Like Cats and Dogs

                      Kenneth Jernigan
                           Editor

                     Large Type Edition


                        A KERNEL BOOK
                        published by
              NATIONAL FEDERATION OF THE BLIND


Copyright 1997 by the
National Federation of the Blind

ISBN 1-885218-10-9
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America


                      Table of Contents

The Smells and Sounds of Sixty Years  1
by Kenneth Jernigan

The City and the Fear  11
by Marc Maurer

You Will Have To Make Other Arrangements  27
by Bruce A. Gardner

A Wife's Story  35
by Theresa House

A New Sheriff In Town  45
by Peggy Elliott

Dick And Jane...And Barbara  57
by Barbara Pierce

The Other Side Of The Coin  65
by Ron Schmidt

Delivering The Coffee  69
by Mary Ellen Gabias

On With The Show  79
by Patricia Maurer

You can help us spread the word  85



                    EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION

     In the early and mid 1930s, when I was a boy in grade
school, I dearly loved to read poetry--or, more properly
speaking, have poetry read to me.  And my teachers often
obliged.  One of my favorites was a poem by Eugene Field
called the "Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat."  Although it
will never be considered a classic, I liked it.  It begins
like this:

     "The gingham dog and the calico cat
     Side by side on the table sat;
     'Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)
     Nor one nor t'other had slept a wink!"

     The poem goes on to tell how the cat and dog had an
awful fight and concludes by giving the outcome:

     "But the truth about the cat and pup
     Is this: they ate each other up!"

     Thus, we come to the title of this book, Like Cats and
Dogs.  Maybe I chose it because I once had a dog that I
dearly loved, or because I currently have some adorable
kittens--or maybe because of the well-known saying about
people fighting like cats and dogs.  Regardless of the
reason, the title is chosen, and we come to a question: 
Exactly how do cats and dogs behave toward each other?
     If they don't understand each other, they fight "like
cats and dogs."  But if they have the opportunity to get
acquainted, they can live in harmony and become good
friends.
     As it is with cats and dogs, so it can be with the
blind and their sighted neighbors.  There can either be
harmony and friendship or misunderstanding and frustration. 
This little volume (the twelfth in the Kernel Book series)
is meant to promote understanding, the ultimate framework of
all true friendship and mutual respect.
     As with past Kernel Books, the stories here are real-
life experiences, told by the blind persons who lived them. 
The one exception is the article by Theresa House, who is
the sighted wife of a blind man.  Her parents feared that a
blind person could never be an adequate husband for their
daughter, and certainly not a suitable father for her
children.  You will see how it is turning out as they live
their lives and raise their family.
     As a matter of fact, marriage and children are major
themes of this book.  Bruce Gardner, blind and preparing to
be a lawyer, dates and falls in love with a young sighted
woman.  She has questions, and so do her father and mother.
     And there is the matter of blind parents and sighted
children.  As the boy and girl grow up, how do they feel? 
Do they think their parents can take care of them--and how
do the parents feel?  What ambitions do the parents have for
their children?
     There is another theme relative to children (blind
children).  Many are not given the chance to learn Braille. 
What does that do to them, and how do they feel about it as
they come to adulthood?
     There is more--the article I wrote about the difference
between the sounds and smells of today and sixty years ago,
the story about a blind kitten (told by the owner, of
course, not the kitten), an account of a blind woman's
experience with pouring coffee, and much else.  But I think
I have told you enough to give you an inkling of what to
expect.
     At the core, all of the people represented here are
talking about the same thing.  What they are saying is this: 
In everything that counts we who are blind are just like
you.  As you read, you will recognize yourself in the story
of our experiences.  We laugh and cry, work and play, hope
and dream, just like you.  And although we don't forget that
we are blind, we don't constantly think about it either.  We
are concerned with the routine business of daily living--
what we plan to have for dinner, the latest gossip, and the
current shenanigans in Washington.
     Around fifty thousand people become blind in this
country each year.  That means that it may happen to you, a
member of your family, a neighbor, or a friend.  So we want
you to know what blindness is like--and, more to the point,
what it isn't like.  That is why we are producing the Kernel
Books.  We hope you will find this volume both informative
and interesting.  If you do, we will have accomplished our
purpose.  We want to live in harmony with our neighbors--not
the way most people think cats and dogs live.
                                            Kenneth Jernigan
                                         Baltimore, Maryland
                                                        1997


            THE SMELLS AND SOUNDS OF SIXTY YEARS
                     by Kenneth Jernigan

     Everybody knows that change is probably the only
constant in life, but I think we don't fully understand what
that means until after we're fifty.  At least, that is how
it has been with me.
     As readers of the Kernel Books know, I grew up on a
farm in rural Tennessee in the 1920s and '30s, and it seems
to me that almost nothing today is the way it was then. 
Since I have been blind all of my life, I am not talking
about how things look but how they smell, taste, sound, and
feel.
     Start with smell.  The world smells different today
from what it did then.  Nowadays I spend much of my time
indoors, breathing conditioned air, whether heated or
cooled.  But that wasn't the way it was when I was a boy.
     Since we didn't have electricity, we couldn't have had
air conditioning even if we had been able to afford it.  So
in the summer the windows were open, and usually so were the
doors.  The air was rich with odors--the smell of growing
things, of the barnyard, of the dust and gasoline from an
occasional passing car, and of creeks.  These were the
smells of summer, but there were also the smells of winter--
wood burning in the fireplace, the smell of the unheated
portions of the house, and the smell of the country in
winter.
     And it was not just the odors of that time but also the
sounds--the mixture of stillness, bird songs, distant
cattle, and the aliveness of the land.  Today, whether
indoors or out, one thing is always present--the sound of
motors.  There are automobiles, office machines, fluorescent
lights, power tools, lawn mowers, vacuum cleaners, kitchen
appliances, air conditioners, and heating units.  When I was
a boy on the farm, I might go a whole week without hearing a
motor--but not today.  In the world of the '90s, there is
never a minute without a motor.  Sometimes it is an
avalanche of noise, and sometimes only a vibration in the
background--but it is always there--always a motor.
     And I mustn't omit taste and touch.  At first thought,
it might seem that there would be no difference between then
and now, but there is.  It isn't necessarily that I can't
touch most of the things today that I touched in the 1930s. 
It is just that I don't.  And as to taste, it may simply be
my imagination or my aging taste buds, but it certainly
doesn't seem that way.  Food is prepared differently, and
the ingredients take a different path from origin to table.
     But what does all of that have to do with blindness? 
After all, that is what this book is about.  Certainly
blindness and blind people are not treated today the way
they were sixty years ago.  The blind of that generation had
almost no chance to get a job, and very little chance to get
an education.
     In my case, I was allowed to go to college, but I
wasn't permitted to take the course of study I wanted.  I
attended elementary and high school at the Tennessee School
for the Blind in Nashville, graduating in 1945.  One day in
the spring of my senior year, a state rehabilitation
counselor came to the School to talk to me about what I
wanted to do and be.  
     I remember it well.  We sat in what was called the
parlor--a room, incidentally, which deserved the name.  The
School was housed in an old southern mansion, and the front
parlor, which was used as a general reception area for
visitors, was the very essence of elegance.
     The counselor and I sat on the elaborately carved sofa,
and he asked me to tell him two or three areas of study that
I might like to pursue when I went to college.  I told him
that I didn't need to pick two or three, that I wanted to be
a lawyer.  He didn't make a direct response but wandered off
into a conversation about the weather and the world.
     Then he circled back and asked me again to pick two or
three areas.  My answer was the same.  I told him that I
wanted to be a lawyer.  He said that he wouldn't say that a
blind person couldn't be a lawyer but that he thought it
wasn't realistic.  I would not be able to see the faces of
the jury, he said, and I would not be able to do the
paperwork and the travelling.  I argued, but I was only a
teen-ager--and I didn't have any money.
     Ultimately he told me (with big words and gently, but
with absolute finality) that I could either go to college
and study law and pay for it myself, or I could go and
prepare to be something else and be assisted by the state. 
Since I was a teen-ager and didn't have any money, I went
and prepared to be something else.
     Of course, I now know that he was wrong.  I am
personally acquainted with at least a hundred successfully
practicing blind lawyers, and most of them are not
noticeably more competent than I am.  But I would not want
to create the wrong impression.  This man was not trying to
do me harm.  Quite the contrary.  He truly believed that
what he was doing was in my best interest.  He was trying to
help me.  He was acting in the spirit of the times and doing
the best that he knew.
     Today it wouldn't happen that way, for although there
are still roadblocks and failures to understand, any blind
person who is otherwise qualified can go to law school.  And
there are other opportunities, a whole range of options and
possibilities for the blind that simply didn't exist in the
1930s.
     Many things have made the difference, but principal
among them is the National Federation of the Blind. 
Established in 1940 by a handful of blind men and women from
seven states, the Federation has conducted a never-ending
campaign to educate the public and stimulate the blind.  I
joined the organization in 1949, and it changed my life.  
     Today the Federation is the strongest and most
constructive force in the affairs of the blind of this
country, but its work is by no means finished.  The job that
still has to be done is not so much a matter of legislation
or government assistance as of handling the interactions of
daily life.  We have come a long way in public acceptance,
but sometimes the attitudes of sixty years ago are still
with us.
     Let me illustrate by what at first may seem to be
trivial examples.  Over fifty years ago, when I was a boy on
the farm in Tennessee, I often found time heavy on my hands
during the summer months when I was not in school.  To
relieve the tedium, I would sometimes ride with a truck
driver, who collected milk from local farmers to take to a
nearby cheese factory.  
     The days were hot, and when we could afford it, we
sometimes bought a bottle of Coca Cola.  (Incidentally, it
cost five cents.)  I didn't have much money, but now and
again I had a little, and I wanted to pay my share.  One day
I said to the driver (a young fellow about twenty), "I'll
buy a coke for each of us."
     "Okay," he said, "stay here.  I'll go in and get it."
     "No," I said. "I'll go with you."
     He was obviously uncomfortable and didn't want me to do
it.  Finally he said, "I can't do that.  How would it look
if people saw a blind person buying me a coke?"
     I was a teen-ager, not yet accustomed to the ways of
diplomacy.  So I told him in blunt terms that I would either
buy the Coca Cola publicly or I wouldn't buy it at all. 
After greed and pride had fought their battle, he decided
not to have it, and we drove on--after which I was not
welcome in the truck.
     But that was more than fifty years ago.  It couldn't
happen today.  Or could it?  Well, let me tell you about an
incident that occurred less than six months ago.  My wife
and I were entering a restaurant--an upscale, classy place
with plenty of glitter and lots of manners.  
     It so fell out that another couple and we reached the
door almost simultaneously.  I happened to be positioned so
that it was natural for me to open the door and hold it
while the other couple entered, but the man was obviously
ill at ease.  He insisted that he hold the door and that my
wife and I go first.  Since I already had my hand on the
door and was holding it open and since I was not in the mood
to be treated like a child or an inferior, I dug in my
mental heals and stayed put.  It was all done on both sides
with great politeness and courtly manners, but it was done. 
As I continued to hold the door, the other couple preceded
us into the restaurant.  But the man was obviously
uncomfortable, showing by his comments and demeanor that he
felt it was inappropriate for a blind person to hold a door
for him and behave like an equal.
     Trivial?  Not related to the daily lives and economic
problems of the blind?  Not a factor in determining whether
blind people can hold jobs or make money?  Don't you believe
it!  These incidents (the one fifty years ago and the one
this year) typify and symbolize everything that we are
working to achieve.
     But again I must emphasize that we are not talking
about people who are trying to cause us harm.  We are
talking about people who, almost without exception, wish us
well and want to be of help.  Our job is not one of force
but of giving people facts.
     And key to it all is the National Federation of the
Blind--blind persons coming together in local, state, and
national meetings to encourage each other and to inform the
public.  Sometimes we are tempted to believe that our
progress is slow, but in reality it has been amazingly
rapid.  We have made more advances during the past sixty
years than in all previously recorded history.  And there
are better days ahead.
     It is true that the smells, sounds, touch, and taste of
today are not what they were sixty years ago--but it is
equally true that despite occasional nostalgia, we wouldn't
want them to be.  We wouldn't because today is better--and
not just in physical things but also in the patterns of
opportunity and possibility.  I say this despite all of the
problems that face our country and our society.  We who are
blind look to the future with hope, and those who are
sighted are helping us make that hope a reality.


