A trainer from the Seeing Eye was in the Chicago area visiting other graduates last week. Eric had heard I broke my foot. Did I want him to stop by and see how things were going with Harper?

That's Eric and me (and Harper) at the White Sox game.

I cradled the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder and leaned down to tighten the laces on my orthopedic shoes. “I’m still not supposed to walk much,” I sighed. “Seems like it’d be a waste of time for you to come all the way downtown just to watch us walk around the block.” Eric assured me I wouldn’t be wasting his time. He arrived before lunch, admired my shoes, and followed as Harper led me out the door.

Harper did not disappoint. Well, I mean, he did disappoint, but as long as Eric was here to help with potential problems, we gave him a good show. Harper cowered on the sidewalk for no apparent reason, slowed down to a dreadful pace as we neared an intersection, and refused to turn right at a corner where we usually went left. The good news? Eric didn’t notice Harper trembling or shaking when he cowered. “He doesn’t seem afraid,” Eric said. “He just wants to do the right thing, and when he isn’t sure what the right thing is, he balks.”

Eric suggested I try to boost Harper’s confidence. Cheer him on, tickle his back side when we’re traveling at a good pace, tell him over and over what a great job he’s doing. “He’s a sensitive guy, and he needs to know he’s doing right.” Eric’s last bit of advice brought me right back to my teenage years with Flo: “stand up straight!” I need to pull my shoulders back, refrain from leaning over Harper when I give commands. If I speak with authority when I give a command, my own confidence should rub off on Harper.

Harper also loves to retrace his steps. “He’s almost shepherdy!” Eric marveled. It’s true that Harper’s homing instinct can be a bit extreme, but it came in handy when I asked Eric if he was hungry for lunch. Harper knew exactly how to get to Hackney’s.

Over a salad and a grilled cheddar, avocado & tomato sandwich I asked Eric how he ended up being a Seeing Eye dog trainer. “I was a puppy raiser!” he said with pride. “Born and raised in New Jersey, and never left.” Eric’s family lives close to Morristown (where The Seeing Eye is located), and he raised his first puppy, a Lab named Yorick, when he was ten. “My sister still volunteers for the Seeing Eye, she’s raising a puppy now.” Eric has so much energy that I assumed he was in his early twenties and must have applied to be a Seeing Eye trainer right out of college. “Oh, no!” he said. I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “You’re gonna laugh when I tell you what stopped me: I was afraid to go under the blindfold.”

I didn’t laugh. I understood. It’s scary, not being able to see.

A story in the NJ Monthly explains why the blindfolds are necessary in training:

For the first two months, the trainers walk the dogs and help them learn where to stop and how to lead owners around obstacles on the ground and overhead. The dogs receive no treats or punishment; they are rewarded with praise or, when necessary, disciplined verbally or through the absence of praise—or occasionally corrected with a tug on the leash that does not hurt the dog. Throughout the process, the trainers rate the progress and characteristics of each dog on a computer system, and at certain times the dog is tested with a blindfolded trainer. “At the midterm [blindfold test], a supervisor will be standing close and giving some help,” says apprentice instructor Kaelin Coughlin, 24. “The final blindfold is a test to be sure the dog is safe and ready, and the supervisor stands further behind.”

Stacey the bartender took our plates while Harper remained still at our feet. As she refilled our diet Coke and iced tea, I asked Eric what he studied in college. He said he got a degree in history, and after a so-called “normal” job he finally mustered up his courage and applied at The Seeing Eye. He’s been training dogs for three years now.

We talked about other things: Eric’s life on a small farm in New Jersey, his wife’s love of horses, and his love for baseball. The White Sox were in town, Eric didn’t have anything scheduled for the next evening, so we agreed to meet for a game. “I can see how Harper handles a crowd!” Eric said with a laugh, acknowledging how much he loves his job. “But I’m not gonna lie to ya’ — I’m still scared to death of the blindfold!”

The writers in the memoir class I teach grew up on Chicago’s south side, in the Philippines, on farms, as military brats, in plush Chicago suburbs. They are Catholic, Jewish, agnostic. One thing these seniors all have in common? They are resourceful.

Take Myrna. She lives in a Chicago neighborhood called Lincoln Park, and When she found out there was a waiting list to get into the current eight-week memoir-writing session I lead in downtown Chicago, she called to see if Lincoln park Village might be willing to sponsor a writing class of its own. A post on the New York Times New Old Age Blog this week describes Lincoln Park Village:

A two-year-old nonprofit serving 230 members in 165 households, Lincoln Park Village was organized by older adults who want to age at home. More than 60 such villages, modeled on Boston’s decade-old Beacon Hill Village, have formed across the country, and 100 more are in development.

