Wall-To-Wall Thanksgiving
                                
                        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 1-885218-11-7

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America


                        Table of Contents

Editor's Introduction

Don't Throw the Nickel

Boy Was I Bamboozled

Lessons from the Charcoal Pit

Concerning Books, Lawn Mowers, and Bus Rides

Children, Fruitcake, and Rectangles

The Wall-to-Wall Thanksgiving

Meeting the Challenge

Daddy Read Me

Walking the Balance Beam

Big Enough to Ride the Bike


                      EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION

     Most American holidays have a double significance--what they
are, and what they imply.  New Years Day, for instance, means just
that, the beginning of another year.  But it also means reviewing
the past, planning for the future, and hoping to do better.

     The Fourth of July commemorates the establishment of the
nation.  But over the years it has picked up a whole host of other
meanings--everything from summer picnics and fireworks to how we
should live and the current state of American values.

     And then there is Thanksgiving, and also the present Kernel
Book, the thirteenth in the series.  When we started publishing the
Kernel Books almost seven years ago, we didn't know how successful
they would be, but our goal was to reach as many people as possible
with true-life first-person stories told by blind persons
themselves--how we raise children, hunt jobs, engage in courtship,
get an education, go to church, cook a meal, meet friends, and do
all of the other things that make up daily experience.

     And we wanted to do it in such a way that the average member
of the sighted public would read and be interested.  The results
have been better than we could possibly have hoped.  More than
three million of the Kernel Books are now in circulation, and I
rarely travel anywhere in the country without being approached by
someone who has read them and wants to talk about them or ask
questions.

     As to the present volume, Wall-to-Wall Thanksgiving, it is
much like what has gone before.  It tells about blind people as
they live and work.

     What does a blind boy do to earn summer spending money, and
what do his sighted parents expect of him?  What of the Viet Nam
veteran who loses his sight in the war and comes home to build a
new life?  And what about the self-conscious child and young man
with a little bit of sight who is ashamed of blindness and yet has
to live with it?

     What of the small details that come together to make the days
that form the years--learning to ride a bicycle, cook a steak, read
a book, get a job?  This is what Wall-to-Wall Thanksgiving is
about.  I know the people who appear in its pages.  They are
friends of mine.  Some have been my students.  All of them are
fellow participants in the work of the National Federation of the
Blind.

     If you wonder why so many of us give our time and effort to
the Federation, it is because the Federation has played such an
important part in making life better for us.  In fact, the National
Federation of the Blind has done more than any other single thing
to improve the quality of life for blind persons in the twentieth
century.  It is blind persons coming together to help each other
and do for themselves.  That does not mean that we don't want or
need help from our sighted friends and associates, for we do.  But
it does mean that we think we ought to try to help ourselves before
we ask others for assistance.  And we should also give as well as
take.  All of this is what the National Federation of the Blind
stands for and means.

     I have edited the Kernel Books from the beginning, and I have
contributed a story to each of them.  My present offering deals
with help I have received from sighted people.  Sometimes my
reactions have been appropriate and mature; sometimes not.  As you
read what I have written, you will see that my views have changed
as I have grown older.  Perhaps the title of my submission, Don't
Throw the Nickel, sums it up.

     As to the title of this thirteenth volume in the Kernel Book
series, Wall-to-Wall Thanksgiving, it is taken from the story of
the same name by Barbara Pierce.  But like the holidays, it has
more than a single meaning.  With all of the difficulties we have
had and with all of the problems we currently experience, we who
are blind have more reason for Thanksgiving now than ever before in
history.  

     Unlike many in today's society, we do not think of ourselves
as victims, and we feel that our future is bright with promise. 
That is so because we intend to work to make it so, and because
more and more sighted people are joining our cause and helping make
it happen.

     I hope you will enjoy this book and that it will give you
worthwhile information.

                                                 Kenneth Jernigan
                                              Baltimore, Maryland
                                                             1997


                         Why Large Type

     The type size in this book is 14 point for two important
reasons: One, because typesetting of 14 point or larger complies
with federal standards for the printing of materials for visually
impaired readers, and we want to show you exactly what type size is
necessary for people with limited sight.

     The second reason is that many of our friends and supporters
have asked us to print our paperback books in 14 point type so they
too can easily read them.  Many people with limited sight do not
use Braille.  We hope that by printing this book in a larger type
than customary, many more people will be able to benefit from it.


                     DON'T THROW THE NICKEL
                       by Kenneth Jernigan


     When is it appropriate for a blind person to accept help from
a sighted person, and when is it not?  If the offer is rejected,
how can it be done without causing embarrassment or hurt feelings? 
Since most sighted people are well-disposed toward the blind, these
are very real questions--questions that I as a blind person have
faced all of my life.  As you might imagine, my answers to them
have changed as I have grown older and gained experience.

     When I was a teen-ager, filled with the typical self-
consciousness of adolescence, I frequently rode city buses.  This
was in Nashville, Tennessee.  The school for the blind, where I was
a student, was located on the southern edge of the city, and I
liked to go downtown.  Incidentally, in those days a bus ride cost
a nickel, as did a lot of other things--a hamburger, a Coca Cola,
an order of french fries, a full-size candy bar, a double-dip of
ice cream, and much else.

     But back to the matter at hand.  One day I was standing on the
corner waiting for a bus when an elderly woman approached me and
said, "Here, son, I'll help you."  She then put a nickel into my
hand.  

     I could tell that she was elderly because of her voice.  There
was quite a crowd at the bus stop, and I felt acute embarrassment. 
I tried to give the nickel back to her, but she moved out of my way
and kept saying, "No, that's all right."  

     Everybody at the bus stop ceased talking, and my frustration
mounted.  Each time I stepped toward her to try to give back the
nickel, she moved out of my way.  It must have been quite a
spectacle, me with my hand extended holding the nickel, and the
woman weaving and dodging to avoid me.  Finally, in absolute
exasperation, I threw the nickel as far as I could down the street.

     That was over fifty years ago, but the memory is still clear. 
Once the woman had placed the nickel in my hand, there was really
no way I could have given it back.  If I had simply and quietly
accepted it and thanked her, very little notice would have been
taken.  As it was, I created quite a show.  The elderly woman, who
was only trying to help me, was undoubtedly embarrassed, and I did
little to improve the image of blindness.  Instead, I did the exact
opposite.  Any notions the group at the bus stop had about the
helplessness and immaturity of the blind were magnified and
reinforced.

     Ten years later, when I was in my twenties, I was teaching at
the California training center for the blind in the San Francisco
Bay area.  One of my principal duties was to help newly blind
persons learn how to deal maturely with loss of sight and the
attitudes of the public about blindness.  

     Late one afternoon, after a particularly hard day, I was
leaving the center to go home.  When I came to the corner to cross
the street, an elderly man (he sounded as if he might be in his
eighties) approached me and said, "I'll help you across the
street."  

     "No, thanks," I said.  "I can make it just fine."  I was
polite but firm.

     "I'll help," he repeated, and took my arm.  As I have already
said, it had been a hard day.  I made no discourteous response, but
I speeded up my pace as we crossed the street.

     Clearly the man could not keep up, and if I am to be honest,
I knew that he couldn't.  He released my arm and said with a hurt
tone, "I was only trying to help."  

     When I got to the other side of the street, I came to a
complete stop and said to myself, "Are you really so insecure about
your blindness after a hard day you can't afford to be kind to
somebody who was only trying to help you?"  

     As with the nickel-throwing incident, there was a lesson to be
learned.  I should have accepted the man's offer of help, and
should have done it graciously.  We would both have profited, each
feeling that he had done the other a kindness.  As it was, both of
us experienced pain, even if only a little and even if only
temporarily.

     By the time another ten years had passed, I was in my thirties
and directing programs for the blind in the state of Iowa.  My job
required me to do a great deal of traveling, and one day when I was
checking into a hotel, a bellman carried my bag to my room.  As he
was leaving, I gave him a tip.  

     "Oh, no," he said, "I couldn't take a tip from you.  I'm a
Christian." 

     Unlike what I did in the other situations I have described, I
did not refuse or resist.  I simply thanked him and let it go at
that.  Of course, I might have tried to get him to change his mind,
but I didn't think it would be productive.  And besides, I didn't
feel so insecure or unsure of myself that I needed to prove either
to him or me that I was equal.  

