Dear Whitney,

Remember when Mike read that New York Times story out loud to the two of us earlier this month? Yes. That one. The article about Seeing Eye dogs, and how a trip to New York City is part of the training we do:

The school’s training is done in a suburban setting far calmer than Midtown Manhattan, an hour’s drive away. But for its ultimate challenge, and to assess a dog’s focus, trainers take the student-dog pairs into Manhattan as something of a proving ground.

The New York Times story follows two women and their new dogs on that very route you and I took together seven years ago this month, maybe you still remember it? The van ride to the Port Authority, squeezing into a packed elevator, threading through subway turnstiles, avoiding oncoming commuters while climbing a staircase, straining to hear announcements over the noise of passing trains…. Friends who sent me the link to the New York Times story when it was published all asked similar questions. “You did that with Whitney? Weren’t you scared?” Not at that point of the trip. My fear wouldn’t kick in until we got off the subway and headed up to street level.

What you couldn’t know, dear Whitney, was that I’d taken that exact same route with another dog a year earlier, in 2010. That month at the Seeing Eye in 2010 had provided me with the promise of another long partnership with the new dog, a male Yellow Lab named Harper.

But a few months after Harper came home with me to Chicago, a vehicle turned right on red just as my Seeing Eye dog was leading me across an intersection. Harper did exactly what he’d been taught to do. He saved both our lives by pulling us away from the oncoming car–so hard that, when inspecting Harper’s harness afterwards, Mike noticed the metal harness was bent. Harper was a hero, but the trauma left him incapable of continuing his work as a Seeing Eye dog.

That near miss had left me more fearful of traffic than I’d been before, and now, here I was, back in Manhattan, this time with you, another new dog. And our first challenge after getting out of the subway station? Crossing a busy street. Well, not just one busy street. Columbus Circle. A traffic rotary. An entire circle of street crossings.

With sirens, jackhammers and horns blasting around us. Would you hear my commands? Could you keep us safe? Would you get us across, and across, and across?

You stopped at the curb, just as you were trained to do. I listened the best I could to judge the traffic, just as I was trained to do. When I determined the cars had stopped for the light in front of us, I commanded, “Whitney, forward!” You led me across that street safely, and then again at the next one in the circle, and then the next, too. And thousands of busy Chicago streets in our seven years together since then. As that article Mike read to us pointed out, “The dogs receive four months of training at the Seeing Eye, learning to guide around obstacles and obey commands, as well as street-crossing skills, including how to watch for traffic and keep their handlers safe from vehicles that might be turning or running lights.” More from that article:

While not exactly a test, Manhattan’s conditions present the dogs with intense conditions that can help reveal training aspects to work on.

“It’s a training experience that offers more than anywhere else we can take them,” said Dave Johnson, director of instruction and training at the Seeing Eye. “Almost anything can happen in one day in New York — it’s a culmination of sensory overload, even for humans.”

When Mike read this article to us a few weeks ago, I knew I’d be mentioning it in a blog post at some point. Thanksgiving seems an ideal time to do so. I am so thankful to you, Whitney, for working so hard to keep us safe. I am so grateful for the work The Seeing Eye does to make dogs available to those of us who are blind, I appreciate the New York Times for devoting the time and space to such a well-written and well-researched article about how it all works, and I’m thankful to Mike for reading it for us, and doing so, so much more by caring and looking out for us, too. I am one lucky woman, having you and Mike on my side. Happy Thanksgiving!

-Beth

That’s Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, a few years back. If you’re on Facebook, click the image to read a beautiful tribute at the Sandmeyer’s Bookstore page.

The spring of 2003 I was without a job—the weekly newspaper I worked for in Champaign-Urbana had closed its doors at the end of 2002. I hung around the office a couple months to take care of the nasty details.

Our son Gus had moved to a facility for the developmentally disabled in Wisconsin a few months earlier.

I was aimless.

Then, Beth’s first book, “Long Time, No See,” was published in April. It was what I can see now as a demarcation in Beth’s life, and in our lives—one of those many lines in a good life that defines “then” and “now.” Suddenly everything was different. A vacuum presented opportunity.

We each grew up in the suburbs. But neither of us had ever lived in Chicago—the city that defined what a city is for the two of us. If not the spring of 2003, then when?

Back when Beth was at Braille Jail (her nickname for the state rehabilitation facility for newly visually impaired people in the near west side of Chicago) her sister and brother-in-law would occasionally spring her for a meal in the nearby Printers Row neighborhood. Beth had fond memories of those bits of relief from living in the blind version of Cuckoo’s Nest.

