“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba…”

― Hunter S. Thompson, Kingdom of Fear: Loathsome Secrets of a Star-Crossed Child in the Final Days of the American Century

Motorcycles—and riding them—have been a part of most of my adult life. I say most, because I seem to have sworn them off any number of times, only to feel an ache to get back on.

Me, Pick, and a friend incognito under the helmet before a ride, circa 1981.

I bought my first when I was 19, and I don’t know how I managed that without being thrown out of the house. I was an idiot who was more lucky than good, often riding without a helmet and never with earplugs. (The latter practice, combine with too speakers in a small dorm room and too many arena concerts, have left me with an annoying case of tinnitus.)

I graduated from college, took a job in Washington, D.C., and determined that the responsible thing to do as I entered the real world was sell my bike.

In D.C., maintaining ownership of a car proved too expensive. And so, I sold the four-wheeler and … bought another motorcycle. I commuted in all kinds of weather, but when it was too bad, I relied on the kindness of my roommate, Pick, who drove to work on most days, for a ride. Pick ended up buying himself a motorcycle, and we spent many happy weekends camping along the Blue Ridge.

My companion last week, a Triumph Bonneville.

The next rite of passage was marriage, and again, for some reason I was compelled to bite the bullet and give up on the bike. This, despite Beth not really caring either way.

A lot happened, years passed, and one day a vintage BMW motorcycle whooshed by as I sat on our front porch in Urbana. A longtime friend rode one years ago, and I always had a thing for it. Uh oh.

Next thing, I was on a used BMW R80/7.

This time around, now a parent, I took things a might more seriously. I took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation course, bought good protective gear, and pretty much worked on my skills every time I rode. I read voraciously about technique, and even took a class at a race track.

For years that followed, motorcycling was my meditation. It might seem odd that someone like me—prone to angst and worry—would find peace in an activity that requires hypervigilance just to avoid catastrophe. But I do.

I think it’s because I’m prone to mental spinning, thinking of too many things at one time. On a bike, that stops. Maybe it’s self preservation. Or the extreme stimulation of the experience. Robert M. Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, described the experience as well as I ever could:

“In a car you’re always in a compartment, and because you’re used to it you don’t realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You’re a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. On a cycle the frame is gone. You’re completely in contact with it all. You’re in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming.”

For years riding was an escape—even if for only a couple hours on a weekend afternoon. I’d get on, head out to the country to a forest preserve, take a hike, and come back.

When we moved to the city,the expense of storing a motorcycle, combined with the combat attitude necessary to survive on downtown streets, led to me, once again, letting my motorcycle go.

The last few months have been especially demanding workwise, and I’ve had a harder and harder time leaving the stress behind. So I took a few days off last week and…rented a motorcycle. I had it just for a couple days and rode around well outside the Chicago city limits. Open spaces and…well…it was as good as ever.

Not sure I want to go to the trouble of buying one and finding a place to keep it and all that.

But I know this: It won’t be my last ride.

And now, go go goat photos.

Check if the fence is still broken. Once a goat has found an escape route they’ll keep checking it!

And videos.

And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.

Photo Narrations — pictures for the blind and sighted

by Tina Paulick

Beth’s post was about how she asked writers in her memoir writing class to describe a photograph to someone who is blind and the amazing texts resulting from this exercise. Our blog Photo Narrations for the blind and sighted is dedicated to describing photographs taken by photographers who are visually impaired or blind. It is a great place for blind and sighted photographers and creative writers to:

• reflect on photographs
• gain a better understanding of the process of seeing and perceiving
• respect photography and photo narration as art forms

Two sighted students help a blind photographer adjust her camera to take a picture in Berlin. (Photo credit: Stephan Wilke)

If you are wondering now why blind people are interested in something so visual as photography, our blog also features interviews and guest posts by blind photographers explaining their motivations and how they work. One of our contributors writes:

People always ask, why do blind people want to take photos. I always get this question and it frustrates me, so why don’t we give them an answer. Because we want to, because we can! Why do you take photographs? The world is full of images, we are surrounded by them. Obviously they are important. But blind people cannot see them in the same way sighted people do. We see with sound, touch and our imagination. That’s why photo narration is so important to us. The photo narration helps to capture the image we ultimately see in our minds.

