deputy said, bringing me back to the present. A

signed Ansel Adams photo was displayed on Dana’s bookcase. Her family and the

Adams family had been friends. Six water color and oil paintings leaned against

each other on the floor. Normally, she hung artwork with much thought and

deliberation. In the late nineties, Dana and I had traveled to LA to see a Van Gogh

collection. She wore one of her sculpted blouses and a full skirt, the kind she

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twirled with a brush of her hand as she sat down, then curled up her slender legs

on the chair.

Dana had always collected art and antiques. For some reason, she also

loved blue glassware and displayed many pieces in her china cabinet. I understood

an attachment to china; however, mine was based on heirloom pieces from my

grandmother. Sometimes, I took a cup or saucer from the cabinet and touched the

delicate maple leaves. In her last year Dana added bedding, and bought food and

clothing in bulk, even though she lived alone and had no children. She joked that

she shopped early for Christmas. Recently, she displayed a shiny antique stove, in

her office. Although not typical for most people, this seemed part of her

expression. She often tried out different looks in décor.

We passed her dining room table, and I thought of Dana’s Christmas Eve

dinner the previous year. She’d hired a chef to prepare cracked crab and he

presided over us, placing glazed ceramic platters of crab and side dishes on the

table next to a centerpiece and lit candles. The small flames reflected in the platter,

bringing into focus a subtle pattern of swirls. Dana had adorned her tree with small

teddy bears. This year, we’d looked forward to seeing how she would decorate her

tree (an angel or a star theme?) and her table. Because Dana had fallen ill in mid-

December, she’d cancelled the dinner. We were disappointed but not alarmed.

Although she was in her early fifties, she contracted the flu each year and it often

took her weeks to recover.

As much as I delighted in Dana’s celebrations, I understood that it was her

presence, her way of affirming others which drew people to her. I felt honored to

have this charismatic, intelligent lady in my life, and I accepted her invitations for

trips out of town, dinner parties, or just a chance to talk over a cup of tea. Yet, she

had another side. Occasionally, a little wickedness sneaked into her, like when she

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referred to my ex-husband’s “other woman” as the one with “the testosterone

thighs.” I think Dana had met the woman once, but I doubt that she ever saw her

thighs. However, Dana knew she’d been a dancer.

Dana’s support extended well beyond my months in therapy. When my

mom passed away in June 2001, I told Dana that my brothers had asked me to plan

a memorial service. She invited me to stop by her office after her last client. We

sat next to each other in overstuffed chairs. Dana shared photos and stories of her

mom, who had passed away years ago, after suffering from stomach cancer.

“Perhaps I’m one of the few people who enjoy funerals,” she said. I must

have given her a perplexed look. “Of course I’m not talking about a person who

dies of an accident, or prematurely, but one who has had the chance to lead a full

life.” Dana then spoke of her mother’s memorial service. “Someone brought up a

story about her, I added one of my own and another person would embellish it or

add one of her own. Soon we had a collage of memories.” Dana smiled, pleased, I

think, with her last sentence.

“We’re going to have my mom’s service in Montana,” I said. “She wants

her ashes to be buried in the family plot close to where she spent her childhood.”

My voice faltered and I realized I’d used present tense as though my mom was

alive. I’d been grieving my mom’s losses due to Parkinson’s disease for eight

years, and thought I had accepted her death.

“You might select your mom’s favorite hymns,” she said. Dana’s

suggestion touched a soft spot. I grew up hearing my mom sing Frank Sinatra, or

pop music, or hymns while she cooked or dusted furniture. I could picture her

singing advertising jingles, well, without the curlers in her hair. The hymn, Abide

with Me, flashed into my mind because I remembered Mom singing it.

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“Also include friends and relatives to share in the service by reading or

playing music. Most people like to be asked to help.”

Before I left that day, Dana gave me four pairs of short pajamas, also called

baby dolls, including one set with black polka dots on white and one set with

embroidered rosebuds. Why so many, I had wondered. In over ten years, I’ve

washed the pajamas hundreds of times; their fresh appearance and crispness makes

them seem immortal.

The deputy led us through the rest of the rooms downstairs. Two fifty

pound bags of dog food leaned against the washer in the utility room. I wanted to

feed them that moment. “It’s time to head upstairs,” he said. About halfway up, a

rotting smell filled our nostrils. Something was terribly wrong. I gagged. Meg

raised her palm to cover her nose and mouth.

