That's Katrin Klingenberg's Smith House, Urbana.

For the past couple of months, my husband Mike Knezovich has had two full-time jobs. He rose to the occasion after I broke my foot in June, walking Harper, accompanying me to doctor appointments, chauffeuring me to the Chicago Cultural Center so I could teach my memoir classes, running all our many, many errands. He helped me sort through the heartwrenching decision to retire Harper early, and once that decision was made he shepherded me to France to meet up with dear friends. Well, I guess that last part wasn’t really work.

Through all that, Mike was keeping up with his day job for Passive House Institute US (PHIUS), flying to DC to visit potential sites for their annual conference, working with vendors and exhibitors, promoting the event and juggling–with his coworkers–all other sundry things involved with planning a national conference. And now, the Passive House conference is here! It starts this week, and this article in USA Today helps explain what PHIUS is all about:

The passive house movement, popularized in Europe, where thousands of such homes have been built, is starting to catch on in the United States as consumers look to lower their utility bills. These homes don’t require pricey solar panels or wind turbines but focus on old-fashioned building science to reduce energy use by up to 90% less energy. They’re different from the “passive solar” homes of the 1970s, which used a lot of south-facing windows for heating, because they emphasize other features: thick walls and roofs (often at least a foot) and triple-paned windows, as well as efficient appliances and lighting. The secret is tightness, achieved via superior insulation and air sealing. A mechanical system brings in fresh air, heating or cooling it as needed.

Few U.S. homes, only a dozen so far, have obtained certification from the Passive House Institute US, a private Illinois-based group that bases its rules on the German Passivhaus standard.

Well, the number of certified homes is up to 24 now, with dozens more–including commercial buildings–in the pipeline. PHIUS is working to make passive house commonplace in new construction and retrofitted buildings.

When I tell friends about Mike’s work with passive houses, their first question is almost always about the windows. “So you have to keep the windows closed all the time?” The answer is no. When the weather is nice outside, you can still open the windows. But when temperatures are outside the range where you’d be comfortable with the windows open, the idea is to keep the inside of the home comfortable all year long, and the super-insulation means most passive homes don’t need a conventional furnace. The ventilator runs constantly at very low, quiet levels to provide air quality. And the windows–triple-paned in most cases–mean you can sit by one and never know it’s below freezing outside.

Katrin Klingenberg’s Smith House, completed in Urbana, Ill. in 2002, was the very first Passive House built in the United States. Which is appropriate, because fundamental passive house principles were actually developed at  the University of Illinois back in the 70s. Builder Mike Kernagis pitched in on other Passive House projects that were built as affordable housing in partnership with the City of Urbana, and in 2007 Klingenberg and Kernagis founded Passive House Institute US (PHIUS). Since then more Passive House structures have been built in the United States, and more are in the works. And PHIUS has certified more than 200 architects, engineers and builders as Certified Passive House Consultants. You can find consultants here.

The PHIUS conference will take place in Silver Spring, Maryland and includes tours of existing passive house projects and a ton of practical , academic and hands-on advice on how to design and build to the passive house standard–and even a panel of folks who live in these things. You can link here to view the conference’s full schedule, including passive house building tours and pre-conference workshops. You can still sign up for the conference online, but you’d better do it fast — registration closes Tomorrow night, October 23.

And hey, if you go to the conference and you see Mike Knezovich there, do me a favor: pat him on the back for two jobs well done.

The memoir-writing class will be there celebrating Wanda’s 90th on Wednesday. Wanda is to my left in the photo (the far right as you look at it).

When I asked Wanda Bridgeforth what she wanted me to bring her for her 90th birthday, she didn’t hesitate. “Harper!” she said. “Bring him to class!”

Wanda is an animal lover. You might remember the beautiful letter she wrote when it came time for Hanni, my Seeing Eye dog, to retire last year. Harper may not be able to handle traffic anymore, but that won’t keep him away on Wednesday. We’ll take a cab.

Wanda joined our memoir-writing class five years ago, and she’s only missed class once in all that time. With her daughter’s help, she self-published On The Move( the first volume of her own memoir) in 2009. Wanda has had a significant hearing loss since childhood, and she sits right next to me during class so she doesn’t miss a word. This turns out to be a privilege for me: I get to hear everything Wanda says, too!

In her 90 years, Wanda has lived in more than 50 different apartments or houses. Her mother was a “domestic” and had to leave Wanda every Sunday to take off and live at the houses she took care of. Wanda lived with one relative one week, a friend the next, and sometimes, with complete strangers. “I tell you, Beth” she said to me once. “I could tell you stories about growing up that would make the hair curl on a bald man’s head.”

A number of Wanda’s hair-raising stories will be included in On The Move, Volume Two, which she hopes to have out by this Christmas.