                    The City and the Fear
                       By Marc Maurer

     A knowledge of the meaning of blindness is not
automatic; it must be learned--or, in many cases, unlearned. 
When childhood fears are added to the mix, the combination
can lead to frustration and anxiety.
     Marc Maurer, President of the National Federation of
the Blind, has two young children.  Regular Kernel Book
readers have followed the birth of his son David, their
adventures in Cub Scouting, camping, cutting fire wood, and
repairing the roof.  Through all of it Marc has simply been
David's father--who happens to be blind.  But now David is
approaching his teens.  As be begins to absorb society's
traditional attitudes about blindness, how wi11 his father
protect the relationship and keep it from deteriorating? In
his heartwarming account of a family holiday trip, President
Maurer explores this issue.  Here is what he has to say:

     In the Maurer household there are two adults and two
children.  My wife Patricia and I are both blind, but our
children, David and Dianna are not.  David is thirteen and
Dianna is ten.  We are a family in the traditional sense--we
go places together; perform family projects together; cook,
clean, repair our home, and maintain our yard together;
attend church together; and explore new horizons together.
     We almost never discuss blindness.  We don't forget it,
but it is rarely a topic of conversation.  Of course, in the
planning for our activities, we remember that blindness is a
factor.  We do not own an automobile because none of us can
drive it.  So travel plans include hiring taxis, buying
airplane or railroad tickets, renting automobiles and hiring
drivers, calling upon friends and colleagues who have cars,
taking buses, walking, using the subway, or some combination
of these methods.
     Then there is mowing the lawn and maintaining the yard. 
We do this as a family.  My part of the job includes
maintaining the lawnmower and other gardening equipment.  
We have a hedge, which runs along the front edge of our
property.  I keep this clipped, using a gasoline-powered
hedge trimmer.  If you touch the trimmer in the wrong place,
it will trim your fingers along with the hedge--so I don't.
     I also spend part of my time mowing the grass. 
However, this job is usually performed by David.  My wife
and daughter undertake to pick up the sticks and stray
papers in the yard.  The combination of effort gets the job
done.
     David and I mow the grass differently.  He is sighted,
and he watches what the lawnmower is doing.  I am blind, so
I use other techniques.  I often mow under low-hanging trees
and shrubs.
     David finds this frustrating because he finds it
difficult to see what he is doing.  I can follow the shrub
line or use the branches to tell me where I am and how much
of the space has already been mowed.  He uses one technique,
and I use another.  Working together, we keep the yard neat
and tidy.
     Inside the family there is no misunderstanding about
who is in charge or how responsibilities are determined. 
The parents make decisions, and the children must follow
direction.  If the children misbehave, they are reprimanded
or punished as circumstances warrant.  They are given
assignments and expected to carry them out, and they must
seek permission to go visiting or engage in other activities
away from home.  This arrangement is stable,and predictable.
     Outside of our family this understanding is not always
shared.  From time to time we have encountered remonstrances
from strangers.  They tell my children that they must take
care of their parents.  They will stop my son or daughter on
the street and tell them to be careful that I don't run into
a telephone pole.
     If I do run into a telephone pole, a thing which almost
never happens, the children are sometimes chastised by
strangers for their supposed neglect.  My sighted children
have been repeatedly told that they are responsible for
their blind parents.
     Sometime during the fall, Dianna asked me if we could
go to New York.  I was surprised.  I have been to New York
many times, and of course at one level of my mind I knew
that she hadn't but I simply wasn't thinking in those terms. 
"Would you like to go to New York?" I asked.
     "Yes," she replied.  "I'd certainly like to go.  Can
we?"
So we planned to take a trip to New York City.
     Since I love my daughter, and since I like to please
her, we began planning the trip immediately.  The questions
were numerous.  When would we go? What would we do? What
would the trip cost? Could we afford it?  I considered
waiting until another year.  Expenses during the past few
months had been heavy, and I wondered whether the budget
could take any more travel.  However, I am particularly fond
of my family, and I want very much to give them the
experiences they want if we can afford them.  Besides, I am
aware that postponed promises are, often never kept.
     There is always something more important that
interferes, or the yearning that caused the request to be
made in the first place dries up before the promise is
carried out.  With all these thoughts in mind, I decided
that we should travel to New York right after Christmas. 
The Christmas decorations would still be in place, and maybe
the crowds would be a little smaller after the holiday had
passed.
     Dianna was delighted, but David was not.  He did not
want to go.  He asked if we could invite someone else to go
with us.  As the time for the trip came nearer, he became
less and less enthusiastic.
     He wondered aloud if there wouldn't be some work
assignment that would prevent me from going so the trip
would need to be canceled.  He told his mother and me that
there wasn't anything in New York that he wanted to see.  He
said that he would just stay in the hotel and watch
television.  He worried about how we would get to the train
station and what we would do to find our way around New York
City.  Finally, he became unresponsive and irritable when we
discussed the upcoming trip.  I wondered why, and when he
asked once again if we could take somebody with us, the
answer became clear. 
     David, my sighted son, was worried that he would be
expected to serve as the responsible leader of our family--
that he would be called upon to know what to do and where to
go--that he would be required to make decisions and plan the
trip.  He felt that he was inadequate to meet the challenge
and that he would be expected to shoulder responsibilities
that were beyond him.  He was worried that he might fail his
parents and that his failure would cause distress or danger. 
Even if there were no danger, he thought the trip might be a
failure because he would not know where we should go,
therefore making the excursion to New York a disappointment,
a disappointment that would be his fault
     As soon as I -understood the problem, I knew what we
must do.  We would travel to New York and have a wonderful
time.  We would go together as a family, and we would do it
alone--two blind parents--protecting, shepherding, guiding,
and caring for our two sighted children.  I decided not to
tell David that I thought he might learn from this
experience, and ultimately profit from it.  Instead I
reminded him about all of the wonderful places there are to
visit in New York.  But it didn't seem to cheer him up at
all.
     On a Thursday morning, the day after Christmas, we
boarded a train in Baltimore and headed for New York.  I had
hoped that the crowds would have diminished because we were
traveling after Christmas.  However, this was not the case.
     The train was jam-packed.  We had hoped to find four
seats together, but no such luck.  We settled for two.  Mom,
Dad, and David sat in the two seats; and Dianna sat on the
suitcases at our feet.  There was nowhere else to go and
nowhere else to stow the luggage.  You could say it was
cozy, but you might also have called it cramped. 
Fortunately, the train ride from Baltimore to New York takes
only a little over two hours, and the excitement of planning
the next few days kept us occupied.
     We had tickets for the Thursday evening performance of
the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall. We
talked about visiting Rockefeller Center to see the tree and
watch the ice skating.  David wanted a chance to visit the
toy store, F.A.0. Schwarz; and Dianna expressed a wish to
shop at the Warner Brothers store because she especially
likes Tweety Bird.
     As the train halted in Pennsylvania Station in New York
City we stepped out into the cold air, and followed other
passengers up the escalator.  As we left the station, I
welcomed the children to the sidewalks of New York--
sidewalks as crowded as I ever remember them in the Big
Apple.  We found a taxi and loaded our bags into it.  In a
short time we reached the hotel, where we would stay for the
next three days.
     Our room was what you would expect in a decent New York
hotel, but David (still mistrustful) wanted to know why it
was so small and why it didn't have fancier amenities.
     He had seen the Plaza in a movie, and he thought we
ought to go there.  I told him to quit griping and put his
bag away so that we wouldn't stumble over it during our
stay.  I also told him to get ready for lunch, but he told
me he wasn't hungry.  I got the idea that he was more
nervous than ever.  But I was not prepared for his
nervousness and irritability to become the controlling
factors in the trip.  I gave him his instructions: hungry or
not, he was going to have lunch; so he had better get ready. 
I wondered whether the trip had been a mistake, but we were
in the Big Apple, and I intended to do all that I could to
make our stay there enjoyable and memorable.
     So the first order of business was lunch.  In the hotel
coffee shop Dianna and her brother both ordered chicken
noodle soup, and they were warmed as much by the familiar
food as by the steaming broth.
     After lunch it was time to explore the city.  We were
planning to attend the early evening performance of the
Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall, so on our
way to the show, we decided to stop by Rockefeller Center
(across the street from Radio City) to see the enormous
Christmas tree and watch the ice skaters.
     I asked the doorman at our hotel to give me directions
to Rockefeller Center.  We were on 47th Street, not far from
Broadway.  The doorman told me I should walk up Sixth Avenue
to 49th and I would see it.  He said we could get there in
about ten minutes, so we started out.
     The afternoon was chilly, and there were people
everywhere.  Street vendors offered us hot roasted nuts, hot
dogs, soft pretzels, and hard goods such as sunglasses and
electronic watches. But we were not yet acclimated to New
York, so we kept on our way without stopping to bargain or
buy. I was in the lead, walking with David, and Patricia
followed with Dianna.
     When we came to the comer of 49th and Sixth, we did not
find Radio City, but somebody told us if we kept on for a
block,
we'd be there. And a block later, there it was.  On 50th
Street, we came to the skating rink.  The crowds were
enormous, and the line for admission to the rink was
exceedingly long.  We watched the skaters and admired the
dazzling Christmas tree, decorated with hundreds of colored
lights and a big white star at the top.
     As the afternoon became evening, we joined the line for
the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall.  The
story of Christmas is timeless, but there are many ways to
present it.  Santa Claus told us that he couldn't do his
work in one night all by himself, so he recruited helpers.
In a few moments, there were sixty Santas on the stage. A
moment later Dianna laughed in astonishment when animated
Christmas trees danced in time to the music. Then, there was
the story of the Christ child. My small daughter confided to
me that she thought the camel (a real one),  which was part
of this segment of the performance, looked unhappy and
confused.
     David enjoyed the show, too, but he still seemed
nervous. When we started back for the hotel, he thought we
were going the wrong way. He imagined that we were getting
more and more lost in this big strange city, but I told him
we were all right, and sure  enough we were soon in familiar
territory.
     When he saw the nut vendor outside our hotel he
obviously began to feel relaxed. He said to me that we had
found the place, and without telling him that we had never
lost it, I agreed.
     The next day we started out for the toy stores, Warner
Brothers and F.A.O. Schwarz.  They are within a block of
each other on Fifth Avenue, and across the street is the
Plaza.  This hotel, featured in the movie Home Alone,
fascinated the children; and I promised to take them there
for lunch.  We did not merely eat; we dined.  The children
asked for spaghetti, which did not appear on the menu, but
the waiter said they would find some.  The surroundings were
elegant; the service was impeccable; and the bill, when it
came, was as impressive as everything else.
      Then, it was off to the Empire State Building.  More
than fourteen hundred feet in height, this tallest of New
York buildings has an observation deck on the 102 floor,
from which we could see a cruise ship in the distance.  A
short walk from the Empire State Building is Macy's
Department store, a central feature in the Christmas movie
Miracle on 34th Street.  On the way there, we passed more
street vendors.  Dianna bought a beret, and David purchased
a Nike watch.
     On Saturday morning we set off for the Statue of
Liberty.  This symbol of American freedom is over a hundred
years old.  We hired a taxi for the ride to the harbor, but
we were puzzled about the place the ferry docked.  I asked
David if he saw the spot to board, but he did not.  I told
him I would ask some of the passersby where it was.  He
argued with me, telling me that they were ordinary tourists,
not public officials.  I said that they didn't need to be
public officials to give us information and that they might
know the answers to our questions.  When I asked, they told
us what we wanted to know.  David was astonished and
relieved to discover that this simple technique worked so
well.
     The method for finding your way is much alike both for
the blind and the sighted.  In an unfamiliar place it may be
necessary to ask for directions.  If the directions are
correct and complete, this solves the problem.  If not, a
request for more information may be made.  This is how all
of us learn how to get where we want to go.
     On our ferry boat ride to the Statue of Liberty, we
were at peace and enjoying the sightseeing as a family. 
David had stopped worrying that everything would go wrong.
     He had been reminded, not in words but by example, that
blindness does not prevent his parents from managing the
family and protecting him and his sister.  He came to
recognize that he was not responsible for his parents but
that the responsibility ran the other way.  He felt good
about this, and he relaxed.
     In our walk around the base of the Statue of Liberty, a
piece of history and the hope of the future came together. 
I could not help reflecting that the lessons learned by my
children on the trip to New York are a small part of the
process that will bring understanding and opportunity to all
of humankind, including not only the blind but also the
sighted.
     Through the years, blindness has often been
misunderstood, and that misunderstanding has prevented those
of us who are blind from achieving our full potential. 
However, working together, we can change the negatives that
have so frequently been associated with blindness. 
Sometimes it is done on the job, sometimes in a television
appearance, and sometimes by what is written in a newspaper
or a magazine. Sometimes it is done by a walk around the
base of the Statue of Liberty on a holiday trip to New York.