Our sighted describers also benefit from the experience – writing photo narrations for blind people expands one’s perception and imagined boundaries. Karsten Hein, a sighted photographer from Germany who initiated this project writes:

For me as a sighted person, interested in pictures and the perception of pictures, it is a remarkable experience to describe pictures for blind people. It’s a completely different thing, when I look at a photograph in order to describe it for someone, who cannot see it. I have to think in a completely different way than I normally would. What’s important in the photograph? What’s worth mentioning? I look closer and closer, closer than I would look at it in nearly any other context. And the more I look at it the more I have to come to understand how little I really know about the photograph.

Karsten’s idea for this project came after he did a portrait series featuring people who are blind. He talked to his models during the shootings so they’d forget the camera and feel more comfortable. The models had many questions about what impact their appearance might make on other people, and they expressed an interest in photography. Thus, Karsten developed photography workshops for visually impaired and blind photographers.

Karsten’s classes are run in cooperation with a University in Berlin. A small team of sighted students is allocated to every photographer to help him or her to find motives, adjust the camera ,select the best picture and describe the resulting photo in text. We set up our German blog Bilder für die Blinden to showcase the work.

Now we’ve started an English Photo Narrations blog, too, to spread our idea further and to encourage people all over the world to become part of our creative community. We are always looking for volunteers to write descriptions of photographs for us. As Beth pointed out in her Describing a photograph to someone who can’t see blog post, it’s a great creative writing exercise.

Additionally, we provide a platform to publish and discuss the narrations writers come up with for the photographs — our blind and visually impaired members can write comments and ask further questions.

Back to me — I may just give this a try! I don’t think I’ll take any photos, but I may send some photos people give me to the photo narrations blog to see how they describe what’s going on there. Take a look at — or a listen to — the Photo Narrations blog for further information or contact them at: picdesc@gmail.com
You can like them on Facebook or follow them on twitter at @PicDesc, too.

Linda earned an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte — her fiction is forthcoming in Fiction International and appears in the current issue of Crab Orchard Review. She’s a fine writer, and I was delighted when she offered to write this guest post describing our tour from her point of, ahem, view.

by Linda Downing Miller

Twenty years ago, I was infatuated with the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Moving to Oak Park, Ill., can do that to you.

Beth checking out the inscription.

The village has a wealth of Wright-designed spaces, and I toured as many as I could in my first years here. My husband and I must have taken every visitor we had through Wright’s Home and Studio, restored to its appearance when he last lived there in 1909.

When Beth invited me to go with her on a Touch Tour of the Home and Studio last Saturday, I said yes mostly for the chance to spend time with her. I figured I’d already seen and heard enough about Wright’s work: his horizontal lines and ribbon windows and half-hidden entrances, reached by walking a “path of discovery” that usually includes a turn or two.

The Touch Tour took me on a new path. I was one of a handful of people accompanying friends or family members who are blind or have low vision. The Frank Lloyd Wright Trust offered the tour in honor of the 25th anniversary of the Americans with Disabilities Act, part of ADA 25 Chicago — a larger project to improve the quality of life for people with disabilities. Being Beth’s companion on the tour, alongside her Seeing Eye dog, Whitney, allowed me to “re-see” Wright’s spaces and consider the challenge of making them accessible through other senses.

Fellow writers might appreciate this observation: details, creative comparisons, and specific word choices helped to convey Wright’s work. Our tour guide, Laura Dodd, explained the position of design elements in relation to bodies (“about neck high”). She used similes (wood beams arranged “like an asterisk”). I told Beth that Wright’s intricate, wood-carved designs on the dining room and playroom ceilings were a bit like the wooden trivets she’d felt in the gift shop. A tour volunteer described the vaulted ceiling in the children’s playroom “like a whiskey barrel.”

After thinking about Laura’s description of the way the Wrights’ piano sat in that room with only the keyboard showing, the back half hidden behind the wall, one of the visitors who couldn’t see articulated it more clearly for all of us: “You mean, it’s embedded in the wall.” Yes.

Enthusiasm, curiosity, puzzlement and understanding moved across people’s faces as they listened and asked questions, and as they touched things: fireplace tiles, wall coverings, sculptures, spindles, glass windows and Wright’s famously uncomfortable straight-backed dining chairs. Some people lingered over each touch opportunity. Others eagerly applied their fingers and moved on. (Guess which style was Beth’s?)

