Perfection

My niece Jen and her husband Brian are flying in from Orlando later this morning to stay with us over the weekend. You might remember these two from a post I wrote last year when my previous Seeing Eye dog, the heroic Harper, helped me officiate Jen and Brian’s wedding.

Jen and Brian will be married in a civil ceremony today, and I’ll officiate the public ceremony tomorrow. I can read Braille, but I’m so slow at it that if I “read” my lines we’d all still be there Sunday waiting for the part where Brian finally gets to kiss the bride. So I’ve recorded all my lines on a cassette. I plan to have an earpiece in one ear and my finger on the “pause” button. The recorder will read a few sentences at a time, and I’ll repeat what I hear. I am so, so flattered to be asked to do this for Jennifer and Brian, and I could go on and on and on and on here about how terrific it makes me feel that they trust me with this honor.

That's Brian, the happy groom, walking me and Harper to the altar just before the ceremony began.

That wedding went on without a hitch. Jen and Brian are a perfect couple, and their happiness was contagious. The crowd at the reception was lighthearted, loving, and lively. Flo did the chicken dance, and the entire day was, well…perfect.

The visit to Chicago this weekend is a gift from Jen to Brian for his birthday –Brian is a Boston Red Sox fan, and she got him tickets to see them play the White Sox with us this Saturday night.

The game tomorrow will mark just one week since White Sox pitcher Philip Humber pitched a perfect game. There’s been a lot in the news about it — he was put on waivers until the White Sox picked him up, he wasn’t a regular major league starter until just last year – but one important fact has been lost in all the celebration.

The perfect game was played away, in Seattle. I was listening on TV, and the Mariner fans were strikingly quiet after the very last pitch. But as the announcers chatted away, describing Humber’s teammates piling up on him in celebration, I listened closely and heard the crowd slowly swell up in applause.

Those Seattle Mariner fans are one classy bunch. They lost the game, but they witnessed perfection, and they appreciated what they saw. They were a perfect audience.

It is very cold in Chicago this weekend. Our Florida family members will probably have to borrow winter coats and gloves for tomorrow night’s game, but hey – sitting in the stands, watching baseball with people we love? We’ll be perfectly happy. Go Sox!

Settling in

White Sox home opener, 2012. Hot dogs, fireworks, Jack Ingram singing the national anthem, cheering, a fly-over. Both pitchers settled in right from the start, but it took Whitney a little longer — it was the fifth inning before she could sit down!

The White Sox put on a great show – Mike and I had a ball. It was one heck of a well-played, entertaining baseball game. If you appreciate the game, you appreciate great defense, and there was a lot of it: a diving catch in left field by Dayan Viciedo, and shortstop Alexei Ramirez started a double play with a terrific play behind second. Jake Peavy, who suffered a horrendous injury (a muscle literally tore off the bone) two years ago pitched great. The Detroit starter, Max Scherzer, was almost as good for most of the game, so the game went quickly.

Whitney doesn’t yet appreciate the game, so I’m afraid her favorite part of the day was trotting down the ramp to leave the park and go home!

Opening Day started a week of firsts for Whitney. It’s Spa Week in Chicago, so I’ll be celebrating Monday, getting my first massage since coming home with Whitney in December. Will she sit quietly for the entire hour? We’ll see.

And then, this Wednesday Whitney takes a train with me to Champaign where she’ll be asked to sit through her first university lecture: I’m giving a talk to an animal sciences class at the University of Illinois. I plan on telling the students what it’s been like transitioning to a new Seeing Eye dog, then going over some of the qualifications necessary to become a guide dog instructor. Most guide dog schools require instructors to have a college degree and then do an apprenticeship, and some apprenticeships last as long as four years.

Considering that guide dog schools are non-profit organizations, I would guess the pay for apprentices and instructors is far below what a lot of today’s college educated people expect to earn. If you’re looking for job satisfaction, though, this kind of work must be pretty dang rewarding – I’m hoping my talk might motivate some of these University of Illinois students to consider it as a career. I’m also hoping Whitney will settle in to her first university lecture a whole lot faster than she did for her first baseball game – there won’t be any fireworks or hot dogs, and everything I’ll be talking about will be old news to her!

