Our friend Greg called yesterday and recited his new lyrics for an old Christmas standard. He came up with the parody while he was raking snow and ice off their roof in suburban Chicago and generously agreed to let me share the updated song with you blog readers. Easter is on April 20 this year – let’s hope this is one dream that doesn’t come true.

I’m Dreaming of a White Easter

by Greg Schafer

That’s Greg with his and Lois’ dogs Gamma and Griffin.

I’m dreaming of a white Easter,
this winter you just never know.
In a white fur bonnet,
with icicles on it,
and an easter basket full of snow.
I’m dreaming of a white Easter,
with every egg that I dye white.
May your days be merry and bright,
and may all your chocolate be white.

I’m dreaming of a white Easter,
I hope what I heard isn’t true.
The easter bunny,
thought it would be funny,
to bring groundhog jerky to you.
I’m dreaming of a white Easter,
we know Tom Skilling doesn’t lie.
There’s no doubt easter will be whiiiiite,
Just, please, not the Fourth of July.

As spring training for Major League Baseball approaches, the baseball news is a little sparse—so one not-so baseballish item got a lot of attention this past week. Curt Schilling, a former pitcher and current broadcaster, announced he has cancer.

Bear with me non-baseball fans, because this isn’t about baseball—but you should probably know a couple things about Schilling. He was a terrific pitcher. He’s always loved the limelight, and he clearly loves the sound of his own voice, or the sight of his words in print. He’s a real PITA, IMHO.

That he announced his illness is neither here nor there—unless you know his propensity for attention—and then you know he’s going to milk it. Fair enough. Cancer sucks, so if it helps him in some way, fine. (Though some cancer sucks a lot worse than others, and he didn’t mention what kind he has.) But the announcement wasn’t enough for the verbally incontinent Schilling. He just had to throw this in:

“My father left me with a saying that I’ve carried my entire life and tried to pass on to our kids: ‘Tough times don’t last. Tough people do.’…

OK, I get the desire for rah-rah pep talks that some people need. And when you blab as much as Schilling does, it’s inevitable that much of what you say is stupid. But really, you have to say something like that?

Because it implies very directly that folks that don’t last through cancer—people like our friend Sheelagh or my sister Kris, for example—weren’t tough. (I can tell you, in any contest other than pitching, either would kick Schilling’s ass).

I’m singling out Schilling—but he’s hardly alone in oafishness. We have some sort of perverse need for these aphorisms. I don’t know if it’s out of fear or awkwardness or whatever, but people manage to say the worst, least helpful things in the face of difficulties. I know this first hand. When Beth lost her sight, and a year later when Gus was diagnosed with his genetic disorder, I heard ‘em all. I’ve blocked most of them out. But the classic “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle” was among them. My favorite, though, came from, of all people, a social worker. I think she meant it as a compliment. I don’t know.

Anyway, she took me aside after we’d had dinner with her and her husband, and said, “You know, other men would’ve left.”

Ay yay yay yay yay. I’m not sure whether she thought I was a saint or an idiot. And I don’t even want to start about what it said about what she thought about Beth. Or about my fellow males.

I know that she was not a malicious person. And I’m pretty sure Curt Schilling for all his hot air, isn’t either. I also know there is always a tendency to want to say something that helps. And it’s awkward for everyone. But in those times, it’s probably best to stop, take a breath, and say…nothing. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.

Hanni’s enjoying her retirement.

My retired Seeing Eye dog Hanni turns 14 years old today. Loyal dog followers know that after Hanni retired from guide work, she went to live with our dear friends Nancy and Steven. To celebrate the big day, they’re heading out for a run in the snow at Homer Lake, a nearby forest preserve.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a 14-year-old Labrador and Golden Retriever Cross is going for a run today – my first Seeing Eye dog Dora retired at 12 and lived to be 17 years old. The excellent health of these mature dogs has everything to do with the wonderful friends who adopted my retired dogs, but the care and research the Seeing Eye and other guide dog schools put into their breeding programs deserves a lot of credit, too.

Some schools still train service dogs who’ve been donated from individuals or from animal shelters, but the more established guide dog schools know they have to breed their own dogs in order to end up with the unique traits so important to guide work:

• excellent health
• intelligence
• temperament
• willingness to work
• ability to thrive on praise