That was a start for our finding a new home. I did some online research and we made some visits and eventually leased a place a couple blocks from the real Printers Row. That real Printers Row being one block—maybe two if you’re generous—between Ida B. Wells Drive, a major thoroughfare, and the old Dearborn Station, where Dearborn Street ends. Dearborn Station used to be a bustling train depot, but it now houses yoga studios, medical offices, a Montessori school and the like.

Our neighborhood is so named because most of the buildings on our street were originally used by printing and publishing businesses, or those that supported the logistics of those endeavors. (Also, Elliot Ness once had an office in our condo building, but I digress.)

Back in the day, printers relied on natural light to check their work, so the windows in neighborhood buildings are tall and wide. The ceilings are high, too, to accommodate printing presses and other equipment. The neighborhood went the wrong way for a long time, and most of the lovely old buildings were marked for demolition in the 70s and 80s. Thanks to some stubborn preservationists, the visionary architect Harry Weese (D.C. friends, you have him to thank for the design of your subway stations), and pioneering folks who were willing to homestead in Printers Row, the neighborhood was not lost, but found.

Two of those homesteaders were Ulrich and Ellen Sandmeyer, who opened their bookstore long before Printers Row was a sure bet. I first met Ulrich when I was up from Urbana doing a scouting trip. I stopped in to see if Beth might make a promotional appearance for her book there.

“Nein” was the answer. OK, Ulrich didn’t say it in German, but it was firm. Ulrich Sandmeyer hailed from Germany, spoke impeccable English, but you know, once German, always German. He explained that the store is so small it doesn’t well accommodate such events.

But Beth charmed Ulrich (or did he charm her?), who teased her for her unabashed self-promotion. Ellen—who maintains the shelves and window displays in ways that are both artistic and sales-savvy—put “Long Time, No See” in the front window, trumpeting a local author. This, even though Beth had been local for, oh, a couple months. Ulrich also, as they say in the book business, hand-sold a ton of Beth’s books. The German guy was a damn good salesman.

The Sandmeyers, as much as anyone or anything, made Chicago feel like home.

That was, as Humphrey Bogart would say, the start of a beautiful friendship. Sandmeyer’s Bookstore was and is an anchor—the anchor—of what I, totally biased, think is the best neighborhood in Chicago. And the Sandmeyers became the most wonderful kind of friends that one can make as adults. By that, I mean they already had full lives when we met them, as did we. But somehow, they and we found just enough  room for one another.

Sandmeyer’s Bookstore is a polished little gem—every warm, wonderful thing about Ulrich and Ellen courses through it. The wooden floors creak, the radiators clank, the selection is beautifully and intelligently curated with purpose, and there are always witty little novelties at the checkout counter—book lovers’ versions of the candy rack enticing an impulse buy. (My personal favorite was a GW Bush end-of-term countdown clock/keychain.)

Ulrich’s wry sense of humor always astounded me. First, because humor is one of the most nuanced and difficult things to master for a non-native English speaker, and he had mastered it and then some. Second, because like other non-native Americans, he had an outsider’s viewpoint that never failed to open my eyes. I was just another fish in the tank.

He and Beth developed a rich relationship—he came to call the now-closed Hackney’s, our old watering hole—“Beth’s office.” We’d stop by the store just to catch up, talk politics, and have a laugh. We’d run into him outside the store, when he was out taking a smoke break. Like the friendly and crusty beat cop, Ulrich was a comforting, reliable presence to us, and to the whole neighborhood.

Thank you for following along as I get used to using the term “was” when it comes to Ulrich. He died last Friday. I would say “after a long illness.” But, again, humor me: he died of cancer, fucking cancer, goddamn fucking cancer.

I miss him.

I know the drill. I’ll always miss him. The neighborhood will always miss him.

And like the other remarkable people that I’ve been privileged to know, he’ll never really be gone. The last time I saw him was before Amazon announced what cities it would be fleecing for the opportunity to let the company roost. Amazon, let it be said, has not been good for independent bookstores. One of the Sandmeyer’s employees told us the story of how someone once browsed the aisles, picked up a book, and asked, “Do you know how much this costs on Amazon?”

She was astonished.

Ulrich was dispassionate about such things. Or, I should say, he never seemed to take them personally.

I can imagine our talk about Amazon’s decision. I’d get all uppity about it and say good riddance to something we never had.

And I can hear him laughing at me.

