This post I wrote was published at the Easterseals National blog earlier this week (I work part-time moderating that blog). It occurred to me later that some of you Safe & Sound blog followers might find it worth a read, too, so here it is.

When sidewalks are covered in snow and ice, walking to work — or to school, or just to exercise — can be difficult. Or impossible.

Chicago is one of many American cities where the number of people walking or using public transportation to get to work outnumber the people who drive. Every winter here I find myself questioning why it is that when snow plows clear passage for cars, the snow mounds they leave at bus stops — on curb cuts and crosswalks — go unshoveled. What about the pedestrians? We appreciate you plowing the streets, but how are we supposed to get over those mounds of snow at the curb to cross to the other side? What better place to find information on all this than on a Minnesota web site. A site called Minnesota Walks points out that approximately one-third of the U.S. population does not drive, including:

• Children
• People with certain disabilities
• People age 65 or better
• Those who cannot afford a personal vehicle
• A growing number of people who simply choose not to drive.

Sidewalks and crosswalks are necessary for those of us who don’t drive to access destinations or public transit, and the Minnesota Walks site also points out that the “Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) Title II Regulation §35.133 requires maintaining ADA-compliant access to walkways year-round, which includes snow and ice clearing.”

For guide dogs, everything can look like a tunnel sometimes.

Those of you stuck at home in the aftermath of a snowstorm may want to use your time inside to communicate and educate transportation professionals and community leaders about snow removal and accessibility. Easter Seals’ Project Action has developed a guide related to transportation and snow removal. The 24-page booklet highlights innovative policies and strategies used by U.S. and Canadian communities to improve accessible pathways and transit stops during winter weather.

Happy reading, and hang in there — it’s gotta melt sometime.

That’s what the web looked like in 1993. Click on the image for a great story in Wired about the excitement Mosaic created.

I just watched a couple episodes of a Nat Geo mini-series that looks back at those heady days of the dot.com boom. Overall I liked The Valley of the Boom more than I thought I would—generally, I think people who’ve had a front row seat for an event that is covered in the news or on the screen find fault in these things.

I certainly did, but more on the fault thing later. What the show captured well was the sense that at the time, it seemed like now all things were possible, all old assumptions and rules were out the window, that the sky was the limit—it bordered on a sort of rapture.  Every staff member at every company woke up every day either thinking they would conquer the world, or go out of business by month’s end, and some days both.

Last year about this time I posted about the 25^thanniversary of the Mosaic web browser. Mosaic was developed at the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign’s National Center for Supercomputing Applications. The Mosaic browser made the World Wide Web—previously the realm of researchers, government agencies, and large government contractors—available to the rest of us. And the rest is history, as they say.

Charlatans were everywhere, and it was hard to pick them out from the crowd because even the good guys could seem delirious and sort of evangelical sometimes.

One of those good guys was my boss, Doug Colbeth—who’s still a friend, I’m proud to say. Doug turned Spyglass, a scientific software company fighting for survival in Champaign, Illinois, into an unlikely dot.com in the middle of DuPage County that went public in 1995 against all odds.

We really didn’t stand a chance against Netscape and other behemoths located in Silicon Valley, with their access to armies of experienced staff and oodles of capital. But somehow….

Doug knew early that the so-called “browser wars” were a blip. That the browser was a commodity, a valuable one, but in the same way that a screwdriver is valuable. And, that there was not a sustainable business to be built on browsers.

He was right. Spyglass licensed and commercialized Mosaic, then licensed its browser code to Microsoft, and that code turned into Internet Explorer. Which ended up absolutely destroying Netscape Navigator, and, eventually, Netscape. Meanwhile, Spyglass pursued what was to some a hare-brained strategy: That web technology and mini browsers would eventually be built into devices ranging from gas pumps to TVs to refrigerators refrigerators. Spyglass built a highly profitable business and was eventually sold to a TV technology company.

Anyway, I confess to some certain satisfaction during the scene in “Boom” in which the Netscape CEO announces the sale of Netscape to AOL. In essence, it was the end of Netscape. And I took some pride in the knowledge that our little company, a mouse that roared, won that browser war.

