I know, I know. You were so mesmerized by the sweet photo Mike published with his December 8 post that you missed the part about my upgrading my iPhone. I went from a 3gs to a 4, which means…I have Siri now!

Here’s the photo I’m talking about, my 5-month-old great niece with my five-year-old great Seeing Eye dog.

Plenty of people who are blind have been using speech synthesizers to type text messages into their phones for years now — I’m just not one of them. I learned how to use VoiceOver, the speech synthesizer that comes with every iPhone, And it lets me type texts, but I found it too difficult.

VoiceOver parrots every letter the blind user types into a text message, but have you ever heard the term PICNIC? It stands for “Problem In Chair Not In Computer.” I found typing into a phone cumbersome. I was so slow at it, it made better sense for me to phone my friends rather than texting them.

Siri to the rescue! I’m so tickled by how she helps me text that I’m spelling out the easy way you can use her, too. (Not sure, but I think Siri might be particularly helpful for older adults who are diagnosed with macular degeneration, we’ll see.)

So let’s get started. If you are blind and have an iPhone, or you are helping someone who is blind use their iPhone, you need to make sure you have VoiceOver turned on — go to my How do blind people use iPhones post to learn how to turn VoiceOver on.

Got VoiceOver on? Okay, now for my “Text with Siri” lesson. For this lesson, I assume you already have some people in your “contacts” List, so we’ll start with learning how to turn Siri on.

• Press down the home key to get your iPhone going –that is the big round button (well, It’s about ½ inch in diameter, I guess) right below your iPhone screen. You can actually feel this button go down if you press it, it’s a real physical button.
• Double tap anywhere on the screen to unlock the screen. VoiceOver will call out “screen unlocked.”
• Swipe your pointer finger quickly from the left of the screen to the right of the screen a few times until you hear VoiceOver call out “settings!”
• If you get overzealous and go past “settings,” swipe your finger from the right side of the screen to the left to go back until you hear “settings.”
• Once you’re sure you’ve heard settings, double tap anywhere on the screen to activate settings.
• Now swipe your pointer finger quickly from the left of the screen to the right of the screen over a few times until you hear VoiceOver call out “general!”
• Double tap anywhere on the screen to activate the “general” button.
• Swipe your pointer finger quickly from the left of the screen to the right of the screen a few times until you hear VoiceOver either call out “Siri on” or “Siri off.”
• If VoiceOver says “Siri on” that means Siri is already turned on.
• If VoiceOver says “Siri off” you need to double tap on the screen, and when it says “Siri on” you know Siri is on.

Phew. Still with me? Okay, Siri is on your phone now. Here’s how you use her to send a text message.

• Hold down the home button (remember that’s the button you can feel below your phone screen) and keep holding it down until you hear a double bell sound.
• Don’t let go of that button! Hold it down while you tell Siri who it is you want to text (if the person you want to text isn’t in your “contacts,” you can say their cell phone number). For this exercise, I said, “Text Mike.”
• When you are finished giving your command, release the button.
• You won’t have to hold the button down anymore, Siri knows you’re there now. you’ll hear another double bell tone, and Siri will ask, “Okay, what do you want to say to Mike?”
• Remember, you don’t have to hold the button down anymore, just hold the phone and tell her what you want to text. For this lesson, I simply said “Practicing.”
• Siri comes back to tell you what your message reads “Your message to Mike says, ‘Practicing.’ Ready to send it?”
• You say “yes.”
• Siri says, “Okay, I’ll send it,” and sure enough, in mere second or two, you hear a whoosh sound. Your message is sent.

You can say no to sending, of course, and I’ve even learned how to change the wording when I misspeak or cancel the message altogether. But that’s a lesson for another post. I’ll leave you here with one last tip: If you are not blind and have been helping someone try this out, all you have to do to take VoiceOver off your iPhone is tell Siri, “Turn VoiceOver off.” She’ll do it for you. HTH & TTFN.