     On another occasion in Iowa, I was giving a talk to a Sunday
School class, and when the time came for questions, a woman said:
"How do you help one of them?"  I assumed that she was asking me
what the proper way was for a sighted person to help a blind
person, but just to make sure I asked her to explain.

     She said: "The other day I tried to help a blind man across
the street, and he shook my hand off of his arm and told me to go
to hell."  I asked her what she would have done if a sighted person
had been rude to her.

     I said something to this effect: "You shouldn't hesitate to
offer help to a blind person in crossing a street or in any other
way you think appropriate.  After all, the blind person may need
your help.  How are you to know if you don't ask?  

     Whether the help is needed or not, most blind persons (just as
would be the case with most sighted persons) will appreciate the
offer and treat you courteously.  A few will be ill-tempered or
rude.  I would suggest that you treat such people exactly the way
you would a sighted person who is rude to you.  The main thing is
not to feel awkward about it.  If you wonder whether a blind person
needs help, ask.  Then, if the person says no, let it go at that.

     So far, I have talked about help that has been courteously
offered and probably should have been accepted.  But what about the
other kind?  Blind people don't have a monopoly on rudeness or bad
manners.  Sighted people are human, too.  

     I think of a time when I was standing on a street corner in
Des Moines, minding my own business and waiting for a friend.  A
big husky fellow with the momentum of a freight train came along
and scooped me up without ever even pausing.  "Come on, buddy," he
said, as he grabbed my arm, "I'll help you across the street."

     As it so happened, I didn't want to cross that street.  I was
going in another direction.  But he didn't ask.  And he wouldn't
listen when I tried to tell him.  He just kept walking and dragging
me with him. 

     In the circumstances, I planted my feet and resisted--and I
should have.  All of us, whether blind or sighted, owe courtesy and
consideration to each other, and in this case I was being treated
like a none too intelligent child.  No, worse than that--for
children are rarely manhandled in public.

     Not long ago I entered an elevator, and a man standing next to
me reached out and placed his hand on my arm, between me and the
elevator door, in a protective manner.  He probably felt that I
might lean into the door as it was closing or that I might have
difficulty when the door opened.  It was a protective gesture,
totally inappropriate but meant to be helpful.  He would have been
shocked at the thought of behaving that way toward a sighted adult
passenger, but in my case he saw no impropriety.

     When the door opened, the man restrained me with his hand and
said, "Wait.  You can't go yet."  Since I was standing immediately
next to the door and since there was no traffic outside, it is hard
to know why he felt I should wait.  Maybe he thought I should take
a moment to get my bearings, or maybe it was simply more of the
protectiveness.  Who knows?

     He treated me very much as he would have treated a small
child.  How should I have reacted?  It all depends on how insistent
and how obtrusive he was.  There is something to be said for
restraint and not hurting other people's feelings, but there is
also something to be said for recognizing when enough is enough.

     In what I am about to say next, I am not just talking about
persons who are totally blind but also about those who now see so
poorly that they cannot function the way a sighted person does--
persons who may be losing sight and who may be having trouble
accepting it. I am also speaking to relatives.

     As I have already indicated, most blind people appreciate help
when it is offered.  When a blind person is walking through a crowd
or down the street with someone else and trying to carry on a
conversation, it is easier to take the other person's arm.  This is
true even if the blind person is quite capable of traveling alone.

     All of us like to do things for ourselves, but there are times
when refusing to take an arm that is offered constitutes the very
opposite of independence for a blind person.  If, for instance, a
blind person is walking with a sighted person through a crowded
restaurant, the sensible thing to do is to take the sighted
person's arm and go to the table without fuss or bother.

     As will be seen, my views about independence and help from
others have changed over the years.  Probably the single most
important factor in helping me come to my present notions has been
the National Federation of the Blind.  Having chapters in every
state and almost every community of any size, the Federation is the
nation's oldest and largest organization of blind persons.

     As it is with me, so it is with thousands of other blind
people throughout the country.  We work together to help each other
and ourselves.  We give assistance to parents of blind children, to
blind college students, to the newly blind, and to blind persons
who are trying to find employment.  Above all, the Federation
teaches a new way of thought about blindness.  

     We want to take the mystery out of blindness.  Mostly, we who
are blind are very much like you.  We work and play, hope and
dream, laugh and cry--just like you.  We need opportunity, not
pity.  And we are willing to do for ourselves.  That doesn't mean
that we don't want or need help from our sighted friends and
relatives, for we do.  All of us (whether blind or not) depend on
each other and need mutual help and assistance.  

     This is the message of the National Federation of the Blind,
and it has made a great difference in my life.  If I had to sum up
my personal philosophy in a single sentence, it would probably be
this: Do all you can to help yourself before you call on others;
try to make life better for those around you; and don't throw
nickels.


                      BOY WAS I BAMBOOZLED
                       by Bruce A. Gardner

     Today Bruce Gardner is a successful practicing attorney. He is
also President of the National Federation of the Blind of Arizona.
From early childhood Bruce and two older brothers had very limited
eyesight. Even so, they did not think of themselves as blind and
often went to great lengths to pretend they could see. In his
story, "Boy Was I Bamboozled," Bruce tells us what it was like for
an eight-year-old boy to learn that he was going blind. Here is
what he has to say:

     I remember when I first learned that I was going blind.  I was
about eight years old when my friend said, "Look at the jackrabbit
under the mesquite tree."  I said, "What mesquite tree?"  Not only
could I not see the rabbit, I could not see the tree.  

     My mother called us all in and sat us in a row on the couch to
play a game.  She held up flash cards, and one at a time we tried
to see how far away she could stand and have us still read the
cards.  I could not read the flash cards without holding them up to
my face. 
     
     When she took me to the eye doctor to be examined he said,
"Well, it's another one."  I was the third in our family of nine
children to be diagnosed as having macular degeneration.  I had no
central vision and could therefore see no details, but only light
and dark, general shapes and movement. 
     
     I grew up being embarrassed and ashamed of my blindness.  We
avoided the word blind because of its negative connotations. 
Visually impaired was much better.  After all, lots of people wore
glasses and had imperfect vision, and that was okay.  But if you
crossed that invisible line into the realm of blindness, then all
the myths were heaped upon you.  Therefore, growing up I was not
blind--I just couldn't see.  Boy, was I bamboozled!

     My parents had already spent years and large sums of the
family's scarce resources taking my two older brothers to countless
specialists searching for a cure.  By the time I was diagnosed,
hope for a cure was wearing thin.  Therefore, I was not taken to as
many eye specialists as were my older brothers.

     But, I do vividly remember as a little boy going to one eye
specialist and hearing the doctor tell my parents that there was
nothing he could do for my eyes.  The doctor said that because my
blindness was undoubtedly hereditary, they should make sure that I
never got married or had children.  

     I remember my mother sobbing and her feeling that somehow it
was her fault that I was blind.  The clear message from the doctor
was that it would have been better if I had not been born.  And of
course, I absorbed that message.  Boy, was I bamboozled!

     As a boy I watched the show "Mr. Magoo."  I outwardly laughed
at the bumbling blind man, but inside I hurt.  Blind people were
fumbling, bumbling Mr. Magoos or helpless dependents, who sold
pencils on the street corner.  Half of me refused to admit that I
was blind, because blindness meant helplessness. 

     The other half of me would reply, "Oh, you think you are not
blind!  Well then, look across the room and identify who just
walked in. And pick up that book and read it if you're not blind.
Don't kid yourself.  You're blind.  You are nothing more than a
fumbling, bumbling Mr. Magoo."

     Of course I did not want anyone to know of my blindness, so I
would do crazy things to appear "normal."  It was like playing
"blind man's bluff."  I would pretend to be reading a magazine in
the barber shop or a doctor's office and turn the pages after the
appropriate passage of time, or loiter in lobbies outside what I
hoped were the rest rooms (sometimes in increasing discomfort) in
order to identify a man, and then observe which door he went
through so I could follow him into the correct rest room.  

     It was unthinkable for me to ask for directions for fear the
rest room was close by when I asked, because then they would know
that I could not see.  I would rather be thought of as unfriendly 
or stuck-up and rude than let people know I did not see or
recognize them.  Boy, was I bamboozled!

