I am pleased to introduce Karen Fontaine as our Saturdays with Seniors guess blogger today. A Professor emeritus in the College of Nursing and Psychiatric Nursing at Purdue University Northwest, Karen has three children and three grandchildren. ”I am fortunate to be part of a racially diverse family,” she says. Her son Jean-Marc is a carpenter at the University of Illinois, her daughter Simone is an MD in Champaign-Urbana, and her son Marcel is a stock transfer agent in Chicago.

Today’s guest blogger Karen with her daughter Simone.

“My daughter is 6’1” tall,” she says with a laugh. . “I look like a midget next to her!” Two of Karen’s grandchildren — Danielle and Christopher — are in the medical field, the third, Simone’s 6’7” son Jaycee, is flying to Finland next week to play professional basketball there. “We are really excited for him.”

In the memoir-writing class at The Admiral, Karen took the prompt “Learning to Read” one step further and wrote an honest and enlightening essay about learning to read lips — and faces. She generously agreed to let me share it here.

Learning to Lip/Face Read

by Karen Fontaine

I was born with my hearing loss, but it was not diagnosed until adulthood. There was a lot of hearing loss on my mother’s side of the family. My brother’s daughter had hearing aids by the age of four, and my son needed speech therapy by age three. As a child I had enough hearing to learn speech, but still. It’s amazing to me that no one identified my hearing loss. Not even me.

In high school, I couldn’t figure out how my friends knew the words to popular songs. Little did I know that the only way I could learn the words was if the groups appeared on TV so I could lip read when they sang! I never consciously set out to learn how to lip/face read. I think I just improved at it as my hearing steadily decreased.

Only 30% of English can be read on the lips. The rest of the communication is inferred from the context, movements of the face, and expression of the eyes. It takes inordinate concentration to lip read and it is a matter of filling in the blanks and guessing.

I find myself exhausted after significant lengths of time spent talking with others. I often have to remind my husband to give me the context when he suddenly starts talking. Other barriers include hands in front of one’s face, mumbling, talking quickly, talking with little lip movement, accents and mustaches.

During my 33 years as a professor, my students were a great help. Those in the front of the classroom would restate questions from people in the back. I also moved around the room a great deal in order to connect with students. Faculty and committee meetings were a nightmare. People often talked at the same time and I seldom knew what was happening.

But I persevered.

Zoom has helped me in meetings. People don’t wear masks while they’re Zooming, and I can see everyone’s face and lips. I can’t always see people’s lips when we are sitting around a table in face-to-face meetings.

However, even with Zoom, it can still be difficult to participate. I can’t always tell when a person has stopped talking. I fear I might interrupt someone, so by the time I have decided that it is time to jump in, someone else has already started talking. You will notice I am fairly quiet during Zoom meetings!

People are an important part of my life. Helen Keller said “Blindness separates people from things; Deafness separates people from people.” That is a powerful statement of what it is like to be deaf. I miss so much, but I keep trying to stay connected.

The good news is that our visit to see our son Gus, though delayed a day by weather, took place yesterday at his group home in  Watertown, Wisconsin. We stayed distant, sitting on the deck behind the house, but it was good to see him in the flesh, not on Zoom, and to hear him in person, instead of through tinny computer speakers. It was a lovely, sunny day and we sat on the deck and just chilled.

The bad news? In this year that knows no rock bottom, when things can somehow always get worse, they have gotten worse.

Gus’ current home is a duplex. Each side houses four residents in their own rooms, with its own kitchen. Gus lives in the left side.

Last week, we got an ominous email from Bethesda Lutheran Communities, the operator of Gus’ home, inviting us to a town hall call regarding the future of Bethesda’s services in Wisconsin.

I couldn’t make the town hall because I had a work Zoom, so Beth jumped on the call. When I got off my call I’d forgotten Beth was on the Bethesda call. Maybe intentionally. I looked in on her office and said something about my call—and she said, “Aren’t you going to ask how the Bethesda call went?”

I looked at her face. Beth is as even keeled and resilient as anyone I’ve known, as you all probably know. The color was gone from her face.

She choked out this sentence: “Bethesda is closing all its group homes in Wisconsin.”

Gut punched. Kicked in the groin. Cold cocked. I, yes I, was speechless.

Then we were sad. For ourselves, to be sure. We’d hoped Gus would be a lifer with Bethesda, which has cared for him since 2002. And looking for a new home will be a daunting task. But just as sad for the 90 odd other residents of Bethesda’s group homes. For their families and loved ones. For the unbelievable staff who care for Gus and others who’ll lose their jobs. For Bethesda’s long, rich tradition operating residential facilities for the developmentally and intellectually disabled.

