Every weekend, a Chicago FM station called WXRT does the Saturday Morning Flashback. All morning, the DJ plays noteworthy music from a given year. A couple weeks ago the year was 1973, and among the songs played was Frank Zappa’s “Montana.” You know, the one where he’s going to be a dental floss farmer. What fun to remember the sort of beautiful derangement of that song.

And, off course, I couldn’t get it out of my head for days. And so, Frank Zappa’s voice was playing between my ears last Friday when I walked into my dentist’s office for a regular checkup and cleaning.

An aside:

When Beth and I moved to Chicago from Champaign-Urbana back in 2003, we had to do all that stuff one has to do when moving—like finding a place to get your hair cut, a new primary care doctor, and—a new dentist.

Over the years, I’ve found that finding these kinds of people in a new place is really one of the more daunting parts of relocating. You don’t realize it, but over time, you build up trust with these folks—whether it’s a barber or cardiologist. You build a relationship, intentional or not.

Back to the dentist: I kind of just avoided the search until an emergency struck. A crown broke and I picked a conveniently located dentist that ended up being a Little Shop of Horrors kind of experience. Really bad oldies rock blaring while it felt like the dentist was standing on my jaw.

Having survived that, I started asking around. My boss at the time enthusiastically wrote down the name and number of her dentist.

So, I made an appointment.

Well, it turns out, this dentist is the official dentist of…the Chicago Blackhawks. Docs  attend games and are always at the ready. A dentist that can handle professional hockey players is good enough for me!

Anyway, I’ve been a happy patient since (as has Beth). It’s kind of a hi-zoot office space but the staff are all down to earth. Early on the dentist asked me if I’m happy with the way my teeth looked. I said yes. Even though his office does all kinds of cosmetic stuff, that was it—no hard sell.

The place always has cool new technology—like a 3D milling machine that I once watched make a crown right before my eyes.

Over time I got to know my hygienist pretty well, and we did that awkward thing where we’d sort of talk between the work.

Last year she retired, and I went to my first appointment with a new hygienist. Well, you know, I just don’t like change. Especially with people I allow into my mouth. So I was a little nervous.

I needn’t of worried. The ebullient young woman seemed to really love her job, and the cleaning was over before I knew it. Along the way she asked about my last name. “It’s Serbian, I said.”

“Oh, she said, my parents are Croatian!” In fact, she’d just gotten back from a visit to relatives there.

On my way out, she told me to buy a Water Pik.

Last Friday, first thing she asked when I came in was, “Did you get the Water Pik.” I shook my head. “You should. They’re great!”

And we were off. I learned she’s kind of an old soul. Though she’s probably in her twenties she talked about how smart phones are separating people. “When I get on an elevator, I like to talk to people!” she said. “Hard to do when they’re looking at their phones!”

I told her about my trip to Alaska, we agreed that getting out into nature is good for the soul.

“Remind me about your name,” she said. “Oh, never mind, I forgot, we’re neighbors!” That was the first and likely last time I heard anyone talking about Serbia and Croatia primarily as neighbors.

When it was time for the dentist to come in for an exam, the hygienist told me my regular doc was in the middle of a big procedure—would it be OK for another dentist in the office to do the exam?

Another woman walked in, we shook hands in introduction, and then she and the hygienist started looking at the new set of X-rays that had just been taken.

“Oh, wow,” said the dentist.

“I know, right?” said the hygienist.

“Um, may I ask what you’re looking at?” said I, the patient.

They lowered the big computer monitor so I could see it. “That’s one of the best root canals we’ve ever seen,” said the dentist. “They must have gone in above the gum line.”

Who knew? A little off balance, it took me awhile to remember that procedure.

“Nice,” said the dentist. “If you weren’t married, you could use it as a pickup line! Hey, have you seen my root canal at number 3?”

We all laughed.

During the exam, the doctor said everything looked great. “I really like the gum margins.”

Well now. Another compliment I would’ve never expected.

Then, as I got up to leave, the dentist asked, “Have you thought about a Water Pik? They’re really great!”

The long-awaited Downton Abbey film is scheduled to be released in the United States today, September 20, 2019, and that gives me a perfect opportunity to share the story of my blind date with a tv star.

It all happened when Chicago’s Goodman Theatre produced a play called St. Nicholas this past winter. Tickets sold quickly, and here’s why: the star of the one-man show was the actor who played some guy named Mr. Bates in Downton Abbey.