          You Will Have To Make Other Arrangements
                     by Bruce A. Gardner

     Bruce Gardner is President of the National Federation
of the Blind of Arizona.  By all of society's measuring
sticks he is today in every way a success--a leader in his
community and his church, a senior' attorney with a major
corporation, a member of the citizen's  advisory council in
his city, a scout troop official, a real estate owner.  Just
the kind of man you hope your daughter will find and marry. 
You do, that is, until you learn that he is also blind. 
Then what? Or what if the gentleman in question has not yet
accomplished these things but offers only his high hopes for
such a bright future? What do you tell your daughter and her
young man? Do you tell them that they will have to make
other arrangements?
     These are the questions Bruce faced when be sought to
marry Becca.  Here is how he tells the story:

     A girl I dated a time or two in college, after I began
using my white cane, asked me to Sunday dinner and church
afterward.  As we left her apartment to walk to church, she
turned to me and said, "Why don't you just leave your cane
here.  You won't need it at church because you will be with
me the whole time." Although she was a nice young lady and I
could tell that she quite liked me, I felt like saying, "Why
don't I just leave YOU here."  She had now confirmed what I
had suspected--that she was embarrassed to be seen with my
cane.  She was not comfortable having others know that she
was dating a blind man.
     I decided to do both.  I left the cane behind when we
went to church for her sake.  Then, for my sake, I left her
behind when we got back.
     Shortly thereafter I met Becca, and we hit it off
immediately.  She was very comfortable and at ease being
seen in public, going places and doing things with a blind
date.  However, unlike so many others I had dated, Becca did
not try to deny that my blindness could have an effect on
our relationship.  In fact soon after we started going
together she told me that she did not want to get serious
until she knew whether she could deal with my blindness. 
That was refreshing!
     About a year earlier I had learned of the National
Federation of the Blind, and I was finally beginning to deal
with my blindness and come to know in my heart that it is
respectable to be blind.
     Becca was getting ready to leave on a two-week
vacation, so I asked her to read a couple of articles while
she was gone.  I explained that the articles had been
written by Kenneth Jernigan when he was President of the
National Federation of the Blind and that they expressed how
I felt about my blindness.  She agreed to read them and when
she returned from vacation, her ability to accept
and deal with my blindness was no longer a concern to her. 
Within a few weeks Becca and I were engaged.
     Becca's mother happened to be coming to Utah and
planned to stop to see Becca, so we took that opportunity
for me to meet Becca's mother and announce our engagement. 
She seemed happy for us, but she made a few troublesome
comments like, "Don't worry Becca, I won't say a thing to
your father."
     A day or two later I met Becca on campus after
finishing my shift as the supervisor of one of the breakfast
crews at the dorm cafeteria.  I asked Becca what her mother
had meant.  Becca said that her father was a little old-
fashioned and that perhaps I should ask him for her hand in
marriage.  So I said, "I know where the pay phone is; I'll
give him a call." Still I could tell there was something
more to it.  We were going to school in Provo, Utah, and
Becca's parents lived in California.  Even so, apparently
her father had heard that she was dating a blind man.
     When I made the call it was still early in the morning. 
Becca's father (a physician) was just getting into his car
to go to his office, which was at the hospital.  When he
came to the phone I said, "Dr. Loeb, you do not know me, but
my name is Bruce Gardner, and I have been dating your
daughter Becca.  I am asking your permission for her hand in
marriage."
     It would be an understatement to say that his response
was less than I had hoped for.  He said, "I do not give
permission to marry my daughter to just anyone, and to me
you are just anyone.  You will have to make other
arrangements." He then hung up the phone.  I had the
distinct impression that what he meant by "make other
arrangements" was "go marry someone else."
     When I hung up the phone, Becca asked me what had
happened.  In answer I said, "Get the phone book.  I need to
call the airlines; we are going to visit your parents."
Those were the "other arrangements" I chose to make.
     The earliest flight we could get was late the next day,
which was a Friday.  That gave us time to call Becca's
mother to arrange for me to have an interview with Dr. Loeb
at his office Saturday morning, and to relay to him, at his
request, all the medical details I could provide about my
blindness.
     Of course I was scared.  What was I to do? What could I
say to this pediatric cardiologist that would alleviate his
concerns about his daughter's marrying a blind man?.
     On Saturday morning when Becca and I arrived at her
father's office, we learned that Becca was to have an
interview first.
     Only a few months earlier Becca had graduated from
college and begun work as a registered nurse.  Her father
was concerned that Becca did not really love this blind but
only felt sorry for him and wanted to take care of him as
she had done so many times before with stray or hurt animals
and birds.
     When it was my turn to be interviewed, I discussed with
Dr. Loeb the medical aspects of my blindness, and he told me
the results of his hasty research and conversations with the
ophthalmologists he worked with at the hospital.  We then
discussed my plans to finish college and attend law school.
     I also explained to Becca's father what my philosophy
was regarding my blindness and asked him to read two
articles written by Kenneth Jernigan, which would explain
how I felt.  They were, of course, the same articles I had
earlier shared with Becca: "Blindness--Handicap or
Characteristic" and "Blindness: Of Visions and Vultures." 
Of course there was a lot of other NFB literature I could
have given him, but these two articles summarized the issues
well and had helped Becca work through her concerns, so I
used them again.
     After my interview, Becca and I went to lunch with her
parents and then accompanied them on their Saturday
afternoon grocery shopping expedition, which was a weekly
tradition.  Although I was staying at their home in the
guest room, nothing more was said either about my blindness
or my engagement to Becca.
     The next morning, which was Sunday, Becca and I were
preparing to go to church.  At the breakfast table Becca's
mother turned to her father and said, "Becca and Bruce are
going to church, and she wants to wear her engagement ring. 
So, have you made up your mind yet?"
     With that her father turned to me, cleared his throat
and said, "Did you have something you wanted to ask me?"
     I just about fell off my chair.  I muttered some lame
apology for the awkward way I had asked the first time and
then formally requested Dr. Loeb's permission to marry his
daughter.  He got a tear in his eye and a lump in his throat
as he gave me his permission.  He then excused himself and
left for work at the hospital.
     That was all there was to it.  It was clear that he had
read the articles I had given him and that he was impressed
with the attitude I conveyed regarding my blindness.
     I have since made good on my plans to finish college
and law school, and for the past fourteen years I have been
successfully practicing law.  Becca and I now have six
bright, healthy, happy children, three of whom are teen-
agers.  Since that interview Becca's father, I have grown
extremely close to her parents, and my blindness has not
been an issue of concern for either Becca or her parents.
     I am grateful to the National Federation of the Blind
for helping me learn the truth about blindness and enabling
me to share that truth with my wife and in-laws.


                       A WIFE'S STORY
                      by Theresa House

     David and Theresa House and their four children live in
San Diego, California. The House family is in many ways a
traditional American family--David brings in the income and
Theresa stays home with the children. And that's the way
they both want it. It is also exactly the way Theresa knew
it could be when she decided to marry David despite her
family's grave misgivings. Here is what she has to say in
this loving portrait of her family:

     I am thirty years old, and I have been happily married
for ten-and-a-half years. I have four wonderful children--
three, five, seven, and nine. My husband David was diagnosed
with juvenile macular degeneration at the age of five. He is
now thirty-seven and has just a little remaining vision in
each eye.
     I knew my husband for several years before we actually
began dating. His sister was my best friend in grade school,
and as a teen-ager I was a member of the church youth group
that Dave was in charge of. During the course of our
friendship I was always impressed to see that Dave would
never let his blindness stop him from anything he undertook.
A good example of this determination was the high school
youth group of over a hundred teen-agers that he managed for
nearly four years. Those years are very dear to me. 
     That group had the reputation of being one of the
biggest and the best among the Catholic churches throughout
San Diego. At the same time that Dave was our church's youth
director he was attending San Diego State University.
     After graduating from college, Dave made the decision
to attend a residential training facility for blind adults
in northern California. This was to learn Braille, cane
travel, cooking, and independent living skills. 
     He believed that it was very important to learn the
alternative techniques used by blind people before he lost
his vision completely. Dave said that he was tired of faking
and bluffing his way through awkward situations using his
partial vision. He wanted to stop pretending that he could
function normally in the sighted world by denying his
blindness.
     A year later Dave returned home to San Diego, well-
equipped with the skills of blindness, full of confidence,
and ready to hit the job market. 
     By coincidence we began dating the same month he was
hired by Catholic Community Services. This was February,
1982. One of the fondest memories I have of the early days
of our courtship was going out on dates riding double on my
moped scooter. Dave did not drive, and I didn't own a car at
the time. I was eighteen, and he was twenty-four. We still
laugh today when we look back at that crazy and romantic
time.
     One of the more challenging aspects of our relationship
was my family's prejudice about blindness. My parents did
not approve of our courtship. They felt--and they still do,
even though he has proved them wrong--that a man who is
going blind does not have a bright future ahead of him. All
this only convinced me that people's attitudes about
blindness can be more of a problem than the actual loss of
eyesight.
     In 1983 we became engaged with plans for a June wedding
in the following year. My family continued their resistance
to my fiance. When we got married in 1984, we were both
working forty hours a week. I had a great paying job as a
medical unit clerk in our local hospital. Dave had obtained
his broker's license and was in the process of making a
career change from social work to real estate. 
     A year later David, Jr., was born, and I cut my work
schedule in half, to twenty hours a week. In 1987 our second
son Christopher was born, and I reduced my work schedule to
sixteen hours a week. Then in 1989 our third son Patrick was
born. I decided to stop working completely to be a full-time
mother and homemaker. I made this decision in the confidence
that my blind husband was quite capable of being the sole
breadwinner in our family. 
     My confidence was further reinforced in 1991, when we
decided to have a fourth child. I was determined to fulfill
my lifetime dream of having a daughter. My wish came true
that year, and we named our beautiful little girl Veronica.
For the past five-and-a-half years I have not worked outside
the home because my husband has done such a great job of
supporting us financially.
     In our home, raising the children is truly a fifty-
fifty partnership. After our youngest was born, Dave urged
me to find a hobby so that I could take a well-deserved
break from the kids in the evenings. 
     For three years I took martial arts, earning a second
degree green belt in Tong So Do Karate. I am at the halfway
mark of becoming a black belt, which I intend to accomplish.
Also I am going to college at night, working to become
certified as a floral designer. I plan to operate my own
business out of my home doing floral arrangements for
weddings.
     None of this would be possible without the full support
of my husband. Dave serves as an evening and weekend baby
sitter whenever I have outside activities. My husband is no
slouch when it comes to taking on his share of the chores
and responsibilities at home. 
     Each day he helps me get the children ready for school
by waking them up, feeding them breakfast, and preparing
their baths. This allows me enough time for exercise each
morning. I enjoy jogging. While Dave is getting ready for
work, I make the lunches, help the children dress, and take
them to school.
     In the evenings after work, Dave assists me in getting
the kids through their homework. While I am preparing
dinner, he unloads the dishwasher and sets the table. After
supper he clears the table, takes out the trash, and feeds
the dog. In the meantime I am doing the dishes. Together we
tuck the children into bed and then do paperwork, like
paying bills and going through the mail.
     My husband has found that keeping household items
organized and orderly cuts down drastically on the
frustration that can accompany vision loss. He has certainly
proven this true by taking charge of the laundry for our
family of six. Dave has used his Braille label maker on the
washing machine and does a great job of keeping the clothes
clean and neatly sorted. My job is to fold and put them
away.
     David makes blindness his responsibility and not an
undue hardship on the family. For example, at home he has
the choice of using his cane or possibly tripping over toys,
shoes, or anything else inadvertently left on the floor. (We
encourage our children to pick up after themselves, but in
reality this does not always happen.)
     Since I am the only driver in our family, I have been
unanimously elected the family chauffeur. Dave himself makes
it a point not to rely on me as his only mode of
transportation. He makes his own arrangements to get to and
from work, and he uses public transportation whenever
necessary. He also enjoys walking places to stay in shape.
     Dave no longer uses large print for reading because it
is too much of a strain and too time-consuming. He says
that, by learning Braille, he has kept himself from becoming
illiterate. There are countless examples of how Dave uses
Braille in his daily life. 
     I have already mentioned the Braille label maker, which
he uses both at home and at work. My husband orders stories,
called Twin Vision books, which have both Braille and print
as well as the illustrations. He really appreciates having
the ability to read these books to our younger children. To
help our older son, Dave orders a book in Braille that we
can also find in the public library in print. This allows my
son to practice reading aloud while my husband follows along
in Braille, correcting him whenever necessary.
     One favorite family outing is trips to the Price Club.
My husband always brings an itemized grocery list in Braille
to prevent us from spending too much money. Dave also
receives the Sunday mass readings in Braille, which he takes
to church each week. 
     He is a voracious reader, and between Braille and
cassette recordings he manages to read a weekly newspaper,
three monthly magazines, and a couple of books a month. I
firmly believe that my husband is a living example of how
blindness can be reduced to the level of a physical
nuisance. In the event that total blindness comes, I know
that he will be well prepared.
     My husband is active in the National Federation of the
Blind, which has over fifty thousand members across the
United States. I can honestly say that the NFB has been
instrumental in making my husband the self-confident,
independent, capable individual he is today. The benefits
and support Dave has derived from this organization have
done wonders for his self-image and self-esteem. I would
highly recommend the National Federation of the Blind to
anyone who is struggling with losing eyesight.


                    A NEW SHERIFF IN TOWN
                      by Peggy Elliott

     Have you ever felt you knew just about all there was to
know about a particular subject only to find you still had a
lot to learn?  This is precisely what happened to Doug and
Peggy Elliott (both long-time leaders in the National
Federation of the Blind) when they brought a baby kitten who
happened to be blind into their household.  Here is how
Peggy tells the story:

     We have a new little kitten at our house.  She's all
black, but she had a tiny white star on her chest when she
was born.  It's grown in black now, but we still call her
Sheriff.
     Sheriff is four months old.  Everything in her world is
a toy to bat, chase, gnaw, or pounce upon.  She is endlessly
hungry, begs for everything, steals the two older cats'
food, and sneaks on the table to cadge tidbits from us.  Oh,
and I should have mentioned, Sheriff is blind.
     My husband Doug and I are both blind.  We heard about
Sheriff from a friend who took pity on a starving stray cat
and soon learned the cat was a mom with two little kittens. 
When she was tiny, Sheriff put her head on the flank of one
of her sisters to follow her to food and play.  The little
sister did not survive, and Sheriff had an incurable eye
infection from birth that left her completely blind.  
     Our friend told us about his blind kitten, mentioning
that he did not have any takers for this perfectly healthy,
happy, bouncy kitten because she was blind.  We knew what
that could mean, and we offered to take Sheriff if no one
else wanted her.  We wouldn't give her up now to anybody.
     We were worried about stairs, her finding the cat
boxes, and interaction with the other cats whom we now call
the Great Cats in comparison to little Sheriff.  Here's how
each of these worked.
     At first we kept Sheriff in a room with a cardboard box
across the door.  This prevented her from getting out, but
we and the Great Cats could get in.  We were worried that,
if we let Sheriff roam, she would fall down one of our two
staircases, both of which have turns in them.  We got a bell
on a blue collar so that we could find Sheriff and avoid
stepping on her.  We would put the collar on only when we
were taking her out of the room.  She got so she purred when
we put the collar on.  
     We tried to show her stairs, making her little feet
look at the edges and risers.  She didn't like the lessons. 
We made her go down, one stair at a time, to get the idea. 
She hated this.  Then, one day about a week after we had
Sheriff, we noticed that she was upstairs.  
     We had put her on the floor downstairs to play and gone
about our business, keeping an ear on her movements, or so
we thought.  Suddenly, she was upstairs.  It turned out that
Sheriff knew all about stairs.  There was a short flight in
her original home in a garage, and she had used them from
the time she was tiny.  She still kind of galumps down the
stairs, being a little too short from nose to tail to walk
down yet.  But she obviously will.  She's taught us that. 
We tried to protect her, to ease her into our home a bit at
a time.  She wasn't having any of that.
     We talked about this and decided that, even as long as
we have both lived as blind people, we can still learn about
the capabilities of the blind.  In fact, both of us have had
experiences where people think we can't do something and
(from what they intend as kindness), prevent us from doing
it.  Stairs are one example.  
     We were recently in Washington D.C. visiting our
Congressman, and we were heading out of the building to get
a cab.  As we approached the door, a Capitol guard prevented
us from going any farther, telling us that she would "take
us" to a door without stairs.  
     We had chosen this particular door because it got us
where we were going.  Had we been "taken" to any other door,
stairs or not, it would have been a lot farther from our
destination.  We insisted; she relented, and we exited as
planned, stepping down the stairs as agilely as sighted
visitors.  I couldn't help thinking of Sheriff and the help
we had tried so hard to give her as I descended.
     Regarding accidents, we simply haven't had any.  We
don't exactly know how she finds the cat boxes (we have two,
one on each floor).  We guess it is by using her sense of
where she is as well as her nose.  Early on, we worked very
hard at being sure she was back in her room every two hours
or so when she was a one-room kitten to be sure she would be
near a box she knew.     Just like with the stairs, one day
we noticed that a cat was scratching in the downstairs cat
box, and each of us had a Great Cat on our laps.  So much
for thinking Sheriff couldn't find the cat box.
     How about the other cats?  GirlKitty is deeply
suspicious of everyone but Doug whom she loves.  Before
Sheriff was even out of the carrying case in which she
entered our house, GirlKitty was at the front door, glaring
through the bars and hissing.  In fact, we started calling
her Miss Propane because she put her whole body into the
effort, sounding like one of those propane tanks that cause
lift in hot air balloons.  She would even propane at Doug if
he had been holding Sheriff, and she got a whiff of it.  
     In the early days, GirlKitty would punch Sheriff
occasionally; you could hear Sheriff sort of go flying the
other direction from the one she had been heading in.  And
once I think GirlKitty was actually holding her down and
socking her--I was in the next room on the phone and, by the
time I got in there, they were separated.  But the thing we
noticed most was that Sheriff never reacted to these
expressions of disgust by GirlKitty.  They were usually
delivered right in Sheriff's face.  But her body didn't move
at all.  We knew because the bell didn't tinkle.  
     We talked about this as well, relating it to our own
experiences.  Eye contact is crucial to cat communication,
but it's very important to people as well.  
     GirlKitty seemed very puzzled that she was getting no
reaction from her fierce glare and hiss.  We have both known
people who were very uncomfortable talking to us.  It has
often seemed to us that part of the discomfort comes from
lack of eye contact and uncertainty on the sighted person's
part that we can detect they are talking to us.  
     In Sheriff's case, of course, it just may be that
Sheriff has better manners than GirlKitty.  Anyway, she's
found her own form of revenge.  GirlKitty is very food-
focused since she almost died as a baby from lack of
nourishment.  For a while, she said horrible things to
Sheriff when the little kitten would try to join the Great
Cats at the dry food dish.  So Sheriff figured out that she
could fit under the kitchen stool that happens to sit next
to the cats' food station.  GirlKitty can't.  
     So Sheriff gets under the stool and sticks her head out
long enough to grab some food and then withdraws under the
stool to eat.  GirlKitty can't do a thing about it except
stalk off in distaste.  We didn't teach Sheriff about the
stool.  She figured it out for herself.
     And then there's Bob, our large, mellow, kindly, clingy
male.  One day early on when Bob was eating, I put Sheriff
on his back.  Bob kept eating.  Sheriff slid off on purpose. 
I put her back.  Bob kept eating.  This went on for a while
because I was trying to teach Sheriff that one of the Great
Cats was not a meanie.  She learned.  
     When she finds Bob now, she jumps up on his shoulder or
up his side in play.  Bobby will sort of run and fight back
appropriately, not knocking Sheriff across the room as he
easily could but batting and taking evasive action as part
of the game.  They tussle like that.  Then Sheriff loses
physical contact and starts looking around with her paws for
Bobby.  (Doug calls her Scatters when she does this--running
back and forth in very short spurts in a search pattern.)  
     If she doesn't find Bobby and he still wants to play,
he will scrabble his back claws very fast on the linoleum or
hardwood.  Sheriff hears this and jumps.  They start the
cycle again.  
     Doug and I have laughed about this as well, having met
people in our lives who are immediately comfortable with us,
realizing that, although we respond to oral instead of
visible cues, we are otherwise pretty much just ordinary
people.  Bobby got that idea right away with Sheriff.  But
he also tires of the kitten's endless playfulness.  When
this happens, he vaults over Sheriff and trots off.
     Sheriff is still learning.  When she came to us at six
weeks old, she was too small to look at chairs with her paws
and understand them.  We would hold her in a chair and then
put her down.  She learned to climb up the upholstered
recliner in her first room using claws, but she often
misjudged and fell down before she learned.  
     She's now four months old and has a much longer wheel
base from nose to tail.  She has looked at the kitchen
chairs with her paws, figured out how they are made, learned
that they are comfortable, and now regularly hops into one
or another.  That is how she gets on the table.  I now keep
the chair next to mine pushed in all the way.  Sheriff can
get her head and upper arms up on the table but not the rest
of her.  So she sits there when I'm eating, for all the
world like a little cat person except that she'd rather be
on the table helping me with dinner.  
     And she applied her knowledge about kitchen chairs to
all the other seating devices in our house.  You never know
now in which chair or sofa you will find her.  We didn't
teach her about chairs at all.  By the time she learned, we
had figured out that she did better learning on her own.  We
just get out of the way and let her explore.  She does just
that.