Another great-grandchild for Flo: Addie Rose.

We’ll cap off our week of firsts on Friday when Whitney will attend her first birthday party for Flo, who will be 96 years old on April 20. We’ll ride a commuter train to Elmhurst and meet Flo and other family members to celebrate at the wine bar across from the train station. No need to bring presents; Flo says she already got the gift she wanted. Her 20th great-grandchild, a healthy little girl named Addie Rose, was born on Friday. We’ve got a lot to celebrate, and It’s going to be one joyful celebration. Cheers!

Next thing you know, I’ll be writing for Hallmark

I didn’t buy a lottery ticket last week. I wasn’t afraid of the odds, I just knew money couldn’t make me happier than I am right now.

I know, I know. Too many pink Sweet ‘n’ Low packets. But hey, it’s not all saccharine. There really is evidence-based research on this lottery happiness thing.

Back in 1978, psychologists from Northwestern University right here in Chicago published a study called Lottery winners and accident victims: Is happiness relative? Our Illinois State Lottery had just begun back then, and the researchers asked 22 winners to rate their happiness months after the initial elation of winning the big bucks. In addition, they asked the winners how much pleasure they were taking in mundane activities like reading a magazine or meeting friends for coffee. Then they interviewed 58 people who had not won the lottery but lived in the same neighborhoods as the winners. The results showed that months after the winners were announced, the non-winners were just about as happy as the lottery winners, And by then the so-called losers were finding much more pleasure in everyday activities than the winners were.

As long as they were at it, the researchers decided to interview 29 people who were injured in accidents that same lottery year, too. In each case, the accident left the victim paralyzed. After initial sadness and depression, the newly-disabled people rated their pleasure in everyday activities slightly higher than that of the lottery winners, and their life satisfaction was nearly the same.

Interesting.

It’s Monday. After I finish the cup of coffee Mike made and poured for me after we woke up together this morning, I’ll flip on the radio and listen to some pop music while getting dressed. Ben Folds? Jackson Five? Warren Zevon? Stevie Wonder? From there I’ll head outside with Whitney. It’s a cool, sunny, spring morning in Chicago. Maybe we’ll take the long way home, listen for birds, smell the lilacs.

Back in the apartment, I’ll spend a few hours on my part-time job for Easter Seals and then give Flo a call. She’ll tell me about everyone who phoned her over the weekend. She’ll say how much she is looking forward to sitting outside today and let me know what she has planned for the rest of the week. Her credo is to do only one thing each day that takes her out of her apartment. No more, no less.

Flo is one happy woman.

Our call will end the way it always does. “I love you, Mom.” “I love you, too.” Flo turns 96 later this month.

Out with Whitney again. Maybe this time I’ll brush her, too. Mike is working from home today, so I might listen to a book while waiting for him to finish. I’m re-reading my favorite book from childhood, one my older brothers and sisters read aloud to me when they were teaching me to read: The Adventures of Winnie-the-Pooh.

After my trip to the 100 Acre Wood? Off to Costco! I’ll hang on to the back of the cart, eavesdrop on people from all walks of life, try to decipher the dozens of foreign languages I hear, all while Mike pulls us through the aisles. He’ll stop periodically, say “Feel this!” and drop an enormous oversized jar of some unknown substance into my hands. “Miracle Whip!” he’ll exclaim with glee. I always roll my eyes, but I can’t help but laugh, too. And I can’t help but relish, ahem, the $1.50 hot dog and pop we enjoy before we leave. Free refills, too!

After unloading the Land of the Giants groceries at home, we might slink over to Hackney’s to share some wine with friends: Mondays are half-price bottle nights.

