Radio host Justin Kaufmann came well-prepared for our short interview on WGN Radio yesterday morning — we even got a couple of call-ins! If you missed hearing us live, you can hear The Air Carrier Act: How new procedures are impacting those visually impaired online now.

Whitney knows what to do on an airplane.

During the interview yesterday I told my story about the small dog wearing a “service dog” vest who barked and lunged at Whitney at Midway Airport, how the dog’s owner told me the dog keeps her calm and prevents her from getting panic attacks on the plane, and how when Southwest announced that people with disabilities could pre-board, the woman and her dog rushed to the front of the line to nab a bulkhead seat.

The sports reporter sitting in the studio weighed in then with a question about what Whitney does for me inside an airport, and I answered in detail — everything from getting me into the taxi, leading me to curbside check-in, following the red cap to elevators, through security, to the gate, down the jetway and finally, to our seat. On the flight with the yippy service dog, we sat in the 8th row window seat, Whitney, a 60 pound Yellow Lab/Golden Retriever cross, sat with her bottom under the seat in front of us, her head on my feet, and didn’t make a peep during the flight.

She didn’t make a peep while underfoot in the radio studio, either, and I was proud to point that out as the interview came to a close.

In light of the challenges people working with service animals are facing during air travel, The U.S. Department of Transportation (DOT) is making plans to amend and clarify its regulations implementing the Air Carrier Access Act. DOT has issued an Advanced Notice of Proposed Rule Making (ANPRM) and is seeking comments from the public. I think clearer rules about traveling with service animals could help eliminate some problems, and if you think so, too, I hope you’ll comment there, too. Just make sure you submit comments by this Monday, July 9, 2018. Thanks for listening!

In honor of Independence Day, I asked writers in my memoir classes to come up with 500-word essays about a time in their lives when they felt particularly independent. ”What circumstances left you feeling that way?”

Writers came back with stories about riding a bike without training wheels, camping with friends during high school, their first car, heading to college, getting divorced.

One writer, Carol Abrioux, took the assignment in a different direction, and her piece got such a positive response when she read it out loud in class that she readily agreed to let me share it with you Safe & Sound blog readers here, too. Happy Independence Day!

A loss of dependence

By Carol Abrioux

Smoking cigarettes had me by the throat since I was seventeen and wouldn’t let go. By the time I was in my thirties, two packs a day just about satisfied my really bad habit. I spent a lot of time on the phone working for the French Government, so I may not have really smoked all of the 40 cigarettes right down to the butt: I’d be talking, waving my cigarette around, putting it down in the ashtray as I spoke. Probably half of each cigarette burned away.

Today’s writer.

But I wasn’t on the phone all the time, and I smoked at lunch and at home — except when I was cooking. No ashes fell in my good food.

Fact is, whether just one-half, or the whole damn thing, I smoked forty of them each and every day. My office smelled of cigarette smoke — ditto my apartment. My clothes reeked. Even my two Siamese cats seemed to smell of smoke, but I didn’t really realize it at the time. Most smokers don’t.

Dire warnings began to appear in cigarette ads in magazines and television in the 1960s. In 1966, they leapt to the packages and cartons themselves :

• OMG Cancer!
• OMG Emphysema!

Everyone I knew who didn’t smoke became a tenacious nagger. But did I give up my filthy habit? No, no, no…a thousand times no.

I was so protective of my habit that I chose my Chicago doctors by finding out first if they smoked. That effort really backfired. Soon they all quit and became far worse anti-smoking proponents than doctors who had never smoked.

I tried everything to cut down. No packs were kept in my office — I had to walk to the reception area to get one. That lasted three days.

Then I found a cigarette case that locked. You could set it to open in 30 minutes, or an hour. Days I set it for an hour led to me banging my fist on the thing when it refused to open. That, or simply going out and buying another pack.

None of these efforts worked, mostly because I wasn’t really ready to quit.

Finally one morning after waking up and reaching for my first cigarette of the day, I said to myself and the cats, “This is the last cigarette I will ever smoke.” And it was.

I left the pack and the rest of the carton on a shelf in my closet in case my withdrawal symptoms included hallucinations. I didn’t think I could go through having hallucinations, and fortunately I never had to face that.

I never, ever smoked another cigarette.

For those next few months after I quit, I wouldn’t want to be working for me. But the employees were so happy that I quit that they cheerfully put up with my insanities and bad behavior.

My cats took to hiding under the bed.

