Matilda Ziegler Magazine for the Blind the source for blindness news and information since 1907

Tears ran down my face as I stepped carefully down the steps of the puddle-jumper airplane onto the skiff of new-fallen snow, my arms full of a limp, heavy, sleeping child. I walked toward the terminal with measured steps, as my family waved excitedly behind frosty panes of sun-tinted glass. I was bringing my daughter home for the first time.

Ten days earlier, I boarded a similar plane from the tiny airport in Lewiston, Idaho at 5:30 in the morning. I would be travelling for over 30 hours, and I was terrified. Questions chased themselves through my head as I buckled that first seatbelt–the beginning of four long flights that would take me to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and the little daughter who was ours on a stack of papers and in our hearts, but not yet in our arms. All sorts of scenarios played out in my mind. What if I got lost? My particular brand of low vision made places like airports into a bewildering, over stimulated whirlpool of impressions: interesting and colorful, but not entirely useful when I needed to read signs and hurry to make it to my next flight.

What if my daughter did not like me? The little person waiting in an orphanage in Addis Ababa was only three years old, blind, and had already lost a primary caregiver five times in her short life. I would come and whisk her away again from the security of the only life she remembered, and take her on airplanes across the vast oceans to a place of cold snow and strange siblings. My biggest fear was that she would be afraid, or worse, would not love me, her new mother.

Hope, anticipation, and fear chased themselves through my brain as I waited through the long flights to Africa. I was used to waiting. For eighteen months, we had waited–waited for paperwork to be processed, waited for a new picture each month, waited for a phone call, an email, for the news that yes, we could finally travel to our new daughter.

At last, on Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, I sat on a sunny stone step and gathered my little daughter into my arms. She gave me a fierce hug, as if she had been waiting for me, too. I placed my camera case into her hands, those little curious hands, and she laughed and called it her “boorsa” (purse). Yes, she was mine.

We became friends over that magical week in the African guest house. She sang songs in Amharic for the passengers on the 17 hour flight between continents. And she fell asleep in my arms as I descended the last flight of steps and walked to the little terminal again to place her into her Daddy’s arms and raise my swimming eyes to his.

We were home at last.

Sitting at my maple dining room table, the table cloth lends a splash of pink, blue, and mauve flowers on a cream background. My two-and-a-half-year-old daughter verbalizes how she will make a newspaper hat while trying to climb out of her booster seat. I smile as she folds the paper and gives reasonably clear instructions on the process. As Triana tries to fit herself with the hat, it wants no part of the affair. Next, she decides that it would make a fine napkin for wiping leftover crumbs from the breakfast table. This done, there’s nothing left to do but crumple the paper and toss it onto the floor. Three crumpled sheets later, I decide that it is time for Triana’s morning writing tour to end. I gather all the crumpled papers and put them into the hungry trash can–since my parents don’t recycle paper. I collect more than a dozen fragments of crayons and return them to their rightful home–safe from a toddler’s busy feet.

“Triana, what are you doing?” She plucks her lips like guitar strings.
“What are you doing?”
“Just playing with the cat.”
I question her a third time. She mumbles something unintelligible.
“What?”
“I’ve got to go to work Mama,” she says as she weaves around the dining room table. She tries to move the gate without me knowing it.
“I dropped my black crayon. I have to go get it.”
“Get what?” I’m beginning to feel drained from trying to keep on top of the situation.
“My crayon.”
“No, I will get it.”

She’s off on the prowl again, humming happily as she tries to find another source of fun. Ah ha! The trash can looks like a promising prospect.

I hear the Honeycomb box rattling from my parents’ bedroom. The cereal box is so big it does not fit in the kitchen cupboards. The rattling makes its way into the livingroom. I go see if she has the box of cereal.

Past experiences in mind, I don’t take her at her word. I find the evidence in her hands. After its confiscation, I place her in Papa’s rocker. She cries because I took the cereal away. I wait for her to sit quietly.

“When you stay in the chair and you are quiet, then you can get up.”
“I try not to do it again,” she choruses.
“Are you ready for another chance?” I ask.
“Yes.”