     I was in third grade when I learned I was going blind.  From
third grade until seventh grade I did not do any reading.  My
mother read to me at home, and my teachers did not call on me to
read at school.  I did not see how words were spelled but only
heard how they were pronounced.  Since words are often not spelled
the way they are pronounced, my spelling is--shall we say--
creative.

     In seventh grade I got a magnifying glass that was strong
enough for me to read a little.  The focal point was about the
length of my nose, so when I read I could only see about a word at
a time.  That is, if it was a short word.  If it was a longer word,
I could not see both ends at the same time.  

     I would get my nose black when I read because I had to be so
close to the paper.  Of course, reading in this manner was
extremely slow and tiring.  Needless to say, I should have been
taught Braille, but I was not given that opportunity.  

     After all, I still had a little vision and could "read" print. 
Never mind the fact that with Braille I could have read ten times
faster and for extended periods of time.  To read Braille would
have meant admitting that I was blind, and that was unthinkable. 
Boy, was I bamboozled!

     In high school I signed up for advanced placement English.  
I was in all respects qualified for the advanced course.  However,
the teacher told me that I could not take the class because I was
blind.  She said that there was simply too much reading and that I
would not be able to keep up.  

     She told me that I should take the bare minimum of English
classes.  She knew nothing about talking books or Braille.  She was
well-intentioned, but uninformed.  She was also convincing.  So, I
followed her advice and took the minimum of English classes in both
high school and college.  In fact, I even took a philosophy class
in college because it gave English credit without being an
"English" class.  Boy, was I bamboozled!

     It was not until I was in law school that I realized how
unwise I had been.  More English courses would have helped me a
great deal--both in law school and in the practice of law.  

     Thankfully, when I was 21 the National Federation of the Blind
found me and helped me learn the truth about blindness.  I now know
that with opportunity and training, blindness need not be a
tragedy.  I now know that it is respectable to be blind.  

     I will forever be grateful to the National Federation of the
Blind for sharing with me the truth about my blindness and helping
to heal the hurt and remove the shame of a little blind boy who had
been bamboozled.


                  LESSONS FROM THE CHARCOAL PIT
                        by Joyce Scanlan

     Today Joyce Scanlan is the Director of one of the National
Federation of the Blind's regional training centers for blind
adults. On a daily basis she helps her blind students come to
believe that they can live productive lives. From personal
experience she knows that this belief is hard to come by. She knows
that it has to be painstakingly built, often in small and
unexpected ways, and that we as blind people must encourage each
other. In "Lessons From the Charcoal Pit," Joyce tells of a pivotal
event in her own journey to belief. Although I happened to be the
one giving the encouragement in the situation she describes, it
could just as well have been any of a hundred others, because this
is what we do in the National Federation of the Blind. Here is
Joyce's story:

     Growing up in the state of North Dakota I had known what
isolation and loneliness were. I knew what being on my own meant.
I knew how to fight my battles (or I thought I did), for I was an
independent thinker and considered myself highly informed on all
matters. I had received a college education past the master's
degree level and had been successfully employed as a teacher. I was
not blind; I only had a visual problem. In my opinion no one knew
I was anything but sighted, so what a rude awakening I had when I
suddenly learned that I was destined to lose the sight I had and
would probably become totally blind. Suddenly my bubble burst.

     My goal had always been to become a college English professor,
but when I faced blindness, that goal became something seemingly
unachievable. My livelihood, career plans, and independence all
appeared to vanish from the horizon. It was not a happy time. In
1970 I had hit bottom. Then, the National Federation of the Blind
Convention came to my hometown, and I went. I went because a friend
practically dragged me there after I had run out of excuses. That
was twenty-five years ago.

     The convention was indeed a life-changing experience. Spending
four or five days at convention, meeting teachers from all over the
country, and discussing interesting topics about blindness with all
kinds of well-informed blind people proved to me that I had been
doing everything wrong and needed to make some drastic changes in
my life. My style of going it alone had not worked and would never
work. The Federation had a lot to teach me. 

     I remember vividly to this day an evening I spent with Kenneth
Jernigan twenty-three years ago. It was, perhaps, a little thing--
but, it changed my life. At the time, Dr. Jernigan was President of
the National Federation of the Blind, and I was attending a
training seminar over Labor Day weekend in 1973. The first evening,
when we were all going out to dinner together, someone suggested we
go to a place called the Charcoal Pit. We were told that we would
be able to select and grill our own steaks. I said I didn't like
the idea because I had never before grilled a steak to my liking.
Dr. Jernigan very calmly said, "Oh well, we'll help you." I was
suddenly terrified. I prayed that, when we got to the Charcoal Pit,
he would have forgotten what I had said. Of course, that didn't
happen. He immediately escorted me to the refrigerators, where all
the steaks were kept. He was so enthusiastic and seemed to be
having such fun that I began to enjoy the venture myself.

     With the steak selected, a plate, and a long fork in hand, we
approached the big pit. He said, "Now throw your steak out there;
just toss it out there." I did, thinking all the time about losing
the steak forever in the fire. After a short while, Dr. Jernigan
said, "All right, reach out with your fork and find the steak and
put it on the plate." I did. Then he showed me how to turn the
steak over. I was so relieved that he had done it, so I wouldn't
have to touch that hot meat. However, he flipped the steak back and
said to me, "Now you do it." I should have known he wouldn't let me
off so easy. Then we grilled the steak on the other side, and I
became more comfortable handling it.

     I ate the steak and enjoyed it, too. Everyone was having such
a good time, and for the first time I actually enjoyed a steak that
I had cooked. Then Dr. Jernigan asked me to grill a second steak
for him. It must have been okay because he ate it and didn't
complain. I learned much about myself, about leadership, and about
dealing with blindness just from that one experience.

     I'm glad there is a National Federation of the Blind. I know
that, when I was a child, when I was in college, when I was
teaching, and when I was struggling to deal with blindness, other
blind people were busy founding a movement to help me and others
like me. I'm grateful and pleased that they did that. But even
more, I feel a strong sense of responsibility to do as they did to
keep this movement strong and vibrant for the next generation of
blind people, who will have much less struggle than I did because
of the work that we have done.


          CONCERNING BOOKS, LAWN MOWERS, AND BUS RIDES
                         by Marc Maurer

     When I was growing up, it seemed to me that my parents were
always telling me what to do.  Now that I am an adult with children
of my own, I am very frequently required to remind my children to
do the things they know they must.  Sometimes they pay attention,
but sometimes they don't.

     The growing up years are the time for learning how to behave,
for experimentation, and for seeking maturity.  During this period
parents are faced with many decisions--decisions that won't wait:
What discipline should be imposed? How much freedom can the
children manage? What experiences should they have? How much
direction can effectively be given? And what is the proper balance
between encouraging independence and maintaining sufficient control
to guard against disaster?  Too much protection can stifle
initiative, and too little can lead to ruin.  This basic set of
considerations is as important for sighted parents raising blind
children as it is for those raising sighted children.
 
     I was born blind.  However, I had a tiny amount of residual
vision.  Nobody ever told me that I was blind, so I didn't realize
it until I was five.   

     My parents loved me, and they wanted very much for me to be a
normal, healthy child.  When I was six, they took me to an eye
doctor for a new kind of operation, but it didn't work. Worse than
that.  As a result of it, I became totally blind.  

     For several weeks I was moody and despondent.  Late one hot
summer night I was sitting on my father's lap on the front porch
swing.  He struck a match.  The sudden flare startled me, and I
jumped.  I had been able to see the light of the flame. All of us
wondered what it meant, and my father hoped fervently that I would
be able to regain the use of my eyes.  But this was not to be.  I
would remain blind, and we must decide how to manage.  None of us
knew what to do, but my parents were determined that my blindness
should limit me as little as possible.

       During the next summer (between my first and second grade
school years), my mother taught me to read Braille.  Reading was
part of the accepted pattern in our family, and my mother expected
me to read as much as she expected every other child in our family
to read.  But there wasn't much Braille material available.  During
the winter, while I was attending the school for the blind, Braille
books were fairly easy to come by.  But during the summer, the
three months that I spent at home with my family, Braille was
scarce.  