As for the show, it does what the mainstream press did in real time: For the sake of story, they focus on the high-profile rock stars. Marc Andreessen, the maladjusted tech wunderkind. Jim Clark, a Silicon Valley icon. And Jim Barksdale, the celebrity CEO.

We love boy-hero stories but advancements are always a collective thing, more nuanced, and more inspiring than the wunderkind stuff, if you ask me. It’s story of steady progress built on brilliance and work and stacked on the shoulders of forbears. This web thing goes back to the likes of  Tim Berners-Lee at CERN

and Vint Cerf. And they built on the work of their predecessors and colleagues.

In any case, “Boom” is a worthwhile watch, well acted, and nicely peppered with interviews with the real players looking back on that insane era. And it was nuts!

Glad I had a front row seat.

I don’t give the memoir writers in my classes assignments over the break. Many of them write on their own during time off, though, and when they do, I encourage them to bring their new essays to read aloud in class when we reconvene. All five of my classes are back in session after winter break, and this piece Kate De Mille brought to read for the first memoir-writing class in 2019 at Admiral at the Lake was so much fun that I asked her if we could share it with you Safe & Sound readers here. Lucky us — she said yes!

by Kate De Mille

Today’s guest blogger, Kate De Mille.

It seemed like overnight when I noticed the dramatic change in my appearance. Yes, I had gained a little weight, but I’m talking about my face here: wrinkles!

I pride myself in having pretty, smooth skin for my age. At least, I used to. But now, little red veins, sagging cheeks, fuzzy eyebrows, bags under my eyes, a mustache that I could trim with my cuticle scissors and 2 “things” that looked like they may be warts starting to poke up near my eyelids. What was happening?

I started using makeup every morning — taking at least 20 minutes to apply the foundation, then the powder, the eyeliner, mascara, and putting some cover up on the “things.” Every time I passed a mirror I looked at myself. I used an X10 mirror to be sure I was seeing what I was seeing. It was true. I started to feel really down. I must be sick. Some insidious disease was causing my bodily distress.

Finally, I made an appointment with my doctor. I told him that I was feeling depressed. Tired. Not well. Something had to be wrong. After about 15 lab tests and a complete check up, the answer was that I appeared perfectly healthy. My blood pressure had increased, but only slightly.  He gave me a prescription and told me to call if I was still feeling out of sorts.

At home, I took another good look in the mirror and noticed my eyelashes with the globs of mascara looking like two droopy spiders hanging on for dear life. The wrinkles were still there. This is ridiculous, I thought. How can I be so upset when my life was so fine. My husband insisted that I looked the same as always.

To relax myself, as I often do, I folded my arms on the sill of my bedroom window. Looking out I was thrilled to see the detail of the leaves on the trees, even the waves coming off Lake Michigan. Looking down, the flowers in the garden were so clearly detailed since my cataract surgery last month. That was something to be very grateful about. I now had 20/20 vision for the first time in my life. Before that my vision was so blurry.

Wait. My vision. So blurry before. Oh, no. Reality had struck!

I understood.

Here’s why I like being in focus groups:

• I am sometimes the only person with a disability in the group, and I feel strongly about people with disabilities being included in decision-making
• People ask you questions about what you think about things.
• Your response is important to the person asking the question.
• Even if they don’t ask a question, they are interested in just about anything you say.
• Often you’re paid for your trouble, either with gift cards, or, sometimes…cash!

I’ve participated in focus groups about web sites, travel opportunities, health care, but the focus group I was in last week, called “Exploring Growth After Vision Loss” was one I could really, well…focus on. The focus group was part of a research study exploring whether people who were once able to see experience any psychological growth as a result of losing their sight.

The four of us who were there for the two-hour study all lost our sight at different ages – one as a teenager, me as a young adult, a third when they were in their thirties and another in middle age. The first half-hour was a discussion of what the words “adaptation” and “acceptance” and “growth” mean.