Russ and the deputy led the way up; Meg and I were two steps behind. The

odor intensified. Could we just freeze time and not discover anything?

“I have a bad feeling,” the deputy said before he started into a bedroom at

the top of the staircase. “Oh my God,” he screamed. “Don’t come any further.”

Russ, on his heels, didn’t stop, but he flung an arm across the open door.

“Please stay. You don’t need to see this,” he shouted, although we were only feet

away from him. What was it? The waiting seemed unbearable. The deputy came

out first, followed by Russ, a half minute later, both with white faces.

“I’m going back to cover her,” Russ said. Upon returning, he said, “Now

we can go.”

Meg searched his face on the way out, but he didn’t return her gaze. Once

outside, he caught his breath. “Her hair was matted to her head and her limbs had

turned purple,” he said. “I couldn’t look at her face.”

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My stomach was cramping. I wondered if she had been murdered. Why else

wouldn’t she have phoned for help? “I don’t think it was foul play,” the deputy

said as though reading my thoughts, “but we won’t know until we get an autopsy.”

Dana’s family and friends were left with a mystery. There was no

indication, other than her recent hoarding, that her personality or her mental state

of health had changed. I never considered suicide a possibility. Dana, a woman of

charm and wit, recognized her talents and knew she was loved by many people. In

her profession and in her friendships, she gave constantly of herself, and I believe

she enjoyed every minute. Besides, suicidal people usually pare down their

possessions. Dana had gone the opposite route. From a tidy person with a flair for

design and decorating, she had become disorganized, and a collector of stuff that

overflowed on both the inside and outside of her home. Later, at the estate sale of

furniture, kitchenware, artwork and bedding, I bought one of twenty sheet sets and

a chair as my keepsake of her, aware of my own need for something tangible to

represent my friend.

The coroner listed the cause of death as appendicitis, something treatable if

Dana had gone to a hospital. But she didn’t call an ambulance, her friends or even

her brother, who lived an hour away. Why didn’t Dana, professionally trained to

help others, take care of herself? In our loss, my friends and I initially felt angry at

her for not doing so. We wondered if Dana thought she had stomach cancer, the

disease that took her mother’s life, and didn’t want to relive that agony. We will

never know.

It had been just six months since she’d helped me plan for my mother’s

service. Her comment at that time about “liking funerals” lingered with me.

* * *

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Some of Dana’s qualities remind me of my friend, Ruth, whom I met in

1979 when we became Peace Corps Volunteers in Lesotho, a country in Southern

Africa. Both of these women were doers: Dana through her practice, support of the

arts, and loyalty to her friends, and Ruth through her work for the disenfranchised.

Ruth taught students in inner city schools both before and after her Peace Corps

years, and participated in much charitable work. Dana and Ruth took pleasure in

gift-giving at all times of the year.

Two years ago, Ruth and her husband, Stan, arrived in Fresno in an old

delivery truck. Ruth unlatched the rear and tossed bags of clothing: sweaters,

shirts, and pants my way.

“Thanks, but I can’t use all of these,” I said, after counting twenty-one

bags. Ruth laughed, I think in response to my expression.

“Pass on whatever you don’t want,” she said.

When she visited recently, she handed me enough take-out food for eight

meals and a kaftan-style dress, an African print with a bold geometric design,

“perfect for the Peace Corps 50th

Celebration,” she said. Although not able to

attend the September event in Washington, D.C. herself, she knew I had booked

my plane ticket early. “Besides, it’s too small for me.” The loose capris and

oversized T-shirt she wore contrasted with her younger self when she was vigilant

for coordinating ensembles, including shoes and purse that matched. Her hair, a

light brown color, either had been dyed or it didn’t show the gray.

In 1979, Ruth’s arrival in Lesotho, ready to begin her Peace Corps service,

hinted at her eccentric qualities. The first night, we stayed in a hotel, and a number

of us gathered in our room. She placed her suitcases on a bed and opened them.

Her luggage bulged with books and teaching materials, but housed only a few

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items of clothing and no jacket. I’d packed outfits for winter and summer and

purchased extra shoes, following the suggestions in our packing instructions.

I tried to think of something to say. “You seemed to place your job and

your students first,” I managed.

“I wish that were entirely true,” she said. “But I fell in love the week before

departing, and couldn’t tear myself away from the man long enough to think

through what I might need.”

