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!

On a short leash

It’s only been one week since Mike met Whitney and me at O’Hare, and in that short time my new 58-pound bouncing bundle of Golden Retriever/Labrador energy has successfully guided me to:

• the bank (three times!)
• the UPS store
• Hackney’s (three times!)
• my hair salon on Wabash
• Walgreen’s (once inside, she led me right to the pharmacy window, how’d she know?)
• Sandmeyer’s (Mike and I love Ulrich and Ellen, the owners of this wonderful neighborhood independent bookstore)
• Dearborn Park for a leisurely walk
• a succulent Solstice dinner party at our neighbors Jim & Janet’s groovy loft apartment (she turns into their doorway every time we pass it now, smart girl!), and
• the pool where I swim laps.

For the first weeks at home, we're inseparable. Literally.

None of our walks have gone without a mistake or two (or five, or nine), and we are still working on our choreography, but we’ve been getting where we need to go, and returning home safely. “Good girl, Whitney!”

Whitney has never been to Chicago before, of course, so I am the one who tells her what direction to go to get our errands done. We travel one block, she stops at the curb. “Good girl, Whitney!” I say, then give her a direction. “Whitney, left!” She turns left, I tell her how smart she is, and we proceed to the next curb. “Atta girl, Whitney! Good girl!” I say, then give a direction. “Whitney, right!” Whitney turns right, and we’re off again.

Whitney loves getting outside and going to work. She is so enthusiastic, though, that sometimes when I command “Forward!” she forgets to stop when we get to the next curb! That’s when I step into my role as teacher. I give her a correction, either verbally or with the leash, then show her where she made her mistake.

Next, I bring her back to the curb, tell her to sit, tap the curb with my foot and praise her. “Good girl, Whitney! Here’s where you stop. Good girl!” We take a few steps backwards then, maybe two dog lengths, and we re-work the approach to the curb. Whitney almost always, always gets it right the second time. And when she does? I praise the bejeezus out of her. “Good girl, Whitney! Attagirl!” I rub her up. Her tail wags. “Good girl, Whitney. Good girl!” Whitney eats it up, and she rarely misses that curb again.

Praise is really what it’s all about for Seeing Eye dogs, and to that end, one thing The Seeing Eye urges graduates to do during our first two weeks at home is keep our new dogs attached to us. Literally. 24/7. So picture me now, working at my computer. Whitney is chewing her Nylabone, her leash looped around my ankle. Any time I stand up to head to the kitchen to warm up my coffee, Whitney looks up, stops chewing, and drops her beloved bone. “Whitney, heel.” Whitney walks at my side to the microwave. “Good dog, Whit.” When we get to the microwave, I give her another command. “Whitney, sit!” Whitney sits. “Good girl, Whitney!” I want her to stay there while the coffee warms up. “Whitney, rest.” She does. “Atta girl, Whitney. Good girl!

Having a dog on leash 24 hours a day is strangely exhausting, and it sure is tedious. Understanding the method behind the 24/7 attachment madness makes it easier to execute: having them at the end of the leash all the time gives us plenty of chances to tell them how great they are. If Whitney sits when I tell her to, I praise her. When she heals, lies down, rests on command, she is praised. On the other hand, if Whit misbehaves (sniffs inside a garbage can, nibbles at crumbs on the kitchen floor) I can feel her movement through the leash and catch her in the act. We can’t see our Seeing Eye dogs, but if they are only a leash away while they’re being naughty, we can correct them.

All of this transfers to our work outside, too. I praise, and often pet, Whitney anytime she stops at a curb, or at the top of the stairs to the subway. If she messes up, I correct her and give her a chance to do it right. And if she succeeds the second time, guess what? She gets praised!

And so, as much as we Seeing Eye graduates would like to think it’s clear sailing after our three weeks training in Morristown, the work continues, and in some ways really starts, once we get home. I’m looking at the months ahead of us as a ten-year investment in Whitney, and in our work as a team. So while having Whitney on leash all the time has been tedious (for both of us!) it’s well worth the investment. The first week at home has really flown by, and before you know it, it’ll be December 29, and then watch out, world, Whit and I will be unleashed (at home, at least)! Right now, though, it’s time to warm my coffee. “Whitney, heal. Good girl!”