     There are lots of other stories I'd love to tell: Like
the fact that Sheriff gets in the middle of a wide open
space like the kitchen floor and just plain dances--hopping
and jumping and leaping to music only she can hear.  Like
the swisher toy we have--long strips of plastic attached to
a rigid stick that you can shake in the air or tap on the
ground, moving it around quickly for Sheriff to hear and
attack, which she does with the same speed a sighted kitten
would.  Like the Great Cats hiding when the new bathroom was
being put in while Sheriff hung around outside the door,
listening and smelling and talking with the workers, as
fascinated as the Great Cats were scared.  
     But I won't.  Instead, I'll just say that Doug and I
have been in the National Federation of the Blind for a long
time and worked hard to learn that we can handle daily
living tasks, jobs, home management just like our sighted
associates.  And we have both worked hard to spread that
word to our fellow blind brothers and sisters as well as to
our sighted friends.  Even so, in the last three months,
we've learned again the lesson of how easy it is to
underestimate the capabilities of the blind.  We were taught
this lesson by a little black kitten we call Sheriff.


                DICK AND JANE... AND BARBARA
                      by Barbara Pierce

     The story you are about to read is true. Unfortunately
you could change the names, dates, times, and places, tell
it over and over again, and it would still be true. We as
blind people have enough real problems to deal with without
having to continue to endure the needless illiteracy forced
upon us by the failure to teach us Braille when we are
children. 
     If you sense in my words something less than my usual
good cheer and optimism, you are right; because the teaching
of Braille to blind children is an area in which our schools
have declined over the past decades, rather than improved.
We in the National Federation of the Blind are working to
reverse this trend, and we need your help to do it. In the
following story Barbara Pierce lays out the problem. Here is
what she has to say:

     Can you remember the intoxication of learning to read?
I can. When I began first grade, the Scott-Foresman primers
about the adventures of Dick, Jane, and Sally were in use,
and I still remember the picture of Dick standing on his
head in a pile of leaves, feet kicking in the air, while one
of his sisters intoned the page's text, "Look at Dick!
Funny, funny Dick!"
     Had I but known it, those early weeks of first grade
were the high point of my reading career. We gathered around
the teacher in reading groups to sound out the words and
falter our way through each page. I was good at it. I
understood the principles of picking out the sound of each
letter and shoving them together rapidly enough to guess at
the meaning. The result was that I was in the first reading
group.
     My success didn't last long. By second semester each
page bore many more lines of print, and my mother was forced
to work with me at home after school or before bed to help
me keep up. For I was what they called a low-vision child. 
     I could see the print with only one eye, and I am
certain that I was legally blind, though no one ever used
that word in my hearing. Mother placed a little lamp close
to the page so that I could see as well as possible, but the
letters were still blurred, and I could never get the hang
of reading an entire word at once.
     By second grade I was in the second reading group, and
by third grade I had slipped to the third group, despite the
lamp now clipped to the side of my desk. I had to face the
truth: I was dumb. I lay awake at night worrying about the
increasing number of spelling workbook exercises left undone
because my reading and writing were too slow to complete
them in class. 
     I still maintained an unbroken string of perfect
spelling tests because my parents drilled me on the spelling
lists every week. The tests were nothing--but the workbook!
I fantasized about what it would be like to go to bed at
night and not stare open-eyed into the black prospect of
mortification when the truth about me and my incomplete work
eventually came to my parents' notice.
     It happened at the close of the third marking period,
and it came, as such things do, like a bolt from the blue. I
had actually brought home what I thought was a good report
card--all A's and B's--except for art, penmanship, and gym,
in which I always got C's. 
     Everybody knew that I was terrible at those things
because "Barbara's blind as a bat." But the dreaded
unmasking of my shameful secret in the spelling workbook
seemed to me to have remained hidden beneath an A for yet
one more grading period. I handed my mother my report card
and ran out to play. 
     But when my brother and I were called in for dinner
(Dad was out of town at the time), I knew that something was
wrong; Mother had been crying, and she did not sit down to
dinner with us. She said that she had a headache. 
     It soon became apparent that I was the headache. My
report card had betrayed me after all. In all that hard-to-
read small print at the bottom the teacher had given me a U
(unsatisfactory) in the puts-forth-best-effort category,
where I was used to getting E's (excellent) or at least S's
(satisfactory).
     Mother went to school the next day and learned the
horrible truth about me. I was astonished to learn afterward
that the relief of having my shameful secret out in the open
actually reduced my burden. True, I had to make up all the
work I had been avoiding because the reading had become too
difficult. Play time was much reduced, and I had to learn
all over again how to go to sleep without worrying, but
things were never again as bad.
     In the following years we tried magnifying glasses for
my good right eye, and the summer after fourth grade I had
to be tutored in an effort to learn to read with high
magnification. In September of fifth grade my new teacher
called on me to read a paragraph in the geography book
during the class lesson. I read like a second grader, and I
was mortified. 
     The teacher never called on me again. By sixth grade I
was hardly using the glasses at all. I was quick to learn as
long as I didn't have to struggle to make sense of the
print, and it was easier on everyone for the teacher to
assign a rapid reader to work with me on in-class reading
projects.
     Finally, at the close of seventh grade, my parents
faced the painful truth: if I were to have any hope of
literacy, I would have to learn Braille. Print was no longer
an option. I worked to learn Braille in a summer of weekly
lessons taught by a woman who used Braille herself, though
she admitted that she was not a good Braille reader. 
     She assured me that her husband could read Braille
rapidly, but I never heard him or anyone else read Braille
efficiently. People told me it was important to use my
Braille and that practice would increase my speed. But by
that point in my education I had already worked out
alternative ways of getting my reading and writing done, and
I was no longer eager to crawl down a page of text as we had
done in early elementary school. 
     I practiced writing Braille with my slate and stylus
because I knew that in college I would need a good way of
taking notes in lectures, but I never made time to learn to
read Braille properly.
     Now that I am a member of the National Federation of
the Blind, I know hundreds of people who read Braille easily
and well. Some of them could not see print when they were
beginning school, so Braille was the only option for them.
But many more could make out print when they were learning
to read, even though as adults they cannot see it. 
     They were lucky enough to be taught Braille along with
print, and they simply and naturally learned to decide which
method would be most useful for each reading task. As a
result they now read Braille at several hundred words a
minute.
     I have never regretted learning to read print. Everyone
should know the shapes of print letters, but I will always
bitterly regret that I was not taught Braille as a small
child. 
     Today I am struggling to gain the speed and accuracy in
reading Braille that I should have had by the time I was
ten. I have now been working at it for six years, and my
reading speed has tripled, but I must face the fact that I
will probably never read as well as a bright ten-year-old. 
     Setting aside the fact that the adult brain does not
master new skills as rapidly as does a child's, I cannot
bring myself to practice reading aloud to my long-suffering
family. The time for taking advantage of such an opportunity
is childhood, and I cannot inflict my stumbling reading on
my husband.
     If my mother could speak to parents who are facing the
dilemma of whether or not to demand that their children
learn Braille, she would urge them to decide in favor of
Braille. No matter how clearly a youngster can see print at
the moment, if the vision is fragile or problematic in any
way, Braille will often become invaluable in the future,
even if print too continues to be useful. 
     All young things need space to stretch and grow within
their God-given abilities. Blind children must be given a
chance.


