Last week was “Disability Awareness Week” at Wilmot Elementary School, so yesterday Whitney and I took a commuter train to Deerfield, Illinois, to talk with third graders there about what it’s like to be blind and get around with a Seeing Eye dog.

Whit’s always up for a class visit.

The train ride to Deerfield was a long one. Whitney was so frisky when we arrived at Wilmot that she wouldn’t sit still in front of the kids. What to do?

I usually end talks with Whitney guiding me out of the classroom so the kids can see how she follows commands. Maybe this time I’d start my presentation showing the eight-and-nine-year-olds how Whitney works.

I stood up, lifted the harness, and commanded a stern “Outside!”

The kids were all sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the library rug, and Whitney threaded me safely past them to the hallway door. “Good girl, Whitney!”

The children were wowed.

Once I turned around and had Whitney lead me back to the front of the classroom, the valiant Seeing Eye dog was back to her stoic self. Guess she just needed to establish who was really the star of this show. Some of the questions the third-graders had afterwards:

• How do you eat if you can’t see?
• How do you drive?
• I know your dog knows left from right, but how do you know?
• Dogs, you know, kind of, like jump when they go up stairs, so how do you get up the stairs with your dog?
• Do you ever even get into a car?

When all my talks at Wilmot were over yesterday, I took Whitney’s harness off and let any of the interested kids come by and pet her. As Whitney flipped over and over again for belly rubs, one bashful eight-year-old approached with a question she’d been reluctant to ask in front of the entire class. “Can you see in your mind?”

If I could see to find her little hand, I would have patted it. Instead, I did my best to reassure her with words. “Oh, yes,” I smiled, picturing this wistful little waif cocking her head with wonder. “I do it all the time.”

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

If you’ve followed our Safe & Sound blog for a while, you know who Wanda Bridgeforth is: she has been attending the memoir-writing class I lead in downtown Chicago for a decade now. She’s witty and talented, and today is her 95th birthday!

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.

Wanda was tickled by the idea of us publishing one of her essays here in honor of her 95th birthday, and she suggested one that opens on Election Day in a small town she lived in just south of Chicago city limits in the early 1940s.

Election – Village Style

by Wanda Bridgeforth

Election Day was always eventful, but this one was extra special. Our 80 year old grandmother was “going to the voting” for the first time, a privilege she did not have in her home state of Mississippi.

Her Sunday suit and blouse were pressed, Enna Jettick shoes polished, bosom ruffle starched and ironed, white gloves washed and placed beside her, hat and purse on the hall table.

The second important event of the day? Mr. C. J. Berry had announced this would be his last campaign. He had been in office for many years and now wanted time to go fishing.

He was a very tall, very lean man whose arms and hands always dangled below his sleeves. He walked with a slow determined step. All the young people said he looked like Ichabod Crane from Sleepy Hollow.

Elections in our village were truly democratic. There were no appointed officials. All candidates had to go through the election process, even if there was only one name on the ballot. If a candidate did not receive a majority of yes votes, he lost the election and the search would be on for a new candidate. However, in all of my years of residency I don’t recall a losing candidate.

The ballot box was on the mayor’s front porch in the summer and on his enclosed back porch in winter. The volunteer election judges worked in three-hour shifts during the 12-hours the polls were open. The polls closed at 6 p.m., and by 7:00 or 7:30 we had our results.

When the day ended we had two big things to celebrate: Grandma’s entry into the voting world, and Mr. C. J. Berry’s pre-retirement re-election as Village Dogcatcher.

Beth here: Wanda never misses an election, and she told me once that every time she casts a ballot, she thinks of the day her impeccably-dressed grandmother voted for the first time. The memoir-writing class she’s in is called “Me, Myself and I” and meets on Wednesdays. We’ll all be together to celebrate her birthday in class today, and we’ll all be together the day after voting day next month, too. However that election turns out, there’s one thing you can count on: Wanda will be sporting a “I voted” sticker to class on November 9, 2016. Happy 95th, Wanda!

We interrupt this presidential election with a reminder: The presidential election, as important as it is, is just one race. Don’t let the spectacle distract you from state and local contests.