She bounces to her feet.
“Why did I put you in time-out?”
“Because I went into Grandma’s room and took the cereal.”
“Right. What is the rule about taking things from Grandma’s room?”
“Don’t do it.”
The bird flutters to my side. “Pick me up, Mama,” she repeats several times. “See me, Mama–see me,” she insists.

I smile, pick her up, and squeeze her affectionately. As I cuddle her in my arms, I check her diaper and it is wet.
“Let’s change your diaper,” I suggest.
“Okay,” she agrees.

I carry her to the couch, placing her gently on the cushion. “Wait here while I grab a diaper.”
“Okay.”

But her actions don’t match her words. Before I can cross the room to get a diaper, she makes a dash for the kitchen.

“Come back here before I count to five, or you’ll be sitting again. “One, two, three, four”–she waits until the last minute to respond, “five.” Amid tickles, kisses, and giggles, I change her diaper. This done, free of her nightgown, she’s “on the road again” for more action.

“Would you come back and throw this diaper in the trash for me? I will get some clothes.”
“I’m nudey,” she exclaims gleefully.

I reel her back to earth by repeating my question. Being eager to help, she snatches the diaper out of my hand and races to the kitchen to throw it away. I retreat to our bedroom to grab a pair of shorts and a short-sleeve shirt. As I gather them, I say a prayer that they match because I have not labeled her clothes with Braille tags and Mom’s not home to help me with color coordination. I rejoin my Sweet Pie on the sofa. She is still just long enough for me to dress her.

“I forgot your socks,” I sigh. “Hang on while I get them.”
“Okay.”

I should have known that a peaceful meal would not have lasted. My three children just finished their dinner and I told them to go ahead and play while I finished eating. Not more than two minutes passed when my four-year-old son came to the kitchen doorway whining, “I can’t find my red truck.” Contrary to the popular saying, as a mother of three blind children and a teacher of blind and visually impaired students, I firmly believed that the blind could indeed lead the blind. I therefore employed my two daughters to help their little brother find his truck. As I could hear all three getting frustrated, I wished my husband, who is also blind, was not at his gig (he’s a musician) and that he could join in the search.

By the time I headed to the room just a few moments later, my little boy was sobbing, my younger daughter was looking bewildered, and my older daughter was pouting and complaining that she was missing her show because of “that dumb red truck.” Never mind that I was missing the rest of my meal because of said truck and starting to regret getting the two-inch truck from the super market in the first place.

You see, my son loves buses and trucks, and as we shopped one afternoon, I showed him the trucks and he really wanted the red one. So I bought it. Now, I was paying for this decision as the sobbing and complaining escalated. My older daughter said there were so many toys on the table that she couldn’t find it. It would help to look for the silver top (the truck storage), I said, and it would help to use her hand to scan the surface of the table too.

As soon as I walked into Mikey’s room, I realized the problem. I stared at the wall-to-wall red carpeting that is in our house. Additionally, the small round table in Mikey’s room was also my favorite color, red. Believe me: I never planned on getting a red table to match with the red flooring. I wanted Mikey’s favorite color, blue. But the red was the consequence of shopping online and having to accept whatever color the supplier had in stock.

I walked to the table and looked around. Apparently there was a roll-over so that the silver part of the truck was not showing and the truck blended with the table. I pointed it out to the kids and demonstrated how to use our hands to find something small. But I’m not sure if anyone was paying attention to the lesson at this point. Mikey happily joined Mika and Nini in front of the living room television, red truck firmly in hand.

Mikey now has a fleet of larger-sized yellow, blue, and black buses and trucks. As for the little red truck, I haven’t seen it in a while. Perhaps it is buried at the bottom of another online purchase–the large red toy box.

Chess nut? That’s right! A play on words, if you please from the Christmas song made popular by Mel Torme: “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” And believe me, since 1955 I’ve really been roasted more than not in the hundreds of games I’ve played since then!