The Seeing Eye breeds Labrador retrievers, golden retrievers, Lab/golden crosses and German Shepherds — when I was training with Whitney, I was told the Seeing Eye is the only guide dog school in America still breeding German Shepherds to become guides.
Updated on 02/09/14: I met a young woman named Erin on a trip to Denver a few years ago, she’s a volunteer puppy-raiser for Guide Dogs for the Blind and explained in a comment below that, “Guide Dogs for the Blind decided not to use shepherds because of the very low success rate.” She said only one or two out of eleven German Shepherd puppies made it as guides. She also pointed out Guiding Eyes in New York still breeds and trains shepherds and the only breed they use at fidelco is German Shepherds. Another update on 02/12/14 from a comment Cindy left below, she and her family raise puppies for Leader Dogs and says they still breed and train German Shepherds, too.
Decades of research has gone into the Seeing Eye’s breeding program, much of it driven by the fact there is no “perfect Seeing Eye dog.” Dogs of all sorts of temperament, size, strength, speed and energy are necessary to match with blind people who come to the Seeing Eye school with, guess what, all sorts of temperament, size, strength, speed and energy levels. The Seeing Eye web site says their breeding station has “interconnected geometric pavilions, designed so that dogs can see each other and see people enter the kennel, so barking –not to mention stress – are greatly reduced.” Their goal? “To provide a facility most conducive to a positive early childhood experience for the puppies.” I just love that.

And I just love Hanni, too. I’m so grateful the Seeing Eye bred her for me, and so happy to think of her with Nancy and Steven today, running joyfully through the snow to celebrate her 14th birthday . Happy birthday, dear Hanni. Happy birthday to you.

That’s Emjoy Gavino (the actress who played the woman who is blind), Ron OJ Parson (the director), me, and my retired Seeing Eye dog Hanni We’re on the set of Court Theatre’s production of “Wait Until Dark.”

Back in 2009 I got an email message from stage management at Court Theatre in Chicago. They were staging Wait Until Dark. Maybe you’ve seen the film version starring Audrey Hepburn? It’s a thriller about a con-artist who terrorizes an unsuspecting blind woman. The Court Theatre cast didn’t have much experience with blindness, so they’d emailed me wondering if I’d be willing to come by at rehearsal to, well, show them the ropes.

The first rehearsal started with questions from the actors about how good I was at recognizing voices, whether I could determine who someone was by the sounds of their shoes on pavement, that sort of thing. Then came Emjoy, the actress playing the Audrey Hepburn part, with a more difficult question: “How do you think the friends you’ve made since you were blind are different than the friends you made when you could see?”

I had to think this over a bit before answering. “I think the friends I’ve met since I lost my sight are surprised to find out they actually like me,” I finally said. The cast was silent. I felt a need to explain. “It’s kind of like if I were the first black kid to go to an all-white high school. People want to meet me so they can think they’re cool, they’re open-minded, you know, they can tell other people that they have a friend who has a disability.”

One of the guys around the circle laughed. “You’re telling our story!” he said. I wasn’t sure what he meant, exactly, so I just continued. “And then if they take the time to get to know me, they’re surprised to find out they like me.” Another cast member phrased it better. “They’re surprised to find out there’s more to you than being blind.” I nodded.

We sat in that circle for almost two hours – they’d ask questions, I’d answer, we’d get off subject, then back on track again. “This is probably a dumb question…” they’d start off, then ask some of the most interesting questions I’ve heard since losing my sight. Time up, they had to get back to work and rehearse.

As I buttoned my coat to head out, I got to thinking about that guy who said I was “telling their story” and realized I had a dumb question of my own.

“Is the whole cast black?” I asked. The cast laughed, and Emjoy said no. “I’m Filipina,” she explained. “But my husband in the play is black.” Another cast member chimed in. “One cop is White,” he said. “The other is Black.” Gloria, the little girl who comes down and visits from the apartment upstairs, is Hispanic.

“Did you cast it this way on purpose, or did it just happen by coincidence, those are the people who tried out?” I ask. The director had left the room by then, but they called him back to answer this one. He told me this play is traditionally done with an all-white cast. “But it’s a new era — we’ve got a black president now!” He said it was in that spirit that he decided to cast Emjoy, a Filipina, in Audrey Hepburn’s role. “We didn’t have to change a single line in the play to make this work,” he said. “And if you think of it, this play is set in Greenwich Village in the 60s – these are the sorts of people you would see there.”

That director was Ron OJ Parson, and I found out later that he’s nationally known for his work directing the plays of August Wilson. Back when I first met Ron, though, I had no idea who August Wilson was. Now, thanks to Ron, I do.

August Wilson is a Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright best known for his series of ten plays, The Pittsburgh Cycle. Each play in the cycle is set in a different decade of the 20th Century, most of them are set in Pittsburgh, and each one explores the African-American experience of that decade.

Ron OJ Parson has directed five of Wilson’s plays at Court, and he has contacted me during each run to treat me to tickets. I’ve seen Fences, The Piano Lesson, Jitney, and Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Each one was terrific, but Seven Guitars, the August Wilson play Mike and I got to see last Saturday, is my favorite, hands down. Hard to know if it is Wilson’s writing, the brilliance of the actors, or the way Ron directed them. Or maybe it was hearing some of the actors sing and play the blues during the show? Whatever the reason, Seven Guitars was one of the most engaging plays I’ve seen in a long while. The banter was quick, lively, and oh so natural. Lyrical, come to think of it. Gee, I wonder if that’s why it’s called Seven Guitars!