Susan, another student from the “Me, Myself, and I ”class I teach downtown, offered to host a free introductory class in her Lincoln Park home last week. The event was a success, and starting in September, I’ll be leading two different memoir-writing classes for seniors every week: the Wednesday class I’ve taught for years downtown, sponsored by the City of Chicago , and this new Lincoln Park Village class on Thursdays.

Jeff Flodin was one of many writers from the downtown Chicago “Me, Myself and I” class who showed up at the Lincoln Park Village event Thursday to cheer me on. Jeff lost his sight in his thirties, and he and his Seeing Eye dog Randy took a bus to Susan’s place — Harper and I got a ride from a Lincoln Park Village volunteer. Jeff had never been to Susan’s house before, and the bus stop was four blocks away, but they made it. Talk about resourceful!

Since starting the memoir class a year ago, Jeff has come out of retirement and is working part-time at Friedman Place, a non-profit Supportive Living Community for blind and visually impaired adults in Chicago. He leads a writing class at Friedman Place, and has started a blog for the Guild for the Blind here in Chicago. The post he wrote this week about labels used to identify people who are blind was both thoughtful and funny — just like Jeff! Here’s an excerpt :

So, for everyone out there wondering what to call me, I’ll give you a clue. Blind is OK. But, to really grab my attention, “Hey, handsome!” sure does the trick, too.

One thing I preach to the writers in my class is the merits of keeping essays short: they’re do-able, you choose stronger verbs, and shorter pieces are more likely to get published. So as much as I’d love to go on and on about all the resourceful writers in my class,
I’d better practice what I preach. Just one last story.

That’s Hanna.

Loyal Safe & Soundblog readers are familiar with Hanna Bratman, the matriarch of our writing class. Last year Hanna was featured in a Someone You Should Know segment on CBS television here in Chicago. The CBS interview focused on how Hanna has embraced technology to write her memoirs–she has macular degeneration and uses special software that enlarges the print on the screen for her. From the CBS web site:

what do you want to be doing when you’re 90? Hannah Bratman of Chicago is going high-tech to make memories. As CBS 2’s Harry Porterfield reports, she’s someone you should know.

Francine Rich, my publisher at Blue Marlin Publications had been so moved after reading excerpts of Hanna’s writing here on my blog that she volunteered to collect and format all of Hanna’s essays for her.

So while raising three lively children and running her own publishing business, Francine found time to reformat 64 of Hanna’s essays and professionally edit them, too. The essays are still Hanna’s words, of course. “I didn’t revise her essays. There was no reason to.” Francine wants to surprise Hanna now by presenting the essays in book form. “Any chance you can get me some photos from her childhood?” No chance. There aren’t any.

Hanna grew up in Germany. Her family was Jewish, and she didn’t think to take photos along when she escaped on her own before World War II. She was only 20 years old when she arrived, alone, in the United States. Others in her family didn’t make it out in time. “I’ll tell you this,” she often says to me. “I’ve always been very, very lucky.”

Thanks to Francine, we’re the lucky ones now. we have the opportunity to learn from reading Hanna’s story. I’ll leave you with an excerpt:

I had not told my mother that I had gotten a “B” on that important test, and now I had to confess. “On that last test that he gave us, after his Heil Hitler, he handed out the papers, and I had a B instead of an A. All of my answers were correct. I raised my hand and got up, shouted Heil Hitler, and asked him why I had a B instead of an A. His reply: I gave you a B because you did not follow the formula I taught. You followed a formula I had not taught as yet. Besides, you are a nervy Jew to challenge me. I will downgrade all of your papers.”
I said to my mother, “I didn’t tell you about it, but I will never go back to that school. They don’t want me there.” I started crying again. My mother said, “If you really don’t want to go back, I won’t make you. You know, Hitler will not last much longer. There will be a change in government, and Hitler will not last. In the meantime, even if you don’t go to school, you will have to keep up with all your schoolwork and study French and English. I will arrange to get the assignments, and when Hitler is gone, you can go back. You know, they can take everything away from you, except of what’s in your head.”

I don't think Imelda had a pair of these in her closet.

A dear friend once told me I look like the Statue of Liberty. He insisted it was a compliment.” You’re statuesque!” he said.