My first real encounter with the game was in 1955 when I received a chess game from my parents for Christmas. And my older brother who had played in college, taught me the basic moves then, comparing it to two generals who commanded their armies–move out, attack, retreat, flank, sacrifice, bluff, and well, you know the procedures.

That particular board, even though some of the holes are slightly worn now, is still possibly my favorite board, measuring ten by ten inches with that one inch around the border, leaving each of the squares to be one inch. It has a non-skid bottom and is about half an inch thick. The pieces are about three quarters of an inch high–the Merrick board, I think it is called. It was sold at that time by the American Foundation for the Blind, and before they discontinued dealing in such products, I was able to obtain a second box of the game pieces.

How many kids I may have taught the basics of the game, just as my brother had taught me, is hard to say. But I am sure that many of them fell in love with the game too. Three vivid remembrances: Bruce, my thirteen-year-old neighbor hung out at our house because, like me, he loved music. He was bright, and after teaching him the game and playing several practice games, from then on, I could never beat him.

Thinking that he might have been watching as I traced possible moves, I dared him to do it blindfolded. Well, Humiliation! And at my own kitchen table, no less!

The father of another boy videoed his son playing me blindfolded after having taught him the game. Mr. Rucker said: “Hugh, you may be a better teacher than a player.” And that is in his tape library somewhere forty years later.

And then my utter humiliation at the hands of my own eight-year-old son, Alan! After learning the game and several practice rounds, that young scamp added to my many losses. That was as late as 1984. Even now, I can’t beat him!

According to Bob Rathbun, chess instructor at Hadley School for the Blind, the school had offered a chess course earlier than when he came on the scene. But seemingly, the study material was not all that good, and Bob took over the course in 1999. Hence, I was one of the first five students to complete the current course in 1999-2000.

I thoroughly enjoy the game even after more than fifty years, more than likely having lost twice as many as I ever won. But not until I took the chess course, to hopefully boost my confidence, did I know how to score games.

Confidence? Well, the story is still the same! But sooner or later, my skills must assert themselves and maybe I’ll move a few rungs higher than at present.

For those who know the game even now, you couldn’t go wrong in signing up for the Hadley chess course. Who knows, you might even learn something you may not have known. Upon successfully completing the course with the final exam consisting of playing Bob himself, you get to keep the game board which is furnished with the course, but there are also the invaluable study materials themselves.

You might even join the parade of those even now who love to watch me squirm.

The easiest way to use the control panel is to simply type what you want to do into the search box, then press tab. It will give you a list you can arrow down to find the exact action you want. And for laptop users, there is even an option to turn off the mouse pad. Or for those who just want to browse your options within the control panel when you first open the control panel, press the down arrow and then you can look at the options. Mine are arranged in two rows and I use the arrows to move back and forth and up and down the list. Most are pretty self-explanatory, but when you open them you will find that more than one will link you to the other and this may seem a bit confusing. Simply use the tab key to move from link to link until you have searched them all before making your decision. Often I find a link that makes what I want to do easier than the one I first thought would be the right one.

When you decide you want to download you will find the download screen to be much different. It will open on the filename which will put the file in your my documents file. If this is ok with you just press enter. But if like me, you try to keep everything in its own place, then press tab. It will eventually get you to a location that will say, “tree view.” Use the arrow keys to move through the list. If it says closed then use the right arrow to open the folder and look inside. It will only list the folders and not the individual files contained within. When you find the one you want to put the file inside of, press the enter key and then tab over to the save button and press it. This will then download into that folder. Keep in mind the computer will keep this information for future downloads until you go in and change it. Thus if you decide to download a picture later, it will go to this folder unless you change it. I used to just use a folder labeled downloads before, but now move it as I want to put them in the correct file to begin with. The more often you use this feature the easier it will become.

As for those of you using Word 2002 or Word XP or the XP and 2002 office suite, Jaws stopped supporting them in the latest release. I had to upgrade to Office 2010, which is another story. I would recommend it as opposed to Office 2007 as it is less complicated and much more accessible.

So now that I discovered some ways to be accessible in Windows 7, in many ways this is easier to me now than XP ever was.