                 THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COIN
                       by Ron Schmidt

     Here is the other side of the coin. As you read this
story, think about what Barbara Pierce wrote in the previous
one, and think about what you might do to help us end the
needless waste and pain.  As is right and proper, we who are
members of the National Federation of the Blind are taking
the lead in doing for ourselves in solving this problem, but
we can't do the job alone. Ron Schmidt is a husband, father,
breadwinner, and Braille reader. Here is what he has to say:

     I have been totally blind since age two. So luckily, no
one tried to decide for me whether I should use limited
vision for reading print. My mom read everything she could
to me in my first six years of life, but it was never
enough. Helping my dad run a busy dairy farm didn't give her
a lot of free time to read to me, but I was eager to hear
stories, as all kids are, and to learn as much as I could
about the world I couldn't see. Reading other people's words
(pictures of places and events and feelings) gave me a
wonderful feeling of learning and understanding. 
     The most exciting event in my life as a child occurred
when I went to a school, and my teacher said she would teach
me to read and write Braille. Finally I would be able to
read all I wanted, and about anything I wanted to know more
about.
     It was so much fun and so exciting that I never thought
of it as schoolwork. By the third grade I had already gone
through the Braille reading books our school had for
children up to the sixth grade. I borrowed all the books I
was interested in from the state library for the blind, and
throughout the thirty-five years from then to now, I have
been thankful every day that I learned Braille.
     Through junior and senior high school and later in
college I tried to get every course book I could put into
Braille. It usually meant getting lists of books from
teachers six months ahead of needing them. But all gladly
tried their best to do it for me. It was always so much
easier to understand and retain more of what I read by
reading it myself with my fingers than to have it read to me
by readers or by my use of recorded material. 
     Braille also allowed me to participate in reading aloud
in class with my sighted classmates and to talk about what I
felt with my family and friends. My roommates in college
were always envious of my being able to read in bed late at
night without any lights on, which they couldn't do without
disturbing others who were trying to sleep.
     As I write this, I am just turning forty-five years of
age. For thirty-eight of that forty-five years I have relied
upon the reading and writing of Braille for my happiness and
success in school, college, career, and life overall. I read
Braille books to my twin girls now and have since they were
one year old, starting with the Twin Vision books. I
demonstrate Braille to their schoolmates and explain how it
makes it possible to learn.
     Getting my present job as a reservationist for the
Homestead Resort depended (and, for that matter, still
depends) on my being able to Braille pages of room and condo
rates and other information, which changes regularly and
which I must have at my fingertips to communicate to
prospective vacationers when they call our office. 
     I use my Perkins Brailler, and my wife reads what I
need while I dash it off at night and have it fresh at hand
for the work the following morning. I doubt that I could
have convinced my employer of my ability to handle the job
efficiently enough to have been hired without the ability to
use Braille. 
     There is nothing that makes a person feel more assured
and independent than being able to write and read his or her
own material--whether for work, education, or leisure. I
urge anyone with children who have little or no eyesight to
do all they can to get their youngsters to learn Braille. It
is easier at a younger age, I believe, and can make a great
difference in school and the rest of a child's life, just as
much now as it did for me more than thirty years ago.


                    DELIVERING THE COFFEE
                    by Mary Ellen Gabias

     Mary Ellen Gabias has held a variety of responsible
jobs.  She has worked for a state legislature and has been
an administrator of a program which helps blind people find
employment.  Today she is a wife and mother with three small
children.  In her story, "Delivering The Coffee," she
reminds us that it isn't always the great events of life
that make the difference.  Here is how she describes her own
personal journey to confidence:

     I was lucky.  My parents always believed I could do
great things.  When I wrote my first composition in
elementary school, my mother was very proud.  She said that
I could work hard and become a famous writer.  She had it
all planned.  I would write "the Great American Novel" and
make enough from it to support her and dad in their old age. 

     I began learning French in Grade 3.  My parents
imagined me working as an interpreter at the United Nations. 

     I became a political junkie in the seventh grade and
began working on political campaigns in high school.  My
parents reminded me that I should not forget good ethics
when I was elected to Congress.  My parents definitely
believed that I was capable of doing extraordinary things
with my life.
     It was the ordinary things that gave them trouble.  I
was expected to dust furniture, but my mother gave up on
teaching me how to sweep floors when I couldn't get the hang
of using a dustpan.  I took my turn washing and drying
dishes, but my sighted brothers were all expected to clear
the table. It just seemed so much easier to do that job with
sight.

     I learned how to measure, pour, stir, and chop.  I did
not learn how to use the gas stove.  In fact, my mother
always thought I would have to marry a rich man, who could
afford to hire a cook and housekeeper.  Either that, or I
should stay single and live at home.
     My parents were quite progressive compared with some of
the other adults I knew. They expected me to be responsible
for myself and my actions. They pushed me to do more than I
thought a blind person could do.  They stood up to other
adults who called them cruel for letting me play tag and
roller skate.  All in all, they were terrific.  
     But they had never heard of the National Federation of
the Blind.  They had very limited contact with blind adults
who were earning a living and managing their own lives.  The
local agency for the blind had a very custodial approach. 
They organized picnics, but the people with the most sight
served them food and cleaned up afterwards.  