I don’t watch much television, had never seen an episode, but who hasn’t heard of Downton Abbey? The theater was offering a touch tour before the show, and if you were blind or came along with a friend who is blind, you’d get discounted tickets.

I invited Audrey, a writer in one of the memoir-writing classes I lead in Chicago. Blindness is an advantage when teaching memoir. I can’t judge writers by how they look, I learn who they are from their stories. Audrey has written about parents coming to Chicago from South Carolina during the Great Migration. She’s been in my class so long that we’ve become friends. I know her family. Her past. Her dreams. But just when you think you know a person, they come out and surprise you. When Audrey read an essay in class last year about being a Downton Abbey fan, I was sure she was joking. Black people don’t watch Downton Abbey, do they?

Well, Audrey does. Chicago’s public television station, WTTW, had sent her a DVD of the entire series to thank her for a donation. Watching one episode led to another, and before you know it she had binge-watched the whole thing.

Ice and wind was fierce the day of our matinee. Staff at The Goodman greeted us warmly, then warned us Brendan Coyle might not be coming out to talk with us before the show. “He has a regular stretching routine and voice prep he does before shows and we’re just not sure…”

Audrey sighed. She’d been hoping to ask Mr. Bates if he really did murder that guy. I couldn’t blame him for not bothering with the pre-show, though: I was the only blind person there.

But as we say in the biz, “The touch tour must go on.” Audrey and I were guided to seats near the front of the theater, where the props guy, the costumer, and the stage manager described what we were about to see. Then, suddenly, ta da! Mr. Bates! Brendan Coyle appeared! There he was, on stage to give us a private showing.

“You have time to talk with us?” the house manager asked, sounding surprised.

“Sure!” the actor shrugged. “What would you like to know?”

And then we were off. The last name Coyle suits him. I could feel a little coil whirring around in his brain while he spoke from the stage. What might a person who can’t see want to know? How can I express that to a person who can’t see the stage?

The set was minimal, and when he explained moves he’d be making to help the audience conjure up different settings – sitting a certain way during pub scenes, for example – I could picture them.

Lots of staff members were there with us. My guess is they aren’t encouraged to fraternize with a big shot like Brendan Coyle? Maybe this was their chance. We all asked questions, Brendan was generous with his time. Audrey never asked him if he really murdered that man, but I had a few questions about the character he’d be playing that day.

My piece de resistance? “You say you look ‘dashing and disheveled’ in this play. Do you have a beard?

And then, wait for it…Brendan Coyle jumped off the stage, walked over to where I was sitting, took both my hands, directed my palms to his face. “See what you think,” he offered. All eyes were on us. I felt ready for my close-up.

Brendan answered the rest of the questions while standing right there alongside Audrey and me. “Anything special you do to get ready?” one staff member asked. “You know, since it’s a one-man show and all?” Brendan was silent for a bit. “There is,” he finally said. “I put this certain fragrance on right before I enter the stage. The aroma convinces me, okay, this is it. I’m on.”

And with that, he jumped on stage, headed offstage, then back, jumping off the stage again and returning to Audrey and me. “May I touch your wrist?” I turned my arm, opened my palm, and Mr. Bates applied his fragrance there, then did the same for Audrey.

She melted.

Advance touch tours help me understand the play I’m about to see, yes, but much more important is what that does for me afterwards. For the next couple weeks, if I find myself on a bus or a bar stool or at a coffee shop talking with people who can see and attended that same play. Instead of them having to tell me all the things I “missed” because of my sight loss, I can fill them in on what I know and they don’t.

I have no intention of going to the new Downton Abbey film, but later this week, when everyone is going on and on about what they liked, didn’t like, wish there’d been more of and all that, I’ll be able to tell them a thing or two.

Like what Mr. Bates’ beard feels like. Or how he smells before a performance.

What an honor it was to have Richard Reeder ask me to give an Author

That’s me and Heidi celebrating after the presentation.

Night Presentation last Monday at the Chicago Jewish Author Literary Series! Richard is the creator and coordinator of the series, and I’d been hearing about it for years. A well-respected (yet casual) gathering, the literary series meets monthly at Max and Benny’s Deli Restaurant in Northbrook and welcomes listeners to come and nosh during the presentation.

I was joined at the front table by Heidi Reeves, a writer in the class I lead at the Chicago Cultural Center. One of 12 children, Heidi was born and raised in Chicago’s south side. She read a poignant – and fun – essay she’d written about her brother, and when she looked up, laughed and proclaimed that “he was the dickens!” the crowd – about 70 people in all – laughed right along.