She and I talked afterward about the different frames of reference people might have brought to the experience. Beth knew something about architecture before she lost her sight. Other visitors may have been born blind. Laura is the Director of Operations and Guest Experience for the Frank Lloyd Wright Trust, and she asked us for feedback during and after the tour. (The Trust plans additional Touch Tours, and American Sign Language Tours, at its historic sites.)

Our group’s consensus was that she’d done a wonderful job. I thought the three guide dogs in the group also handled themselves well in close proximity.

Frank Lloyd Wright played here. And now, so has Beth.

One of the highlights for me and Beth was when Laura invited her to sit at the piano in the children’s playroom. After instructing everyone else not to pay attention, Beth put her fingers on the keys and ran through a short, jazzy tune. When she’d finished, she and I exclaimed over the fact that Frank himself no doubt played those keys. I felt the ghost of my old infatuation. On our way downstairs, Beth reached up to touch the back end of the piano, suspended over our heads, and continued on her path of discovery.

Photos courtesy of Christena Gunther, Founder & Co-Chair of the Chicago Cultural Accessibility Consortium.

After the last presidential debate, I did look at various fact-checking services—and it’s incredible how many outright lies and unforgivable exagerrations the candidates put forth. More incredible is that the so-called journalists don’t have the backbone to call them on the spot. But they don’t. At least not during the debate, when it would matter the most. You have to go to alternative sites for that, later.

A confession: I haven’t watched Donald and Company mix it up on stage at the debates. I haven’t wanted to and I haven’t had to. Because it’s reality TV, packaged to benefit everybody but the voters, and you hear snippets accordingly from mass media. All because it’s an inexpensive way to get ratings and attention. So I hear about it whether I want to or not.

Major sports have adopted instant replay challenges in various forms. The idea is to get the call right. It doesn’t always work, but it does move toward greater accuracy.

So why not something similar in debates? The candidates have been coached not to answer questions, and to ignore the question and go off on their own talking points. When they do answer, they often spout lies or exaggerations. And sometimes they strike a chord with a segment of the audience, and it looks like a win.

But what if, in real time, they were checked. And they got called on their BS. In real time. On TV. In front of real people when it would make the greatest impact. That would be what we call a teaching moment.

Not sure how it would work, but I’m certain it could be made to work. I wouldn’t leave it to the other candidates to call for a challenge, because, well, that’s the problem: I don’t trust them. And none of them wants to be challenged back, so there’d be a reluctance.

It could be a bipartisan panel consisting of reps from conservative and liberal groups (for primaries, too, yes, because BS is BS). They’d have a limited number of challenges each. They’d throw it to factcheck.org or politifact or some agreed upon combination of organizations. Or an agreed upon panel of reps from research institutes and news organizations, fully wired and equipped in a war room. There’d be a pause, yes, but it’d be worth it.

If there’s a challenge, and the candidate is vindicated, fine. But if it’s BS, as with the vaccination thing that got circulated in the last debate, the challenger in the panel gets up to three minutes to grill that lying candidate about why (s)he lied.

It’s not perfect. But since these debates have devolved into bad reality TV, it’d be nice to inject some real-time accountability into it.

And then it’d really be reality TV.

On Tuesday our Scottish photographer friend came by again. She followed me and the goats around and took pictures. Many, many pictures. “I’ve never taken so many pictures before” she said. I hope she got some good shots that she can use in her project at the media and journalism school. She promised to send me some of them once she’s done editing and stuff. Looking forward to that. I felt a little like a rockstar when she followed us around. A fun experience. And once again she was just really sweet and positive. Nice to be around. At the end she had me pose on my own for some portraits. That was pretty odd. I don’t think I have a future as a model! But the goats on the other hand…

Yesterday we had a little jailbreak. Or, penbreak I guess. I let the goats out in the pen and did some stuff inside. When I went out to the pen Mia and the boys were outside it. Hmm. Turns out one of the boards in the fence had been knocked out and they’d jumped through the gap. Mio stayed in the pen, though. I’m not sure if it was the mud or her size that kept her from following the others. She barely wanted to come out when I took her out the gate to join the rest of the gang. I don’t know if the board had been knocked out by accident by the goats or if it’s some vandal kids or something. But of course the goats were quick to take advantage of it. No surprise there.

No, go go goats photos. With some of the photographer too. Emily is her name.

Bodil and Mia.

And videos.

And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.