Ruth became infatuated many times during our Peace Corps years.

Although she remained single until after returning to the United States, Ruth

became the official wedding cake baker for volunteers who tied the knot. Disaster

struck at one of these events, when a dog polished off about a quarter of the cake

before anyone noticed. Ruth cut off any traces of evidence and decorated the cake

with foil leaves and sugared grape ornaments, making it appear that this was her

intention all along.

She pulled out her one change of clothes. “Fortunately, it’s summer here, so

I can wash the outfit I’m wearing and it should dry quickly.”

Unlike Dana, Ruth’s tendency to accumulate was a lifelong habit. As soon

as she received her first stipend, Ruth began to buy and buy some more: clothes,

gifts, and curios.

I made a trip to see Ruth and Stan in the spring of 2011. The delivery truck

they’d driven to Fresno, a recreational vehicle, and an SUV sat in their yard.

Beyond the trucks, birds squawked in walk-in size cages. Stepping inside of

Ruth’s house, I brushed against an asymmetrical bulge of jeans, shirts, and

underwear stacked on top of a washer and dryer. It could easily topple. The entry

opened to a combination kitchen and living room. Boxes of food obscured the

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counter and part of the table. A wood stove, stacks of lumber surrounding it, and

multiple bird cages competed for floor space with boxes and plastic bins. I

suppressed a gasp, thinking about Stan, visually impaired and barely able to walk

because of advanced neuropathy. How did he manage to move from room to room

or even from table to couch?

Parakeets pecked at seeds in the baskets strapped to their wire cages. The

door of a third cage, a few feet away from the others, was ajar.

“How did you get so many birds?” I asked.

“It seemed serendipitous,” she said. “The man selling the cord of wood

gave me a discount for taking three birds off his hands. My other birds came to me

in similar ways.”

At first glance, the tidiest part of the house was the china cabinet. Gold-

rimmed plates, cups and saucers arranged on shelves glistened through the glass.

Wanting to look at the china pattern, I scanned for a path through the living room,

and eyed a small space between the kitchen table chairs and the back of the couch,

a width of about eighteen inches.

Ruth spoke before I made it to the cabinet. “You can stay in the extra

bedroom or in the RV,” she said. “I’ll show you the bedroom first.” The bed was

boxed in by canned fruit, vegetables and bottled juice arranged on floor to ceiling

shelves.

Then Ruth directed me to the RV. “Guests like the privacy out here,” she

said. I could see chairs and end tables thrown in the adjacent delivery truck.

“Is this new?” I asked about the RV.

“We got it for traveling to L.A. for doctors’ visits.”

“I bet that has saved you money.”

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“I don’t actually drive it. I’m uncomfortable on the windy canyon roads.”

Ruth paused. I didn’t say out loud that I’d chosen the RV, but Ruth must have read

my body language.

“You’ll find clean sheets in the cupboards. Help yourself to snacks. When

you’re settled you can join us in the house.”

I brought in my overnight case and toiletries. Ruth had set out jars of

cashews and trail mix on the counter. I opened four cupboards stuffed with juice,

tea, canned soups, chili, crackers and pretzels before I found sheets and blankets.

Through the window, I saw Ruth hook up the water so I could use the sink.

Hearing her, the dogs came running, eager for their dinner.

Back in their house, Stan excused himself. Because of his current state of

health, he rested for much of the day. Ruth cooked for him, gave him insulin shots

and drove him to medical appointments.

Ruth and I sat on the couch, reminiscing.

“Do you still have copies of Pieces?” I asked. “I think I’m missing at least

one issue.”

Early in our Peace Corps service, Ruth had encouraged me to get involved

with Pieces, the volunteer newsletter. I hesitated because of my lack of journalistic

experience, but I found I couldn’t say “no” to Ruth. She became editor and I,

assistant editor for the newsletter. We did this because we lived close to the Peace

Corps office and knew volunteers in isolated sites welcomed any mail coming

their way. While working on an issue, typewriter ribbons ran dry and the

photocopier often broke down, thus keeping us at the Peace Corps office until late

at night. Chris, my boyfriend, fixed the copy machine when he could. Past our

bedtimes, and working to meet deadlines, we often became giddy.