The performance at Court Theatre, 5535 S. Ellis in Chicago, has been extended to February 16, 2014, and if you live anywhere in the Chicago area I encourage you to go see –and hear –it. Tickets are available by phone (773.753.4472) or online at the Court Theatre website.

Here’s my husband Mike Knezovich with the first of his “Mondays with Mike” installments.

When Martin Luther King Jr. was killed in 1968, I was 11 years old. Turmoil was everywhere—Viet Nam war protests, drugs, rock and roll, feminism, and of course, civil rights. Every thing was nuts, but still, in my little suburban world south of Chicago I felt safe. That all was going on, but it was going on out there somewhere.

My hometown of Lansing was largely blue-collar back then with a significant mix of white collar workers. Some dads commuted to the city, others to East Chicago and Gary Indiana for work in the steel mills. My mom was one of the few working mothers on my block— Esther taught elementary school

It was the post-war lower middle class:  protestants, Irish, Italian  and Polish Catholics, and a lot of Dutch Reformed. I knew there was at least one Jew…my classmate Moreen.  Not one single black person. Not one.

Lansing grew significantly in the 60s and 70s as a result of white flight from the South Side of Chicago, and there was a lot of bitterness and ugly racism . The n word was alive and well. The kids had horror stories about what had happened to their neighborhoods, and to them. Vivid tales of encounters with thugs—maybe some were true, but I’m sure many were fabricated or exaggerated. And in many cases, kids were simply repeating what they heard at home.

In adulthood, I learned that in all likelihood, lots of these folks in Lansing had a lot in common with black people who took their places. Redlining of neighborhoods by the government and the ensuing blockbusting by unethical real estate operators preyed on both groups.

My parents had grown up in a company coal mining town outside of Pittsburgh. They were the children of immigrants, and they had assimilated—as hard and as quickly as they could. Dad served in World War II, and went to college on the GI bill. Esther had cajoled her way into a local teachers college. They settled in Lansing by a confluence of odd circumstances.

My mom was a New Dealer, dad was just a guy who thought you should treat others well. He used the now politically incorrect term “colored.” On the other hand, the only time he ever struck me was when we ran across a black man at a local fishing hole and I made fun of the way he talked.

I don’t know and never will know what my parents were thinking or feeling about King in 1968. I think they were confused by it all.

For my part, I only sensed that Martin Luther King put people on edge. That he was some sort of troublemaker. That everyone around wished he would go away. When he did go away, I stayed up late into the night to watch special reports about MLK on TV. I learned he’d gotten himself arrested for the cause, I learned about the letter from a Birmingham jail. I learned that he was not a trouble maker. I learned that he was telling the truth to power.

I went to bed knowing lots of things—about life, about our country, about how the civil war really wasn’t over, about some of our neighbors, about my own little life—that really, I’d preferred not to know. And nothing was the same afterward. In his life and his death, King is the single public figure who has had the greatest personal impact on me. Not just about racial issues, or war–which he vigorously protested. Moreover, that we can live our lives in a certain way, and collectively create a reality where the person speaking the truth is the villain. It’s a lesson I try to keep in mind, not always successfully.

So, every MLK holiday feels to me like a double-edged sword. I see the celebrations, and I love that the history is retold, even if that history seems to take a back seat to folks getting in line to say great things about him. But I always feel like we skip the ugly parts—partly to spare ourselves. Lots of people thought of Martin Luther Kingas a hero when he was alive, but a great many thought he was the enemy. We have a tendency to take rightful pride in our country and its history, but we like to skip taking responsibility for the bad parts. And you can’t have it both ways.

My ambivalence about the holiday seemed to come to a head this year when the celebration of Martin Luther King’s birthday came on the heals of Nelson Mandela’s death, and then last week, Pete Seeger’s. I don’t equate these folks, but there is a common thread: in their day, Martin Luther King, Nelson Mandela and Pete Seeger  were considered the enemy by their own governments and a great many of their fellow citizens.

They were threatening. They were communists, terrorists. They were reviled, but  much of that gets lost in the media reports  published after they die. So does the fact that they were not angels. They were badasses, each in his own way.

We don’t’ seem to have their likes now—and I wonder if they would survive government’s power today. Anti-terrorism laws give wide berth to prosecution and the power of surveillance revealed by the NSA scandal makes J. Edgar Hoover’s FBI and Cointelpro look like quaint hi-jinx.

We do have troublemakers—the Snowdens, the Assanges—I don’t know that they rise to King or Mandela or  Seeger, but I lean toward applauding them.

Moreover, I thing that these celebrations of the people who were once reviled are necessary and important, but only if they are accompanied by us looking ourselves in the mirror and understanding that out of indifference or fear or ignorance, we’re probably getting it wrong right now about some perceived enemy among us.

Some troublemaker.