Back in our apartment building, if our favorite maintenance man James is working, we’ll stop and talk baseball before stepping into the elevator. Opening day is coming up, Chicago! A dear old college friend emailed today to say he can’t make it to the White Sox home opener on April 13. He’s mailing us his tickets. For free. Who wouldn’t think they’d won the lottery after a day like today? And the thing that makes me the happiest: I didn’t even buy a ticket!

And to all a good night

I am the youngest of seven, and I have 16 nieces and nephews. Eleven of those nieces and nephews have children of their own. A new grand-niece is on the way, and one of my nieces has two grandchildren already! As my husband Mike Knezovich likes to say, “It’s not a family. It’s a nation!”

Buying Christmas gifts for this brood is out of the question. So we pick names instead. But here’s the rub: you have to make a gift for the person you choose.

Mike chose our six-year-old grand-niece AnnMarie this year. Our dear friend Siobhan might describe AnnMarie as suffering from “verbal incontinence.” In polite terms, we might say that AnnMarie has strong verbal skills. When Uncle Mike tires of hearing AnnMarie talk, he gives her a maniacal look and repeats, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” until AnnMarie stops blabbing, shrieks in laughter and runs away. Works every time.

I told you he's maniacal.

Through the magic of the internet, Mike discovered Target sells $12 DIY snow globes. “Our Photo Snow globes are fast and easy; No gluing required. Just follow the included template to cut your photo or artwork, and slide it into place.” What made this particular DIY snow globe that Mike found especially special was that one could make a recording, too. The lucky recipient of this gift can press a button on the bottom of the snow globe and hear your personalized holiday message.

Mike the maniacal Christmas elf got to work. He slid his close-up photo into the globe, recorded himself repeating “blah, blah, blah” over and over, and wrote an instruction card for AnnMarie:

• Step 1: Press the button on the bottom.
• Step 2: Run away!

And you know what? It worked! AnnMarie opened her gift, laughed at the funny picture of Uncle Mike, pressed the button, shrieked, and ran away! She did this so many times that her mother finally had to take the snow globe away from her with a promise she could play with it that night when they got home.

Without the Blah Blah Snow Globe to distract her, AnnMarie started talking again. I called her over. “Have you ever heard of this word?” I asked her, pronouncing e-a-v-e-s-d-r-o-p-p-i-n-g slowly enough for her to take in each and every syllable. “People who are blind like me are pretty good at it, you don’t look at the people you’re eavesdropping on,” I told her. “Just close your eyes, be quiet and listen.” I demonstrated. Keying in on a conversation behind us, I heard AnnMarie’s Uncle Ben mention a man’s name to Mike: Robin Ventura. Next it was Theo Epstein. Rebuilding. “They’re talking about baseball,” I whispered to AnnMarie. “They say the new year will be interesting to watch.” She said “oh” and raced off to play with her cousins.

Our little family really scored with the homemade gifts we received this year. Our great-nephew Grant made a desk lamp for Mike, and our son Gus will stay warm in Watertown, Wisc. Wrapped in the Snuggie his Godmother Caren decorated with Milwaukee Brewers logos. My present from AnnMarie’s dad isn’t quite finished yet, so I got a “substitute” gift: With the help and patience of her big sister Anita, AnnMarie read and recorded the book The Night Before Christmas for me to listen to.

AnnMarie (with some help from big sister Anita) recorded a wonderful talking book for me.

I am not a weeper, but I about cried as AnnMarie turned the pages for me to listen to her recorded voice reading that poem. How thoughtful! How sweet! The Night before Christmas is no easy read, and it’s fun to hear this little girl struggle – and succeed—at reading phrases like “droll little mouth” and “nothing to dread.”

My 95-year-old mother, Flo, enjoyed listening to the book with me, too. Flo sat right next to me the entire night, describing each homemade gift as it was unveiled: jigsaw puzzle, barbecue rub, homemade play-doh, bracelets, painted pint glasses, a fleece blanket decorated in school colors. Even Whitney got a gift: my sister Cheryl bought her a homemade fleece pull-toy at a craft fair. My personal favorite (after the Blah, Blah Snow Globe, of course!) was the energy drink my nephew Brian made for his cousin Colin. The drink is called “Colinade.”