The recent Supreme Court decision was mentioned more than once during the ceremony — the celebrant even read a couple of paragraphs directly from the August decision. “We asked her to read something from SCOTUS,” Patricia told me later. “We wanted to acknowledge that this really is an amazing time in our lives.” The reading didn’t evoke cheers — instead, it brought tears. Tears of joy.

Patricia and Lori’s only bridesmaid was a five-and-a-half-year-old cherub who referred to Saturday’s event as “the marrying.” The term caught on, and with time on our hands Saturday afternoon before the marrying, we headed to the North Carolina Botanical Garden to experience Homegrown, a recently installed Patrick Dougherty outdoor sculpture.

Checking out the stick sculpture with Whit.

Off-and-on rain that afternoon chased most other visitors away, leaving paths empty and easy for Seeing Eye dog Whitney to navigate. The rain made the garden more fragrant, too, and we didn’t care that the tour guides and docents had left early: we got all the information we needed about artist Patrick Dougherty from the volunteer holding the fort and managing the gift shop.

Stick sculpture artist Patrick Dougherty has organized hundreds of installations around the world – Homegrown is his 256th. Each Dougherty sculpture is created from twigs, branches, saplings and sticks, and the lady at the gift shop spoke admiringly of the 100+volunteers who joined the artist in the north woods last fall to forage for fallen branches and trees to use in Homegrown.

“Volunteers helped him build the sculpture, too,” she said, explaining how hundreds of volunteers from the community worked with Dougherty at the North Carolina Botanic Garden each day for three weeks to weave saplings into mystifying arches. As she said that, I sensed her eying up my 5’9” frame — I dwarf most southern belles. “They’ll reach way over your head,” she determined. “The only way the volunteers could weave them all together like that is if they’re young and supple.”

“You mean the trees?” I asked. “Or the volunteers?”

”The trees!” She laughed, appreciating the opportunity to describe some of the people who’d shown up to weave Homegrown: grandmothers alongside tattooed teenagers, churchgoers with aging hippies, scout leaders, schoolkids and academics of all ages and sizes working together in a big crew. I swear I could feel that mix of energy when I finally left the gift shop to check out the sculpture.

Newlyweds Lori and Patricia at the marrying.

A similar energy filled the North Carolina ArtsCenter for the marrying later that evening. Patricia and Lori have been together for years and have picked up an eclectic crew of friends from stops along the way. What a dream come true this past weekend must have been for the two of them. Not only the marrying, but the gathering of so many loved ones — everyone from preschooler Finn (he spent most of the reception under our table giving belly rubs to Whitney) to 80+-year-old Aunt Fran, who traveled all the way from Edmonton, Canada to be with her beloved niece Patricia on her wedding day. Patricia and Lori’s marrying wove us all together Saturday night. It was an honor to be there, and the joy in that room was so high that this tall girl from Chicago couldn’t reach It  — even on my tippy toes.

Patrick Dougherty’s Homegrown sculpture will be at North Carolina Botanical Garden until the piece completely dries out and disintegrates. Admission to the garden is free, so get there while you can!

•Overbrook now closed for students and staff on Thursday, September 24, 2015
•Overbrook closed for students and staff on Friday, September 25, 2015
•Overbrook now closed for students and staff on Monday, September 28, 2015
•Overbrook now OPEN for students and staff on Monday, April 4, 2015

Thank You!
Gerald Kitzhoffer
Executive Director

Everything seemed to go fine. It’s not fun to watch. But I’m glad it was done, finally. And now he can stay and be happy and make us happy. It will be interesting to see how it changes his behaviour. He was quite a wild and strong willed little guy. I’m sure he’ll still have a big ego (Wonder where he gets that from..) but maybe just a little mellower. And a little less stinky. Can’t say I’m sad about that. It’s all for the best.

And then on Saturday we had a surprise visitor. A Scottish photographer was biking past the playground I guess and heard the chickens. And saw the goats. And came in while I was talking to Bodil and watching Peanut recover. She asked if she could photograph us. So she went about her merry way taking photos of the goats and me and Katarina who was weekend feeding. And Bodil and Sif. It was quite fun. I got to practice my English. And talk about the goats. She seemed really nice and positive. And interested in us. Bodil and I were both really happy afterwards. It was a really nice experience. She’s studying at the Aarhus school of journalism I think it’s called. I think she was doing a project about animals. Not sure if we’ll be part of that or if she was just taking photos. But I’ve been talking to her on Facebook and she’s coming back to take more photos when I take the goats out of the pen. They were all in the pen on Saturday because I had to sit inside and take care of Peanut. He’s recovering well, but he was still tired and maybe feeling a little sorry for himself. He did just lose a couple of things that were important to him!