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Pieces became the first of many ventures between Ruth and me. She had

the spark which ignited ideas, but also the persistence to follow through, so I took

on projects I wouldn’t have done alone. One time boxes containing new Peace

Corps T-shirts were stolen from the office. Ruth and I put together a carnival

night, and raised enough money to pay for another order of T-shirts. Before we left

Lesotho, our joint efforts culminated in an international women’s conference

organized for wives of foreign diplomats. We invited a number of Basotho

women, leaders in their communities, to be on a panel. In our eagerness, we

overlooked the fact that these women represented both ruling party members and

the opposition party. This could have erupted into a disaster, because the

opposition party in Lesotho, as in many one-party nations, was not recognized.

However, all women conducted themselves with grace and propriety and the

conference ran smoothly.

Ruth and I had a chemistry of ideas, kindled by a desire to stretch ourselves

and also by encouragement from the Peace Corps staff. I keep trying to pinpoint

the factors that helped us work so well together, because we didn’t regain the

chemistry back in the states. Some of it I attribute to the inherent surprises of

living in a developing country. For example, one of our fellow volunteers thumbed

a ride, and entered a car realizing he sat across from the prime minister of Lesotho.

Throughout the evening, Ruth checked on Stan. One time, when it took her

longer to return, a crate with a sideways label caught my attention. The block

letters looked so tidy compared to other items in the room. I leaned in towards the

box, almost able to read the label, but Ruth returned to the couch. “He’s asleep,”

she said. I sat upright again. Later, I discovered it was a box of various teas.

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“One person that worried me was that volunteer named Monty,” she said, “I

never asked him to help when we put Pieces together.” Years had passed since I’d

thought about the artist. A typical volunteer serves as a teacher or a health or

agricultural worker; Monty produced bios with pictures, calendars, posters,

anything for promotion.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“His art was a front,” she said. Ruth shook her head and made a tsk sound.

“I think he was a CIA infiltrator, scoping us out.”

I sat upright. What did she say? She went on to build a case for her

convictions, how Peace Corps had no prior history of using art in this manner.

“That doesn’t mean he was a spy,” I said. “Maybe his talents helped create

good PR for Peace Corps.” I didn’t believe we had a spy in our midst or that Peace

Corps would hire one. Why had she never mentioned this before in our thirty-two

year friendship?

“And did you notice how the guy kept to himself?” Monty had seemed

harmless to me.

Ruth next spoke about the state of our country, declaring it on the brink of

collapse. She wasn’t sure if it would come about through a nuclear power plant

disaster, by a financial meltdown or a tsunami.

“If we want to survive,” she said, “we must be prepared.” She pointed to a

stack of boxes next to the sofa.

I agreed with her that the economic situation has suffered from the cost of

two wars, and from the housing and banking industries, and I told her so. But I

didn’t feel her sense of alarm in a national disaster; other countries have emerged

from dire circumstances and rebuilt themselves, often for the better. Neither did I

share her need to stockpile what I guessed to be two years of supplies.

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I sat stunned. What had happened to my friend and her bundle of creativity?

Ruth had inspired me during our Peace Corps years to try new projects and to

stretch myself.

“Are you two hungry?” Ruth shouted to wake up Stan. He responded with a

“yes.”

Ruth and I shifted to the kitchen. Food tumbled out when she opened the

refrigerator door. I helped warm the soup while she made a salad. Green mold

floated on top of the yogurt that I’d grabbed and opened. The expiration date was

smudged so I couldn’t read it. I don’t know how she found Stan’s vial of insulin in

the crammed quarters. I wondered when his insulin would expire.

I feared for Stan and Ruth’s health. Did Stan sense the disorder and lack of

hygiene in the home? Would he ask his grown children to intervene? I worried that

my friend wouldn’t recognize the precarious situation in her house and wouldn’t

seek help. Perspiration dampened my forehead.

“Shall I set the table?” I asked, walking toward the china cabinet.

“Not those,” Ruth said, raising her voice.

I thought perhaps they were cracked, but that wouldn’t stop Ruth. One time

at my house she’d noticed me tossing a chipped plate into the garbage, and burst

into a monolog about saving damaged dishes because of memories attached to

them. Her Uncle Roy, the one she had begged to visit, had accidentally knocked a

teacup against a serving bowl. She spoke of the crack in the handle, with affection

in her voice.