It all got easier and better. Clothes were washed and sent to the cleaners. Apartment and office were aired, and, unfortunately, food tasted much better than before.

I was walking with a friend one day and he asked me to hold his cigarette while he tied his shoe. Without thinking I raised it to my lips and took a drag. Nothing before had ever tasted that awful. I knew at that moment I had truly gained my independence.

This ball was on Challenger that fateful day. Flown by Ellison Onizuka for his daughter, a soccer player @Clear_LakeHS. #NASARemembers pic.twitter.com/grShwq372X

— Shane Kimbrough (@astro_kimbrough) February 3, 2017

Astronaut Kimbrough tweeted a photo of the soccer ball that made it into space.

On the morning of Tuesday, January 28, 1986, I headed to my barber in downtown Champaign, Illinois. It was the day after the day after the Chicago Bears had won their first and only Super Bowl. I knew that in Chicago there would be a parade in freezing temperatures, but other than that, I hadn’t turned on the radio or the TV and was oblivious to other news.

When I got to the shop, my barber was standing, looking up to a wall-mounted television, glued to the screen.

“What’s going on?” I asked. The space shuttle blew up, he explained. “It’s terrible.”

I settled into the barber’s chair, and he started his work. “Can you imagine being a family member watching that?” he said. “And they keep showing it and showing it. Why do they do that?”

Right about that moment, he spun my chair around and pointed up–it was being played again. “See, watch it, it’s terrible.”

Indeed it was. I recalled my days living in the Washington, D.C. area and my chance meeting with a journalist named Gregg Easterbrook. He was at a dinner party at a mutual friend’s place. We got to talking and he mentioned that he’d written a piece about what a bad idea the space shuttle program was. The guy clearly knew his stuff, but I admit I sort of pooh-poohed him, thinking he was just a space travel killjoy.

I was wrong. You can still read it here—it’s called “Beam me out of this death trap, Scotty,” and although it didn’t directly  call out the O-ring problem that caused the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster, it’s full of red flags that did play out for the worst.

I hadn’t thought much about any of this until last night when I was watching E60, an ESPN television news magazine. It’s sort of like 60 Minutes, but with a sports angle. It’s almost always a pleasant surprise, and last night was no exception.

One piece chronicled the highly unlikely journey of…a soccer ball. One of the astronauts on the ill-fated Discovery mission was named Ellison Onizuka. He was an assistant coach of his daughter’s high school soccer team. When he boarded the ill-fated Challenge, he brought along a team soccer ball that was inscribed with a good luck message from the team.

Miraculously, the ball was recovered intact. Eventually, it found its way into a trophy case at the high school Onikuza’s daughter attended. Clear Lake high school, owing to its proximity to Cape Canaveral, has graduated lots of astronauts’ kids. In 2016, an astronaut named Col. Shane Kimbrough, a Clear Lake parent, was scheduled for a stay on the International Space Station. He asked the high school principal if there was anything from the school she’d like him to take with him.

And so, on October 26, 2016, the ball finally made it into space, where it spent 173 days. It came back safely, and it’s back in its case at the high school.

You can read the online story here. ESPN regularly re-airs the E60 segments—it’s a gripping piece of work. I can’t help but think that Ellison Onikuza and his crewmates would’ve been happy to know that the ball made it to space—and in particular that their work and dedication was being carried on.

Often, I find these stories a little too sentimental, and even manipulative. But somehow, the picture of that ball floating weightlessly against the backdrop of space floated my boat and my spirits.

In the age of “fake news,” ultra partisan publications and broadcast channels, and nutjob websites, we—for the time being, anyway—enjoy a pretty robust press. It’s really easy to dump on “the media,” but that’s painting with too broad a brush. Good journalism and good writing are hard work. A lot harder (and generally, more time-consuming and therefore more expensive) than bad journalism.

The War Horse is always an interesting read.

It takes some work and some luck to find good stuff, but it’s out there.

Awhile back I bumped into a non-profit online publication called The War Horse. It’s chock full of reporting on the military, much of it by veterans or current service members. It provides what I think is a very useful and non-ideological point of view on defense and military issues, as well as the personal issues military members and family face. Check it out at https://www.thewarhorse.org

I also follow their Facebook feed, which spreads coverage from a range of publications on military matters. One headline recently caught my attention:

15,851 US service members have died since 2006. Here’s why.