The only thing I have in common with Jay Cutler

I’ve always liked Bears quarterback Jay Cutler. “That’s because you can’t see his face!” my football-loving friends at Hackney’s (our local tavern) tell me. “You can’t tell what a whiner he is.” Ever since Cutler broke his thumb in last Sunday’s game, though, it seems like it’s those Bears fans doing the whining, not my Jay.

Confession: I don’t really follow NFL football much. The reason I follow Jay Cutler? He has Type I diabetes. I have Type I diabetes, too – that’s the disease that caused my blindness.

Two very different conditions are referred to as “diabetes” – Type I, formerly known as juvenile diabetes, and Type II, the kind that is often brought on by obesity or poor nutrition. Type II involves a breakdown in the body’s ability to process the insulin it makes. So with Type II, if you watch your diet and exercise, you have a fair chance of improving the condition. With Type II, you can even reduce or even eliminate the need for insulin injections.

Type I, the kind of diabetes Jay Cutler and I have, is an autoimmune disease. With Type I, 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. There is no behavior that causes Type I. Doctors believe it is a genetic condition often triggered by an environmental stress. A virus, for example.

Type I 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 Cutler’s age or older to be diagnosed with Type I. We test our blood sugar levels regularly to know how much insulin to take. The more we test our sugar levels, the easier it is to 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 with a football in one hand while the other hand is fending off 300+-pound gorillas rushing to knock me down. It wasn’t easy to find details on how Jay Cutler handles his Type I diabetes on the football field, but finally I found an interview in Diabetes Forecast magazine where Cutler was asked how he uses a blood glucose monitor to check his blood sugar level on game days. His answer:

I check my blood sugar about four or five times before the game—try to stay around 150 to 160 [mg/dl] before kickoff. Most of the time, I prick my finger every time we come off the field, especially in the first half. There are definitely dangers out there—we try to avoid them at all costs. That’s why we check as many times as we do. I think the worst thing imaginable would be to get really low and pass out in the middle of a play, or in the huddle. That would scare a lot of people. I try to avoid it as much as possible, but it’s still a reality that could happen.

The interviewer also asked Cutler if he worried whether his teammates, the media, or fans might blame his Type I diabetes as a reason for poor performance. His answer:

I hope not. I don’t want sympathy—I want to be judged like every other quarterback. But living with diabetes in the public eye does make it harder. If I go out and my numbers are off and I have a bad game, I know I’ll be criticized for it. I just try not to worry about it and go out and play my game.

I dunno. This guy just doesn’t sound like a whiner to me. I sure wish the diabetic magazine had asked him about that Packers game last year, though. You know, the one where so many Bears fans accused Cutler of not being a “team player.” Who knows? Maybe he needed a blood test.

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!”

Goin’ to the chapel, and…

That's Billy, who's there for all the most important occasions. Or, is it, we're there for all the most important occasions.

My sister Marilee and her daughter Jennifer flew in from Florida over Christmas, and while they were here they met up with Mike and me at Hackney’s. It was pretty cold that day, and bartender Billy Balducci knew exactly how to warm us up. Before the night was over, Jen had asked if I’d officiate her wedding.

That's Brian and Jennifer, the happy couple. Congrats to them, and a shout out to Marilee and Rick Amodt, proud parents of Jennifer.

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.

But hey, time to go. I gotta catch my flight to Orlando!

Because the night belongs to Gus (and Flo)

A sample of Brian’s work: Portrait of a haenyeo (female diver) on Jeju Island, S. Korea.

I asked Flo once why she wanted such a large family. Her response made it into my memoir, Long Time, No See:

“Well really,” she answered, “I always wanted just two children.” Her first-born was my sister Bobbie; the second, my brother Doug. The perfect little family.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Hmmmm,” she said, taking a long time to think it through. She finally answered with a laugh. “Too many parties, I guess!”