After the festivities, Flo brought up more serious stuff. Her good friend Dorothy had died on Friday. Dorothy had always been a big help to my mom, very caring, always wearing a smile. “You’re going to miss her.” Flo nodded, then reached out to hold my hand.

My friend Denny and his sister Maureen had lost their mom on Friday, too. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to attend both funerals. Flo understood. Babies cried, wrapping paper was collected, teenagers called out NBA scores from downstairs, and Flo squeezed my hand until a certain six-year-old tapped my arm to interrupt the moment.

Me: AnnMarie! I didn’t know you were there!

AnnMarie:I was eavesdropping.

Me:What’d you learn?

AnnMarie: You were talking about funerals.

She left then, and the chaos continued. And so, life is too short, friendships are precious, we learn far more by listening than we do by talking, and it is a joy to be around those we

At the end of the evening, we Skyped with Caren and Mark's family, who live in Minneapolis. Flo wasn't really believing what she was seeing and hearing.

love. I could go on and on about how poignant this particular holiday season has been for me, but hey, we don’t want to make poor Mike feel pressured to make another Blah Blah Snow Globe for me this time, right?! I will end here instead, leaving you with the final line of one beautifully read holiday poem: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Membership has its privileges

Home. Safe & Sound. At last.

Hi all–this will be my last post for awhile. After retrieving Beth and Whit at O’Hare, Beth’s back on blog duty.

The trip to O’Hare was relatively painless. I parked as near as possible, then headed to ticketing to see if I passed muster for a gate pass that would allow me through security to meet Beth and her partner at her gate. As long as Beth has indicated in advance that she is blind and needs assistance, they will allow it — but man, did I get the once over, the twice over, and the thrice over.

Next stop? Security. I did the scramble: Off with the shoes, off with the jacket, out with the phone, into plastic trays. Then I took my place in front of the scanners. To my left was the old-style magnetometer. To my right, the new body scan thing. Mostly, people go through the body scan thing, but exceptions are made.

As I took my place as next-in-line to be scanned, a burly, moustached square-shouldered security guy with a classic Chicago accent said, “Sir, I really like your shirt.”

I looked down: I’d forgotten that I’d pulled on my waffle White Sox shirt that morning — it’s nice and warm, not to mention a Sox shirt. I looked backed up and grinned.

“I gotta’ put up with these Northsiders all day,” he said, motioning to his co-workers behind him. He pointed to the old-style magnetometer thingie and said, “You sir, you go through this one!” Ah, the perks of being a White Sox fan.

Got to the gate, in the “C” concourse — O’Hare vets know that’s the one that pulls you through the underground star-chamber light show passageway. Made it just in time to see Whitney lead Beth out of the jetway and into the concourse.

I’d say it was like Beth had never left, because on one hand, seeing her come off the plane with a dog is old-hat. But this time, it really seemed like a long, long time since Thanksgiving weekend when Beth departed. Maybe because it’d only been a year since we both did the drill, and I’m a year older, and we’ve been together one whole more year.

Beth and I have been together 27 years. We’re not the same people we always were, and we don’t do or say the same things we did when we were in our twenties. But for better or worse, as the saying goes, we have grown together in ways that I’m not even conscious of day-to-day — until we’re separated for long periods like we were the last few weeks. From the mundane trips to Costco to the daily debriefings about one-another’s day, to bouncing problems off each other for a take you know you can trust. I’m not sure how or when it happened, but it did, and I’m grateful to have someone, a witness and a partner. And I’m especially happy it’s Beth.

And that she brings home these great dogs. Can’t play with Whitney just yet, not until she and Beth are settled in and the bond is cemented. But I’ve witnessed Whit playing and she’s great at catching Kong toys in the air. And bringing them back. And repeating. And more important, she’s doing great out on the street.

Won’t be long now.

Thanks for reading.