When we lived in Urbana, Ill., I had a morning radio show on a local community radio station called WEFT (WEFT, rhymes with LEFT). WEFT Radio was a nearly anarchical operation, run by citizen volunteers, meagerly funded by donations and grants, but thanks to dedicated people over the years, it
survives to this day.

Check out Beachwood Reporter, you’ll be glad you did.

WEFT carries some syndicated programming, but mostly it is local volunteers who piece together each week’s shows. You find blues shows, jazz shows, old time country shows, political shows, gospel shows, GLBT shows. It’s sort of a grand mess, the airwaves version of a community parade.

So like I said, back in the 90s (boy, it hurts to write that), I was in the middle of it with a morning show, once a week, that I called Adult Children of Parents (ACOP). You may recall that the terms dependent, co-dependent,
enabling, adult children of (fill in the blank) and recovery-speak was entering the vernacular back then. The title was my snarky response.

I read headlines from the Chicago Tribune and sometimes the local paper, I commented, I played music, I had guests, Beth played the accordion during fundraisers. I came to love it. Put me in front of a large live audience and my palms sweat and my voice cracks like an adolescent. Put me in a studio with a microphone and I become, as one friend once put it, verbally incontinent.

So, last week, when I got an email blast from Steve Rhodes of The Beachwood Reporter linking to his latest podcast – and inviting volunteers to appear as guests on The Beachwood Radio Hour and The Beachwood Radio Sports Hour – I stepped up to the plate.

He wrote back right away and suggested we get together to record a show this past Saturday. Which gave me a quick shot of sweaty palms, I mean, in concept it sounded fun..

About Steve: He’s first and foremost a smart, affable, honest, witty and likable guy. He’s also a superb and accomplished journalist – he’s worked at dailies, at Newsweek, Chicago Magazine, among others. And he cares, deeply, about journalism. That led him to create The Beachwood Reporter, a Web publication that rounds up pivotal Chicago (and sometimes national) stories. (The name is borrowed from a classic old Chicago tavern called the Beachwood Inn, so named because it’s at the corner of Beach and Wood.)

The Beachwood Reporter is an indispensable resource for anyone who cares about public and cultural affairs in Chicago and beyond, and it’s a one-of-a-kind resource for people who care about the state of journalism.
Reading it gives you a sketch of the current news, but also tips you to what the reporter may have missed, the questions they should’ve asked, and what the politicians and bigwigs are getting away with as a result.

We got to know each other years ago when Steve began linking to my now dormant blog called Reading with Scissors. We’ve stayed in touch since. Steve knows I’m a White Sox fan, and with the Sox making a series of big
trades and free-agent signings at Major League Baseball’s annual winter meetings last week, he suggested I join him and regular sports contributor Jim Coffman to the Beachwood Sports Hour to add a Sox element. He also
invited me to join the Beachwood News Hour, which I did.

It was a gas. Jim’s a churning, burning urn of Chicago sports, we mostly good-naturedly talked about the Cubs-Sox rivalry, and a good time was had. The News Hour with Steve was a little more serious in tone: We talked about the Illinois Office of Comptroller, Torture, and the Chicago Mayor’s race. Also enjoyed that, but in a different way.

You can listen to the Beachwood Radio Sports Hour (free) here — there’s an audio player plus show notes.

You can listened to the Beachwood Radio Hour (also free) here–Steve also provides show notes for the news.

I’m not sure if or when I’ll be back on, but meantime, I hope you’ll give it a listen, and I hope you’ll become a Beachwood regular.

Last night my Seeing Eye dog and I took an Uber ride to a special “accessible” performance of the play Great Expectations. From the Victory Gardens web site:

Wednesday, December 10 at 8:00 PM
Access Services include: Audio Description, Closed Captioning, Wheelchair accessibility, free UBER Transportation

All things being equal, I’d rather just walk.

Mike wasn’t interested in going, and I’ve been curious to see how a Uber driver would react to a rider with a service dog. So gee, if the ride to the theatre would be free, last night seemed like the perfect time to try it.