Approaching her cabinet, I realized why we couldn’t use the china. One of

the glass doors was missing and a finch perched on a cream pitcher. In a softer

voice, Ruth said something like, “That’s Carter and Claire’s favorite hangout.” I

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managed an “oh,” then turned away and looked out the window. Ruth’s animals

came in the form of two dogs and the birds: cockatiels, parakeets, and the tiny

finches. Did my friend think she was a modern day Noah, saving these birds?

Ruth guided Stan to the dining area from a back room. When he reached

the narrow path, she called out instructions so he could locate his place at the

table. He held onto the back of the couch with one arm, then swept his other arm

to find the chair, almost stepping on Carter (or was it Claire?), eating birdseed off

the floor.

I inspected the lettuce, cucumbers and carrots in the salad, and took a small

spoonful of soup, before continuing with the meal. Of course Stan couldn’t inspect

anything his wife put before him. He would be aware of spoiled food only if a

smell of decay overwhelmed him. Based on decades of shared life and trust,

however, he ate his meal without suspicion.

I often link memories of family and friends with celebrations and the

festive foods, which are part of the special occasions. However, the image of

decaying oranges and potatoes left alongside Dana’s sidewalk springs to mind

more readily than the one from her cracked crab dinner and glistening tableware. I

want to laugh again when thinking about Ruth’s resurrected wedding cake, but I

can’t do that now.

A MOBILITY TEACHER NOT VERY MOBILE

I arrive home from the hospital with a walker, crutches, a cane and a raised

potty chair. Colors and comforts of home—pink camellias out my kitchen window

and my double-sized bed—capture my attention, not the memories of the fall four

days earlier, which resulted in a broken femur. I’m eager to taste the homemade

minestrone soup I pull from the freezer. My daughter, Jillian, stocks my

refrigerator and food cupboards until they almost bulge.

As soon as she returns to the Bay Area, I suffer my first blow: failure in

washing the left foot. I won’t be able to shower for a month because of the

incision, so in the hospital, I’d practiced a sponge bath, leaning on the sink for

support as I soaped my upper and lower halves. However, the session hadn’t

included foot washing. Now I sit on the potty chair and bend my right knee to

reach that foot with a wash cloth. The left leg, the injured side, hasn’t regained this

flexibility. The cloth stops short at the calf and no amount of will-power inches it

down further, although water drizzles to the floor. Sitting on the ledge of the

bathtub won’t work, because I’m not stable enough yet. I go two days without

figuring out a solution, and focus my new-found time scheming up solutions to

daily problems. In the meantime, I seek assistance from friends who take me to

appointments.

My first triumph comes when I drag a plastic bin into the bathroom and use

a teapot to fill it with one inch of warm water. Supporting myself on the counter, I

lower my left foot into the plastic tub and squirt liquid soap on top of my foot.

Next, I swish the foot slightly, and then rinse off the soap. When finished, I grasp

the bin with the EZ Grabbers and dump it into my bathtub.

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Another tricky task is putting on the left sock, again because of a lack of

flexibility in bending the leg. When I prop up on my bed, I learn the grabbers

don’t work for this because they don’t spread the top of the sock enough to insert

my foot. Why hadn’t I purchased the “sock aid” from the hospital gift store? I ask

whoever comes to my house to help with this chore.

The day after surgery, a cheery nurse had pushed back the curtain in my

hospital room. “Yesterday you rested,” she’d said, “but today you will work.” She

told me a physical therapist would teach me how to get in and out of bed.

“How can I do that?” I asked. The surgeon explained that the neck of my

femur, the part that joins to the ball and socket, did not just crack, but had totally

severed, floating in space. The only way to put me back together was a partial hip

replacement.

“Dr. Chang has fixed your leg. It can now bear weight,” the nurse said. This

didn’t seem possible. My left leg had molded into the mattress and I couldn’t raise

it enough to see the light of day underneath. The nurse pointed to a triangular

support bar attached to the top of the bed. “Use your upper body to lift yourself,”

she suggested. I clasped the metal rod and boosted myself up two inches. Then I

did it again just for the hell of it.

The physical therapist only allowed me to use the triangular bar the first

time out of bed. “You won’t have that tool when you leave here,” she said. “Press

down on the mattress with your arm.” With my right elbow, I pressed and raised

myself to a sitting position. She placed her hands under my knee, under the dead

weight, formerly called a leg, and freed it from the bed. With her help, I could

swing both legs to the side, stand up and take my first step with a walker. I blinked

back tears and warmth surged through my upper body, a physical sensation I could

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only call gratitude. Wheels, I thought, pleased to have the means to get to the

bathroom. My mood also picked up because most of my family lives in the Bay

area and I had frequent visitors. My brother, Alan, came every day and cheered me

on when I took the first steps.