But that was fun. And we’ll see what happens. And now I’m incredibly tired and I really need to get to bed. So go go goat photos.

And videos.

And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.

Recently at an event for PWC I was asked the question “What is your biggest dream”. Now looking back and with time to think about it, while I answered the question honestly I didn’t feel I gave the justification as to why. It is after all the why that makes it interesting.

The question was – “What is your dream”. I responded with “to be VP of accessibility at a major tech company”, then went on to discuss my dreams within the realm of adventuring.

This doesn’t answer, why, I want to be VP at a major tech company. Well that is because of a dream.

Access to information is essential for the advancement of anyone, from learning to simple day to day news gathering. For someone with sight loss that is immensely difficult. I cant just pick up a book, or magazine or even go to a website and read the latest information. Essentially the majority of traditional forms of information are beyond what I am capable of accessing. This can make education incredibly difficult and place the visually impaired at a severe disadvantage.

While studying for my degree this lack of access to information became incredibly apparent. While, a facility did exist to make information accessible – in an audio format, there was a substantial time delay. To the point where it would mean if I stood any chance of finishing my degree I would have to complete essays in 2-3 weeks. My dissertation was completed in 8, that was not by choice, that was a constraint introduced by access to information. I will quickly add that I was 4 points off the highest possible mark however!

But it is precisely this access to information I want to change. The mobile is truly a revolution in access to information and that is where great change can take place. Android has the largest market share in terms of devices and could make an incredible global difference through accessibility. As the next billion people come online, imagine enabling a visually impaired person for the first time to access a book, the days news, or even a menu at a local restaurant. This is all possible by utilising screen reading technology and OCR through smartphone cameras.

What is needed is rapid improvement in accessibility features, vast improvements in universal design and a focussed concentration on inclusive user centric design.

And it is precisely all these reasons I desire a senior role at a tech company, to help instigate that change and enable learning to all.

There is a place for this within other organizations and was a topic of conversation with IBM, any company that has a large consulting role has a wonderful opportunity. An opportunity to touch hundreds if not thousands of companies throughout the world. To initiate these changes and work towards a more inclusive focus for technology and services.

So thats the why, I just didn’t condense it on stage on the day!

The video also demonstrates the different forms of zoom available to the user, and quickly compares window zoom versus font scaling. I believe font scaling to be incredibly powerful on the client side and is something I will touch on in a subsequent ThoughtCast.

I chose to demonstrate these features with Facebook, mainly because Facebook is often cited as having poor accessibility. I do not believe this to be true I believe a fairer assessment would be to say Facebook is doing a reasonable job and it plays relatively well with client side tools. However, it must be noted that these client side solutions will work on any website and in the case of Hacker Vision can even be tailored to invert only the websites you wish it to. Therefore, a website that does have a dark theme would not be inverted.
]

Michael Patrick Thornton

Private Practice went off the air in 2013, but national TV watchers loss is Chicago’s gain: Michael Patrick Thornton is a native Chicagoan, and now that he’s back in town full-time we get to see him live on stage here.

I myself appeared on stage last week at Chicago’s Goodman Theatre with Michael Patrick Thornton, and after sharing the stage with him, you know, I just call him Michael. We were there with other disability advocates at “Greater Together,” Chicago’s first Cultural Accessibility Summit.

My job was to give a short testimonial on how important it is for civic and cultural leaders (hundreds of them were there in the audience) to support accessible programming at the museums, theatres and foundations they work for. Michael was there in his real-life role as the Artistic Director & Co-founder of The Gift Theatre in Chicago. He talked candidly with the audience about the spinal stroke he suffered at age 23 and what it was like to emerge from a coma three days later on life support.

“It took a while for doctors to figure out what happened to me — it was very Dr. House-like,” he said, the sound of dark humor in his voice. He left the hospital paralyzed from the neck down, and after years of hard work at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago he’s regained some of his mobility.