Regular cab drivers are required by law to pick up people with disabilities who travel with service dogs, but since Uber drivers are independent contractors driving private vehicles, they don’t have to adhere to the Americans with Disabilities Act. The Uber web site says it like this:

We leave the decision whether or not to transport pets at the discretion of your driver. When traveling with a pet, we recommend calling your driver as soon as you’ve placed your request (tap the arrow next to your driver’s information, then “CONTACT DRIVER”) to make sure they don’t mind taking your pet.

A number of legal complaints have been filed alleging Uber discriminates against blind and visually-impaired people who use guide dogs. The cases are still pending, but in a move that is presumably related, Uber announced in September that they had launched a new platform to “train uberX partners on the necessary knowledge and safety requirements for those with accessibility needs.” People like me who might need special assistance were instructed to link to UberASSIST on the Uber app so a driver who’d been through the special training would come pick us up.

Mike took a photo of Whitney in her Seeing Eye harness standing next to me to use on my Uber account. He helped me plug in the special promo code and find the Uber ASSIST link on my talking IPhone, but I was so intent on simulating what the experience would be like on my own that I wouldn’t let him come out on the sidewalk and wait for the driver with me. “You can watch from inside the door there to make sure I get a ride, but you have to hide,” I told him.

When I heard my talking iPhone call out “Uber driver arriving in three minutes” I headed outside with Whitney and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally I heard the door to our building squeak open behind me. “He’s right there,” Mike whispered.

”But I’m blind!” I scolded back. “I want him to have to figure out how to let me know he’s here!” Just then my phone started ringing.

• Uber Driver: Beth! It’s your Uber driver. I’m here.
• Me: Yeah, so am I.
• Uber Driver: Where?

I’d been standing as tall as I possibly could, and Whitney was right at my side. Didn’t he see our photo on his app? Wasn’t it obvious I can’t see? I gave our address, the one the magic app is supposed to give to the driver, and explained that I’m blind, and I can’t see him.

• Uber Driver (sounding confused: Oh. Well, I’m right here in front of your building.
• Me: But I’m blind. I can’t see you.
• Uber Driver (still sounding confused): Oh.
• Me: Can you open the door and call out or something?
• Uber Driver: Oh! Sorry. Yeah. Okay.

My driver got out, called my name, Whitney led me to the car, opened the back door, I got in, buckled my seatbelt, called Whitney to come in to sit on the floor at my feet, and we were off

On our ride I complimented my driver’s big car, told him Whitney appreciated all the room she had on the floor, and asked him if he’d received special notice that we’d asked for an Uber ASSIST vehicle. He had no idea what I was talking about.

I spent most of the rest of the ride explaining what Uber ASSIST is, how it’s supposed to train interested drivers on the best ways to assist people with disabilities or special needs. “I’ve never heard of that,” he said, adding that he thought ithe idea was “really interesting.”

So much for Uber ASSIST. We were late for the audio tour they’d planned before the play, but the condensed audio tour the show’s actors and actresses squeezed in for me was very helpful, and the performance was absolutely wonderful. Sighted friends who met me there said they’d drive Whitney and me home afterwards, and so I told myself what the heck, Uber ASSIST wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, but at least the ride over was free.

But then I got up this morning and checked out my Uber ASSIST online receipt. I’d been charged for the ride.

Just finished an uplifting weekend at a time when I was beginning to wonder whether I was still liftable.

It started with, of all things, a wake on Saturday morning. Yes, there is inherent sadness in all such events. But always there is recognition of what really matters, and most always, when someone leaves, we learn things we never before knew about him.

This wake was for Judge John “Jack” Keleher. Judge Keleher is the father of one of Beth’s best long-time friends, Colleen. The two of them go way back, to when they were waitresses at Marshall Field Walnut room in Oak Brook. At this point, I go pretty far back with Colleen—and her husband Dennis—too.