Heidi is also a graduate of the online Beth Finke Memoir Teacher MasterClass I put together to show others how to organize and lead memoir-writing classes on their own. Heidi started a brand-new memoir-writing class at the Blackstone Branch of the Chicago Public Library earlier this month. The class is already a huge success, and Monday night she and I shared stories with the audience of the merits of writing – and teaching – memoir.

Friends were there from the north suburbs, the western suburbs, and the

Signing books.

city. I was thrilled when so many stood up to ask questions afterward – that gave me the opportunity to introduce them to the crowd. Nancy Faust, the White Sox organist who taught me to love baseball – and life – again shortly after losing my sight was there. Dovie Horvitz asked a question about how I use a talking computer to edit, and that gave me the opportunity to tell the audience about Educational Tape Recording for the Blind, the non-profit organization her mother started when Dovie’s little sister, who had a serious visual impairment, wanted to attend the neighborhood high school back in the early 1960s and needed her textbooks recorded to graduate. Patty O’Machel had a question, too, and that let me tell the audience about how Patty’s high school daughter, who uses a wheelchair, inspired Patty to launch a new business last year. Educating Outside the Lines hopes to expand disability awareness curriculum in schools.

The show-stopper came at the end of the Q&A, when a man asked if the writers in our classes only write prose. “Do any of them write poetry?” I had to think for a second, and just as I turned Heidi’s way for inspiration, a familiar squeaky voice piped up in the audience. “Beth! Me! Bindy!” Bindy Bitterman, who happens to be a friend of Dovie (Chicago is a small big city!) was one of many writers from my classes who were kind enough to show up for Monday’s event. And yes, Bindy writes poetry. Limericks, to be specific.

“You have one to share?” I asked, and with that, Bindy bounded right up front. “I have one memorized!” she announced. She started right in, and when the last line ended with the word “Schlemiel,” the audience burst into laughter and applause.

And that is when Richard Reeder, the very wise organizer of the event, popped up and ended the presentation. On a high note.

Guess it all just goes to show: everybody has a story to tell, right?! Huge thanks to all of you who made the long trek to Northbrook last Monday, and to you lucky ducks who live near Max and Benny’s and stopped in, too. Also big thanks to my husband Mike Knezovich for carting copies of Writing Out Loud to sell after the show. Max and Benny’s treated both Mike and me to a Reube so huge we are still noshing on it today. What can I say? The entire evening was, well…delicious.

Beth got a lot of reaction from her post about being hassled by a creepy guy, and having Whitney and a Good Samaritan banker help her. Apart from the comments, there were a lot of phone calls and in-person talks.

Some expressed surprise and regret at having never thought about what being in a situation like that would be like if you can’t see. For me, I’m all too familiar with the difficulties Beth faces. But for you out there, I have a theory—the reason you might not think about the difficulties is because Beth makes it look, well, if not easy, then perfectly normal.

The gals get around.

It’s neither, really. Beth’s in a position where she doesn’t want people to under-rate her capabilities just because she’s blind. So are other disabled people, or people who, by any number of measures, stand out as different.

It’s a tough place to be. Because, by my lights, the adaptation and the workarounds Beth manages speak to toughness and resourcefulness. I don’t think I’m alone in that regard, but in our experience, lots of people assume Beth won’t be able to do certain things simply because she can’t see.

Of course, there are indeed things that she can’t do—I know first hand. In the early days of her blindness, most tasks were beyond her. Over time, that’s changed. The divisions of labor in our household lives have substantially evened out. I’m better at vacuuming; Beth makes the bed (which I hate doing). When we’re having friends over for dinner, Beth cleans the bathroom, folds the napkins just so and sets the table. And so on.

But the truth is, Beth faces a lot of quirky difficulties, as well as obvious ones. Some have to do with the attitudes we of sight privilege have. It’s a been a lesson to me, learned over time, that one can have the tendency to assume that, for example, a blind person couldn’t know better than I where a building is, or how to get to said building. Trust me, Beth’s pretty damn good at directions. But it’s also aggravating and at times hurtful to her when she’s disregarded.

Other things are sort of mechanical. Let’s say, oh, Beth’s husband forgets to put the salt shaker back where we’ve agreed to keep it. It might be six feet away, but it might as well be outside on the sidewalk if it’s in the wrong place. There’s a long list of “so near, so far” things like that.