The rest of the time was spent exploring whether going through a stressful, adverse, or traumatic event might leave a person in a higher place psychologically than the level they were functioning at before the event.

We shared our experiences with each other – and the focus group leader – about losing our vision and adjusting to vision loss, and we were asked specific questions like “What does it mean to you to consider how you may have grown from the experience of losing your vision?” We were asked to come up with some Examples of ways we think we may have grown since losing our sight. Each of us got a pre-paid debit card for participating in the study, and when the focus group leader gave me mine, I told her I should be the one paying her. The whole thing was like group therapy!

It’s not that unusual for me to be among a group of blind people – I take computer classes at Second Sense, I regularly attend touch tours before plays at Chicago theaters – but those groups include people who were born blind. Last week it was oddly comforting to be part of a small group of people who’d all been able to see before going blind. A lot of what we said to each other required no explanation, and we could talk honestly about the experience without anyone feeling sorry for us. By the end of the two hours, we’d each been able to come up with at least one example of the growth the focus group leader was looking for.

One who’d volunteered a little before losing their sight feels said the volunteer work they do now is much more heartfelt. “I used to volunteer because I knew it was something I should do, but now I feel more empathy, I want to help people whenever I can, I give – and accept – help with love.” Another said they deal better with challenges now. We all agreed that blindness had made us more resourceful, and yes, we appreciated the growth and all, but still….

As we were getting ready to leave, one participant compared our experience to that saying about going back to being a teenager and knowing what you know now. “Everything we’ve learned about dealing with challenges, acceptance, adjustment, just think,” they said. “If someone figured out a way for us to get our sight now, we’d be unstoppable!”

This past Thursday three Chicago Police Officers, who had clearly lied in the interest of their fellow officer Jason Van Dyke, were acquitted on all counts. I’ve bounced between furious, disappointed, and plain sad since then. That kind of behavior—the same kind that enables horrific behavior in other institutions like the Catholic Church, Penn State, and Michigan State Universities—should be long behind us. But it ain’t. It’s still in front of us.

When Van Dyke himself got what, to this Chicagoan, looks like a slap on the wrist relative to the way other citizens are sentenced, well, it made me sad. I don’t wish prison on anyone, but he broke the law and he killed a member of the community he is charged with serving. I also couldn’t stomach his or his family’s statements, because their words were all about them, their hardship, and there wasn’t a hint of  understanding his culpability. Yet somehow, the pearl clutching about how awful it must be for that lunk—who had an ugly history of abusing citizens—went on and on.

We certainly don’t dole out the clutching evenly.

Last year about this time I wrote about how Martin Luther King’s death made an enormous impression on me. I was 10 years old when he died. And today, here we are.  We want to think we’re done with it, just like when I was a kid and I wanted to think that the Emancipation Proclamation, and the good guys winning the Civil War, fixed everything.

But the kind of sickness that enabled slavery and Jim Crow—the virus-like psychology and the tilted structures they left behind—it’s naïve to think it just fades away. Maybe it all will never be stamped out, but we’re obligated to try, aren’t we?

I’m trying to ask better questions and listen a little better, especially with, frankly, my black friends. It’s worth the risk and discomfort I might feel. For example, I’m well aware, intellectually, of the risks that young black men are exposed to simply by driving on public streets. That isn’t up for debate. Hard data and heartbreaking anecdotes say it’s a fact. It infuriates me. But, talking to a black friend with a grown son and watching her face when she recalls the time she recognized that she had to have “the talk” with her teenage son, well, there’s a level of fear and hurt in her voice that transcends the data or my outrage.

Anyway, we have a lot more to do. The good news, kind of, is that it shouldn’t take much to do better.

To that end, here are two pieces of reading that you may find worthwhile; I did:

We like thinking all the ugliness is in the rear view mirror, especially those of us who just want it to be over with. Bryan Stephenson thinks otherwise.

But, perhaps preaching to and shaming those that aren’t woke enough for out tastes isn’t the most constructive route, either.

Let’s fight the good fight, and happy birthday to Dr. King.