Mike, Whitney the Seeing Eye dog and I are heading to New England this week to meet the narrator who read the audible.com version of Writing Out Loud. Robin Sitten and I have corresponded via email, we follow each other on twitter, and of course I know her voice — I’ve listened to her sensational reading of my book! The two of us have never spoken to each other, though. Not on the phone, and never in-person.

Robin Sitten sittin’ at the microphone.

I don’t know much about Robin personally, she learned a lot about me when she was reading Writing Out Loud, but she’s recorded a number of books since then. It’s high time we met in person!

Our first face-to-face meeting will occur in front of an audience Thursday when we interview each other about the narrator-and-author relationship and how it works. Here from the Perkins School for the Blind web site:

Perkins Library Author and Narrator Reception with author Beth Finke and narrator Robin Sitten
May 24, 2018 – 4:30pm to 6:30pm
Howe Building
175 North Beacon Street
Dwight Hall
Watertown, MA 02472
Join us to meet and hear two accomplished women – author Beth Finke and narrator
Robin Sitten

There’s a reception with light hors-d’oeuvres from 4:30 to 5:30 PM. Admission is free, but a $5.00 donation is suggested. The web page includes bios and photos of both of us, but since you already know me, I’ll leave you with Robin’s bio and a hope that if you live anywhere near Watertown, Massachusetts, you’ll come on over live and in-person to witness our first meeting. Now about Robin:

Robin Sitten is the narrator for the Audible.com version of Beth’s most recent book Writing Out Loud. Prior to narrating for Audible, Robin Sitten was a volunteer reader and director for Recording for the Blind & Dyslexic (now, Learning Ally) and the host of Armchair Traveler on Audio Journal, the Radio Reading Service of Central Massachusetts. She has been an audio describer for television, film, and live theatre since 1996. Robin serves the Perkins professional development community as the Program Manager for Perkins eLearning.

RSVP online or call 617-972-7247, 1-800-852-3133, or email library@perkins.org to reserve your spot.

Among inglorious maladies, allergies and sinus problems have to be near the top. I’ve had my share of both, allergies often leading to sinusitis, leaving me to exhibit many of Felix Unger’s most annoying tendencies, not to mention making some of his most annoying noises.

Which leaves me questioning why the hell we have sinuses in the first place.

Evil resides just below and above my eyeballs.

The old explanation we were supposed believe was that they help equalize pressure in the skull, and that they somehow help nostrils do their job.

Not everybody’s so sure about that these days. Sinuses may be a useless evolutionary leftover, like the coccyx or appendix, as this Discover Magazine article called “Useless Body Parts” suggests:

The nasal sinuses of our early ancestors may have been lined with odor receptors that gave a heightened sense of smell, which aided survival. No one knows why we retain these perhaps troublesome mucus-lined cavities, except to make the head lighter and to warm and moisten the air we breathe.

Apparently, one line of evolution left the lesser apes with only two sinuses, while the greater have four, according to this Smithsonian Magazine piece:

The African apes, gorillas and chimpanzees, have all four of these sinuses. The Asian apes, orangutans and gibbons (the so-called lesser apes because of their smaller size), have just two, lacking the ethmoid and frontal sinuses.

Oh, that I’d evolved from the lesser apes. But I didn’t, and today all four of my sinuses seem to hate me. Most of all the one just under my left eye, where a creature lives, pushing as if trying to get out, and occasionally shoving a skewer up and behind my left eye.

More of the time, it’s just a dull sense of inflammation and pressure in what I would call the raccoon face area—above, below and around my eyes. It leaves me lethargic and more dull-minded than usual. Enough coffee will usually push me through it. And steroid sprays and nasty neti pots and other Felix Ungery stuff.

Antibiotics can help, too, until they don’t. I reached that point 21 years ago and had sinus surgery, a very inglorious, unglamorous, and painful procedure that I swore I’d never, ever have again. I had it during a sub-zero temperature streak, and every time I went outside to leave for a follow-up appointment, it felt like my face and forehead were going to shatter. Looking at the airbag label in the car on the way to the doc right in front of me didn’t soothe.

But the surgery helped a great deal for years. Until the last couple years, that is. The little guy with the skewer has me dancing with the ENT again, and we’ve tried a lot of stuff that hasn’t worked. He has told me that if we need the last resort, the procedure is a lot better than it used to be.

Well, if it comes to that, I won’t do it in winter.

