"Sight"

Before blogging, I used to write little vignettes of people to myself.  They were kind of a diary, but at some point I sucked up all my nerve and asked my friend Ray to give me feedback.  We were at a wine bar, and lots of things were going on, live music, friends… but Ray produced a red pen and started marking all over my tender feelings.  I wasn’t allowed to talk to him, so I drank a lot of wine to make the whole process less painful.

One of the stories I let him read was about Mrs. Harbison.  She lived across the street when I was growing up, and since she was blind, I read her mail to her every month.  My original story was a little less than 2 pages long, but Ray wrote at least that much in red ink in the margins and across my carefully spell-checked typing.  I ordered another bottle of wine.  When the misery of watching Ray edit was over, he said “She sounds sweet.”  What?!!  If she sounded “sweet”, I had completely failed.  We drank the wine and Ray explained all his red ink.  I had to admit that everything he said was valid, and I studiously rewrote my story when I was sufficiently sober again.  Less than 2 pages became a short story, or more accurately, a chapter for a book.  Nobody was going to call Mrs. Harbison “sweet” again.

It took me a long time to realize that I had written the blind woman’s story in a completely visual way.  Maybe that’s because she asked me to describe visual things to her, or how she softly touched the tips of pussy willows…  Oh wait!  That’s where someone can get the misconception of “sweet” when more accurate words are “crazy, nuts, certifiably insane”.  I dreaded her monthly call for me to read her mail.  I nearly wet myself when I knocked on her door.  I sssoooooo didn’t want to be nice to her.  I wanted to run and play in the sunshine, far away from the crazy lady’s mail and her creepy, creepy house.

She had every right to be nuts.  She started out as a favored daughter on “Millionaire’s Row” in Cleveland, married badly, got disinherited, got abused, and her only son died .  That’s the Cliff Notes, and hardly begins to tell her story.  The only person who went to see her besides me was her priest, and when he moved away, I became her only visitor.  I was the only one to see black gobs of cobwebs hanging off the ceiling, opera glasses on the floor, cans of food crawling with bugs on the counter, and photos of long-dead people on the walls and tables.  If other people in the neighborhood saw her out in the yard, they quietly tiptoed away.

Maybe in some ways she could be sort of sweet.  She tried to educate me with long, boring stories about stuff I didn’t care about, and she had enough self-awareness not to call for me when she was in a real psych state.  I never thought she wanted to harm me.  It’s just that there’s no way around crazy.  Crazy is scary, and I got some grudging respect from the local bullies for going there.  Eventually I even developed a relationship with her.  She was very intelligent and determined.  She was awe-inspiring in a multitude of ways, but I never stopped wishing I didn’t have to read her mail.  I just learned to deal with my fate while I passionately prayed for her to have a bad month so I wouldn’t have to go over there.

Her end was as bad as everything else in her life.  She heated her home with a Ben Franklin stove in the living room, but the stove went out one winter.  No call.  Another month, no call.  Another month… Well, it wasn’t the first time she hadn’t had a good month for 3 months, but the fire department came and broke down the door with axes.  It wasn’t pretty, but she finally got to quit living her miseries.

I usually try to write happy stories on this blog, and the thing is, in a way Mrs. Harbison is a happy story.  She helped me develop strength and character.  I learned to do things even when I don’t want to do them, and to show compassion.  She gave me an example of survival, even when faced with things nobody should ever have to face.  The blind woman gave me sight, and Ray helped me become a better writer.

I don’t want to do “crazy” art this week, so let’s just appreciate our sight and look at a flower :)

"Mesmerizing"

I grew up near a large Italian family. I’m pretty sure they had even more children than we did, but they had an unfortunate genetic weakness making all of their kids some variation of blind. It seemed sad to me that they would never be mesmerized watching the ripples in the river, the vultures circling on invisible air currents, or so many other things that occupied most of my existence. I remember holding my breath as the mother led dinner preparation, but everyone cut up vegetables while maintaining their fingers. To tell the truth, I usually bled a lot more in the kitchen than they did. They seemed like a pretty happy family, and the kids walked around The Glen every evening after supper with their hands glued together in a long string of cheerful paper dolls.

I asked them once how they managed to get around without running into trees or getting lost. The oldest boy told me everything has a cushion of air around it. If you pay attention, you can stop before getting hit in the face. I found that fascinating, and since I had nothing else to do, decided to experiment. I folded up a washcloth for thickness and wrapped a bandanna over it, tying the whole thing around my head, covering my eyes so completely I couldn’t see any light through the fabric. I put on my shoes and tied them. Tying shoes becomes a very different experience when you can’t see.

I fumbled my way to the front door and adventured into a very different world. The birds sang louder, probably warning every other living creature to stay out of my way. I felt with my feet for the steps down the porch and steered in the general direction of where the road ought to be. When I hit the crunch of gravel on the edges, I picked a direction and started walking. It wasn’t too hard to stay on the road because it felt different to my feet than the grassy weeds on the sides. A car came by, and I did the obligatory wave. I’m sure whoever was driving waved back and probably laughed at me. Didn’t matter. I was determined to make it around The Glen without dying or cheating.

The road in The Glen is a 1-mile squared circle, or maybe a rounded square. All I had to do is keep track of the corners to know how far I had gone. I felt a little embarrassed when I passed the blind family’s house, but it wasn’t like they were going to see me, and I persevered. It felt like a lot further than usual when I couldn’t see my destination. The sun was hot and my stomach was reminding me about suppertime, but I made it home, made it up the porch steps, and slumped in the chair where my adventure had begun.

I was trying to untie the knot in the bandanna when Dad asked me to explain. I told him about my inspiration and experiment, and he laughed and said it was great. It would be even better if I kept the bandanna on for 24-hours. Uhhh, “But Dad, I’m tired!” Too bad. He thought I should “See it through” to get the full experience. “I won’t be able to wash dishes.” When I got excused from dishes that night, I might’ve considered staying blindfolded for a week or two. I tentatively ate dinner and cursed peas for rolling around so much.

24-hours included going to sleep blind. I was disoriented when I woke up, but it didn’t take too long to remember my predicament. I dressed and escaped to the river. The blind boy was right. There is a cushion of air around everything. I wandered across the field with my hands out and felt the grasses. When I got to the other side of the field, I felt the trees. I backed up repeatedly to figure out the maximum distance I could feel the air. I laid on my back and listened to a mouse rustling through the weeds.

When Dad came home from work, I was liberated. The world was unbearably bright, and I had to shield myself until I adjusted to normal living. I’m not sure if Dad was inspired or sadistic in this story, maybe both, but the experience was important to me. First lesson was to hide my experiments from Dad, but I also learned the power of my own underestimated senses. I feel things more acutely with my hands. I don’t have to look at my feet when I’m walking through the woods. I understand the birds. I appreciate the roundness of peas, and maybe most importantly, I appreciate being able to be mesmerized by all things visual.