A succession of extraordinary days

My foot is feeling better. If I’m allowed back in normal shoes after my doctor appointment this Wednesday, I’ll be so busy dancing I won’t have time to assess that list I posted here of all the things I’d accomplish during my 12-week convalescence. Better do it now.

Fingers crossed: A good visit with the doctor on Wednesday means I can retire these things.

• Read books. This was a joy. I thoroughly enjoyed In Zanesville by Jo Ann Beard and Ursula Under by Ingrid Hill, and I especially recommend The Year We Left Home by my friend Jean Thompson. I finished State of Wonder by Ann Patchett yesterday –fantastic! Today I’ll start Turn of Mind by Alice La Plante. I am friends with Alice’s little sister Lynn and sat with Lynn to hear her big sister give a presentation on this book at printers Row Lit Fest in June – am looking forward to getting lost in Turn of Mind now.
• Brush Harper. Another joy, for both of us. Even with my fiberglass cast on, we managed to hobble to the little city park next to our building for a daily grooming.
• Watch White Sox games on TV with Mike. Did that, but considering how things are going this particular baseball season, I prefer listening to Brewers games on WTMJ-Am. No one announces a game like Bob Uecker.
• Attend lectures. I only went to one, but I wonder. Does it count if I gave one?
• See a few plays. Again, we only saw Porgy and Bess. We had ideas about seeing Chinglish until I found out a lot of it was in Mandarin. Subtitles don’t work when you can’t see!
• Play fetch with Harper. Over and over. And over. And over. And over again.
• Check my blood sugar levels. Over and over. And over. And over. And over again. When I went to my endocrinologist the other day, the results from my A1C test was 5.9. (For you lucky ones who don’t have Type 1 diabetes…that’s a very good number!)
• Get more comfortable using my iPhone. Took a cab over to Guild for the Blind in Chicago for one-on-one tutoring from a volunteer last month. I’m making progress, but am still on the uphill side of the learning curve.
• Work up some jazz tunes on the piano.I have been playing piano more lately than before the break. Can’t say I’ve worked up any new tunes, though.
• Share stories with friends. As corny as this sounds, my friends carried me through my convalescence. Thank you, friends. Thank you.
• Practice my newly-repaired accordion. Mike has been amazing during my convalescence, too. To thank him, I’ve kept my accordion in its case.
• Publish blog posts. This took up the majority of my time with a foot in a cast. Supervisors at my part-time job at Easter Seals Headquarters allowed me to work remotely, so I continued writing and editing posts for their blog about autism from home. The Bark started something they called The Broken Foot Chronicles and published a number of posts I wrote about Harper’s disposition while I healed. And then there’s the posts I publish here. Thanks for reading them, loyal blog readers!
• Write a few books. Okay, that was a lofty goal. While my foot was still in a cast, though, I did manage to write a piece for a book National Geographic School Publishing is putting together. Maybe that counts?!

Today, August 28, happens to be Goethe’s birthday. Along with giving Chicago one of its best street names, Goethe also gave us this fabulous quote: “A man can stand anything except a succession of ordinary days.” When I found out my foot had been broken, I wondered if I’d be able to stand a summer of ordinary days. With the way things have turned out, though, I find myself wondering what the heck I was worried about.

Afraid of the blindfold

A trainer from the Seeing Eye was in the Chicago area visiting other graduates last week. Eric had heard I broke my foot. Did I want him to stop by and see how things were going with Harper?

That's Eric and me (and Harper) at the White Sox game.

I cradled the phone receiver between my ear and shoulder and leaned down to tighten the laces on my orthopedic shoes. “I’m still not supposed to walk much,” I sighed. “Seems like it’d be a waste of time for you to come all the way downtown just to watch us walk around the block.” Eric assured me I wouldn’t be wasting his time. He arrived before lunch, admired my shoes, and followed as Harper led me out the door.

Harper did not disappoint. Well, I mean, he did disappoint, but as long as Eric was here to help with potential problems, we gave him a good show. Harper cowered on the sidewalk for no apparent reason, slowed down to a dreadful pace as we neared an intersection, and refused to turn right at a corner where we usually went left. The good news? Eric didn’t notice Harper trembling or shaking when he cowered. “He doesn’t seem afraid,” Eric said. “He just wants to do the right thing, and when he isn’t sure what the right thing is, he balks.”