Recently many people who use accessible software like myself have had to upgrade to the Windows 7 platform. Personally, I use Jaws from Freedom Scientific and currently plan to continue using it. When I made the change from Windows XP to Windows Vista, I immediately retreated to XP and stayed there. But wanting to enter the job market, I found that the only way I could take the job I wanted was with a computer that used either the Vista or 7 operating system. So I set about learning just how I would do this.

When I first learned XP, I set it to classical view like the older Windows 98–that later became a hindrance to me learning 7. But I was fortunate enough to get the opportunity to take a class offered by the state of Illinois that helped me learn where everything is. When first getting to the Start menu, Jaws offers a search window. The easiest way to find a program or file on the system is to simply start typing the first few letters of the program or file. Then if it does not say the one you want, just arrow down. Usually it will be right there. Another way is to up arrow once and then right arrow. This will put you in your programs list. Then you can arrow down. (Note: with Jaws it says “opened” or “closed.” This meaning the folder has sub folders within it. By using the right arrow you can open the list and then arrow down). To close the folder submenu, you must up arrow to the top of the list and then left arrow until it says closed. This is a major change from the XP system where you simply entered into the file and then the subfolders opened. Attempting this with 7 results in you starting the defaulted folder in the program. Also, if the program is one you use often, you may find it in the quick links menu which you can quickly access by down arrowing from the initial search box.

To access your folders, the easiest way I have found is to simply press tab once from the initial search box in the start menu. This will land you on a file which usually will have the computer name on it. You can press enter here and in it will be folders to which most windows users will easily recognize. Or you may down arrow and will find document, pictures, and music–the big three folders for most of us–then, continuing down, you’ll find games, computer, control panel, and printers and other devices, default programs, and help and support. Of these most are just like the XP version, or at least similar enough an experienced Windows user should be able to navigate them. But the control panel is completely different and set up much like the XP version if you don’t change it to classical view.

Floyd, Glenwood Romelle, 60, of Richmond, departed this life on December 29, 2011. He was preceded in death by his parents, Carl Washington and Ethel Jearlean Floyd.

Our friend Glen was a wonderful guy who was larger than life. He was so giving and loved around the world. His word was his bond. I have known Glen 3 decades. He was an intellectual genius who earned a Masters in Computer Science and was an exceptional computer programmer.

His passion was advocating for the rights of people who were blind/disadvantaged. He was a long time devoted member of The American Council of the Blind, working diligently within the ACB organization. Glen served as Presidents of ACB’s Virginia affiliate and of the local Richmond chapter. He received many prestigious awards and accolades, and was the recipient of a letter from Governor L. Douglas Wilder of Virginia, commending him for outstanding services rendered.

Rosetta Brown

I met Glenwood Floyd in the summer of 1974. Glen was always ready, willing, and able to assist me with problems I had with my studies. He was so mild-mannered, clear-thinking, and patient with me, that we became very best friends.

We often discussed our jobs, families, and issues in the blindness community. Glen was absolutely one of the most intelligent, level-headed, and compassionate people that I’ve ever had the privilege to know, and this world will definitely be a much poorer and sadder place without him. So long, my good friend, I certainly hope to see you again in that celestial place where we will never grow old: where sickness will have no power to cause suffering, and death no dominion.”

Herbert Brown

Do any of you feel your inspiration and energy slipping? The new year is a time to count or to find blessings.

A quote from January’s Guideposts started me thinking: “There is satisfaction in wisdom, in having loved people and accomplished things, in having not wasted all our time with caution and escape.”

People often believe that blind folks sit around with no purpose. We can come to believe this too. So let me tell you about one little end-of-year week full of clues about what to do and not do. I’ll skip necessary things–cleaning, bill paying, exercising. I’ll skip my struggle balancing desire, mythology, and practicality–they are ongoing and revised more slowly with repeated “guidance.”

I began the week listening to Karen lament her cut in work hours and how she has never had a raise. “Some residents,” she said, “were very generous with Christmas presents this year.” Generosity, being listened to, and being valued keep us caring about what we do.