Michael Patrick Thornton’s interest in theater started when he was in high school, and he and William Nedved had founded The Gift Theatre Company two years before Michael’s spinal stroke. Michael didn’t take much of a break from The Gift during his recovery — a 2006 story in the Chicago Reader  marveled that months after suffering a second stroke during rehab, Thornton “was directing Language of Angels, holding auditions at RIC while still an inpatient.” During the Q&A last week an audience member thanked Thornton for applauding the work the Chicago arts community is doing to improve accessibility for patrons, but she wondered if the same could be said for performers. “Have things improved for actors in wheelchairs, too?”

Michael answered with an immediate “no.” Actors with disabilities are woefully underrepresented on stage and screen, he said. “I’m pretty much it.”

He told the audience that one thing he can do to advance the cause for other actors with disabilities is to take on roles as someone’s best friend, or a lawyer, or a criminal, people like that — avoid lead roles in inspirational stories about heroes with disabilities who triumph over adversity. “I want parts where the wheelchair never once gets mentioned.”

Michael Patrick Thornton played Iago in Gift’s production of Othello last year, and when I talked to him after our presentation last week he told me how thrilled he is to be directing the world premiere of David Rabe’sGood for Otto at Gift next month.

But wait. There’s more: in March of next year he has the lead role in Gift’s production of Richard III, which will be staged at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theatre to accommodate larger audiences. Here’s a prepared statement from Michael about the upcoming season, which will be The Gift’s 15th:

Great theater asks great questions. Our milestone anniversary season asks: ‘What does it mean to be human?’ In perfect circuitousness, we begin where many of us first met — at Steppenwolf. In collaboration with our lead production sponsor, The Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, we will present a definitive ‘Richard III’ for the ages, performed in conjunction with Shakespeare’s 400th anniversary. It will re-define what disability, ability, and Shakespeare’s villain can look like.

Good for Otto opens at The Gift Theatre in Chicago’s Jefferson park neighborhood next month, and Richard III opens in March, 2016 at Steppenwolf’s Garage Theatre at 1650 N. Halsted in Chicago. Mark your calendars now and look for me at both performances — I’ll be in the audience this time.

That is: The First Amendment is why we have religious freedom in the United States. Preventing the government from promoting or projecting any one religion over another is why we can have so many people practicing so many different faiths. And when you think about it, without such a protection, things could get really ugly and crazy fast. Like, the government could promote one flavor of Christianity over another. Or Orthodox Judaism over Reformed.

Best, the founders thought, to keep government out of the religion business altogether, and to prevent it from stopping anyone from practicing their particular faith.

I think what we’re witnessing reflects a troublesome ignorance of the principles behind the First Amendment. That clerk in Kentucky doesn’t know that she’s spitting on the part of the constitution that ensures she can worship as she pleases.

Beyond ignorance, it takes a certain kind of selfish entitlement to presume that while working as a public servant she can refuse service to someone who doesn’t share her faith and attendant beliefs. They have the same right that she does–to worship (or not) as they see fit.

It borders on crazy. But that’s where we’re at these days.

So I made sure to spend the day giving him lots of treats and attention. He is such a sweet, little goofball. But also a manly, little buck now. Peanut has been ahead of him on pretty much everything, but the last few weeks Popcorn really started acting quite bucky. Definitely ready for a girlfriend of his own. And that’s what he’s gotten at his new home. It sounded like it wasn’t a farm or a business, but a guy wanting a buck for his lady goat. Hopefully Popcorn will have a good life there. It also sounded like he wasn’t too far away, so there might be a chance I can go see him. Bodil was already talking about going. We’ll see if the new owner is open to it. The guy who picked up Popcorn wasn’t actually the new owner, but his brother. It was a little traumatic seeing him being taken away. But it’s for the best, I know. A good new home for him. So it goes. I wish we could keep them all.

It was more or less up to me to decide which kid was taken away. You can imagine how hard that was. It’s always painful to say goodbye to a goat you’ve come to love. And I love both Peanut and Popcorn. But Peanut is Mia’s kid. And Mia is special to me. So that’s what made it up for me in the end. And Popcorn’s blossoming buckiness should mean he’ll be a good papa goat in the future. Making lots of lovely babies I hope. But it hurts. It does. Makes you wonder if you can keep doing this.

Now the plan is for Peanut to get castrated so he can stay with us. And I really hope they get it done soon too. Because he’s starting to act buckier and buckier. Fingers crossed very soon.

And that’s all for now. No more talk. Just pictures. Starting with lots of Popcorn. Goatspeed, little goat man.

And videos.

I had to split the video from Popcorn’s last day into two parts because it was too long:

That’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one. And maybe in the future, Popcorn.