As the frenzied celebrity portion of the #metoo phenomenon was peaking, I had conversations with some male friends about it. To a man, we pretty much believed that Weinstein, Rose, Louis C.K., et al had really done the things they were accused of. But on the other hand, we were incredulous—really? I’m mean REALLY?

Then I talked to a longtime woman friend who’s about 20 years younger than I am. And she rattled off a handful of episodes that ranged from creepily inappropriate to terrifying.

More recently, I sat next to another friend of ours at a local watering hole to watch a college football game. She’s a big Northwestern football fan and I joined her and her entourage for their Saturday ritual. The Kavanaugh thing came up. We talked for awhile, and in the course of the conversation she recounted a nearly identical incident to the one alleged, and rattled off maybe five or six other incidents that ranged from creepy to criminal or nearly so.

During the same game, she looked up at the TV and said, “I can’t believe we still have cheerleaders in this day and age.” We were looking at the all-female dance contingent, I think—the more acrobatic cheerleading crews tend to be co-ed. But I knew exactly what she meant.

She went on to wonder (and I paraphrase) out loud how we jibe shapely, scantily clad young women shaking it while the guys are out there beating the hell out of each other with things that my friend and I believe.

Including, no means no, one should always err on the side that says “it’s not OK unless the other says it’s OK,” and there is no attire that justifies sexual assault or other abuse.

On the other hand, we agreed, it can be pretty damn confusing in terms of trying to sort out clear cultural and social norms, apart from legalities. She and I grew up when a tenet of feminism was a drive against sexual objectification of women by men. That morphed into what I judge to be, “I can dress any way I want, and if you find it alluring, so be it.” Maybe today it’s OK for women to sexually objectify themselves—like it’s OK for black people to say a certain word. I dunno.

Mostly though, we were in agreement: Apart from the absolute “no means no rules,” it’s confusing. Now, don’t get me wrong—this notion that men are under attack or at risk of false accusation is horseshit. I admit that I get tired of some of the “men are this or that” bad thing, of having “white man” glibly used pejoratively, and all that. But those are annoyances, not threats to my sense of security and personal safety, not actual assaults. I’m not being victimized.

But I remember how hard (figuratively and literally) it was to be an adolescent boy. It was murder to walk around with diesel locomotive hormones and a brain that was years from full development. I hope today’s young men and women can talk to each other and their parents more honestly than was typical for my day.

Memes are one thing, and sensational celebrity revelations another. I think a concrete thing we can do is simply talk with the people in our lives and make it clear they can talk to us. We can be allies in this.

I’ve always taken sexual assault and abuse seriously, but I was truly surprised at how widespread it was. I can understand why: My women friends perhaps thought their experiences would be taken as weakness. Or assumed that I didn’t want to know. And perhaps they were right.

But not anymore.

My part-time job moderating the blog for Easterseals national headquarters keeps me in touch with a lot of important people: people with disabilities and their friends and family members who write guest posts. This morning Easterseals published a post written by Bernhard Walke. Bernhard and his wife Rosa are the proud parents of seven-year-old Elena, and over the years it has become something of a Halloween tradition to feature a post about the creative, clever and cute costume their daughter wears for Halloween. Here’s her dad with a description of Elena’s costume this year. It’s one of my all-time favorites.

by Bernhard Walke

Elena did an expert job of selecting her princess costume last year, but Halloween 2017 was inauspicious to say the least. Elena was in the midst of declining health back then, and after Christmas she spent two months in the hospital.

In the months since her discharge, she’s been in great health, in great spirits, silly, and even tested at grade level. Suffice it to say, these days we are enjoying her good health and her delightful company.

So yes, she has been doing well on a daily basis, but still my wife and I are apprehensive. At any time, things could take a turn for the worse. As a result, we tend to edit ourselves and place undue pressure on our daughter.

And so, when it came to Halloween this year, we tried to create a simpler costume for Elena. That way, if things went South, we wouldn’t resent our daughter for the amount of work we’d put into the costume. One of the greatest things Elena has taught us is adaptability. If things don’t work out the way we want them to, we always have a plan B, C, or even D.

This year, we all decided that Elena would be Frida Kahlo for Halloween. Why? We have a few reasons:

• Elena is Hispanic on her mother’s side and European on her paternal side, just as the artist was;
• Despite the physical limitations of their bodies, both Frida and Elena are very creative;
• It was a rather easy costume to put together (see above, about being ready in case things don’t work out).