     One year somebody put my name on a list to receive the Braille
edition of My Weekly Reader.  It came in a big, brown envelope
about a foot across and fifteen inches high.  The magazine was
about twenty-five pages long, and I looked forward to getting it. 

     In 1960, Dr. Kenneth Jernigan established a library for the
blind in Iowa, my home state.  My father read about the library in
the paper, and he asked me if I would like to sign up to borrow
Braille books.  I told him that I most certainly would.  The next
time my father drove through Des Moines, he stopped at the library
to enroll me as a borrower.  Soon afterward, the first of the books
arrived in the mail.  

     The packages I received contained three or four volumes. 
Braille books can be long.  Gone With the Wind is ten volumes, but
Charles Dicken's A Christmas Carol is only one.  Each volume I got
from the library was about twelve inches square, and about three
inches thick.  They came to me wrapped in heavy brown paper tied
with string.  

     I very carefully untied the string and folded the paper--both
must be saved for reuse in shipping the books back to the library. 
Books for the blind travel through the mail postage free.  Inside
the front cover of each volume was a mailing label containing the
address of the library.  The label was to be pasted on the package
to return it to the library.  Storing the books, caring for them,
and seeing that they were packaged to be mailed back were my
responsibility.  

     When the books were ready for shipment, sometimes my mother
would take them to the post office for me in the car.  However,
this was not always convenient.  Sometimes I would load the bundles
onto my red wagon and haul them to the post office.  The people in
the post office never seemed very glad to see me.  They appeared to
me to be stern and official.  I was glad to get out of there, but
I wanted more books, so I was willing to face the officialdom of
the postal service.    
     
     Because the books arrived by mail, planning was required to
insure that there was always a supply on hand.  I could get two (or
sometimes three) books at a time.  If  I read them all and sent
them back, I would have no books until the new shipment arrived. 
Consequently, I worked out a revolving book loan system with the
library.
     
     In the summers in the middle of Iowa, there were certain
activities for entertainment.  I could sometimes go swimming, but
the pool was more than a mile and a half walk from my house. 
Occasionally there were picnics, but not often.  There were
television and radio, and sometimes there were rambles in the park
or the woods.  

     However, in those days I did not believe a blind person could
travel through the park or the woods alone.  My excursions on the
nature trails were restricted to times when a friend or a brother
could go with me.  My parents bought me a bicycle built for two,
which I could ride if I found somebody to take the front seat.   

     Then, there were the projects to make a little money.  We
collected empty soda bottles because you could get two cents a
piece for them if they weren't chipped.  One summer my brothers and
I started a lawn mowing business.  The local newspaper agreed to
help kids try to find summer employment by publishing ads for them
at no charge.  We accepted.  

     My father told me that I could use the lawn mower as long as
I maintained it in good repair, bought the gas and oil for it, and
kept our own yard mowed.  We got about half a dozen regular
customers, who wanted their lawns mowed every two weeks.  

     When they called, we would gas up the lawn mower and take it
to cut the grass.  We liked to do it in the mornings--because it
was cooler.  But we would work any time.  We wanted the cash that
the mowing produced.

     My brother was small enough that he couldn't push the mower
very well, but he could guide it.  I pushed, and he steered.  When
the mowing had been completed, we both raked the grass clippings
and bagged them for the trash collector.  We charged four dollars
for small lawns and five for large ones.  

     It may not sound like much to those who have become accustomed
to today's inflated allowances and pay for teen-agers, but we could
earn twenty dollars in a day if we were lucky.  And that seemed
like a lot.  To me it still does.
     
     All of us in the Maurer family did housework. After the inside
chores, each of us was assigned yard work for an hour.  Once we
were directed to tuck-point the foundation of our home.  When the
mortar between the bricks gets old and loose, it must be scraped
out and replaced with new concrete.  Of course, not all of the
mortar deteriorates.  If it did, the foundation would collapse.  

     The tuck-pointing process repairs surface damage.  It is a
tedious and messy job.  Each morning for several weeks, we mixed a
batch of mortar and applied it to the foundation, replacing damaged
concrete in the joints between all of the exposed bricks. 

     Even with all of the activities I have described, I had a lot
of free time in the summers. I filled it reading.  The library was
my friend, but it was a mysterious friend--one that I had never
met.  I wanted to know more about it.

     I asked my mother if I could visit the library in Des Moines,
forty miles from our home in Boone; and she agreed.  Two of my
brothers and I decided that we would take the Greyhound Bus to get
there, and I began saving pennies for the trip.  The bus ticket
cost $3.30 for adults and $1.65 for children.  I qualified for the
adult fare, but my younger brothers could get the cheaper rate.  

     It took me quite a while to get the money together.  This
particular trip was planned before I had come upon the lawn mowing
business.  My father might give me fifty cents a week for my
allowance, and there might be some other money from the collection
of the soda bottles, but that was about it.  

     After saving for weeks, we had the money; and we headed for
the local bus station--a counter at Eddie's newspaper shop. But
when we got there, Eddie told us there had been a fare increase. 
The spare change we had saved for emergencies had to go.  We spent
all our money on bus tickets.  

     The bus ride from Boone to Des Moines took about an hour. 
When we arrived at the Des Moines bus station, we discovered that
it was only a short walk to the library for the blind.  I was
delighted with all of the books, and with the friendliness of the
staff members there.  They said I could browse to my heart's
content and pick out anything I wanted.  

     After a while, I found a good book, and I started to read. 
One of the staff members brought me a chair and asked if I needed
anything else.  I said that I did not, and I just kept reading.  
     
     After a time my brothers got bored with the library.  They are
sighted, and they cannot read Braille.  I was the oldest (thirteen
or fourteen at the time), so I was in charge.  My brothers asked me
if they could visit the state capitol building, and I told them
they could.  They disappeared and were gone for hours.  I didn't
care at all; I had the books.  Perhaps it is just as well that my
mother didn't know about the nature of my supervision that day.
     
     Late in the afternoon, my brothers returned; and we headed
back to the bus station.  All of us were quite hungry.  We had
neglected to bring lunch, and we didn't have any money to buy any. 
We had spent all we had on the bus tickets.  But the ride home was
cheerful, and I carried a book with me to read on the bus.  
     
     It was the first trip away from home that I ever planned.  I
wished that I had thought about the lunch.  But despite this
mistake, I was satisfied.  I had seen the library, and I had a
book.  Not only that.  I had the prospect of hundreds and thousands
more.

     My parents required me to work, gave me independence, and
taught me to read.  They let me know in a thousand ways that I was
a cherished member of the family.  They insisted that I make
contributions, and they made it perfectly clear that the standard
of behavior and the quality of work required would be no less for
me than for the other children in the family.  As I look back from
the perspective of manhood and with children of my own, this is the
way it should have been.

     In the National Federation of the Blind we are committed to
help blind children get the best education their minds can take. 
Building the right future demands education, a spirit of self-
reliance, and the balance to know when to guide and when to keep
hands off.

     For those of us who have reached adulthood, the pattern of
life is established.  However, for the children the dreams for the
future can be as broad as our imagination and our commitment
permit.  We believe in our children, and whenever we can find a way
to do it, we will put a book into their hands.  


               CHILDREN, FRUITCAKE, AND RECTANGLES
                        by Barbara Walker

     Barbara Walker is no stranger to readers of previous Kernel
Books--her sensitive and thought-provoking stories having appeared
in a number of them. Here she reflects on the key ingredients of
her own childhood, which enabled her to find her place in the
world--as a leader in her community, her church, and the National
Federation of the Blind. Here is what she has to say:

     When my son John, at the age of three, said he wanted some
fruitcake that had been in the refrigerator for quite awhile, I
said: "Just a minute, please. I need to see what kind of shape it's
in." His response was immediate: "It's in a rectangle shape, and I
want some." Somehow, his response got me to thinking about my own
childhood.

     I have always been blind. My sister, Laurie, is also blind.
Our older brother, Lani, isn't. There was, to our parents'
knowledge, no history of blindness in our family.
Discussing my sister's case, the doctors said they didn't know the
cause of blindness, but thought there was probably a one in a
thousand chance of recurrence. Since I arrived--blind--fourteen
months later, either I'm one in a thousand, or they didn't know
what they were talking about. All of us are now grown, married, and
have children--none of whom is blind.