When Wanda was growing up on the South Side of Chicago, her mother worked “in private family,” which meant mama lived at the houses she took care of. Wanda lived with one relative one week, a friend the next, and sometimes, with complete strangers.

Your positive response to last Thursday’s post motivated me to share another essay from a writer in one of the memoir classes I lead, and this time, we’ll hear from Wanda.

Wanda at her 90th birthday party with her fellow writers in our Renaissance Court class.

My classes are taking a short break after Labor Day, and for their final assignment I asked writers in Wanda’s class to imagine they could have a guarantee that one specific person would read their memoir. “Who would you want that person to be?” I asked.  “Why? What do you want to say to them?”

Wanda was born on October 20, 1921, and she’d like a guarantee that her descendant born closest to October 20, 2021 will read her memoir.

”I pass my memoir essays to you,” she says in the opening of her essay, urging her unknown reader to read her essays carefully and discover the many conveniences that were unknown in her own day. “You will see how we LIVED without them, and hopefully you will realize the contributions we made to ease your life.”

A savvy young 74-year old writer in Wanda’s memoir-writing class has started a blog called Beth’s Class where she publishes essays she and fellow writers from that class have written. You can link to the Beth’s Class blog to read Wanda’s entire essay, and in the meantime I’ll leave you here with her powerful — and beautifully written — conclusion:

I have tried to present some of the struggles we had, the indignities we endured to make the world a better place. The Civil Rights Movement. The right to vote for all. Equal education. Lifting of covenants to ensure the right to equal housing.

You will see the many advances we achieved. There is still much to be done and I hope you will be inspired to pick up the torch and work for more equality and greater opportunities for the generations that will follow you.

I challenge you to find humor in life, meet it head on, not take yourself too seriously, love your fellowman whether he loves you or not.

LIVE and LOVE LIFE to the FULLEST,

Above All:

BE AT PEACE WITH YOURSELF!!!

I’m having my husband Mike post the photo writer John Simmons chose here. Before you read on, stop and guess where this photo was taken. Just a quick guess:

If you guessed Chicago, you must live here. In class, listening to John’s words, I was sure no one would ever guess this photo was taken in the Windy City. “If I were to drop a plumb from our balcony, you would hear a splash as it enters the Chicago River.” That’s his first line, and that’s how close he and Mary Jo Field, the woman who took the photograph, live to what he described as the “storied river that was once a receptacle for garbage, toxins, and raw sewage — and maybe a few of Al Capone’s enemies.” That’s all in the past now, John says. “Today the river is almost as pristine as the baptismal font at Saint James Cathedral.”

John continues his piece by comparing living on the river to living in a vaudeville theatre. “The scene is constantly changing,” he writes, describing how he might see a Seagull flying low on a reconnaissance mission, then a resident Canadian geese squadron making its way along the western bank, and then a powerful barge navigating the turn by the Chicago Tribune plant. College rowing teams practice on the Chicago River, too. “In the late fall when it is still dark around seven o’clock in the morning, I sometimes catch a glimpse of eight men rowing in perfect unison so silently its almost eerie.”

Having set the scene, John then starts describing his photograph: three sculls idling on the water directly under the Grand Avenue Bridge while coaches in aluminum boats beside them shout instructions from bullhorns. “It takes enormous exertion to move these boats at top speed,” John writes. “The fact that the crews are at rest wearing their blue sweat suits with a white stripe suggests there is chill in the air.” He continues:

At this time of day, the river seems to have a silver hue from the reflecting sunlight of the late afternoon. You hear a clanking sound each time a car passes over the Grand Avenue Bridge, a classic built in 1913. It got a fresh coat of rustproof paint that is almost the color of burnt amber and glistens in the dying sunlight. The bridge spans the river, which is about a wedge shot from one side to other.

John’s research for the piece told him the Grand Avenue bridge is 270 feet long and is known as a bascule bridge. “I guess that means it opens by lifting both sections, something I have seen, but rarely.” He describes two quaint little clapboard houses painted in green trim at each end of the bridge and assumes they housed the bridge master. “A base of concrete and red brick supports the western end of the single span bridge,” he writes, taking note of a gray sedan, the only vehicle crossing the bridge when the photo was taken. “If you look closely you can see two white gates in the vertical position, signifying the bridge is open for business.”