Then the “what if” struck me. What if I’d been alone and fallen in a street?

Would a passerby have stopped approaching cars? I trembled when I imagined

brakes screeching before they impacted my body.

Or worse, what if I’d fallen while teaching street crossings to one of my

visually impaired students? As an orientation and mobility teacher for three

decades, I’ve taught the children to use a white cane, this tool tapping the ground’s

surface to detect curbs, and objects like poles. My training at the university

emphasized the importance of protecting each student. If an irresponsible driver

ran a red light while my student crossed a street, I would pull the child out of

harm’s way. If I couldn’t do that, I’d shield the student with my own body, placed

between the car and the student. Imagining myself on the ground, unable to protect

the one under my watch, caused my chest to tighten.

Often, I relive the scene of the fall, when I’m walking with my daughter,

Jillian, and her boyfriend, Kyle, down a trendy Oakland street full of cafes, not far

from where they live. We have time to spare before a movie and head to a coffee

shop two blocks from the theatre. One moment I’m a step behind them and the

next, I lie flat on my back. I try getting up, but my left side crumbles.

Jillian turns around, notices me on the sidewalk, and rushes to me.

“Mom, what happened?” Pedestrians on a narrow sidewalk stop when they

see me. Most of them step off to the side into a landscaped area and continue on

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their way. A woman using a walker halts, not able to move around me. I catch her

gaze and think it’s sympathetic. Or is it impatient?

“I don’t know. I just fell.” A sea of pedestrians keeps moving around me. I

want the woman with the walker, the one wearing a babushka on a mound of gray

hair, to hear me, because my splayed-out body is impeding her movement.

“Maybe you twisted your ankle,” Kyle says.

Jillian and Kyle struggle to lift me off the ground. Finally, they raise me

enough so I can loop my arms around them. A knife-like pain sears through my

left hip, but more startling is the sensation of my left foot when I touch ground—

unattached. My body feels like a broken marionette. Because I can’t bear weight,

Jillian and Kyle carry me to the next café and lower me to an outside bench. I

shiver and Jillian zips up my jacket, helps me put on gloves. It doesn’t hurt as

much if I lean a little to my right, so I focus on this position. I hear Kyle call for an

ambulance.

The paramedics ask me, as do the emergency doctors, later, the nurses and

the surgeon all enquire how I fell, and I can’t give them an answer. I ask Jillian,

just in case she grew temporary eyes in the back of her head, if she saw me go

down. Of course she didn’t. To get past the question from medical staff, I began

saying, “Oh, maybe I turned my ankle,” finding it easier than responding with, “I

don’t know,” which results in raised eyebrows or the staff saying, “You don’t

know?”

At home, I sleep on my back with a pillow wedged between my feet to keep

from rolling over or crossing my legs; the stable position prevents hip dislocation.

In spite of my good leg twitching, a result of restless leg syndrome, deviating from

this pattern seems precarious. I continue to struggle with the left sock, managing

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to place my toes inside, but no more. I try shorter and looser socks. I feel a sense

of accomplishment when I sit in bed, where I’m stable, and stretch from the waist,

instead of trying to bring my foot closer to me. It still takes eight tries to pull the

sock over my heel—when did my heel get so fat?

My cat, Stella, hasn’t accommodated to my new limitations. For some

reason, in my spare time, I start reading about animals adapting objects to use as

tools. Researchers from Oxford tested whether crows could lift food from a

vertical tube with a wire or hook. Betty, the crow, bent a straight piece of wire

with her beak and used it to retrieve a snack on nine out of ten trials. But Stella

hasn’t absorbed any of Betty’s expertise in learning to feed herself; she just

meows louder when hungry. I try dumping dry food into her dish from the plastic

container without bending down, and spill most of it. Another time, I pick up her

bowl with the grabbers, place it on the chair and fill it. When I remove the dish

from the chair, Stella appears from nowhere, rubs against my leg, and I drop the

ceramic bowl.

While pushing the walker, I jiggle my cup of tea and it drips on the floor.