Judge Keleher, to me and Beth, was first and foremost Colleen’s dad, and the man who married us in the Keleher family’s back yard in 1984. For those narrow reasons alone, he is an unforgettable character in our lives.

What we learned since is that we are just two of a small army of people who will not forget him. Just read this obituary. He worked for the common good, for civil rights, and he introduced Martin Luther King at an event for crying out loud! Who knew?

The judge’s admirers showed up in force on Saturday – the chapel was standing room only. Here’s to Judge Keleher.

From there we had a short window for errands, which in this case, included upgrading Beth’s cell phone. We stopped at the phone store, and were helped by an African-American man who was more than courteous, he was especially helpful with regard to Beth’s blindness. I don’t know how to explain what that means—it’s a combination of acknowledging and addressing it practically, without obsessing on it.

I’ll confess here as an aside that since all the police shooting stuff has been in the news, I’ve had this impulse to ask random black people what they think of it. The reporter in me wants to talk to the man in the street, and not rely on CNN, Fox, or other outlets.

I stopped myself Saturday, as I had before, because, for one, Beth gets questions sometimes that imply blindness is the most interesting thing about her, and for another, suggest that she speaks for all blind people. (And besides, the guy was working.)

Kennedy (aka “Toots”) and Whitney took to one another right away.

Anyway, we got home in time to receive Beth’s 6-month old great niece—we had volunteered to watch her overnight while her parents attended dad’s office party. (Well, office party is maybe an understatement, poppa Brian works for Lagunitas Brewery.)

Beth likes all kids, but especially the little ones that walk and talk a lot and ask lots of questions—the ones that drive me up the wall. I like babies—easy to manage—and then I like them again when they reach, oh, 25. So I was in my element with Toots (Beth’s new nickname for her.) We sat together, we played with Whitney together, she played with my phone. I watched her work intently on making new sounds, manipulating little toys I put in her hand. I could almost see new neurons firing. Never gets old.

Of course, Toots also kept either of us from getting a full night’s sleep. And I was reminded of that very particular brand of fatigue that only comes with a particular stage of parenthood, and that it’s great to be an uncle and not a father at my age.

After a workout at the gym, I put on a pot of stew and we headed down to our local, Hackney’s, while it finished cooking. Beth and I are partial to the two last seats farthest away from the door (at least during the winter season).

Sure enough, they were open, but one was wedged in a little tightly next to another patron, a 20-something (I thought) black guy who looked like was a college student.

I asked if the seat was taken, he said, enthusiastically, “No, sit down,” and he moved his cell phone and other bits of belongings, apologizing as he did.

Somewhere along the line between our eavesdropping on him and his friend and his eavesdropping on Beth and me, our conversations crossed. And he turned and said to me, “This being the holidays and all, would you mind if we bought you your backup?”

I said, ever so cleverly, “Backup?” He said, “Yeah, your second drink.”

His buddy nodded his approval.

We said yes, of course (the stew still had time). And we broke into conversation and I learned that he is not 22, he is 45 (his buddy vouched for that, giggling like someone who’d won a bar bet or two on that issue).

He’d gone to DePaul University and then gone to work there and had worked at DePaul for 25 years. His name was Mike, he grew up in Pilsen, he lived out toward O’Hare but he and his buddy Mark like this neighborhood and come down from time to time.

I told him he’d made my week. I meant it. He said, yeah, with everything going, you know, we just need to love each other, don’t you think? Ordinarily, that kind of talk makes me crazy. Not this time.

“Yeah,” I said, “You’re right.”

“Besides, I got a good vibe from you two.”

Beth chimed in at some point as she often needs to when we meet new people—she and I are so into our routines that we’re not even aware of when they might look odd—“I don’t know if you know, but I’m blind.”

Mike said he’d thought so, he’d once dated a visually impaired person for several years.

I told him that the recent events had me down, and I asked what he thought. He quickly launched into a prolog that went, “I respect the police, I respect how hard their job is, I really really…”.