Boy, if he could see me now. My orthopedic shoes have finally arrived, and along with the wide shank for added stability, the soles of both shoes have extra padding. I put them on, and suddenly I’m six feet tall!

These are the only shoes I’m allowed to wear until the end of the month, and I’m not supposed to go barefoot, even in the house. The shoes are cumbersome, but it’s a relief to be out of a cast. Harper seems relieved, too. No more worries about being stepped on by BigFoot.

Our first venture outside with the new shoes was slightly disappointing. No blare of trumpets. Passers by did not burst into song. I’m so tall now that I hold the harness higher, so when I lifted the Harness, Harper had to adjust to a totally different angle . I commanded, “Harper, forward!” and instead of leading me down the sidewalk, Harper took me to a car parked in front of our building.

Poor little guy. For the past eight weeks all I’ve been doing is asking him to guide me to cabs! A verbal correction got Harper back on track, and we were on our way. First stop? Across the street, at Harper’s favorite tree.

The bumps on the wheelchair ramp usually tip me off we’re at the street crossing. I can’t feel the bumps through the three-inch soles on my orthopedic shoes. “Harper, forward!” We cross the street. A dip in the sidewalk used to alert me that we’re crossing the entrance to a parking lot. A mound of dirt around Harper’s tree used to tell me I could take his harness off and give him permission to do his thing. With these thick-soled shoes on, I can’t feel much of anything underfoot. So I just say a quick prayer to the Gods of pee and poop that I’m not allowing Harper to empty somewhere he shouldn’t, then lean down from my six-foot perch to unbuckle his harness. “Park time!”.

Harper circles, and once he stops, I do my best to move my over-protected foot near his tail. I slip a plastic bag over my hand and lean way down (again, from my six-foot perch) to feel through the plastic for lumps near my foot. After picking the lumps up, I flip the clean part of the bag over my palm and throw the bag away. Success!

I’m crossing my fingers that if I follow doctor’s orders and continue wearing the clodhoppers until I return to the ortho clinic August 31, the doc will give me the okay to wear normal shoes again. And if that happens, trust me, I’ll be more than happy to step down from my pedestal!

The note came from Jerry, via the Guide Dog Users of Canada listserve. His dog Seymour and my retired dog Hanni were classmates at the Seeing Eye.

hello all i lost my Seeing Eye dog Seymour on sat. night he died with a heart attack at the vet. he was 12 years. a great boy still working. very sad for my wife and I. will apply to seeing eye for another.

Jerry and I met Seymour and Hanni in November, 2001, and everyone in that Seeing Eye class agreed about Seymour. Best. Name. Ever. I know how devastated Jerry must be, and my heart goes out to him — he and Seymour were a particularly colorful pair. Jerry’s brief note brought back a flood of memories from that magical class, as well as a flood of appreciation for the friends I made there, my life with Hanni, and the good life she is enjoying now in her retirement with our dear friends Nancy and Steven.

With that in mind, I asked Nancy if she’d be willing to write an update on Hanni. I was delighted when she said yes, and once you read this guest post, I know you’ll be delighted, too.

Still making friends wherever she goes

by Nancy Bollero

That's Hanni on the trail in Wisconsin.

I know Beth felt like she won the dog lottery getting matched up with Hanni 10 years ago. Steven and I certainly felt that way when Hanni came to live with us this past December. Mike had spent some alone time in Chicago with Hanni before he delivered her to us. She knew us, she knew the house well and had stayed here with Mike and Beth a number of times over the years. Mike said Hanni had moped a little when Beth first left, but by the time she made the trip south, she was pretty much back to her old happy self.

Steven can come home from work at lunch to take Hanni out, but we knew she was used to having someone around her 24/7. We worried about going to work and leaving Hanni alone.

On our first day together, I got up early and walked Hanni a mile or two before returning home to get ready for work. She laid in bed as As I prepared for my work day, and when I put on my coat to go out to the car, Hanni looked up at me with a very distinct look that said, “Oh, we’re going out again? Fine.” Up. Strrrrrettchh. As soon as I told her, “Hanni, I’ll see you later,” she plopped back down with a sigh of relief.

Well, that’s the way I saw it, anyway.

Now after I walk her each morning and after she has her breakfast, she stands and watches me in the kitchen. You never know, I might drop something interesting! But as soon as I say, “see you later, Hanni,” she trots to her favorite nap spot in the front bedroom. When Steven comes home at lunch, he usually has to wake her up for a sleepy stroll outside.