Me being me, I also am dealing with anger. Not at Bethesda. But at well-meaning people who years ago pushed the turn to community settings for housing (group homes in average neighborhoods vs. “institutional settings”) with unrealistic and illogical claims. I do not disagree with the idea that some developmentally disabled people will do better in a community setting rather than a segregated campus. Having developmentally disabled neighbors isn’t bad for the abled bodied, either. Integration is usually better than segregation.

But, folks like Gus don’t really get much benefit from it. And group homes, despite pie-in-the-sky claims from proponents, cost more to operate than the concentrated, campus setting Bethesda used to operate.

When Gus moved to Bethesda in 2002, he moved into a nearly new, one-story building that resembled a public school. He had his own room, and his unit had 16 total residents. They had a common area where they could hang out, and where meals were served.

Gus’ unit was connected to others identical to his. They were like interconnected pods. Each had 16 residents and its own staff. But staff could move between the units as necessary.

Now, one of the claims of the pro-community setting folks was that the staff to resident ratio was better. True enough. Three or four staff, as I recall, were on any single shift to take care of 16 residents. The ratio was much better in the homes.

But. Staff at the group homes run a household. That means cooking, cleaning, and other things besides caring for the residents. And if you have two people for the house and one calls in sick, well, that’s a bigger impact, and there was no borrowing people from the attached unit.

In addition, as a Bethesda executive explained to me, “We have to have an accessible van that can carry four residents in wheelchairs at every single house.” Back when Gus was on campus, I remember two or three always at the ready.

So the state ended up mandating that the campus be emptied out and residents move to group homes. But they didn’t up the state reimbursement to Bethesda and other operators. (Another provider, the Catholic St. Coletta, closed its residential service years ago.) For years, Bethesda and other providers have lobbied for that increase. It never came. They’ve been operating at losses on their group homes for many years now.

Which brings me to anger point number 2. We live in a country that saw fit to give enormous tax breaks to the likes of Google and Apple, and to billionaires. But we don’t provide federal support that would provide incremental increases that would barely be noticed.

Bit by bit, my pride in my country is being eroded by shame.

Back to us. Gus will not find himself on the street. We’re working with an agency in Wisconsin and another in Illinois to look for a new home for Gus. He may end up moving as Bethesda consolidates homes as placements are found for residents.

Beyond that, we have no answers, and have all the questions you have.

To the many of you who have donated to Bethesda over the years, thank you, thank you, thank you. We had 18 years of feeling confident and comfortable about Gus’ situation, and you were a big part of it.

I only wish it wouldn’t end.

Today Jeanette’s an avid reader.

Sharon Kramer’s guest post last week received so much positive attention that we’re going to stick with the “back to school” theme. The essay Sharon’s fellow writer Jeannette Williams wrote about struggling to read as a child comes with a glorious triumphant ending you won’t want to miss.

by Jeannette Williams

Ahh, reading. Was I ever read to? I don’t remember. My father was illiterate, and my mother worked from three p.m to 11 p.m. We never saw her after school.

Mother was never home when my daddy made us read to him. He could barely write his own name. Starting with the capital G, lower case e, o, r, then another capital G, then ending with lower case e. GeorGe. He signed his last name in all capital letters: B, R, O, W, N.BROWN.

So yes, he could manage to spell his name, but that didn’t save us from his idea of us reading the mail to him. We had to read it to him before we could go out and play.

Maybe he thought he was giving us reading lessons? I don’t know.

We got mail from L. Fish Furniture, Sears, and sometimes from our next door neighbors: George and Bertie Moore. He’d start with my sister Judy, since she was the oldest. She was only in the sixth grade, and when she ran across a big word like “manufacture” or something, she’d pause.

“What’s the matter?” he’d scream.

“Don’t know,” she’d say.

“Why?”

“Just, don’t know.”

“Oh,” he’d shout. “Go and sit on the couch. No outside for you. And you better not cry.”

Then he’d call Jerry. He was younger than my sister but older than me. Daddy would give him the same letter my sister tried to read. Just like my sister, he’d get stuck at the same word. But Jerry would stutter and cry.

“Dummy,” Daddy would say. “Go sit by your sister.”

When it was my turn, I’d run kicking and screaming from the room and hide under the bed. Did this make me a better reader? No. It only made me afraid to pick up a book.

But somehow I managed to succeed

In spite of my father’s reading lessons, I managed to become a Licensed Practical Nurse, and then a Registered Professional Nurse. I read everything I could get my hands on — and then some more!

I may not have been able to read in childhood, but I made up for it in adulthood.

As blog readers know from last Monday’s post, last week was not a happy one for me.

Emotional dips happen to everyone I know from time to time. In these circumstances, the dips are deeper. Lots of us get miserable now and then, but to quote an old saw, misery loves company.