But, after he made all that clear, he added that he’d been terrified of the police his entire life, and remained so. It was impossible to imagine anyone taking this cherubic, manically upbeat guy as a threat.

Mark reminded him that they had to get going, we shook hands, Beth hugged, and they were off.

On our drive out to the Judge’s wake in our Zipcar, we had listened to Saturday Morning Flashback. A local station—WXRT—spends all morning recounting music and movies and pop culture from a bygone year. Saturday’s was 1970. One thing: music was better then. There will be no argument.

For another thing, one of the songs was the Temptations’ “Ball of Confusion.” Lordy, I thought, nothing’s changed.

But between being reminded of the work of Judge Jack, the twinkling promise of Toots, that wonderful guy at the AT&T store, and the holiday gift that was Mike and Mark, I concluded otherwise.

A lot’s changed. But I take Mike at his word about being terrified. Not being terrified of police isn’t a privilege. It’s a right.

We, that includes me, have a fair piece to go. And I believe we’ll get there. But not by accident.

In honor of Thanksgiving, I asked seniors in my memoir-writing classes to write on the subject “Thanks, but No Thanks.” To explain what I was looking for, I said, “Say you were offered an opportunity, a job, a marriage proposal, a real estate purchase, an adoption, anything, and are sorry you refused that offer, you could write about that.” I told them that on the other hand, if there was something in their lives that they were oh so thankful they said no to, they could write about how relieved they are that they said thanks, but no thanks to that offer.

Seniors worked on their essays over Thanksgiving and read them aloud in class this week. Shunned lovers and refused marriage proposals showed up in many of their stories. Other essays were about job offers they’d refused or schools they’d decided not to attend.

Ninety-four-year-old Wanda wrote that while she has learned how to use a computer to send email and write essays for class, she has no interest in tweeting or apps or looking at photos on instagram. When asked to embrace technology, she says “Thanks, but no thanks.” Judy wrote about how proud she was of the sit-upon she made while she was a Brownie, how intrigued she was by the wood-burning stoves they made from tin cans and cardboard toilet paper rolls once she’d “flown up” to Junior Girl Scouts, but then, when it came to joining a high school troop, she said no.

I can only think of one writer who wrote about regretting he’d said no to an opportunity, but even that essay had a happy ending. Dave hadn’t yet visited a foreign country by the time he graduated from college, but when he moved to Texas and a bunch of his buddies asked him to join them on a trip to Monterrey, Mexico, he decided not to go. His pals came back with all sorts of amazing stories. “I’ve regretted that decision ever since,” he wrote, but then acknowledged that foregoin Monterrey changed his life in a very positive way: he’s been adventurous ever since, taking on just about every travel opportunity that comes his way.

Mary’s essay was inspired by the title story in M. F. K. Fisher’s book Sister Age. Mary wrote that she noticed Sister Age visiting her 60-year-old mother, “softly draping a shawl around her shoulders on cold winter nights, fixing a breakfast of warm milk toast drenched in honey and butter, accompanying her to multiplying trips to doctors and hospitals, and comforting her in attending increasing numbers of funerals of old friends.” Mary’s mother died when she was 99 years old, and Mary said that by then “Sister Age was her constant companion and nurse.”

Now Mary sees Sister Age at her own door. “She brings pills and appointments with physical therapists for my hands that move with more difficulty and my joints that stiffen and creak, eyesight that requires stronger prescriptions, nostalgic conversations with friends from high school and college, rooms full of memorabilia from Japan and all our other travels around the world, and a list of things I want to do before I am slowed to a standstill.”

Mary explained how she knows Sister Age is there: she hears her knocking at the door, and when she peers out, she sees Sister Age through the peephole. “But I resist welcoming her completely into my life and accepting her invitation to pass the threshold into my consciousness,” Marywrote at the end of her essay. “I want to say to her thanks, but no thanks – but I know that I cannot do that forever.”