Hanni definitely still has a lot of puppyish energy, though. When we’re somewhere where it’s safe to let her off the leash for a short time, she moves like a dog half her

Napping after the trail.

age. She runs like crazy, then stops and looks back at us, waiting for the slow pokes to catch up. Hanni discovered her inner dog digging in the dirt on a woodland walk in Wisconsin. She has played with frogs bouncing around the yard, engaged in a neighborhood hunt for a lost pet turtle named Franklin, and she still makes friends wherever she goes.

Hanni’s tail wags with glee to see my friend Cathy, who tends to have a new dog toy in hand every time she visits. She also is fond of my Aunt Mabel, who once snuck Hanni some ham despite a strict no “people food” rule. Hanni makes my day everyday, usually starting with a cold nose over the edge of the bed, a snort and that famously wagging tail.

Hanni's as affectionate as ever.

One night I was talking long-distance to my brother Art, who lives in Vietnam. He heard Hanni’s tail wapping against our hardwood floor and asked, “Steven doing some carpentry?” The vet commented she was the only dog who wags her tail when the thermometer is in an, well, shall we say, an uncomfortable place. Hanni is just a delight. We love her so much and hope she has a long retirement ahead.

I am thrilled to be presenting at a writer’s conference in nearby Evanston later this week along with the likes of Miles Harvey and Audrey Petty. What’s even more thrilling is that I call those two fine writers my friends.

That’s Miles Harvey. (Photo by Matt Moyer.)

I met Miles long ago when both of us wrote for the Daily Illini at the University of Illinois. His first book The Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime was a national and international bestseller. Another book, Painter in a Savage Land: The Strange Saga of the First European Artist in North America, received a 2008 Editors’ Choice award from Booklist. Miles used to light up the dingy Daily Illini production room in the basement of Illini Hall, and to this day, being around him makes me smile. I was delighted when he accepted a position at DePaul University, it meant he’d be staying here in Chicago, and I knew he would serve as a terrific mentor to hundreds of writing students there. His generosity of spirit encourages many a writer, including me, to keep at it.

I met Audrey Petty in Urbana, too. She’s the Director of the Creative Writing Program at the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign, and she and I took to each other the minute we met. Audrey is a Chicago native, and Mike and I have had the good fortune to meet and know her entire family. Her father, Joe Petty, is credited with getting the Chicago White Sox into the 2005 World Series. “MoJo” went with us to a playoff game against Boston, and he mesmerized everyone in the seats around us (and the team, too, of course) with his confidence and calm.

Audrey is back in Chicago now to work on an oral history book project gathering stories from residents of Chicago’s Henry Horner Homes, Robert Taylor Homes, Stateway Gardens and Cabrini-Green—all publicly-funded buildings that no longer exist. High Rise Stories: Voices from Chicago Public Housing will be published by Voice of Witness, the nonprofit division of McSweeney’s Books. And of course we all know that McSweeney’s is the brain child of yet another Daily illini alum: author Dave Eggers.

Dave wont’ be making an appearance at Art & Craft: Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference this week, but Miles, Audrey and I will all be making presentations. Miles will lead a Reporting and Research 101 workshop and is also sitting on a panel called Writers Point of View: How I Got Published. Audrey’s workshop is called Fiction: Object Lessons and mine is Getting Children’s Books Published. I’m also sitting on a panel called Writing for Children/Young Audiences with Jim Aylesworth and Laurie Lawlor.

”Art and Craft: the Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference” is for new writers, established writers, and anyone looking for a better understanding of the craft—and business—of writing. Some of the workshops are full, but you can still register for panels and available workshops — they start tomorrow, August 3 and run until Friday, August 5.

If you can’t make the conference, you’ll have another chance to learn from Audrey Petty this Saturday, August 6: She’s joining Tim Black, author of Bridges of Memory: Chicago’s First Wave of Great Migration for a free presentation at Chicago’s DuSable Museum of African American History this Saturday at 2 p.m. Their presentation explores Black culture through migration history and food heritage.

Audrey’s essay “Late-Night Chitlins With Momma” was first published in Saveur magazine and subsequently selected for inclusion in Best Food Writing 2006 and Cornbread Nation 4.

Audrey’s presentation Saturday is part of a series at DuSableseries from Archeworks called Garlic & Greens, and she’s invited Mike and me over to dinner tonight with her family to get some practice in. We are two very lucky people.