     Our parents knew nothing about blindness. They struggled with
stereotypes as all of us do, but their hope for us was the same as
that for our brother--that we would eventually be contributing and
fulfilled adults, no longer needing or wanting to live under their
care.

     My sister, from what I remember my mother's telling me,
crawled, walked, and talked at about the same time as neighbor kids
her age. She ran away from home more than once while still in
diapers, handled everything she could get to, was adept with her
fingers, questioned incessantly, and insisted on a prominent place
in her world.

     I, on the other hand, neither walked nor talked until I was
about two, showed little visible evidence that I was particularly
curious about my environment, and was clumsy and awkward with my
hands and body--breaking many things with which I came into
contact.
     As toddlers and preschoolers, we continued to show contrasts.
Laurie, at age two, walked along the piano reaching up to pick out
melodies on the keyboard. She generally chose gentle play--
interacting with others, real or imaginary--and was afraid of high
slides, going on carnival rides, and the like.

     I loved rough play--wrestling, running hard, swinging and/or
climbing high, flipping over and off of bars, throwing and catching
balls, etc.--and I loved high slides, carnival rids, and the like.

     Mom, the more verbally expressive of our parents, said there
were many times when she didn't understand how we would or could do
things, and it scared her to have us try. But she didn't stand in
our way. She learned Braille so that we  could correspond
privately. She persistently went to bat for us when we were left
out or mistreated--not in ways that made us dependent upon her, but
in ways that preserved respect and dignity for everyone, and
provided us with experience in everything from fielding questions
to finding alternative methods for doing things ordinarily done
with the use of sight.

     Dad showed his acceptance of us in other ways. He showed us
how things worked. He pointed out nonvisual qualities of things
generally perceived visually, like the contrasting cool and hot
pavement where his shadow passed. He made us doll cribs and a
playhouse. Dad also took me fishing and encouraged my interests in
competitive sports.

     My sister and I were given hands-on experiences whenever their
availability and our interests coincided. I was a very shy child,
and sometimes my self-consciousness prevented me from taking full
advantage of these opportunities. If Laurie was along, I generally
asked her later about whatever we had seen, and she would explain
it in detail--sometimes creating a replica to show me.

     Underlying all of these things were our parents' respect for
us as people and their encouragement toward our finding a place in
society--not a pigeonhole created by them or anyone else, but a
place we could earn as others do. That genuine attitude of respect
and affirmation of our worth and dignity did more than all the
experiences and skills combined in allowing us to grow and become
contributing members of society.


                  THE WALL-TO-WALL THANKSGIVING
                        by Barbara Pierce

     Barbara Pierce is no stranger to Kernel Book readers, having
appeared in these pages frequently. The remarkable thing about her
current story is that it records truly unremarkable events--the
sort that occur regularly in any typical family. Read Barbara's
heartwarming account of her young family's efforts to celebrate
traditional American holidays while living in London and see if you
don't come to believe that we who are blind are people--just like
you in more ways than not. Here is what she has to say:

     Almost twenty years ago now my English-professor husband Bob;
our three children (Steven, nine; Anne, six; and Margaret, just
four); and I packed up and moved to London for the school year. 
Bob was to teach our college's London semester program during the
fall semester and spend the spring doing his own scholarship during
his sabbatical leave.  The children, including little Margy, would
all attend school, and I planned to keep house, try my hand at
writing a book, and spend time getting to know the members of the
National Federation of the Blind of the United Kingdom.

     We were lucky to find a small house to rent in one of the out-
lying suburbs.  The elementary school was nearby, as were the shops
where I would spend a good deal of time and the tube station from
which Bob would leave for central London every morning.  Best of
all, our next-door neighbor had a niece around the corner who was
willing to baby-sit for us during the evenings when Bob and I went
to the theater with his students.

     We settled in easily, and the shopkeepers became accustomed to
my long white cane, American accent, two-wheeled shopping trolley,
and occasional gaggle of children.  Expeditions to the butcher,
greengrocer, chemist, and grocery shop were easier and faster
without the youngsters, but so were cleaning the house and writing. 
Besides, the girls especially loved to "go to the shops" with me,
so we quickly became an institution in the neighborhood.

     By late October the whole family had become acclimatized to
life in London.  The children had made friends and were developing
English accents.  I was resigned to washing school uniforms in the
bath tub on the days when I didn't go to the laundromat.  And Bob
had established a warm relationship with his students.  We decided
that on the Saturday before Halloween we should invite the whole
class to supper.  They had tickets to a Saturday matinee
performance of a Shakespeare play, so it would be easy for all of
them to come back to the house together at the close of the
afternoon.

     I didn't even consider attending the play that day.  After
all, somebody had to prepare supper for that crowd, and I didn't
think that the baby-sitter and the children would get very far
picking up the living room, much less setting out the food I had
prepared.

     Steven had been somewhat disappointed at missing Halloween at
home with its costumes and trick or treating, so we decided to do
what we could to celebrate this important annual rite of American
childhood with our party.  I made a big chocolate cake and let the
children tint the butter frosting a shocking shade of orange.  We
managed to find candy corn and witches with which to decorate our
masterpiece.

     But the real triumph of the meal was to be the loaf of home-
made bread.  I had decided that, considering the small rooms of our
house, I would have to settle for feeding the students sandwiches
and potato chips--crisps in London.  I arranged a large tray of
sliced meats and cheeses and another of fresh vegetables and dip. 
I bought several sorts of rolls and small interesting loaves.  But
in the center of the table was a large loaf of potato bread in the
shape of a jack-o-lantern, complete with eyes, eye brows, ears,
nose, and mouth full of snaggly teeth.  Anne was regretful that I
would not agree to make the bread orange or allow her to frost the
finished loaf with the left-over icing from the cake.  But despite
its shortcomings in the eyes of the children, our pumpkin was the
hit of the evening.

     Bob and the students were late getting home from the play, and
in the interim a glass of liquid got spilled by one of the
children, but it hardly dampened the upholstery or the spirits of
the party.

     The students were delighted to be in a home with children to
play with.  And you would have thought I had prepared a banquet for
them instead of a simple supper.  When I saw them at the theater
during the early weeks of November, they continued to talk
wistfully about the fun they had had with our family.

     As Thanksgiving drew closer, I began to realize that I was
going to have to do something about the holiday.  It isn't
celebrated in England, of course, and the students were beginning
to feel homesick at the prospect of being so far away from family
for the holiday.  But having sixteen students in for sandwiches and
finger food on paper plates and doing a complete Thanksgiving
dinner for them were two very different things.  For one, we had
six plates and about as many sets of silverware.  There was almost
no counter space in the kitchen, and though the stove had four
burners, the oven was half the size of my oven at home.  But it was
clear that, problems or no, Thanksgiving was going to be celebrated
in memorable style in our home that year.  I asked each student to
bring a plate and silverware for each person that he or she was
bringing to dinner, and I invited them all to bring along some
contribution of food.

     Meanwhile I had managed to find one of those large foil
disposable roasting pans in a local department store.  Much to my
relief, when I got it home, it actually fit into my oven.  I took
it off to the butcher and asked him to get me the largest turkey
that would fit into the pan.  He did so, and he even agreed to keep
it in his freezer for me until I was ready to cope with it.  The
day before the Feast, as the children began calling that
Thanksgiving, I stopped to make sure that the butcher had moved the
turkey from the freezer into his cooler for me.  He assured me that
he had and that it would be thawed for me in the morning.  Relieved
of that nagging worry, I went home to get on with my preparations.

     When I went into the kitchen to begin dinner, I discovered to
my horror that the oven would not light.  Here was a nightmare
indeed.  Luckily the Gas Board was not about to shut down for a
long holiday weekend, so they promised that someone would be around
first thing in the morning to see about the cooker.

     My dreams were filled that night with catastrophes in which I
was trying to roast turkeys over matches.  But in the morning we
experienced a whole series of miracles.  First, the Gas Board man
turned up early.  Second, he discovered that there was nothing
seriously wrong with the stove, and he could and did fix it
immediately.  The third event took a little longer to resolve
itself into a miracle.  It began by looking remarkably like a
catastrophe.