Eric suggested I try to boost Harper’s confidence. Cheer him on, tickle his back side when we’re traveling at a good pace, tell him over and over what a great job he’s doing. “He’s a sensitive guy, and he needs to know he’s doing right.” Eric’s last bit of advice brought me right back to my teenage years with Flo: “stand up straight!” I need to pull my shoulders back, refrain from leaning over Harper when I give commands. If I speak with authority when I give a command, my own confidence should rub off on Harper.

Harper also loves to retrace his steps. “He’s almost shepherdy!” Eric marveled. It’s true that Harper’s homing instinct can be a bit extreme, but it came in handy when I asked Eric if he was hungry for lunch. Harper knew exactly how to get to Hackney’s.

Over a salad and a grilled cheddar, avocado & tomato sandwich I asked Eric how he ended up being a Seeing Eye dog trainer. “I was a puppy raiser!” he said with pride. “Born and raised in New Jersey, and never left.” Eric’s family lives close to Morristown (where The Seeing Eye is located), and he raised his first puppy, a Lab named Yorick, when he was ten. “My sister still volunteers for the Seeing Eye, she’s raising a puppy now.” Eric has so much energy that I assumed he was in his early twenties and must have applied to be a Seeing Eye trainer right out of college. “Oh, no!” he said. I could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “You’re gonna laugh when I tell you what stopped me: I was afraid to go under the blindfold.”

I didn’t laugh. I understood. It’s scary, not being able to see.

A story in the NJ Monthly explains why the blindfolds are necessary in training:

For the first two months, the trainers walk the dogs and help them learn where to stop and how to lead owners around obstacles on the ground and overhead. The dogs receive no treats or punishment; they are rewarded with praise or, when necessary, disciplined verbally or through the absence of praise—or occasionally corrected with a tug on the leash that does not hurt the dog. Throughout the process, the trainers rate the progress and characteristics of each dog on a computer system, and at certain times the dog is tested with a blindfolded trainer. “At the midterm [blindfold test], a supervisor will be standing close and giving some help,” says apprentice instructor Kaelin Coughlin, 24. “The final blindfold is a test to be sure the dog is safe and ready, and the supervisor stands further behind.”

Stacey the bartender took our plates while Harper remained still at our feet. As she refilled our diet Coke and iced tea, I asked Eric what he studied in college. He said he got a degree in history, and after a so-called “normal” job he finally mustered up his courage and applied at The Seeing Eye. He’s been training dogs for three years now.

We talked about other things: Eric’s life on a small farm in New Jersey, his wife’s love of horses, and his love for baseball. The White Sox were in town, Eric didn’t have anything scheduled for the next evening, so we agreed to meet for a game. “I can see how Harper handles a crowd!” Eric said with a laugh, acknowledging how much he loves his job. “But I’m not gonna lie to ya’ — I’m still scared to death of the blindfold!”

From Art & Craft to Garlic and Greens

I am thrilled to be presenting at a writer’s conference in nearby Evanston later this week along with the likes of Miles Harvey and Audrey Petty. What’s even more thrilling is that I call those two fine writers my friends.

That's Miles Harvey. (Photo by Matt Moyer.)

I met Miles long ago when both of us wrote for the Daily Illini at the University of Illinois. His first book The Island of Lost Maps: A True Story of Cartographic Crime was a national and international bestseller. Another book, Painter in a Savage Land: The Strange Saga of the First European Artist in North America, received a 2008 Editors’ Choice award from Booklist. Miles used to light up the dingy Daily Illini production room in the basement of Illini Hall, and to this day, being around him makes me smile. I was delighted when he accepted a position at DePaul University, it meant he’d be staying here in Chicago, and I knew he would serve as a terrific mentor to hundreds of writing students there. His generosity of spirit encourages many a writer, including me, to keep at it.