Another time, after a big spill, I use up all my paper towels, and start to toss the

empty roll. Instead, I have an epiphany regarding the cat food. I create an

elongated tube, made from empty rolls taped together, and improve my aim

enough to get the morsels into Stella’s bowl.

Three days after I return to Fresno, a physical therapist comes to my home

to begin the first of eight sessions. She teaches me to use the walker on my outside

stairs, but advises me not to go alone. I’m irritated because I want to move, and to

resume my life, but this therapist restrains me. I breeze through the leg raises, and

she leaves before our thirty minutes elapses. Yet she doesn’t grant me any

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independence, or even more advanced exercises. By the fourth session, she gives

the okay to go by myself down the two steps leading to my garage, and my washer

and dryer. I’m excited about doing my laundry, a small gain in independence.

On her next visit, the therapist finishes taking my blood pressure and sets

the instrument on my kitchen table. “I must start walking,” I say, “so I can return

to work.” During an average day on my job, I probably walk two to three miles.

“Okay, we’ll walk,” she says. We go one block and she states it’s time to turn

around. Why is she so hesitant to move forward? What is holding up this process?

I phone Jillian to vent my frustration. “Grab a friend as a safety measure, mom,

and add one block a day.” Her words fuel me. My daughter and I: partners in

rebellion.

The therapist later transfers me to a cane, a flimsy tool compared to the

walker, and I wobble at first. But I don’t miss the bulkiness of the walker,

especially in stores and restaurants. I can slither through doorways and around

corners without getting entangled, and the therapist is partially redeemed. It also

occurs to me that she’s limited to the same few exercises because of post-op

instructions. I increase the number of daily leg lifts. My strength improves enough

to think about driving again. For the first drive following my injury, I choose the

least exotic outing, a trip to CVS for a prescription refill. I daydream about my

next occasion behind the wheel—the coast, the mountains—but settle for going to

a doctor’s appointment.

My surgeon prescribes out-patient physical therapy. These sessions,

intended to last for one hour, often go longer—no more complaints on my part.

My therapist adds weights to leg lifts, stresses core exercises like the bridge and

pelvic tilts, and introduces the “clam,” the one I grow to dread. “Lie on your good

side,” he says, “and bend your knees, bringing them up near your waist.”

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I remind myself that the physical therapist has had seven years of training; I

can trust him. Because of stiffness, it takes three tries to get on my side and two

more tries to get the knees bent at the correct angle. “Now lift the top leg as high

as you can, opening it like a clam shell.” His smile fades when he watches me

struggle to lift my injured leg all of one inch. “I can read your face,” he says.

“Sorry this one is so painful.” He confirms the importance of exercises like this

one—to rebuild my abductor muscles.

On my first trip back to my health club six weeks after my injury, I ride a

bike for ten minutes and reward myself with a soak in the hot tub. Afterwards in

the locker room, a gym regular asks me about my cane, and I tell her about my fall

and the hip surgery.

“I had the same kind of surgery twenty years ago after I broke the top of my

femur,” she says. She sets her gym bag on the bench and moves to my side.

“You’re doing great for six weeks. How’s your scar?” I lift the towel to show her

the four inch red line on the back of my hip. Then she shows her scar, similar

except it’s in the front of her hip.

“Who was your surgeon?” she asks.

“Actually, a doctor in Oakland. I was visiting my daughter there on the day

of the fall.”

“My accident happened while I toured Switzerland,” she said. “I was lucky

to be in a country with good medical care.” The woman returns to her gym bag

and pulls out exercise clothes. “If you vacation abroad, get travel insurance,” she

adds. “It covers emergency medical costs.” I nod an acknowledgement.

* * *

130 130

I return to work, a mobility teacher, still not very mobile. My university

preparation had included daily lessons under a sleepshade to practice the cane

techniques and street crossing skills I would later use with my students, and also to

gain confidence with the methods. With extensive practice during the semester,

the black fabric blocking the light from my eyes had ceased to cause anxiety.

Instead, the blindfold represented a way to engage the world with touch and by

discerning sounds: echoes of buildings, the swoosh of automatic doors, and the

roar of car engines.

At orientation and mobility conferences over the years, we instructors have

paired up, taking turns under sleepshades to sharpen our cane techniques. During

one of these occasions, about two year before my fall, we’re in a downtown area

of a small city. I’m aware of my hesitation, believing my skills have grown rusty.