     While I stayed home to deal with the stove and the other
preparations, Bob took the children with him to do the last-minute
shopping, including picking up the turkey.  I was busy finishing
the stuffing when I realized that in the distance I was hearing
Margy crying as the Pierce parade drew near our house.  I raced to
the door to see what the trouble was.  I could hardly believe the
news; the butcher had not in fact transferred the turkey to the
cooler as he had alleged; when Bob handed it to me, it was eighteen
pounds of rock-hard meat--giblets and neck firmly tucked inside the
body cavity.  Though Margy was the only one actually in tears, all
three children were certain that Thanksgiving had just crash landed
in the butcher's freezer.

     There are moments when a parent has no choice but to set aside
anger, frustration, and anxiety and simply rally all available
reserves in the emergency.  I dried Margy's tears and assured
everybody that the day could be saved.  Then the turkey and I
retired to the kitchen sink for some close communion with warm
water.  It was not the correct way to defrost poultry, but I told
myself that, if I could just pry the giblets out and pack the
stuffing in quickly, I could get the bird on to roast before
anything nasty began growing in the meat.

     It worked.  By late afternoon we were ready for the Feast,and
the students began to arrive, bearing an unusual collection of
dishes.  Including several strays picked up by various people along
the way, twenty-three happy Americans eventually sat down to
Thanksgiving dinner.  In fact, we sat down all over the house.  The
living and dining room floors were covered with bodies, and six of
us sat on the steps to the second story.  We had a marvelous time!
The food was delicious, and the fellowship was unforgettable.  I
don't even remember the clean-up.

     Everyone had so much fun that we decided to do it again the
following year when we were all back in the United States.  By then
many of the students had graduated, but they returned to Oberlin
for Thanksgiving and a reunion of the London semester group.  In
some ways the two celebrations were very different.  There were no
crises the second time around.  I managed to come up with enough
dishes and silver to serve everyone without asking people to bring
their own utensils.  And the clean-up was a snap with an electric
dishwasher on the job.

     But the underlying spirit from the year before was still
there.  The young people were delighted to be in our home and
grateful to us for inviting them.  My recollections of these happy
and deeply satisfying events are filled with remembered warmth and
gratitude.  They are for me, as they would be for anyone else, the
very stuff of pleasant family history.  

     But there is one element of these celebrations which is
uniquely precious to me.  My blindness, which to me has become
nothing more than one more of my characteristics, went virtually
unregarded by the students.  I don't mean that they pretended that
it wasn't there.  They made an effort to move out of my path when
I came through carrying food or drink.  But the fact of my
blindness was as unimportant to them as it had become to my husband
and children.  I remember times like these and renew my hope that
the time will come when all blind people will know the freedom for
which I am so deeply grateful.


                      MEETING THE CHALLENGE
                         by Mary Willows

     I sometimes ask people (both blind and sighted) to list the
problems they think blind people face. One that I think is most
critical rarely shows up near the top of the list, but Mary
Willows, a leader in the National Federation of the Blind of
California, zeroes in on it as she talks about meeting the
challenge. Here is what she has to say about how she came to
believe in herself:

     As a child growing up in Chicago, I suppose I did all the
things city kids do: Girl Scouts, baton majorette, cheerleader,
something of a cellist, violinist, and otherwise an average student
academically. I am the second oldest of six and the oldest of the
girls. Fortunately for me, my mother always needed help with
housework. So I learned early to be pretty independent. This really
paid off for me in high school.

     It was during my freshman year that I unexpectedly and
suddenly became blind in a car accident. I had thought of one day
becoming a teacher, but after the accident, that just didn't seem
possible. I wasn't sure what the future held in store for me. I
knew that I had to find something to do with the rest of my life.
But what?

     As time went on I decided that being a psychologist seemed
reasonable and appropriate for me. I liked working with people and
usually developed a good rapport with people I met. Besides, that
way I could open my own business and not have to face the rejection
of trying to convince an employer to hire me. I just did not
believe anyone would want to hire a blind person.

     I managed to get a couple of little jobs while I was in
college. I stuffed Christmas stockings one year in what I now know
was actually a sheltered workshop. I also got a job as a
clerk/typist in a company that went bankrupt. So much for that
idea. However, I had heard about that job from a blind girl who
told me that she knew blind people who were doing all kinds of
jobs. "Anything you can think of, there's a blind person probably
already doing that job," she told me.

     She asked me what I wanted to be. Never mind the blindness. I
said that I had thought about teaching. She said she knew several
blind teachers, and she would introduce them to me. She offered to
let me share a room with her at the convention of the National
Federation of the Blind in downtown Chicago during July of 1972.

     So I went to see for myself. I met teachers, all right. And
lawyers, and secretaries and students. Yes, blind students who were
pulling straight A's. I met someone who showed me how to use a
slate and stylus. He said it was like a pen and paper. It looked
like a little metal piece of framework with a hinge on the left. He
showed me how to slip a piece of paper inside, close it, and write
anything I wanted to in Braille using the notches that were already
cut for me in the framework. He used it in all of his classes to
take notes.

     They used long white canes. They talked about their jobs and
their families and their goals for themselves. I was beginning to
recognize the challenge, and I started to believe that maybe these
things were possible for me too.

     I did get my bachelor's degree in psychology, but by that time
I was ready for yet another challenge--my master's degree. I still
never told anyone that what I really wanted to do was to teach
children in a regular classroom, because I didn't believe I could
do it. About that time I met Jim Willows, a leader in the National
Federation of the Blind of California. We were married and now have
two boys.

     Children ceased being little creatures from outer space to me.
Far from it. I have cared for as many as seven at a time in my
home. I learned to believe in myself by putting one foot in front
of the other. That little flicker had become a burning flame. I was
ready to accept the challenge of returning to school for my
elementary teaching credential.

     I identified three areas of concern for myself: how to get
around independently in an unfamiliar environment; how to write
things down quickly for later use; and how on earth was I going to
control thirty-three youngsters. I believe in taking one step at a
time and solving problems as they occur.

     My first action as soon as I knew the name of the school was
to investigate the grounds. I recalled that I knew a blind child
who attended that school so I asked her to be my mobility
instructor for the day. She was pleased and proud to give me the
grand tour. Many schools in California are made up of small
buildings called pods. Since I did not know the classroom I would
be in, we located all the rooms. We even found the janitor's
office. She showed me where assemblies were held, where the library
was located, and how to find the swings on the playground. Since I
did not know which grade level I would be working with, it was
impossible to obtain any of the texts in advance.

     When the time came for me to begin teaching lessons, I
prepared myself with Braille notes. I used a slate and stylus for
any last-minute instructions from the teacher. I scheduled ample
readers in the evenings so I could preview material for the next
day.

     If there were papers to collect after a lesson, I put them
into a file folder with my Braille notes so that I knew what those
papers were. That evening I directed a reader in correcting the
papers.

     Long white cane in hand, slate and stylus in my backpack, I
set out finally to become an elementary school teacher. On my first
day of student teaching, my heart was pounding. There I was
standing in front of a class of thirty-three very intimidating
fourth graders.

     My master teacher suggested that I take the children one at a
time to the back of the room and let them interview me. They could
ask me anything they wanted to know. So I did, and they did. They
wanted to know about my slate and stylus. So I decided to seize the
opportunity and slipped two 3 by 5 cards inside and wrote each
child's name while we were talking.

     By the end of forty minutes I not only had all their names
written in Braille, but I also had time to connect names with
voices. Within my first week, I became responsible for the weekly
spelling tests.

     I also supervised reading and math groups. Each week the
teacher read the spelling words to me so I could put them in
Braille. This was another time that I was glad I knew how to use a
slate and stylus. This is a skill every blind teacher should have.

     My third area of concern was discipline. The first time I was
left alone with the students, they were all over the place. I could
have died because my supervisor was sitting right there. Of course,
the other student teachers at the university were having the same
problems. The students were having a field day with their new
teacher.

     Once I demonstrated to them that I could write the names of
the guilty on the board, they decided that I was the boss; and they
settled down. I do not let my own children get away with anything,
so why should these?

     The very next day, I was put to the test. I had to take many
different reading groups over to the cafeteria to practice the
plays they had been learning. I had never been in a play, so this
was going to be interesting. I knew I could direct these plays, and
I did. I sat each group down at the end of the stage and showed
them my slate with paper in it. I said I wanted to hear only the
actors. If I heard anything else, the guilty person's name would be
written down and later copied on the blackboard. There were only
two who tested me.