Our local school district hosts an annual parade for Halloween. Students strut around the school playground class by class to show off their costumes. This year’s parade boasted Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, the Notorious RBG, and various Marvel characters. But where was Frida Kahlo? Something must have happened.

Perhaps Elena’s body was tight? Elena wasn’t in the mood? Or then, there’s this: Second graders like the nurse’s office. Maybe Elena wanted to hang out in the nurse’s office instead of being part of the parade.

My wife and I have learned not to be disappointed by things like this. We want Elena to know that she isn’t obligated to perform for others. She isn’t the class mascot. She is not required to show others what she can do. We want her to do things on her own terms.

After the parade was over, Elena emerged with her physical therapist. Our daughter was visibly upset. Seeing me there with her grandparents didn’t help. She started crying. Clearly, this girl was not willing to be paraded around the neighborhood. Unlike her extroverted father, who won’t speak to a crowd smaller than 500, Elena is a bit more introverted.

Instead of parading around that day, Elena knocked off a little bit early from school to spend time with her grandparents, picking flowers in the alley.

And so, instead of forcing our daughter to go trick or treating, we let her do what she wanted: she gave out candy to the friends who came by to visit. Those friends were so kind: they greeted Elena, said they liked her costume, and doled out a few high fives.

When Elena’s cousins arrived, together we managed to go with Elena to each house on the block. We were flattered to discover that several houses had put aside candy that they knew Elena could eat. When steps prevented Elena from getting up walkways to the door of some of our neighbor’s houses, the neighbors walked down the steps themselves to greet Elena on her level. That, or Elena’s cousin Carmen would march up the walkway and skillfully pick through the goods offered to choose candy appropriate for Elena.

And so, okay. The parade was a bust. But who cares? Elena taught us how to respond — rather than react — to a situation. We had a great Halloween.

All five of the weekly memoir-writing classes I lead in Chicago are back in full swing now, and Michael Graff, a writer in one of the Village Chicago classes I lead, generously agreed to let us share a deadpan “Back to School” essay he read out loud Monday for the first meeting of the current six-week session. Enjoy!
by Michael Graff

That’s Michael (left), Nancy and their son Evan, with Michael’s mother (Delores) in the foreground.

When Nancy worked at the First National Bank of Chicago, she planned either to apply to Law School or an MBA program. I was building my business. We decided we’d both take accounting, at night, at DePaul University’s downtown Chicago campus. It was just for fun. Back then free parking could always be found after six on Michigan Avenue or Wabash. Each Monday, after work, we met at class and afterward we’d celebrate with a late dinner at the Chicago Claim Company’s twin restaurant Jasand’s, on Rush.

In high school Nancy was a National Merit Scholar, Phi Beta Kappa in college, and she always graduated with honors. Me, I just graduated. I never worked too hard at school. My grades conveyed that fact. Our DePaul credits weren’t for any degree. I planned to simply coast through it.

At DePaul many of our fellow students, unlike us, couldn’t afford college after high school. They were hard working part time students who juggled careers and family; DePaul was their future.

The mid-term rolled along and Nancy aced it. I got a C+ or B-. I don’t recall, nor care.

But Nancy cared.

“You’re going to study harder,” she said. I was dismissive, but Nancy was serious. The weekend before our final exam I was confined to quarters. Nancy took away every diversion while I stared at debits and credits or solved balance sheet riddles. When I could stand no more, I’d wander towards the TV, but Nancy had thought of that. The remote was gone.

“I need to watch the Bears game,” I told her.

“Back to work, you’re not even a Bears fan”.

I was that weekend!

To my great relief, the final was the next day. Finally I was out of accounting purgatory. About ten days later, I returned to our apartment. On our dining room table sat an unopened envelope addressed to me from DePaul. Next to it, on display, was Nancy’s grade.

She’d gotten an A.

“Why didn’t you open mine,” I asked?

“I thought maybe you’d want to do that in private,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t care,” I said with a shrug, tearing open the envelope. After glancing at my grade, I folded the paper and set it down.

”What did you get?”

“It’s not important.”

“What?”

“I got a C.”

“That’s not fair. You should have gotten a better grade. Complain to our teacher.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you deserved better.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

Finally, I said, “Okay, it’s a B.” Nancy smiled, “that’s good. You deserve a B.”

And that’s when I unfolded my grade and held it up to her. Her eyes widened, and then she frowned. “Well,” she shrugged. “I guess he’ll hand out an A to anyone.”

We enjoyed accounting class. We signed up for accounting 105, and after that, cost accounting. I continued to do OK.