And speaking of 90-year-olds with published memoirs, if you happen to have missed Hanna Bratman’s interview on Chicago’s WGN Radio Sunday morning, never fear: you can download the interview from Rick Kogan’s web site. Rick Kogan introduced her on air as his “favorite new writer,” and said she was “a natural” on the radio. And once the microphones were off? He whispered to me, “She’s a doll!” I wouldn’t be surprised if he asks her back. And next time, we’ll bring fellow nonagenarian memoirist Wanda Bridgeforth along, too.

That’s Hanna, the author. (Photo by Nora Isabel Bratman)

Loyal blog readers will remember Hanna Bratman, the matriarch of the memoir-writing class I teach for Chicago senior citizens every Wednesday. Hanna grew up in Germany. Her family was Jewish, and Hanna escaped on her own before World War II. She was only 19 years old when she arrived, alone, in the United States. Others in her family didn’t make it out in time.

Francine Rich from Blue Marlin Publications read an excerpt of one of Hanna’s essays posted here on my blog and was so moved by it that she volunteered to edit and compile Hanna’s collection of essays into a readable format. When she finished, she decided to go ahead and publish them into a book for Hanna. Francine’s husband Jude got involved, going online to find images and photographs from the time periods Hanna wrote about. Their son Dominick designed the cover.

Francine titled the collection”What’s In My Head” after something Hanna’s mother had said when tensions started building in the early 1930s. “Hitler won’t last,” Hanna’s mother told her daughter back then, reassuring her that things would change soon. “You know, they can take everything away from you, except of what’s in your head.”

Hanna’s family surprised her with the book last weekend when they were all here in Chicago for Yom Kippur. The best way to describe Hanna’s reaction is to excerpt a note she sent afterwards:

When my daughter Rudy announced on Saturday night after the Holy day dinner that she had an announcement to make, she made sure that I was listening. I expected her to probably announce that my Great Grandson Eli at 4 months was now able to sit in his high chair or slept through the night. The whole family and friends had assembled around the dining room table, standing room only. Rudy was next to me and reached into the bag that was hanging on the back of the chair. “Mom, You are the author of this book.” Applause. I am looking at the book, not quite comprehending what I am looking at. The first thing I recognized was the picture of the Synagogue in Mannheim, I still don’t realize, that this is the book of my stories. I am totally speechless, I am dreaming this, it cannot be true.

Hanna said she had come to the dinner with her daughter’s family and had quite a bundle to carry when it came time for her son’s family to drive her home.

That’s Francine on the right, publisher of “Hanni and Beth Safe & Sound” and “What’s in My Head.” Her husband Jude is on the left.

I am not only carrying some delicious leftovers but also 10 copies of my very own book. I hardly slept that night thinking of all the many people that have helped me to make this dream a very sudden reality, and all the friends and few relatives who would want to have a copy sooner rather than later. Given my age and energy level nobody ever expected that this book ever will become a reality. I, Hanna L. Bratman has reinvented herself as the author of her memoires, of a beautiful book. Francine I am adjusting to this. The word THANK YOU does not adequately describe how I feel.

I fully well appreciate the many hours you have spend with me, a total stranger, the sacrifices of your family and to see the whole thing through including the publishing and printing.

THANK YOU ALL.

Francine had dozens of copies made for Hanna. “I don’t want her reimbursing me,” Francine told me. “The book is being presented to her as a gift and should be “regifted” to others in the same fashion.”

Author Hanna Bratman will be appearing on Rick Kogan’s “Sunday Papers” radio show on WGN-Am 720 in Chicago this Sunday, October 16 at 7:00 a.m. to talk about her book and how it got published. If you’re awake that early on a Sunday morning, listen in!

Harper loves it at home! It's that crazy outside world that's become too much. Who can blame him?

Harper is not the only heroic guy in the family – my husband Mike Knezovich is a hero, too. When I told him I’d have a hard time writing about this, he generously offered to write a guest post about it for me.

Harper the hero

by Mike Knezovich

So I was going to steal a line from Beth and call this post Harper’s Bizarre, because, well, he’s exhibited some really strange behavior over the past several months.

The thing is, if you were to watch Harper and Beth work inside and in the vicinity of our condo building you’d say he was terrific. Because he is. He’s uncanny at finding elevators, weaving through pedestrian traffic, and unbelievably gentle and polite when approaching slow walkers or WPs—wobbly people as we say in the guide dog parlance.

But.

Harper has developed a boundary line—a line only he sees or understands—past which he will not go. Literally. For example, he’ll cross our street—Dearborn—at a very busy intersection and take Beth to the tree where he does his emptying, and he won’t miss a beat. But he won’t cross the next street—a quiet side lane. On a good day, he will follow Beth’s command to walk south, a long city block to Polk Street, then turn right on Beth’s command to head north and back home.