I say this because I’ve been blindsided when I didn’t take a peek at the sample ballot in advance. That is, there were races I didn’t even know about, and I felt unable to vote reasonably and intelligently in those races. It hasn’t happened in a long while, because I hate feeling like a deadbeat citizen.

I’ve come to believe that one of the many things that ail our political system is being hypnotized that things only happen from the top down. We want saviors—but it’s harder than that. Or, when it comes to politics, as Pogo would say, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”

Local politics can be dreary as hell. And it’s a lot easier to share snarky, zingy Facebook memes than to say, attend the local school board meeting. Or keep track of city council agendas. But it matters.

When I edited an alt-weekly in Champaign-Urbana lo these many years ago, I watched city council meetings on cable—I’d attend particularly important ones, but cable was a godsend. It allowed me to stay home, and go grab a sandwich, and from time to time, curse. There was a lot of malarkey, to be sure, but you know—Urbana and Champaign city council members spent a lot of time on that job. And mostly, they were sincere and operated in good faith.

Working that newspaper job taught me a lot about the value of local, or as it’s now called, community journalism. And how bad it is that local papers have been replaced by really weak attempts like DNA info, Chicagoist, you name it.

That job at the alt-weekly also taught me how important local politics is, and what a meaningful impact citizens can make when they get involved. That starts with paying attention and voting.

On that note:

1. Please vote.
2. Before you do, check out a sample ballot for your address. There are some national sites like ballotpedia.org or the League of Women Voters’ Vote411, but the most reliable bets for sample ballots are your local board of elections or your state election commission. There are also state and local non-profit orgs—here in Illinois Vote IL is a good resource.

Another site that’s useful if you want to follow the money is the Center for Responsive Politics.

Also, in case I forgot: Vote.

Ali and Joe.

My young friend Alicia Krage was born blind. The guest post she wrote last week about going to a movie with her boyfriend Joe, who also is blind, got so much positive attention that I invited her to write another post for us.

Ali’s new post is about transferring from a community college, moving from home to a dorm and settling in to university life.

by Alicia Krage

Northern Illinois University (NIU) is located an hour away from my family. My boyfriend goes to NIU, and I have a lot of other friends who go here, too.

I couldn’t wait for this school year to begin. The knowledge that I’d get to see them every day and have face-to-face interactions with them instead of chatting online made me long for moving day to get here. I wanted to be surrounded by my closest friends.

However, contrary to the way that might sound, having a wonderful social life wasn’t the only thing that made me want to attend such a big school. What really attracted me was how well-known NIU’s Disability Resource Center is. As far back as my eighth grade year I can recall hearing about blind students attending NIU. I had considered going there myself after I toured the school seven years ago, but back then I was intimidated by the large campus — more than 20,000 students go to NIU.

My boyfriend Joe is blind, and visiting him at NIU gave me first-hand knowledge of the resources and wonderful transportation services available for students with disabilities there.

My move-in day was August 17. My parents, along with one of my sisters, helped me move in. .

I had requested a single room with my own private bathroom, and my wish was granted. It is a decent size, and I’m happy to have so much space.

The move took several hours, as did running through a few routes — from the lobby to the elevators, from the elevators to the dining hall. After all that, I was exhausted.

It wasn’t until my parents and sister left that it finally started to sink in: I was on my own. Instead of being nervous, I was unbelievably excited.

After my family left, Joe came over and offered to run through some routes with me, despite knowing my family had helped me earlier.

I declined.

But then he thought up a different task: How will I know the difference between my room key and bathroom key? My mother had already put a sticker on my room key to tell the difference, but Joe helped me figure out another method just in case the sticker we used might fall off –which it did a few days later.

He showed me the teeth on my room key and then my bathroom key and pointed out that the teeth were more curved on the bathroom key. that is how you can tell the difference. I was impressed! This method works perfectly.

Most of my classes are in one building on campus, but that building is big. It could have been intimidating — and confusing. Getting to classes isn’t as bad as I thought it might be, though. I often stop others in the hall to ask for assistance, and over and over again my fellow students cheerfully say, “Of course!”

I have been amazed, impressed, and very happy with everyone’s reaction to a blind student walking around campus. When I attended my local community college, I’d get frantic apologies when I’d accidentally run into someone, and all sorts of unusual reactions to my white cane, too. Some people didn’t even understand what my “white stick” was for. It was clear I was one of very few blind students at College of DuPage.