I met Audrey Petty in Urbana, too. She’s the Director of the Creative Writing Program at the University of Illinois at Urbana Champaign, and she and I took to each other the minute we met. Audrey is a Chicago native, and Mike and I have had the good fortune to meet and know her entire family. Her father, Joe Petty, is credited with getting the Chicago White Sox into the 2005 World Series. “MoJo” went with us to a playoff game against Boston, and he mesmerized everyone in the seats around us (and the team, too, of course) with his confidence and calm.

Audrey is back in Chicago now to work on an oral history book project gathering stories from residents of Chicago’s Henry Horner Homes, Robert Taylor Homes, Stateway Gardens and Cabrini-Green—all publicly-funded buildings that no longer exist. High Rise Stories: Voices from Chicago Public Housing will be published by Voice of Witness, the nonprofit division of McSweeney’s Books. And of course we all know that McSweeney’s is the brain child of yet another Daily illini alum: author Dave Eggers.

Dave wont’ be making an appearance at Art & Craft: Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference this week, but Miles, Audrey and I will all be making presentations. Miles will lead a Reporting and Research 101 workshop and is also sitting on a panel called Writers Point of View: How I Got Published. Audrey’s workshop is called Fiction: Object Lessons and mine is Getting Children’s Books Published. I’m also sitting on a panel called Writing for Children/Young Audiences with Jim Aylesworth and Laurie Lawlor.

”Art and Craft: the Northwestern Summer Writers’ Conference” is for new writers, established writers, and anyone looking for a better understanding of the craft—and business—of writing. Some of the workshops are full, but you can still register for panels and available workshops — they start tomorrow, August 3 and run until Friday, August 5.

If you can’t make the conference, you’ll have another chance to learn from Audrey Petty this Saturday, August 6: She’s joining Tim Black, author of Bridges of Memory: Chicago’s First Wave of Great Migration for a free presentation at Chicago’s DuSable Museum of African American History this Saturday at 2 p.m. Their presentation explores Black culture through migration history and food heritage.

Audrey’s essay “Late-Night Chitlins With Momma” was first published in Saveur magazine and subsequently selected for inclusion in Best Food Writing 2006 and Cornbread Nation 4.

Audrey’s presentation Saturday is part of a series at DuSableseries from Archeworks called Garlic & Greens, and she’s invited Mike and me over to dinner tonight with her family to get some practice in. We are two very lucky people.

My left foot

I swim laps two or three times each week. Tapping the lane marker with every other stroke keeps me swimming straight, and limiting myself to the crawl stroke means I always have one arm in front of me — my head never bangs the end of the pool. Swimming has always been a safe form of exercise for me. Until last Thursday, that is.

I finished my laps that night and was heading back to the desk to fetch Harper when I slipped and fell back into the pool. My left foot must have gotten caught in the gutter as I took the plunge. It broke. In three places.

Can you tell which foot was broken?

“That cast is huge!” my friend Jenny’s 20-year-old daughter Claire exclaimed while we shared iced tea on their deck late Saturday afternoon. “It looks like the kind of Santa Claus boot we would draw when we were little!” The image made me laugh — one of many laughs I’ve shared with friends and family after my fall. All to explain how it is I am able to sit here and publish this blog post today. You know, rather than curling up in the fetal position in the corner to spend my days whining about my inability to swim or dance or walk or do much of anything until August.

Mike helped me hobble into the car Friday morning and accompanied me to Midwest Orthopedics for the diagnosis — and the cast — that I had dreaded. The first call we made once we got home was to the Seeing Eye so Mike could talk with trainers there about what he could do to help keep Harper on track during my recovery. Doug Bohl from the Seeing Eye encouraged Mike to take Harper on long walks for exercise. “But really, you all should focus on getting Beth’s foot back to normal rather than worry about how Harper will perform once she’s better,” he said, describing one Seeing Eye dog who had to quit working for four months when the person he guided got hurt. “That dog did fine after that. These dogs don’t forget their jobs.”