At first, it was the number itself—higher than I would’ve imagined—that piqued my interest. But another number was just as interesting (and sobering): Of the 15,000+ who’d died, only 28 percent were deployed on the battlefield. I’ve always understood that apart from war, just beingin the service can be dangerous. My brother-in-law Rick flew helicopters, among other things, and though he was always circumspect in talking about it, it was clear to me that what were called training exercises were hair-raisingly dangerous. Anyway, the article appeared in Military Times, give it a read if you have a moment.

And then there are two pieces from our pal Lydialyle Gibson, a tremendous writer and reporter and just a swell gal from the South. She came to Chicago for a journalism education at Northwestern and after graduation sworked at a community newspaper that covered our Chicago neighborhood, then for the University of Chicago Magazine and now, at Harvard Magazine. She loves her gig because she gets to talk to people who do remarkable thjngs.

One of them being Khalil Gibran Muhammad, a Harvard scholar who wrote a book called “The Condemnation of Blackness: Race, Crime, and the Making of Modern America.” It looks at how public perception of crime in black neighborhoods largely populated by blacks who came North during the Great Migration differed from the perception of crime (and its roots) among the waves of Irish and European immigrants. More important, how the perception drove policies and government programs that treated the latter group much differently than the black communities. Lydia’s article gives a pretty full—and painful—accounting of those differences. It sure rang true and consistent with the various narratives I grew up with. We still have a lot of work to do. I hope you’ll give it a read.

And one more plug for our friend: She profiled Tom Nichols, the author of “The Death of Expertise: The Campaign Against Expertise and Why It Matters.” The book explores ignorance and unreason in American public discourse—these days, that’s a lot to explore. He’s a very interesting guy, a lifelong, serious and intellectual conservative, and a member of the Never Trump club. He’s also on the faculty of the U.S. Military Collges, and previously worked as a nuclear policy analyst and Soviet specialist during the Cold War. The guy’s hardly a red meat ideologue of any stripe. I hope you’ll give it a read, too.

And remember, good journalism is hard, but it’s out there, thanks to some really dedicated people.

Dylan Covey, a 26-year-old pitcher for the Chicago White Sox, has type 1 diabetes. I have type 1 diabetes, too – that’s the disease that caused my blindness.

Blood glucose monitoring is undoubtedly a part of Covey’s routine now.

Covey was diagnosed during a standard physical in his freshman year of college, when the Milwaukee Brewers drafted him 14th overall in the first round of the 2010 MLB draft. What a blow that must have been. The diagnosis came just days before his signing, and he and his parents decided it’d be best for him to forego the Brewers’ offer and take advantage of his athletic scholarship at University of San Diego instead. “For whatever reason I wasn’t meant to sign with the Brewers,” Covey said in an article in the Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel. “My first couple years getting used to having diabetes, my body was changing so much and I was struggling in college a little bit…I went to college for three years and I do think that college helped me not necessarily grow up, but maybe mature a little bit and become a man.”

Most Americans who have diabetes have Type 2. With type 2, if you watch your diet and exercise, you have a fair chance of improving the condition — you can reduce or even eliminate the need for insulin injections. Type 1, the kind of diabetes Dylan Covey and I have, is an autoimmune disease. With type 1, the body attacks and destroys its insulin-making cells. No matter what we do (exercise, diet, whatever) our bodies are unable to make insulin. We either have to take multiple injections of insulin throughout the day, or wear an insulin pump. Type 1 is usually diagnosed in childhood (I was diagnosed when I was seven years old) but in recent years it has become increasingly common for people Covey’s age or older to be diagnosed with type 1. We prick our fingers to test our blood sugar levels and keep track of the carbohydrate levels we eat throughout the day to know how much insulin to take. The more we test our sugar levels, the easier it is to adjust our insulin doses and walk the tightrope between high and low blood sugars. It’s never a walk in the park, though, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to walk that tightrope as a professional athlete. Here from an article in the Chicago Tribune:

The first year and a half after his diagnosis were “really tough,” he said. Covey learned about counting carbohydrates and taking insulin. He lost weight before the diagnosis, and after putting it back on, he worked to turn it into muscle.
“Learning to do that at first is tough because you don’t really think about how many carbohydrates you’re eating every time you take a bite of food,” said Covey, who is 6-foot-2 and weighs 195 pounds. “It was definitely an adjustment period I had to go through.”

The Chicago White Sox signed Covey last year,and in that Tribune article I quoted above he said that his health has been fine since learning to manage his diabetes. “It took about a year and a half for me to fully grasp it,” he said. “But since then there’s been no issues whatsoever, being 18 years old and having a huge responsibility…but now it’s just kind of become everyday life.”