Here at Northern Illinois University, things are different. When I walk around campus here at NIU, several people (often at the same time) stop me and offer to help. Many are very familiar with sighted guide techniques. Students here just seem very accustomed to seeing a white cane or even a guide dog.

Now I often run into people who have already offered me their arm and led me down the hall somewhere or another once before. We might not be friends, but I’m glad I’m a familiar face on campus.

The dining hall in my dorm is a short walk from the elevator (which beeps for every floor). Someone is always at the front counter where your card is swiped, and they often greet me by name (again…I’m glad I’m a familiar face). A worker swipes my card, then uses a walkie-talkie to request assistance from a student worker. The student worker then leads me down the ramp and into the food court, where they ask me where I want to go.

There’s Traditional (which has a different menu every day), Pizza and Pasta, The Grill (which has the same thing every day), among other options. They fill my tray and seat me directly by the ramp. That way I can easily exit when I’m finished.

The social aspect is fantastic. Almost all my close friends live in my building, and if they don’t, they are a five minute walk or a 10 minute drive. We use what’s called the Husky Line Freedom Mobile, which is a free door-to-door Paratransit service for NIU students with disabilities. It will take you anywhere in the area, and off campus after 5 p.m.

I’ve already found my favorite coffee shops and music venues, and I’ve been to pretty nice restaurants. I have yet to explore so much more!

I’m sitting in my dorm room typing this, and it’s amazing to look back on all of this and realize that it’s only been a couple of months since I moved in. I’ve had the most amazing start here, and I’m so happy knowing there’s so much ahead of me – so many new experiences, challenges, and many more wonderful people to meet.

Pretty much everyone knows the “dog years” thing—you know, that a dog’s age in years is seven times a human’s. So, for example, a dog that is seven years old is roughly at the same point as a 49 year-old human. (Unless the human watched the debate last night, in which case the human aged a year for every ten minutes, which really messes up the math. But I digress.)

Click on the image to see Hanni do her 94-year-old dash.

I’m not sure why calculating dog years ever really mattered, except that as one theory suggests, it’s just a shorthand way of thinking about canine longevity relative to human longevity. Anyway, the bottom line about dog years is that it really has no basis in, well, anything.

The American Veterinary Medical Association calculates relative age as follows:

• 15 human years equals the first year of a medium-sized dog’s life.
• Year two for a dog equals about nine years for a human.
• After that, it’s easy: each human year would be approximately five years for a dog.

This article at the American Kennel Club website explains the reasoning and science.

I got to thinking about all this as the result of a really nice afternoon spent with our friends Chris and Larry and Greg yesterday. Greg has been a friend since our Urbana days. He introduced us some years ago to Chris and Larry, who you may recall adopted Harper, Beth’s third Seeing Eye dog. After a close call in which he saved Beth from getting hit by a car, Harper developed a heartbreaking case of canine PTSD, and Harper just couldn’t guide Beth anymore. In fact, when he moved to a quiet, leafy suburb to live with Chris and Larry, Harper wouldn’t even walk around the block. He was that traumatized.

Beth returned to The Seeing Eye to be matched with her current dog Whitney. And thanks to Larry and Chris’ care and patience, Harper’s doing great, goes for long walks now and loves playing with the other neighborhood dogs.

At one point during our time together yesterday, Larry said, in a careful tone, “I’m almost afraid to ask, but how’s Hanni doing?” Afraid, because he thought there might be bad news about Harper’s predecessor, Hanni—who’s retired and living in Urbana with our friends Steven and Nancy.

Larry was relieved when we told him that Hanni’s doing dandy and fine in her golden years, which total 16 in human terms. Seventeen come February. And he was tickled when I showed him the video Nancy sent last month of Hanni running full bore at a forest preserve.

Now, full bore isn’t what it used to be, and Nancy said Hanni slept for hours after her frolicking.

But it’s not bad for a 112, er, um, let’s see… 94-year-old golden/lab retriever cross.

P.S. Special thanks to Greg for his patience. I think he may have aged a month for every minute the rest of us talked about dogs.