     The totally blind people were taken to a bench and
encouraged to sit there and wait to be served.  My parents
knew that I could do more than the agency thought a blind
person could do, but they didn't know how much more.
     I was a very typical adolescent.  I felt ugly and
awkward, and I was sure that every blemish on my nose made
me a social pariah.  With their usual patience and
understanding, my parents reminded me that I wasn't the only
kid who'd ever had a pimple.  Blindness made me stand out
more than any adolescent wants to stand out.  
     My parents helped me to understand that being different
from everyone else could be tremendously positive, provided
the differences were based on excellence and achievement.  I
came to believe that, if I were only good enough at
everything I tried, people would forget I was blind and
treat me like everyone else.       I became very active in
the Junior Achievement program.  High school students in
Junior Achievement work with representatives of local
companies to form their own small businesses.  The
businesses make a product or provide a service throughout
the school year.  If they are successful, they make a
profit.  If not, they go the way of many failed small
businesses.  Needless to say, the whole program is permeated
with the spirit of friendly competition.  
     I was in Junior Achievement for three years.  I worked
hard and entered every competition for which I was eligible. 
In my senior year the other students in my company elected
me executive vice president.  I was very excited.  This
proved to me that people would forget I was blind if I was
good enough at what I did.
     Our company produced a radio show, which was aired on a
local station.  It was a lot of fun.  Everyone had a turn
being disc jockey for the week.  We sold radio advertising. 
We produced a company annual report.  Our officers competed
with the officers of 93 other companies for the title of
"Officer of the Year".  I won.  Out of 94 executive vice
presidents in northwestern Ohio, the judges chose me.  What
more proof did I need that blindness could be forgotten?
     Then the wind was knocked out of my sails.  I was told
that I could not attend the National Junior Achievement
Conference along with the other contest winners.  They were
afraid to be responsible for a blind person.  They said I
could go if I was willing to be the only student among the
2,000 who attended from around the country who came with
their parents.  
     The conference organisers said they might let me eat
with the other students, provided the food was not "too
difficult."  I could not stay with them on the college
campus where the conference was being held.  I would have to
stay in a motel with my parents.  I learned the hard way
that others do not forget about blindness, particularly when
they do not understand it.
     I was not willing to attend the conference under such
humiliating circumstances.  My confidence was badly shaken. 
If being the best wasn't good enough, what could I do?  
     I first heard about the National Federation of the
Blind when I was a university freshman.  I read Federation
literature with increasing excitement.  Here were blind
people succeeding despite obstacles thrown in their way. 
They weren't asking anyone to forget that they were blind. 
They were not asking for special favors or to be taken care
of by others.  They were prepared to do their share of the
work and to help take care of others in need.  
     As I met other members of the National Federation of
the Blind, I began to understand what real self confidence
means.  I did not have to struggle to be perfect at
everything I tried in order to feel acceptable to others.  I
needed to strive for excellence because doing my best was
the right thing to do.  
     I met people who were doing things which I admired. 
Some were succeeding in careers I never dreamed possible for
a blind person.  Others were doing the ordinary work of
everyday living with skill and grace.  
     Sometimes it is the small moments which make the
largest impact.  I was attending the Federation's National
Convention during the summer when I graduated from college. 
The Presidential Suite was a place for convention delegates
to gather, make friends, and conduct business with the
President.  
     There was always a pot of coffee on hand to serve
visitors.  I dropped by the suite to say hello to friends. 
Someone asked for a cup of coffee and the person in charge
said to me "Will you get that, Mary Ellen?"  
     That simple request threw me into a dither.  I was an
honors graduate of a large state university.  I'd travelled
by myself across the country.  But, I had never before
carried a steaming cup of coffee across a crowded room.  
     Yet someone had asked me to do just that.  I was afraid
I might not put the right amount of cream and sugar in the
cup.  I was afraid I might burn myself when I poured the
coffee.  I was afraid I might bump into someone and dump the
whole cup on them.       But I was at the Convention of the
National Federation of the Blind.  This was not the place to
use blindness as an excuse for failing to try.  Besides,
where else would I get more understanding and support if
things didn't go well?  
     I delivered the cup of coffee.  Nothing went wrong.  In
fact, I doubt if anyone else realized what a moment of truth
this small act had been for me.
     I was quite ready to heave a sigh of relief and rest on
my laurels.  Then three more people asked for coffee. 
Before long, I'd gotten over my nervousness.  By the end of
the afternoon, I felt quite experienced.  I did drop a cup
and realized the world did not come to an end.  That was
just an ordinary part of doing an ordinary job.  
     More than twenty years have gone by since that
convention.  I still enjoy writing and speaking French,
though I've long since decided that the life of an author or
interpreter is not the life for me.  I'm still a political
junkie, and I spent more than two years working for a state
legislature.  
     Now I'm a wife and mother.  I'm teaching my three-year-
old son to pour his own apple juice.  He's learning the
ordinary skills of daily life from me.  Now I'm the Mom who
encourages my children to dream great dreams and work hard
to achieve them.  It's amazing how extraordinarily
satisfying ordinary things can be.


                      ON WITH THE SHOW
                     by Patricia Maurer

     Blind or sighted, all mothers tend to have one thing in
common: They want their children to have better
opportunities than they themselves had--no matter how good
their own were.  In "On With The Show," Patricia Maurer
reminisces about her own childhood and shares her hopes for
her daughter.  Here is what she has to say:

     Almost everyone dreams of doing something--something
spectacular and out of the ordinary.  Parents dream that
their children will have opportunities to do things that
they as children couldn't or didn't do.  As a child I wished
I could sing and play the piano and clarinet, but I didn't
seem to have a talent toward singing or playing musical
instruments.  
     My parents gave me the opportunity to take piano and
clarinet lessons, and I sang in the school and church
choirs.  I could see only a little then and am nearly
totally blind now.  The teachers and my parents were not
sure that I could get very far with my music, but everyone
was willing to try.  
     I wore glasses, which helped me to see a little better. 
I used a magnifying glass clipped to my glasses to read
print and musical scores.  When reading music, I would read
a line, looking very closely at the page.  Then, I would
memorize that line.  Learning each piece was very slow and
tedious.  I did not seem to have any talent for learning to
play these songs just by listening, although I did try
playing by ear.  
     As you may know, there is such a thing as Braille
music.  To use it one must read it first and then memorize
it, so that it may be played on the piano or on another
instrument.  I did not learn Braille as a child.  I wish I
had.   
     Recently, my daughter Dianna, who is sighted, began
taking piano lessons.  She practices each day and, her
teacher says, reads music easily.   

     When it came time for her first recital, we arrived
early and sat in the front row.  Although I suppose Dianna
was a little nervous, she did not appear so.  When it was
her turn to perform, she walked to the stage, seated herself
comfortably at the piano, and played "On With The Show," the
piece she and her teacher had chosen.  How different the
recital was for her than my recitals had been when I was a
child!
     I especially remember one time that I had worked and
worked on a piece on the clarinet.  Right before I was to go
on stage, I could not remember my piece.  If you have ever
played the clarinet you know that becoming nervous
definitely does not help your performance.  To bite down
hard on the mouthpiece produces a very squeaky sound.  When
I began to play there was only a series of squeaks.  I was
embarrassed and wished I were not there at all.  My parents
did their best to comfort me, but I am sure they were
embarrassed, too.  
     I do not know if I would have done better if I had not
been so nervous about going to the stage.  Maybe it would
have helped to have learned as a child how to travel with a
cane and, more importantly, to learn that it is okay to be
blind--that one does not have to pretend to be sighted. 
However, learning these things was not an option for me. 
There were not people around who could teach me.  My parents
did the best that they could, but they are the first to say
how much better it would have been had they known about the
National Federation of the Blind.  
     This incident, although embarrassing, has not damaged
me for life.  There are hundreds of children sighted or
blind who are now adults and who can remember not doing so
well at recitals--embarrassing themselves and their parents. 

     My daughter is not blind.  She learns quickly.  I know
that today there are children who are blind who can
competently walk to the piano or play the clarinet.  They
have had training and opportunities.  There are still others
who are afraid and need the chance to learn and succeed.  
     As I listened to my daughter play, I was so proud. 
Proud of her and proud of our family.  We work together to
see that she has a chance to learn.  She will take that
opportunity and do well with it.  I also thought of my
parents, and I thanked them for giving me the opportunities
which they gave me.  
     Dianna is committed to doing well with the piano, and I
am committed to doing my best for her.
     So, "On With The Show."  Who knows what the next
recital will bring?  


             You can help us spread the word...

... about our Braille Readers Are Leaders contest for blind
     schoolchildren, a project which encourages blind
     children to achieve literacy through Braille.

... about our scholarships for deserving blind college
     students.

...about Job Opportunities for the Blind, a program that
     matches capable blind people with employers who need
     their skills.

... about where to turn for accurate information about
     blindness and the abilities of the blind.

     Most Importantly, you can help us by sharing what
you've learned about blindness in these pages with your
family and friends.  If you know anyone who needs assistance
with the problems of blindness, please write:

                   Marc Maurer, President
              National Federation of the Blind
               1800 Johnson Street, Suite 300
               Baltimore, Maryland 21230-4998


                 Other Ways You Can Help the
              National Federation of the Blind

     Write to us for tax-saving information on bequests and
planned giving programs.

                             OR

     Include the following language in your will:

     "I give, devise, and bequeath unto National Federation
of the Blind, 1800 Johnson Street, Suite 300, Baltimore,
Maryland 21230, a District of Columbia non profit
corporation, the sum of $______ (or _____ percent of my net
estate" or "The Following Stocks and bonds:______") to be
used for its worthy purposes on behalf of blind persons."

                     Your Contributions
                     Are Tax Deductible