So I checked in with several other friends who need someone to carefully listen or at least someone to think about them, including a 93-year-old who asked to call me to test her new cell phone because she didn’t know who else to call.

I record NASA information for voice-mail. Marcia commented, “I haven’t heard a launch and docking for years. I used to be so involved with this and I got all the old feelings again.” Esther also thanked me for sending the early morning Soyuz launch.

On Monday night the heat was off in my apartment row. I’m usually the first person to notice such things. I told Maintenance at 9:00 that “It’s probably better than people calling at 3 a.m.”

Bev is my computer wizard. On Wednesday I was about to call her concerning e-mailing a bio to clinch a publication when she called me. (Synchronicity?)

The switch in NASA TV’s satellite was something I warned my cable company about, over a month ago. For the first time in such situations, there was no local interruption in NASA programming. And, yes, I called back to compliment then. (I always report NASA issues, and they trust me now.)

We must beware of that “we don’t matter” syndrome. Maybe no one is there at midnight or when we feel particularly frail. But I, for one, have a lifestyle of all-hours NASA events or reading whenever I wake up. Or writing a rough draft on New Year’s Eve. I mustn’t take the luxury of moldable time for granted.

And Bev is nudging me toward a new project. Besides being very purposeful herself, Bev is a voice teacher. “Did you do any Christmas singing?” she asked. “No,” I said, “my voice is shot.” “That’s not true. I can hear that your voice isn’t gone.” Because of catching too many colds, I had to give up music-therapy volunteer work. But the CDs are still here–I could perform Karaoke. I could help carol next Christmas. I could enjoy the process, and perhaps inspire others. And I just met a new tenant on my floor who practices soprano opera an hour a day, which is surely a sign.

I am not ashamed to admit that I am a die-hard music fan and often become ecstatic when one of my favorite musicians or groups has a new CD coming out. But, remember the days before the internet? Securing one of these gems wasn’t easy at times. So it was in August of 1987 when The Monkees released their first new album in almost 20 years.

I’d been a fan of their weekly sit-com since its debut in 1966 and my husband and six year old daughter had joined the ranks of Monkee-maniacs in 1986 when they made a successful comeback. On the wave of positivity, their first comeback album, “Pool It,” was out then and I’d spent that summer looking for it with no success. On this hot weekday afternoon, daughter Mary and I were at the local supermarket to purchase the perfect lunchbox for her first grade semester.

It took 30 minutes to find a bright Care Bears box. Taking a shortcut down the miscellaneous aisle to the express counter, Mary grabbed my arm suddenly.
“Mom!” she yelled. “The Monkees!”
“What?” I said, confused. “Where?”
“The records!” she squealed, jumping up and down, pulling me over to the rack. There it was, the new album right up front. Seizing it as if it would vanish, we ran to the check-out, talking over each other.

Grinning, I set the lunchbox and album down, reaching in my purse for my wallet. I felt the blood shoot to my shoes as I realized the wallet was back at the house.

“Hello, ladies,” the chipper girl said at the register as she greeted us and priced the Care Bears box.

“Mommy,” Mary said beside me as I franticly rummaged in my purse. “You look sick!”

My fingers touched a stray bill. It was a $5 bill, enough for the lunchbox. “Excuse me,” I said as the girl reached for the record. “I changed my mind–just the lunchbox, please.”

Confusion and horror filled Mary’s face. “But, it’s The Monkees!” Her incredulity made the people behind us snicker.

“I know, Mare, but we have to put it back. My wallet’s home.”

New Jersey’s youngest Monkee fan burst in to tears. She cried the entire walk home until I was grabbing my wallet from the kitchen table. “We’re going back!” I declared as if we were heading for a pack of lions. “Nobody’s getting that one copy, baby doll, but us!”

In our hurry, we tramped back to the store without setting the lunchbox down. In my mind, I could see Davy, Peter and Micky smiling on that album cover!

We got it, yes, we did–and walking home again, I took a grand tumble on some rocks. Sitting on my backside on the grass as Mary was shrieking with laughter, I wondered why this day was getting a bit too annoying.