     Student teachers typically start off with the responsibility
of escorting the class from the playground into the classroom after
the morning bell and after recess. This meant locating my students
among the nine hundred others. This was no problem, for when they
saw me, they all called my name, which made it easy to locate the
line. The line of students did not move until I gave the word. I
did not give the word until there was silence. Their own teacher
was impressed.

     Each morning I chose a monitor to assist with the absentee
list and the lunch count. I told the monitor what to write on the
absentee slip. I had the students look left, and then right, and
tell me who was missing. For the lunch count I had them raise
hands; the monitor wrote that count.

     I hope that sharing some of my techniques might encourage
others who think teaching is impossible because of blindness. In
the National Federation of the Blind, we say that given a good
education and proper training, a blind person can compete with
sighted peers and do just as well or just as poorly. The real
difference is in whether or not we believe in ourselves. Belief in
ourselves is the true key to success no matter what the challenge,
no matter what the task.


                          DADDY READ ME
                       by Bonnie Peterson

     If you could change just one thing about your childhood, what
would it be? An interesting question and one which you would
normally expect to bring a wide variety of answers. But if you ask
this question of a group of blind people, you tend to get one
overwhelming response: "I wish I had been taught to read Braille."
In "Daddy Read Me" Bonnie Peterson expresses the pain and anguish
of a mother who cannot read to her three-year-old. Here is what she
says: 

     I teach communications and public speaking in the university
system of Wisconsin. I am also blind. Taking notes is, of course,
something that is extremely valuable to me. I take notes on a
myriad of topics, and I take them in Braille. I use Braille to
write notes to myself about grades and other important information
concerning my students. 

     I also use Braille in my home life--writing down appointments
and grocery lists and keeping track of my two daughters' schedules.
(They have basketball practice, volleyball and soccer games, and
gymnastic classes--and I have to see that everyone gets to the
right place at the right time.) But it wasn't always that way. I
didn't always take notes in Braille.

     When I went to school, my parents were told that I didn't need
Braille; after all, I could see. We didn't know about the National
Federation of the Blind then. I went all the way through school and
college, struggling to try to read with my tiny amount of remaining
vision. 

     Then, the National Federation of the Blind came into my life,
and I saw wonderful, positive blind people doing things that I
couldn't do in a million years--like reading and writing Braille
comfortably and easily. These were people who weren't struggling
with eyestrain, which had become such an ordinary fact of my
everyday life that I didn't even bother complaining about it. 

     You would have thought that would be enough to make me change,
but it wasn't. It took the reaction of my three-year-old daughter
to do that.

     I was reading her a book about Dumbo the elephant. Of course,
reading the book meant wrapping it around my face, straining to see
the print, and stumbling as I tried to read what I could not see.
I still remember the way she looked at me and said, "Daddy read
me." Even though she did not mean to be cruel, what I heard in her
words was, "You are stupid!" 

     That was enough for me. With the help of the Federation, I
learned Braille in two months, and my life has been changed forever
because of it. Not just because of Braille, but because of the
self-confidence I have gained. I owe a great part of who and what
I am today to the National Federation of the Blind. 


                        THE BALANCE BEAM
                     by Noel J. Nightengale

     Noel Nightengale lives in Washington State, where she is a
leader in the National Federation of the Blind. A recent law school
graduate, she has passed the bar and has secured her first job as
an attorney with a large and prestigious law firm. In "The Balance
Beam," Noel deals with doubts about her ability to compete in the
corporate world--both her own doubts and those of her colleagues.
Here is what she has to say: 

     I am a lawyer with the large West Coast law firm of Heller,
Ehrman, White, and McAuliffe. I work in the Seattle office in the
Environmental Practice Group. I got the job the ordinary way that
new attorneys get jobs with law firms, which is that I worked with
Heller, Ehrman during the summer, and they liked my work and
offered me a permanent position.

     After the bar examination last summer I attended an NFB
training center, where I learned Braille and better cane travel and
engaged in other activities that helped build my confidence as a
blind person. 

     My job is probably not very interesting to those who observe
it from the outside. I research specific legal issues and then
write memoranda to more senior attorneys about those issues. I then
discuss my research with them and do follow-up research as needed.
As a new attorney I don't get much contact with the clients; I'm
pretty much stuck off in my office doing research and writing. But
I also attend a lot of meetings, primarily at lunch, where we sit
around and talk about issues that affect the law firm--how to
develop clients, how to hire environmental consultants--a broad
spectrum of issues. I also attend a lot of social events that the
firm holds or that are sponsored by other organizations that the
law firm would like to establish or develop business relations
with.

     The job accommodations I use aren't unique. I use Braille, a
white cane, a reader, and adaptive computer equipment. I find that
the most challenging aspect of my job as an attorney has nothing to
do with the job accommodations I make. Instead, it's dealing with
my colleagues and persuading them to see me as just another new
attorney, rather than focusing on my blindness.

     My colleagues' attitudes and reactions toward me are typified
by a retreat I went to with them. It was in a town a little way
from where I live. My law firm had hired an organization which
provides business with challenging activities for executives to
engage in that are designed to facilitate personal and team growth.
We weren't told what these activities would be, and, as the time
for the retreat drew nearer, all of the attorneys' anxiety levels
about it grew stronger and stronger.

     About a week before the retreat one of my colleagues, a friend
in the firm who was on the retreat committee, came to me and asked
if I was planning on participating in the retreat. I told her that
I was, and she asked if I had any concerns. I said that I didn't
know what was going to happen and that I was planning to give
everything the old college try. Then I addressed her real question,
which was, because I am blind, could I do it? She assured me that
that hadn't been her question, but that unnamed people had come to
her with concerns about my ability to participate. I said again
that I planned to participate in all the events.

     But as the retreat drew nearer and nearer, I started hearing
rumors about what these events were, and one of them was that there
was going to be a very high balance beam that we were going to walk
on. I did become a little nervous at hearing that.    

     The morning of the retreat came and at the breakfast, which
all the attorneys attended, the leader came up to me and got down
on his knees so that his face was very close to mine as I sat in my
chair, and he spoke to me in the kind of voice that one speaks to
a child with. He asked me if I was really going to participate. I
think he was hoping I was going to say no. But I assured him that
I was, and he walked away disappointed.

     We walked down to the area where we were going to do warm-up
exercises, and all went fine until a little way into the exercises.
Then they told us to stand on one foot with the other foot touching
our behinds. I started wobbling the minute I did it. I had to keep
touching the ground with my raised foot. That shook my confidence.
I thought, "If I can't stand on one foot, how am I going to walk on
a balance beam?" Then I remembered Dr. Jernigan's talking about a
sighted person's asking him about a blind person's ability to
balance. He tried standing on one foot and found that he couldn't
do it very well. But when he practiced a little, he could do it
fine, and that steadied me. I told myself that I wasn't balancing
well because I was nervous.

     We then split up into teams of three and went to the event
area. As the sight was described to me, there was indeed a balance
beam about seventy feet in the air, stretched between two trees,
with a rough ladder against one tree, leading up to the beam. The
leader told us that we would be wearing harnesses with ropes
attached to them and that the event would be perfectly safe if we
chose to participate. One brave attorney decided to go first. She
climbed up and walked out to the middle, where we were supposed to
trust those ropes and jump off. She did just fine, and several more
attorneys went, and soon there were only a few of us left who
hadn't done it. And some of them were so scared they were talking
about not doing it. I decided that, before these people psyched me
out, I had better get going and do it. So I started up the ladder,
which was easy. I just found each rung with one hand and then
pulled myself up another step. But, when I got to the beam, which
took forever, I got myself onto it and put my back to the tree with
my hands behind me, hugging the tree. That's when I noticed that
the beam was round and narrow--three and a half inches across. I
was very scared! So I shouted down to the leader, "Now what?"

     He shouted back, "Walk to the middle and jump off."

     I said, "How?" Eventually I made myself take that first
tentative step, but it was so scary that I quickly jumped back and
hugged the tree. I could not figure out how I was going to do this.
I stood there for a while slowly realizing that I either had to go
or come back down. I was afraid that I would take one step, fall
off, and bang into the tree.