Flo and her daughters in the Hancock building for her 95th birthday

Knowing that every parent wants their children to grow up healthy and happy, it dawns on me now that it must have been hard on my mother (I called her by her first name, Flo) to take it all in when I lost my sight. I was 26 years old then. She was 69, and she never let on that she was sad about my new disability or that she worried for me. She encouraged me instead, told me how proud she was of me and how sure she was I’d continue living an interesting –and pleasurable –life.

Our father had a fatal heart attack at home when I was three. Flo raised us on her own. Sometimes when she happen to drive by the funeral home I’d call out, “That’s where Daddy lives!” She never corrected me.

Flo and Eddie — my dad.

Our dad had switched jobs shortly before his death and had no life insurance. Flo got Social Security, but it wasn’t much. She found a job, and it was during her first summer working that I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I was hospitalized for two weeks, and Flo couldn’t miss work, but every morning and evening she’d stop to see me on her commute. At night she’d leave the hospital early enough to have dinner at home with my sisters Beverly and Marilee. Our older brothers and sisters were all married or out working, so Flo, Marilee, Bev, and I took care of the house, mowed, cleaned out the gutters, did makeshift repairs. The older kids contributed money from their paychecks, Marilee cooked for us, and on Thursday nights — before Flo’s weekly payday — we often ate what was left in the refrigerator, usually toast and eggs. But dinner was always ready when Flo got home, we never went hungry, and we lived what we considered happy, normal lives.

My older sisters and me celebrating Flo’s 93rd birthday with her. From the top (of the stairs) that’s Bobbie, Bev, Cheryl, Marilee, me, and of course Flo.

Flo never complained about things being hard or unfair. She did complain when we didn’t do our chores or if we fought over dishwashing duty or messed up what she’d just finished cleaning. But she never told us we were a burden or that we’d worn her out, though plenty of evenings she just went to her room and lay down. When we went in to ask if anything was wrong, she’d say, “No, I’m just resting my eyes.”

Years later, after losing my sight, I was visiting our son’s classroom and another young mother struck up a conversation with me. Eventually we got around to what my family had been like when I was growing up. “Oh, so that’s where you get it,” she said after I described Flo.

“Get what?”

“Your courage,” she answered.

I was flattered but had to chuckle. Flo would have been embarrassed. She didn’t believe she was being courageous. She saw her life in simple terms: she did what she had to do. And I realized that I look at my own life that way.

Flo when she was in assisted living in her 90s.

Flo could have never known I would someday lose my sight, but her work ethic, her determination not to complain, her perseverance and her appreciation for those around her served as the perfect role model for her children, especially for the daughter who is writing this blog post.

No one can predict what will happen to their children, but giving them a first-hand look at hard work, determination and love can sure help brace them for whatever comes their way later. Flo died a few years ago, but her spirit lives on. I write this Mother’s Day post in her honor. I was lucky to have her.

Shorter versions of this post were published earlier this week in my newsletter and on the Easterseals National blog.

In honor of Mother’s Day this year I asked the writers in my memoir class to tell us about the traits they share with their mothers. This one is written by Michael Graff. The “Nancy” in the essay is his wife, and the “Pink House” he refers to is their family’s vacation home near Lake Michigan.

by Michael Graff

Over breakfast last Tuesday, Nancy asked, “what’s your ‘Beth’ assignment for this week?”

I smiled and said, “a mother’s day assignment. I’m supposed to write about traits I share with my mother.”

I’m uncertain if Nancy groaned, grimaced, rolled her eyes, or grunted. Perhaps all those. Then she asked, “What traits do you think you shared with your mom?”

That’s Michael (left), Nancy and their son Evan, with Michael’s mother (Delores) in the foreground. Taken at the Pink House.

Let’s turn this essay into a cartoon of Nancy and me having breakfast. Above our heads, there are balloons that reveal our thoughts. Mine says: Smart, has a fondness for fine things, buys only what’s needed or necessary. Likes to purchase items based upon value. Reasonable, Quick to find the truth. Knowledgable.

Nancy’s bubble has the words: Not as smart as he thinks he is, only likes what he likes, buys annoyingly teeny tiny minuscule portions of items. Doesn’t care what he pays for anything. Hot head. Sometimes can’t see the answer in front of him. Know it all.

I have an idea which balloon more accurately reveal the traits mom and I share. I think mom would side with me.

If I’d been 15 when Beth handed me this assignment, I’d be darned insulted that she asked me to ponder whether there were any similarities between myself and my mom. Regardless of the truth, the fifteen year old Mike would have said, “Beth, isn’t it obvious? My mom and I share no common traits because we have nothing in common.”