And here’s the part of John’s essay that had me totally convinced no one seeing this photo would guess in a million years that it had been taken in Chicago. We’re known for crime, the lakefront and skyscrapers. Not riverfronts! “If you look through the bridge you can see redbrick townhouses, fronted by well-mowed green grass and a pedestrian walk where the local dog population enjoys a bit of fresh air, always on leach to comply with the covenants of condominium association.” Thanks to you, John. I can just picture this scene!

And videos.

And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.

As if writing about memory and the past are not difficult enough, writing about a life with disability is more so. Drawing the meanings and lessons complicates my task even more.

I must explore and create my truth through a language that shifts and flows, an unstable country, a language that seems in some ways not up to the task and in others so nuanced and complicated that I may drown.

For example, when I think about the everyday language we use in the disability world I encounter problems. The words “disability” and “impairment” themselves are deeply contested, never mind such phrases as “the lived experience of disability.” The language used is also littered with medical and sociological jargon. I had to explain what DNR meant recently on Facebook. ( It means do not resuscitate, instructions sometimes found on a medical file.) My fault for using jargon.

The “social model” of disability which is a strong thread in disability identity is not well understood, either within or beyond the disability world. Sociology and psychology, even religion describe disability as object rather than subject. Medicine defines body as machine. None of them take real account of meaning for the heart, soul and spirit.

Internalised stigma and ableism, by me and the reader also complicates the writing process. We have all internalised social oppression that declares disability to be undignified, the “fate worse than death” scenario most disabled people steadfastly deny in the face of prevalent community incomprehension. We often feel like second class citizens in our own country. That has interesting implications for a writer.

The disability human rights and equality on which I have focused so much of my life’s work and commitment are also contested subjects. They are couched in frustratingly legal terminology. Terms such as “reasonable accommodation,” (the degree to which an employer, education provider, retailer, transport and other services and so on must meet the disability requirements of their customers,) have a degree of currency. But that term in particular is legalistic, grudging and ungenerous, lacking a warm and wholehearted welcome, calling into question another contested word, “inclusion”.

I also have to negotiate the “poor me,” “aint it awful” pity scenario and its equally unacceptable opposite, “disability porn,”  two extremes so popular in the media and a trap for the unwary writer.

For me it has become increasingly necessary to travel beyond the clinical, the medical, the legal, the sociological. I have to banish stigma and negative belief to excavate the more dangerous depths of meaning.

It’s a scary enterprise for a private person. I may uncover sadness, rage, rejection, even shame in those depths. But memory can discover surprise and delight as well as pain. There is also joy, humour, friends found and strength drawn from a strong sense of community.

Bookmark to:

Otherwise, not much new really. Just doing the do, as we do. Waiting for news about Peanut and Popcorn. Those lovely boys. Probably won’t be long now. We’ll see, we’ll see.

That’s all, that it is.

And videos.

Phew. And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.

These user journeys are primarily aimed at user interface and user experience designers, with the idea to improve accessible design. However, they will also serve a purpose of demonstrating whether an app is accessible to the visually impaired community.

My first test video is for TheTrainline, this is an application that allows you to purchase tickets and check live arrival and departure times. I have concentrated on the purchasing ticket user journey for this video, but do intend to cover other features of the app, to discuss how the user interface can be improved.

I was planning to throw her a little party. Bought a watermelon. I’ve never brought them that before. But then. The rain came. Rain and thunder and lightning. So that put a bit of a damper on things. But we still had a good time. The goats loved the watermelon. Once I split it open for them. And I got them out for some green salad, despite the rain. It was quite lovely standing under the trees, listening to the thunder and the goats munching grass. Good times even if it didn’t quite go as I had planned.

Happy birthday Mia!

In other fun news, I brought a cardboard box for the goats. To see if they’d play with it. Mia and Mio were somewhat scared of it. Palle and Peanut only really interested when I put food in it. But Popcorn does love to wrestle around with things. Be it my backpack, or me. And he gave the box a good thrashing too. Ended up standing in it at one point:

He’s such a sweet goofball.

And in other news, I got a lovely wall sticker from Desirée. I usually start every day with a Facebook status with a positive message about the day being good. And she sent me this:

It’s not very well adjusted, but luckily I don’t suffer from OCD. And I can see it from my computer, from my bed and from my exercise bike. Always a good reminder to think positively.

And now, let’s think of goats.

And videos.

And that’s all for this week, folks. See you in the next one.