Mike uses a leash on walks, and the two of them stop at each curb, just like I do when Harper is on harness. Mike follows other Seeing Eye rules, too: dog lovers can’t pet Harper, and Mike doesn’t let Harper lunge or sniff at other dogs during walks, either.

Harper was supposed to lead me to the train to Glen Ellyn for their Bookfest Saturday. My friend Jenny’s husband was working in downtown Chicago Friday and offered to pick Harper and me up and drive us to Flo’s. My sister Cheryl was there waiting with a bottle of wine when we arrived. We shared some wine and laughs with Flo, I stayed overnight and slept like a baby.

Jenny’s sister Jill picked Harper and me up and took us to breakfast near The Bookstore the next morning: Harper’s first ride in a convertible. I hobbled with them to The Bookstore after breakfast and spent the afternoon seated at a table (foot up, per doctor’s orders) visiting with friends, signing books for customers and using my slate & stylus to poke out children’s names in Braille for them as they passed through the store. Bookfest 2011 was a hit.

After the Bookfest, we sat outdoors (my foot elevated, of course) at Jenny’s, sharing iced tea and stories with her and her family. Mike drove in from Chicago and joined us for a while, then helped Harper and me into the car for our ride back home.

Being with Mike and all of these other loving and supportive people the past three days really lifted my spirits. This is only a broken foot, after all. It will heal. And in the meantime, I’ll read books, work on a story assignment from National Geographic School Textbooks, brush Harper, watch White Sox games on TV with Mike, attend lectures, see a few plays (I have tickets for Porgy and Bess at Court Theatre), play fetch with Harper, check my blood sugar levels, get more comfortable using my iPhone, work up some jazz tunes on the piano, sit and share stories with friends, practice my newly-repaired accordion, publish blog posts, write a few books…as Flo would say, “I’d better get cuttin’.” There’s not enough time in a day to accomplish everything I need to do while this cast keeps me off my feet!

Still not ready to sing na, na, hey, hey,. Goodbye to Nancy

Nancy graciously took time out on her last day to talk with me (and Hanni, of course).

I was out of town for yesterday’s home opener at White Sox park, so I listened to the game on the radio. The fans were loud, the Sox scored right away, Edwin Jackson struck out 13 batters and we won. All great stuff, but I couldn’t help but notice. Something was missing. For the first time in 42 years, legendary White Sox organist Nancy Faust was not playing on opening day. Loyal blog readers might remember the piece I wrote for the Chicago Tribune about Nancy Faust when she retired last year:

 

During one game, I had my Seeing Eye dog Hanni lead me to Nancy’s booth so I could thank her for helping me track

what was happening on the field. Nancy was absolutely lovely in person, and Hanni and I waltzed back to our seats to a pipe organ chorus of “How Much is that Doggie in the Window?”

A reporter interviewed Nancy for an article in yesterday’s Daily Herald about what she’d be doing on her first day off work. Probably watching the game on TV, she said. The story credited Nancy for reinventing the role of a ballpark organist by incorporating rock and pop songs into her repertoire, and gave a shout out to Rollie Hudson (another organist I’ve blogged about here). It also listed some of the clever songs she’d come up with over the years:

• A Whiter Shade of Pale for Henry Blanco
• In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida for player Pete Incaviglia
• I Could Have Danced All Night for Chone Figgins

Don’t get that last one? It’s a reference to Professor Higgins in My Fair Lady, of course. Rhymes with Figgins! My favorite literary reference from the Daily Herald article was this one:

Acquiescing to tastes beyond the literary library of most baseball fans, Faust once followed a fan’s suggestion to welcome Detroit Tiger Brandon Inge with The Hollies’ song “Bus Stop” in reference to the classic work “Bus Stop” by playwright William Inge. The next day, two fans excitedly rushed up to Faust to tell her that connection was brilliant.

“I guess I made three people happy,” Faust says. “The fan who suggested it and those two.”

Make that four happy people, Nancy. You may be retired, but these stories about you continue to make me smile.