On a sidewalk next to a tall building, I secure the blindfold. Soon George, my

partner, has me turn a corner. Initially, I weave from left to right, and my cane

snags on something—must be a hedge that borders the sidewalk. Within minutes,

though, my gait has become more even and my steps centered on the walk. I

notice the slight slope before reaching a curb; my cane dips down and I sweep the

gutter area for water or debris.

“Can you read your traffic?” George asks. This means being able to detect

the pedestrian cycle by listening. Can I? It’s okay. George will correct me if I

make a mistake.

“It’s a traffic light, because I hear a flow of cars.” I say this aloud so he can

know my thinking process, just like I require my own students to do. “The

perpendicular cars have stopped, and my parallel cars are starting,” I continue.

“It’s time to cross.”

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“Perfect timing,” George says. I step off the curb and adrenaline surges

through my head. I can still function in this universe, this one punctuated by cane

taps, nuances in voices and the surges of car engines. Perhaps I’ve unconsciously

retained these skills so I assist my students when they encounter a new or

confusing situation. Of course, functioning for limited periods of time without

vision is not the same as knowing what it’s like to be blind.

I could feel strength and some flexibility gradually returning to my left hip.

But now my walking involved a mental process—heel to toe, make left and right

strides the same, distribute my weight evenly—I had to think of all these things.

And damn it, some days I still limped, and I couldn’t pinpoint why more on some

days than others. I would have to work hard to regain a natural gait and rhythm

that I had taken for granted all my life. Walking has also defined me in terms of

my job. When I go to various schools, someone inevitably says, “Oh, you’re the

one who walks with the visual impaired kids.”

I chose my profession partly because a desk job didn’t suit my restlessness,

my dislike of sitting for more than hour at a time. Another advantage is the

diversity offered: ages spanning from three years through high school, all ethnic

groups, and all ability levels. Throughout the years, I’ve most enjoyed outdoors

walks, up to three miles daily, in residential and business areas. The irony of this

unfolds: because I’ve been so active, I have fairly good muscle tone. But in my

recovery process after hip surgery, this amount of walking isn’t possible.

After I beg, my surgeon gives me permission to return to light duty,

“walking no more than a mile per day and not lifting over 20 pounds.” Not

accustomed to carrying heavy items, the latter doesn’t concern me. I cut back on

distance during lessons with my older students, but not on the contents. For

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example, if the lesson was to cross at All-Way Stops, I drive us there instead of

walking four blocks from the school. This doesn’t apply to younger students,

whom I don’t transport due to child safety seat requirements. For these kids, I still

do the walking. By the fourth or fifth lesson of the day I swallow more Tylenol

and will myself to keep going.

I’ve worn the cloak of nurturer, both as a single mom and as a teacher, for a

long time. Before the accident, it didn’t occur to me that the cape is reversible and

that I’d be the one needing physical tools, in addition to family and friends waiting

on me. The cloak as metaphor reminds me of the mystery of health and well-

being, and how the equation can change in an instant.

In some moments I welcome the care from others, and milk my situation. A

friend delivers my customized list of Trader Joe groceries—and I realize this could

be habit forming. My son and daughter-in-law drive from the coast twice to clean

and vacuum. In addition, my doctor, the nurses, and therapists have functioned as

tools, allowing me to drive again and return to work.

I’m not ready to stop teaching my visually impaired students. An alchemy

that includes ability level, trust, and a gain in skills develops between each student

and me. My part is not without selfishness; it enriches me as well as them.

However, since my fall my job seems new, because of my altered gait and the

support cane I carry. Every day I walk a little farther, building up to the usual

forty-five minute lessons, carried out four or five times per day. I’m vigilant with

my physical therapy exercises, riding a stationary bike, and doing aqua aerobics,

determined to grow strong again, and to retire only when I choose to do so.

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Reliving the scene of the fall still happens, but less often. It’s replaced by

other thoughts: concerns about my reconstructed hip and my other hip—will they

hold together for many more years?

Lying immobilized on the sidewalk, if only for minutes, helped me

recognize how movement has shaped my life: the years of walking and swimming,

how I parented my kids, and how I’ve shared my enthusiasm to teach visually

impaired students to move with independence. I’ve followed my restless legs to

four continents, including my Peace Corps service in Africa. The compulsion to

movement is an addiction I won’t easily surrender.

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Sally J. Vogl

April 12, 2013