I am the youngest of seven, and all my siblings (hey, isn’t that a daytime soap opera?) made it to Chicagoland this Christmas to party with Flo. Some highlights:

• Brian Miller’s new book. Remember the post about my sister Bev’s trip to see her son Brian in South Korea? The Village Across the Sea, a collection of Brian’s stories and photography of life on Jeju, was just published. Bev and her husband Lon attended the book launch virtually, thanks to Skype. A review in last weekend’s Korea Times describes Brian’s photography: “Miller, an English teacher and photographer, explores the diverse and fading themes of an area in transformation.” From what everyone tells me, the photos are striking. See for your self at Brian Miller’s web site.
• Lydia Hoover’s new hat.I came home on Christmas Day to find a phone message from Lydia, one of my sister Cheryl’s 11 grandchildren. “I love

  

  That's Lydia with the scarf I made for her.

  the hat you made me, Aunt Betha,” Lydia’s feathery voice came drifting out of my answering machine from her Little House in Minnesota. I’m wearing it all day today. I really love it. Thank you, Aunt Betha.” Sounds corny, I know, but I really did think of Lydia with every stitch. Her sweet message confirmed what I knew already: it was a labor of love.

• My new scarf. Hanni spent her final days as a Seeing Eye dog leading me over and over again to the knitting store down the street. the very, very patient owner of Loopy Yarns oversaw my work, assuring I’d have Lydia’s hat in the mail before Hanni retired and I left to train with a new dog. All that time my brother Doug’s thoughtful and hard-working daughter Marsha was busy at home in Indianapolis…learning to crochet! I think of Marsha every time I wear the warm, colorful scarf she made me for Christmas. Which means I think of her every day.
  

  That's my niece Marsha's handiwork I'm wearing.

  Thanks, Marsha!

• The new line on my resume.My sister Marilee Amodt and her daughter Jennifer met up with us at Hackney’s one cold afternoon while they were in town, and bartender Billy Balducci knew exactly how to warm us up. Jen is getting married in March, and before the night was over, she asked if I’d officiate the ceremony. Note to Jennifer: totally understandable if you were just caught up in the moment. You won’t hurt my feelings if you take back the invite. But
  

  That's bride-to-be Jennifer on the left. That green concoction is a Green River soda. Marilee's in the middle, and moi.

  if you and Brian Ulen are serious about having me do the honors…I’m there!

Somehow amidst all that Finke family frenzy, we squeezed in a visit to our son Gus in Wisconsin over the holidays, too, and were delighted to learn that the new CD player he got for Christmas has rekindled his affection for…punk music! So if you’re wondering what to do with all those old Patti Smith CDs you transferred to your iPod over the holiday break, leave a comment here. I’ll be happy to send you Gus’ address.

Blindsided at Printers Row Lit Fest

A year ago I gave a presentation in the BookKids department at BookPeople in Austin, Tex. I started the presentation by explaining that even though my eyes are open I can’t see. “When I was little, I went to school just like you — and then when I lost my sight I had to go to school and learn to do things all over again,” I told the kids.

Only trouble was, there were no kids in the audience — I had no idea that I was talking to a bunch of adults!

A similar thing happened at the Memoir Writing Workshop at Printers Row Lit Fest yesterday, only in reverse. Wanda Bridgeforth, a student from the memoir-writing class I teach for Chicago’s senior citizens, presented with me, and I assumed the audience was full of seniors like her, eager to learn how to get started writing their own life stories. I talked about how writing can be therapeutic, how memoir-writing in particular is good for memory. Searching for the right word really makes our brains work hard, I told my audience. Knowing that we’ll be writing these memories down on paper makes it all feel more official. That makes us think even harder about the words we use — that’s good for our brains. Wanda chimed in then, saying that when she sees the doctor the very first thing he asks her is, “Are you still writing?” When she answers yes, he says, “Keep it up! It’s good for you!”

It wasn’t until the q&a session afterwards that it started dawning on me. The voices asking the questions were young voices, and if that wasn’t enough of a clue, the questions they asked betrayed their youth. I’d misjudged my audience. They were closer to senior high than they were to senior citizenry.

It stinks being blind sometimes! Had I been able to see, I would have adjusted my talk, spoken more about creative ways to get personal essays and stories published and less about how memoir — writing is good for keeping our brains alert.

Ah, well, couldn’t spend too much time fretting about all that. Session over, it was time to celebrate with my sisters, Flo, Wanda and her family at the author hospitality suite. My sister Marilee sat next to me there, and she quietly acknowledged that my suspicions were right. Most of the audience probably had come looking for something different from our session. She was quick to point out, though, that the younger people could have snuck out early if they wanted. None of them did, she said. “They liked you and Wanda!” We toasted to that sentiment over our sandwiches and sodas, and then again later that afternoon — at Hackney’s, of course!