     But eventually I decided that the best thing was just to get
it over with. So I started walking, and eventually I got to the
middle. But when they started shouting that I was in the middle, I
didn't believe them. I thought they were just saying that to make
me feel good. So I kept going. Then I noticed that their shouts
were sounding very insistent. It was definitely time to jump. I
stopped and gathered myself for a minute, and then I jumped, and
the rope stopped me the way it was supposed to. When I eventually
got to the ground, my colleagues rushed up to me and hugged me and
cheered. They told me how great I had done, better than anybody
else. But I hadn't done better than anybody else. I probably did
worse than anybody else, except for the ones who didn't attempt it.

     The next two events went fine. I performed at about the same
level as my colleagues, or maybe a little worse, I don't know. But
by the end of the day I was getting an incredible amount of praise
and adulation. People from other groups were walking up to me and
telling me that they had heard that I was the star of the show. I
began to feel very uneasy and uncomfortable. Why were these people
so impressed by my mediocre achievements? I concluded it was
because they had started out with such low expectations of what I
was going to do that day. And that very much disturbed me. If they
had such profound doubts about my ability to walk on a balance
beam, how could they possibly believe that I was able to be as
competent at the law as they were?

     This brings me to the one other job accommodation I make on
the job that I think every blind person must make. It makes all the
other accommodations work. I work to maintain a high level of
confidence in myself. The only way my colleagues can learn to have
confidence in me is for me to have confidence in myself. But this
confidence must be grounded in substance--confidence in my strong
blindness skills and in my lawyering skills.

     I have heard Marc Maurer, President of the National Federation
of the Blind, say that when he faces something challenging, he
remembers his brothers and sisters in the Federation and their love
and support for him.

     That's exactly what I did on that balance beam. After I took
that first failed step, I stood up there on that beam and thought
about how my friends in the Federation would be cheering for me and
supporting me. That's what gave me the courage to go for it and
prove that I could do it. That's the only way I know of to maintain
a steady level of self-confidence in a world filled with doubts
about the ability of blind people.


                   BIG ENOUGH TO RIDE THE BIKE
                         by Doug Elliott

     Doug Elliott lives in Iowa--having moved there from Nevada,
where he was president of the National Federation of the Blind of
Nevada. In the following story he revisits a familiar Kernel Book
theme: What, beyond the traditional "blindness skills" is required
truly to overcome the limitations imposed by blindness? Here is how
Doug answers that question:

     One of my earliest memories is of my fourth birthday when my
parents gave me a new shiny red bicycle. The bike was medium sized,
but it was still too big for a four-year-old. My father tried to
adapt it by making training wheels for the back wheel and made
blocks for the pedals so that I could reach them. The training
wheels caused me to lean either to the right or left of center, and
the pedal blocks would spin instead of remaining steady when I
pushed them. 

     I soon lost interest in trying to learn how to ride my new
bike. My father removed all the adaptive equipment and told me I
could learn how to ride when I was big enough. When I would see
other kids riding their bikes, the image of the shiny red bike
would haunt me and soon I was pushing it alongside a rock wall by
our house so that I could get on the wall and mount the bike, then
push off from the wall. I was determined to be big enough to ride
the bike.

     At first I would coast just a little and then fall off in the
grass. I continued this process, and each time I was going further
and further before a crash would occur. Nobody in the neighborhood-
-parents or other kids--thought this trial and error way of
learning was unusual or bad or stupid. Bike riding is a skill that
everyone has to learn by making mistakes and falling off. And
sometimes you have to grow into it. You have to be big enough to
ride the bike. It was frightening to me at first, but I didn't get
hurt, and I did learn to ride before I was five.

     When I was twenty-one I went to Viet Nam where I lost my sight
due to a mine explosion. I thought I would never walk downtown by
myself again, be able to get a good paying job, or be able to go
out and have fun as I used to do--in short, that I would never be
big enough to ride the bike. 

     I received what is called rehabilitation training--courses in
using a white cane and reading Braille, and instruction in typing,
cooking, and the use of power tools--skills we need as blind people
to live independently. I technically learned these skills in the
same way I technically was riding my bike when I coasted a few feet
on the grass. But, when I completed my training, I knew that
something was missing. I still was just coasting, not really using
the skills.

     I now know that I was not limited by the fact that I could not
see; I was limited by my lack of belief in my own capabilities, my
belief that I wasn't big enough to ride the bike. And, of course,
I thought other blind people were just as limited as I was. I
wouldn't have admitted this; I just knew it inside myself.

     When I returned home with my new skills, I found that unlike
the experience of learning to ride a bike, the people around me did
not believe that the skill of using a white cane should be
practiced and perfected. They did not think it would ever be safe
for me to walk around freely with a white cane.  Neither did I. I
was just coasting, not big enough to ride the bike.

     My old boss at Sears would not hire me to do the same
appliance repair job I had held before going to Viet Nam. He said
I couldn't do the job because I couldn't drive to homes where
repairs were needed. But he wouldn't hire me to repair appliances
in the shop, either. 

     He knew I could do the work, but he didn't think I could get
around the shop safely. He hired me back, but the only job he
offered was sitting in a chair all day selling soap and maintenance
agreements over the phone. I did this for a little while, but I
felt my skills and talents were not being challenged, that I was
not really riding the bike.  

     So I quit.

     I knew I was missing something--skills, training, challenges,
something. I applied for admission to college and was accepted
under probation because they didn't think I could ride the bike. I
did the work successfully, earning my bachelor's degree and then
master's degree in social work and have worked for the past two
decades as a licensed clinical social worker. But, for about half
that time, I knew something was missing.

     Twenty years after I lost my sight, a member of the National
Federation of the Blind invited me to a Federation meeting. I
agreed to go but said I was probably not interested because, after
all, what could a bunch of blind people offer me? But I went.
Afterward, I said to myself, "This is what I have been missing."
These people believe in themselves. They are big enough to ride the
bike. The Federation message to blind people is that, yes, you will
make mistakes and need to practice when learning blindness skills
just like everyone practices riding a bike, but that is no reason
to stop trying to learn.

     When I finally got the Federation message, I started using my
cane on a regular basis, started to practice up on my Braille
skills, and started to see myself as a capable human being again.

     I now know that, before I met the Federation, I was really
going through life thinking that sight was the only way to do
things. The Federation provided the missing piece--the strong
belief that there are other ways than with sight to do things
safely and efficiently. If you have sight, that's the easiest way.
If you don't, there are other ways. 

     This simple but vital perspective straightened out lots of
puzzles for me and gave me the confidence that merely learning a
skill could not. After joining the Federation, I started practicing
cane use and Braille reading with a new view--these work for other
people, and I can make them work for me.

     I recently got married and moved to a small town in Iowa where
my wife has lived for some time. My wife has been in the NFB for a
long time and has set the norm in this town that the blind aren't
helpless and can learn with some assistance.

     One cold and snowy winter night shortly after I arrived here,
I got lost--completely turned around. Cars passed back and forth
but no one stopped to ask if I was okay or to offer assistance as
they would have done where I lived before. And I had no idea how to
get home. So, I walked out into the street and waved down a car to
ask where Broad Street was. 

     The driver turned out to be the owner of the jewelry store in
town where my wife had purchased my wedding ring. He didn't get out
of his car or offer a ride home as I expected. Instead, he told me
to go one block behind me and turn left--that was Broad Street. I
thanked him and left. 

     The next day my wife stopped at the jewelry store. The owner
told her that I had waved him down the night before when I was
lost. He said to her that I would have to work on finding my way
around here and that he knew he shouldn't give me a ride but rather
should give me information, because I would learn faster that way.
With support for each other and the understanding of our sighted
friends like the jewelry store owner, we can go beyond coasting,
beyond mere skills--to walking outside and going where we want.
It's really as easy as that.

     I learned it when I was four pushing off of the wall to get my
bicycle started. I learned it again on the battlefields of Viet
Nam. And I learned it once more when I got home and began dealing
with blindness. Maybe all of us have to learn it over and over
throughout our lives. The problems may seem to be too hard to
solve, but if we work at it with determination and if we believe in
ourselves and in the innate goodness of the people around us, we
will be big enough to ride the bike.


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

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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 nonprofit 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
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