He will not, however, go any farther away from home than that route. He simply stops. He can be literally dragged, but that’s all that will move him. And it’d take a stronger man than me to drag him much more than a yard. He’s one muscular dog.

It’s like this in other locales, too. That is, if I drive Beth to the Chicago Cultural Center, where Beth teaches, he’ll pile out of the car, Beth will grab his harness, and he’ll be off like a rocket up the ramp to the front door, and lead her precisely to her spot in the classroom inside the building. No mean feat, as the Cultural Center is a hulking structure. He’ll take her out of the Cultural Center, too. But only as far as is necessary to be picked up by me or a taxi. He will not venture down the busy city sidewalk to lead her home. Beth traveled to Madison, Wis., recently, and it was the same. She got a ride from Chicago to the front door of her hotel. He brought her to the registration desk. They were led to their room, and he routinely got her out of the hotel and back to the room without help. But he would not travel away from the hotel.

Beth and I have concluded sardonically that we’ve become guide people, service people, our mission in life is to make sure that Harper is able to travel safely with our help. A little gallows humor never hurts when dealing with sad subjects.

But ultimately, this is really sad, not funny. Harper is not bizarre, he’s a hero. And like a good many other heroes, his heroic act has left a lasting—if invisible—scar.
Here’s what happened: about two or three weeks after Beth and Harper came home from training, they were headed north on State Street. Beth waited to hear that traffic on State was moving—indicating that the light was green and she could cross—and she commanded Harper to go forward. They stepped into the street to cross.

A northbound vehicle didn’t see Beth and Harper and made a right turn into their path. Beth doesn’t remember any detail except being dragged backward—by Harper—yanked so hard that she fell to the pavement and hit her head. So hard that it bent and split the metal fitting on Harper’s harness where the handle attaches. (Even back in December during training, Harper had excelled at traffic checks—disobeying the command to go forward in the face of traffic and pulling Beth back if a vehicle darted in front of them.)

The woman driving the car pulled over and came, panicked, to Beth’s aid. She didn’t realize that the reason Beth had fallen backwards was due to Harper’s strength and determination to pull her away from the oncoming car. The driver was sure she’d hit Beth and Harper. Beth, to this day, isn’t absolutely sure whether Harper was brushed by the vehicle or not.

A pedestrian also came to Beth’s aid and asked what he could do for her. Beth asked whether Harper was OK—fully expecting to hear that Harper had been hit.
The pedestrian told her Harper was fine, helped Beth get her bearings, walked her and Harper across the street, and Beth and Harper made it home to tell me the story.

As it happened, Harper was not fine. He behaved normally for at least a couple weeks after the incident. But then, one day, weeks afterward, Beth was on her way to a meeting at her Easter Seals job in Willis Tower. Out of the blue, as they were cruising along Jackson Street, Harper stopped on the sidewalk. It wasn’t at an intersection. A passerby came to Beth’s aid. Beth asked if there was anything unusual—construction or whatever—going on. There was not.

The stranger gave Beth his elbow and walked her and Harper “sighted guide.” As soon as Harper saw Willis Tower—a familiar sight—he picked it up. But later, he kept doing this type of thing: balking, crouching, cowering in the middle of a block—for no apparent reason. He just didn’t want to go any farther.

After a visit from a Seeing Eye instructor, Beth got some great tips using clicker training and treats and Harper started to improve. It looked like he was going to make it.

Then Beth broke her foot.

For weeks she could only take Harper out once a day on harness. And that was only as far as his favorite tree. I’d take him the rest of the time. And that’s when we knew the problem was getting worse, not better. When I took him—or tried to take him—on a walk, he cowered and froze any time we went past his usual spot and on into unknown territory. And he wasn’t even working. He didn’t have his harness on. He knew

I was leading. And he still didn’t go.

I held onto the hope that it was because he knew Beth was back at home, and he didn’t want to go any farther away from her than necessary. The last hope was lost after Beth’s foot healed and she got the doctor’s green light to start walking as far as she wanted to. Where before, a clicker and a treat would get him going, now Harper—a Yellow Labrador Retriever mind you—was not motivated by treats.

The Seeing Eye sent another instructor out our way. Chris spent a couple days with us and Harper. He tried the clicker/treat routine and witnessed what we had. He said he’d never ever seen a Lab who didn’t want a treat badly enough to obey a command.

We talked a lot with Chris, and he said that although the training at the Seeing Eye includes a trip or two to New York City with the trainer, then another with the person they are eventually matched with—there’s really no way to know for sure how a dog will react to city surroundings—or any surroundings, for that matter—in the long term.

He also explained that although Harper didn’t start balking right after the near-miss with the car, the stresses on the dogs can be cumulative.