At home, Mary ran to the stereo as I inspected the lunchbox for damage. It and the Monkee LP were intact, which was more than I could say for my aching hind area.

Irony of this little tale, then? At lunch time on Mary’s first day of school, her Care Bears thermos had leaked milk all over her tuna sandwich and cookies. Seems there was a crack in it. Whether from my glorious fall or poor production, we’ll never know, but she said it was OK, since we did get “Pool It,” didn’t we?

(Provided with assistance from Marilyn Brandt Smith)

It didn’t look like the trees I sometimes touched in the park or walked beneath. The leaves didn’t rustle or crackle. They weren’t really leaves at all, but more like brushes–soft yet prickly beneath my nine-year-old hands.

“What’s this, a nice Jewish boy like you getting so much pleasure from a Christmas tree?” Aunt Ruthie asked without a hint of understanding.

My mother was the “rebellious disloyal Goya (non-Jewish) mom” according to my uncle Kal Rubin. She bought her blind son a Christmas tree and decorated it with glittery glass ornaments, lacey tinsel, and a light which gave off warmth and probably a nice color too. It made our Brooklyn apartment smell like I imagined a forest would smell, fresh and alive.

Children at school, mostly a Christian group, talked and sang about their holidays. I knew about sledding and loved to play in the snow.

We celebrated Hanukkah; ate our traditional “latkes” (potato pancakes); and I loved to spin the dreidel and receive my presents. We lit the menorah, but we were not a totally observant family.

The idea of an indoor tree fascinated me, and my mother had the courage to get one for me when I kept asking questions. After all, I couldn’t see one on TV or in books, and it was too risky to show me one in public. She walked a thin line with neighbors, some of whom were holocaust survivors, who tended to tie Christianity to the bad things Germans had done in World War II. Acknowledging Christmas was defying our cultural tradition. My grandmother used a very uncomplimentary term in Yiddish when she chose to say something about Christmas.

I could listen to Christmas carols on the radio occasionally, but we couldn’t buy a record of them. I loved the sound of “Silent Night,” although I didn’t learn what the words actually meant for Christians until I was much older. There was a little girl at school named Mary. She taught me the “Hail Mary” Catholic prayer. My parents were shocked when I proudly recited it at home. They didn’t tell me not to talk to or play with Mary any more, they just told me not to say the prayer. They realized that acceptance did not come easily for a blind child in public school.

In our building the adults clicked their tongues, “sis a shandah” (What a shame) they said about the curse of blindness on this nice family. Their children followed the parents’ lead and left me alone most of the time. I learned quickly to judge people according to their willingness to be my friend, and not because they were Jewish, family, or neighbors.

It’s been fun to tell my Jewish and non-Jewish friends that I had a Christmas tree the year I was nine. We didn’t treat December 25th like a special day, but about a week beforehand my mother took me to a store to meet Santa Claus. My curiosity was satisfied when I sat on his lap and felt his beard.

“And what do you want Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, Robert?” he asked. That reference didn’t bother me at all.

“I want a big top that spins and makes musical sounds for my present.”

Of course we didn’t tell the Goldbergs and the Cohens or my aunts and uncles about that trip, but on one of the Hanukkah nights I received my big spinning top.

Through the years I have held fast to my conviction that the way people treat a person says more about their value than any cultural, geographical, or social group ties. When I was studying in France as a young man, I formed a close friendship with a young German named Peter. We took walks together and talked. He could understand the Yiddish I had learned from my mother and aunts gossiping “calacutchka.” My neighbors from childhood would have thought me a traitor.

My mother’s courage that Christmas of my childhood, was a testament to me that true loyalty and love toward another human being sometimes requires taking chances, and not always being understood. When a person is kind to me, accepts me for who I am, I let them know that it means a lot to me. I know there’s a famous book and movie about a tree that grew in Brooklyn, but in my mind, that tree I came home to on one chilly December afternoon in Brooklyn was, as they would say in Yiddish if they dared, “michiah,” a really special pleasure.