The truth is that after my dad died, mom and I became best friends. You wouldn’t always know because sometimes we yelled at each other. One summer, mom opened up our refrigerator at Pink House and demanded to know why we had this item or that. I grabbed one from her and threw it into the trash.

Mom raised her arm to block the trash can and yelled, “Michael, stop that!”

I replied, “Then you stop it, goddammit. This is my house.”

Later that same summer, mom was in our pool and I watched my eighty three year old mother climb out using the ladder. I thought, I might have to figure out a way to install steps into our pool because mom might not be able to climb out so easily the next summer or summers after that. That was down the road, nothing to think about then.

A couple of weeks later, mom came into the kitchen at Pink House and told me, “I didn’t feel well last night. My heart was racing.”

“Mom, why didn’t you get me?”

“I figured it would either go away, or I’d be dead.”

I made her call her doctor. Mom was hospitalized for a suspected lung infection. It turned out to be advanced lung cancer which invaded her heart.

When she heard the news, Mom said, “I’ve had a wonderful life. I’m ready.”

Ten days later she was gone.

When I was fifteen, I never wanted to be like my mother, but today I hope I’m just like her.

I made it to my second White Sox game of the season on Saturday night, tagging along with our friends Chef Jim and Professor Janet. It was Cinco de Mayo, and the Sox had a mariachi band do the anthem. It was probably the nicest evening Chicago’s seen weather-wise—at least when the Sox have been home.

It was a beautiful night for a ballgame.

It was a good crowd in good spirits–what I would describe as a predominantly working class. Sox games always draw a large Hispanic contingent, and it was larger than usual—a product of the theme night, I’m sure.

Lots of great chatter, lots of kids blowing off steam while their parents sipped a beer. Just like the Family Sundays at the park, Saturday night felt like when my folks would bring us to a game at Comiskey Park in the 1960s.

A lot’s changed since then. The scoreboard is an enormous TV now. There’s more raucous music than organ music, luxury suites, and the special club sections where people wait on you. Bars are behind the stands on the club level, and you know, you don’t have to be where the riff and the raff are.

The suites make me chuckle. I’ve been in them, and I guess they’re fine for a novelty, perhaps an event. But here’s the deal: I pay less for a better experience sitting with the crowd. Call me riff, but I like hanging out with the raff, where you talk baseball with strangers and it’s easier to pay attention to the ball game.

That’s a thing that’s changed since the days my folks brought me to games—not just in the ballpark—but across our society: our tendency to segregate ourselves to varying degrees. If you have enough money and are so inclined, you can buy your way out of lines, into private seating areas, and pretty much insulate yourself away from others who don’t.

I don’t like that change. I do understand the practical value of priority lines/clubs for people who fly all the time—there are some of these things that have as much to do with practicality as they do with exclusivity. But otherwise, I don’t much like the spirit of the whole idea.

This has all been on my mind lately because I came across a couple of different articles about different subjects that I think touch on this dynamic.

One of them looks at how a baseball team (the Cubs) has borrowed a ticket gimmick from Hamilton the Musical. Basically, they’re going to make a certain number of seats available for each game at affordable prices through a lottery. Hamilton’s been doing this from the beginning.

The writer, Chris Jones, calls out the exercise (in baseball and the theater) as more or less a public relations exercise. But he broadens his scope to lament the luxury box phenomenon of selling pricey, exclusive access in the theater, sports, and in general. Give it a read.

On another front, this New York Times article looks at segregation in New York City schools. The essence: The schools are still very segregated. As they are here in Chicago. And the common thread: School choice.

I’ve thought school choice was a bad idea from the beginning. It’s a shell game. And it makes parents and kids have to worry about entrance exams and all that junk at elementary and high school levels, in addition to college admissions.

It also feels like a gimmicky way of running from a problem. I get the idea that a kid in a bad neighborhood should not be obligated to go to a bad school. But here’s my answer: No bad schools. A commitment to neighborhood schools. Because school choice takes good students out of neighborhoods that are already teetering, hollowing out the neighborhood school, and contributing to a downward spiral.

To me, a commitment to public schools means a commitment to neighborhood public schools. What we have here instead is a way to invest heavily in a few good schools, where the usual suspects have the best chance of getting in, and divest elsewhere.

I’m happy to leave skyboxes to others—they end up on the short end of the stick, if you ask me. But when it comes to schools, well, not having to sit in class with your neighbor really doesn’t cut it.