Beats hell out of misery alone.

We had a lovely Labor Day weekend here in Chicago, where we had two perfect days wrapped around a rainy one.

We did our thing with neighborhood friends where we bring down camp chairs to our little park below our apartment window and have a distanced pot luck. These friends are ones we’d be picnicking with at Summer Dance—which ain’t happening this year. Among them are what I’d call professional urban picknickers—they have some major equipment that includes a portable serving table and coolers. And…elegant battery-powered candles.

The food was fantastic, the company better.

Sunday we heard some scrumptious music at Jazz Showcase. This was courtesy of our local friends Al and Donna. They buy tickets for every weekend show (whether or not they can attend) to support the Jazz Showcase.

They gave us their tickets because they could not attend. The Showcase doesn’t serve food, so it can’t serve alcohol under the current limit. But it fights on, serving music from Thursday to Sunday each week, encouraging attendees to order non-alcoholic drinks and bring food they’ve ordered to-go from local restaurants. And folks are distanced.

Today Beth and I Zipcarred to the north suburbs for a distanced cookout on our suburban friends’ lovely deck. Labor Day was busy for Zipcar—we had to walk farther than usual to get ours. But Luna loved the walk.

When we arrived, we walked around the side of the house to our friends’ deck. They’d set two tables, one for them, one for us, separated by a safe but still close-enough distance to have a good conversation. We’d not seen each other since you-know-what started. We had a lot of catching up to do, and it was delightful doing it. The grilled salmon and scallops, veggies and salad weren’t bad, either.

One of our hosts hadn’t been with her mother, who lives in an assisted living facility, until two weeks ago. (They’d done the through-the-window thing.)

We told her and her husband that with luck, we’d see our son Gus this coming Saturday. I say “luck,” because we had to submit a request that must still be approved, and the weather has to comply—we can see him on the backyard deck only. But we’re hopeful. We’ve Zoomed with him and staff, and it helps. But it ain’t the same. Let’s hope we never reach the point where we think it does.

Because this weekend reminded me of the power of being at the same place, at the same time, with people you love.

Today’s blogger, Sharon Kramer.

I mentioned Sharon Kramer in Wednesday’s post — she is a graduate of the online Beth Finke Memoir Teacher MasterClass, and leads the Wednesday “Me, Myself and I” memoir-writing class on Zoom. Here she is now with a timely guest post about her first days of school back in 1945.

A Bad Start

by Sharon Kramer

In 1945 when I was ready to start kindergarten, I lived in a Chicago neighborhood that was secretly — and not so secretly — anti-Semitic. On my first day of school, an older boy called me a “dirty Jew.” I came home and cried. I had no idea what that meant but I knew it was bad.

The next day the same thing happened — with more voices. On the third day, I didn’t want to go to school. My mother kept me home for the rest of the year.

Kindergarten was no treasure for today’s guest blogger.

So, I never had the kindergarten experience, getting along with other kids, sharing paints, sitting in a circle. We moved to a different neighborhood, and when my mother tried to register me for 1st grade, she was told I wasn’t eligible because I had no kindergarten experience. I was put in a grade called 1C.

In 1946, the Chicago Public Schools had 1B’s for fall entrance, 1A’s for spring entrance and, I guess, 1C’s were designated as the “we don’t know where to put this kid so let’s put him in 1C” class. The 1C class at Peterson School was a small windowless room in the basement, next to the janitor’s closet. There were 12 boys and me. The boys were placed there because they disrupted the kindergarten class or couldn’t get along with others or refused to follow instructions. Miss Einhorn was the teacher. My desk was in the middle of the room, and I did my best to stay inconspicuous and said nothing the whole time I was there. I don’t recall any learning taking place. The boys were wild forces of nature, jumping on desks or fighting over a pencil or talking back to poor Miss Einhorn. Imagine a room full of six and seven-year-old characters like Don Rickles, Eddie Murphy and Richard Simmons all craving attention at the same time! The principal was often called to drag someone to his office or call a mother.

One day, Miss Einhorn, bless her heart, called my mother and told her to get me out of 1C. My mother marched to the principal’s office and demanded that I be put in a different class.

I was.

I would like to report that I thrived in 1B. Truth is, I missed the excitement of 1C. Now I sat near girls with folded hands and boys who stayed in their seats. The 1B classroom had windows, it was on the first floor, but it was a bit boring, even though we learned stuff.

The stigma of 1C stayed with me. I felt overwhelmed in a school setting and often just stared at what was going on around me instead of participating. 1C taught me that the safest route in life is to become as invisible as possible. I’ve missed out on a lot of adventures because of this perception of the world.

An early experience has the potential of changing you forever or maybe not at all. We never know. Schools — are you listening?