For many years, the digital version of that phenomenon was vexing. Beth’s talking computers have been a godsend. But, every once in awhile, something disagrees with JAWS, the software that helps her navigate the screen and hear everything on it. A common culprit: After doing a search and replace in Microsoft Word, the computer stops talking. Now, the computer hasn’t crashed—a sighted person with a mouse could click on a window and keep working away. But without the voice and screen navigation active, Beth is really in the dark.

In the old days, that might mean Beth waiting until I got home from work—or recruiting a neighbor or the barista to take a look. The latter didn’t always work, though, because the speech software is a little quirky to the uninitiated.

In fact, if you know what you’re doing and you can see, it’s two clicks. Well, thanks to screen sharing software (we use TeamViewer), now when her computer stops talking Beth just texts me to tell me to do that voodoo that I do so well. I log in to her machine from wherever I am (including, say, from Alaska) and voila!

I could go on. I won’t, but one other thing to all you great people out there trying to do the right thing. Let Beth and Whitney open and pass through doors by themselves. Clear out! Because I’ve seen Beth with a bloodied forehead enough to know that it’s not a good idea if the door has been opened and she doesn’t know it.

Finally, to all you people who marvel at how Beth does it: Well, it ain’t easy, and she’s even more marvelous than anyone but I can know.

Followers of our Safe & Sound blog know that my Seeing Eye dog Whitney will be retiring soon. She sleeps more than she used to, she walks slower when leading me through Chicago, and every once in a while she loses focus. All that said, she is still one smart dog.

Whitney, looking appropriately heroic. (Courtesy The Seeing Eye.) Who can fill her paws?

Whitney was leading me home from downtown Chicago a few weeks ago when I sensed her veering ever so slightly off the sidewalk. Not toward the street, but in the other direction.

The sounds of silverware and people chatting and laughing was a big clue. Aha! We’re in an outdoor plaza. Whitney must have smelled some good food and couldn’t resist.

I stopped a moment to get my bearings, and when a man came up and asked if I needed some help, I said yes. “I got off-kilter there for a second,” I told him, pointing in the direction I thought was south. “Am I still on the sidewalk on Dearborn, heading south?” He said I was, so I picked up Whitney’s harness and gave her a command. “Whitney, forward!” I said, and she pulled me forward.

But the man followed me.

”Where are you going?” he asked. “Do you live alone?” He told me he was single, kept following me, telling me how strong he is, how tall, how good looking, how much he could help me. When Whitney stopped at the next red light, the pedestrians waiting alongside us were a comfort.

But I couldn’t stay there forever.

When the light turned green, I focused on Whitney as she guided me across the street. ”You made it,” the man said. Oh, no. He was still there. He was still following us. I tried to stay calm, but inside I was panicking. C’mon Whitney, this is real. You’ve gotta get us home. I encouraged her to hurry along, but instead of continuing forward, she veered again, this time leading me to a door.

“That’s the bank,” the man following me said. “You don’t want the bank.” He was right. I did not want the bank. I’d never ever been to that bank. I didn’t even know there was a bank there. I just wanted to get home.

Just as I was about to scold Whitney for her mistake, a blessed thought occurred to me. “Oh, yes,” I said, loud enough for the man to hear me. “The bank. Good girl, Whitney!” I opened the door and left the man behind.

Inside, I stood in the middle of the lobby catching my breath and listening intently to the door I’d come through. I didn’t hear it open again. The man must not have followed in after me.

Did Whitney know what she was doing, leading me to that door when she did? I think yes. Her age may be affecting her physical work as a guide, but mentally she still knows ways to keep us safe. The lobby was small, and it didn’t take too long for a guy working there to notice the blind woman with the Seeing Eye dog there. “May I help you?” I had no idea what bank I was in, but I figured I didn’t have an account there, so I told him so and explained. “Some guy out there was following me, and…” I gave him the whole story. He asked if I wanted to sit down. “No,” I said. “I just want to shake that guy off my trail and get home.”

As it happened, this guy was a bank executive. He was off for a business meeting in a fancy building just south of there, the same direction I was going. “I’ll walk you,” he said. “Just give me a minute to gather my stuff.”

The exec told me his name, gave me his card, and walked Whitney and me two or three blocks in that direction. He looked behind us along the way, assuring me no one was following us any more. When he had to head in for his meeting, I felt confident Whitney would get me the rest of the way.

And she did.