The three of us talked and imagined what swirled around in Harper’s head. In the end, Chris made it clear that city life had just become too much for Harper. Beth would have to get matched with a new partner. We all agreed that Harper would stay with us at least until Beth could go to another class. He’s still good at what he is able to do, as long as we can provide door-to-door transportation. And we’re more attached to him than ever. As for Harper’s future, Chris said he’d talk with his colleagues when he got back to New Jersey about whether Harper could be retrained and perhaps work in a calmer environment.

We doubted he could, and silently hoped—for Harper’s sake—that he’d be able to spend his years as a plain old dog. But we also hated the idea that all that training, and all Harper’s gentle ways, would be wasted.

Well, we needn’t have worried. Last week John Keane—the Seeing Eye’s head of training—called Beth. He made clear that there was no intention to retrain Harper.
And John drove home that the Seeing Eye’s hard work and Harper’s training were hardly wasted.

“He took a bullet for you,” John said. “And for that he earned an early retirement.”

Break out the Lana Turner dress – I’m going to an exclusive affair at Marcel’s Culinary Experience this Saturday night!

What? You haven’t heard of Marcel’s? Where do you live? Under a rock or something? Marcel’s is the new culinary retail store and cooking school that my dear friend Jill Foucré just opened in Glen Ellyn, IL. From a story in the Glen Ellyn Patch:

The retail store offers fine cookware, specialty foods and tableware, and an assortment of day and evening cooking classes offered in a state-of-the-art kitchen.

Mike will be in Wisconsin with Gus this Saturday, so Harper and I are taking the train to Marcel’s for the friends and family grand opening that night. I. Can’t. Wait. I spent countless nights hanging out at Chez Foucré with Jill and her sister Jenny when we were teenagers. Their dad was a handsome man with an exotic first name: Jacques. Their mother, Suzanne, was a stand-out blonde. They were a young family in a beautiful old house: high ceilings, modern furniture, bookshelves packed with hardcover books, and they even owned sculpture!

That's Jill in the middle, flanked by her sister Jenny, and Jenny's husband Dean.

Jill grew up with a sense of design. She inherited her love of reading from her mom. Her love for the culinary experience? That comes from her father’s side. Namely, from her grandfather, Marcel.

I never had the privilege of meeting Jill’s paternal grandfather, but I’ve heard a lot about him. Marcel Foucré was a French chef and restaurateur. He grew up in Tours — Jill and her dad went to France earlier this year to trace Marcel’s footsteps. From the Glen Ellyn Patch article

Jill has fond memories of the man who gave her a joie de vivre when it came to cooking.

“I was 15 when he died in 1974,” she said. “He was a fabulous cook. I remember that he and his family lived out in Philadelphia area when I was a kid. He would come out here to visit. He would make us omelets and scrambled eggs and they were the most delicious things that you’ve ever tasted. He was a charming, unassuming and delightful little Frenchman. He was passionate about his craft.”

And me? I’m passionate about the whole Foucré family. Jenny, Jill and I were in our high school band together and can still tell story after story about exploits on school buses to neighboring towns, building floats for homecoming parades, band trips to California and Florida. Jill played the bassoon. Jenny played flute and married her high school sweetheart, a French horn player. I was the band librarian. During fourth period every day, while the musicians practiced away, I was nestled behind a big glass window filing scores, mimeographing sheet music and slipping personal notes (I of course thought these were hilarious) into the band folders each musician picked up before practice.

I took attendance, too –a very powerful position back in the day when it was a cinch to ditch class. Jill’s bassoon was the only one the school owned. Any time it got sent to the repair shop, she was assigned to come “help” me in the library. Translation: she helped me write the hilarious notes we put into band folders, we discussed at length how it was that Scott and Nancy got caught making out in the practice room, and how we’d manage to get a seat towards the back in next weekend’s bus trip to the state competition. Jill was creative — sometimes it would take months to make the bassoon right. Her bassoon sabotage was the highest form of high school friendship.

After graduation I found a ride on the U of I ride board to see Jill at Indiana University, and as she developed a successful business career Mike and I visited her and her handsome son Alex in Ohio and Maryland. Once she returned to Illinois we made it a Christmas ritual to meet at Jenny’s kitchen every year to eat, drink, tell stories and read out loud the worst Xerox Christmas letters that we’d received that year.

Jenny and Jill stuck with me when I lost my sight. They took a 150-mile drive with their kids to visit after Gus was born – they were worried about me, and with good reason. Over the years they’ve invited me to parties, welcomed me at their kitchen tables for late night talks, and best of all: they’ve always treated me the same way they did before I lost my sight.

Jenny and Jill’s younger sisters are just as beautiful and talented as the older two. I’m looking forward to being with the whole lot of them again this Saturday and toasting to Jill’s latest adventure.