At last! The great Billy Balducci and the irrepressible Flo meet.

Our Hackney

Now’s your Chance to Meet Flo in Person

Flo, having her cake and eating it, too, at 93.

You know her as the birthday gal who dances with younger men at jazz clubs, the sophisticate who insists on having a phone near the toilet when she stays in a hotel room, the athlete who bounces back from serious injuries – broken pelvis, for example – in record time. Now’s your chance to meet Wonder Woman in person. Flo, my mom, is coming to Printers Row this Sunday!

My sister Marilee is flying in from Florida, too, and my sister Bev is coming by train from Michigan. Along with Mike, all three of them will escort Flo to my Memoir Writing Workshop at noon on Sunday, June 7.

June 7 (Sunday), noon
Printer’s Row Lit Fest
Memoir Writing Workshop
University Center
Multi-Media Room
525 S. State St.
Chicago, IL
www.printersrowlitfest.org

Wanda Bridgeforth, a student from the memoir-writing class I teach for Chicago’s senior citizens, will be reading from her work at our session. Flo has heard Wanda on Chicago Public Radio, and she’s enjoyed reading the first volume of essays in Wanda’s book, On the Move. Now, this Sunday, they’ll be able to meet in person. You can meet them, too — just come on over to University Center at noon.

If you can’t make it to the session, though, you might have one last chance. Billy Balducci is bartending at Hackney’s until 5 on Sunday, and he says if we can get Flo through the Printers Row crowds and over to the tavern, he’ll save a seat there for her. “I’ll reserve a seat for Flo all day until she gets here!” he exclaimed. “I’m all about Flo.” Printers Row may never be the same.

 

My Date with Billy Balducci

You know who Billy Balducci is, right? The bartender at Hackney’s, our local tavern? The guy sitting next to me in that photo from an October blog post? You know, the post called Cheers!?

It’s been a year since I started this Safe & Sound blog, and out of all the posts I’ve published, thatCheers! one got more traffic than anything else I’ve posted here. The Cheers! ball got rolling after a woman from Long Island left a comment:

Christina S.
October 30, 2007 at 3:40 pm

Is it just me, or does anyone else think that Billy Balducci is a total hottie?

Once word got out about the Hackney’s Hottie, everyone had to take a look. My “unique visit” stat went sky-high! I became a blog maven.

The Hackney’s Hottie is a White Sox fan, and when I found myself with two free tickets to a game, he agreed to go with Hanni and me. (Mike couldn’t go — the game was in the afternoon, and the poor guy had to work.)

Hanni came along as chaperone, guiding me as usual until we got close to the park. Crowds were forming, so I switched to the “follow” command: Billy took the lead, Hanni and I trailed behind. That didn’t work for long, though. White Sox Park was so packed with fans that day (the White Sox are in first place, after all!) that it was too hard for Hanni to keep track of Billy. So I dropped Hanni’s harness, signaling to her that she doesn’t have to lead anymore. I kept track of Hanni with the leash in my left hand while hooking onto Billy Balducci’s arm (just above the elbow) with my right. This was a first for Billy – when he and I get together, there is usually a bar between us. He had never been a “sighted guide” before, and he seemed nervous about—and a little tickled by – the responsibility. I could follow his body movements once he learned to hold his arm naturally and close to his side, and he knew intuitively to stop at stairs or curbs. I showed Billy how to warn me when passages got too narrow for the three of us to pass through – he would move his arm to his back, as if he were reaching into his hip pocket. That was my cue to stay directly behind him.

Hanni usually enjoys walking “sighted guide” for a while – it gives her a break from leading. Remember, though – even though I don’t have my hand on the harness, she still has it strapped to her back. This means no one can pet her, and she can’t snarf up food from the floor or sniff at other people. So after a while, she gets frustrated. As long as her harness is on, she figures, she might as well be working.

Julie Taylor, Director of Guest Services and Diamond Suite Operations for the White Sox (and, more importantly, a dog lover!) couldn’t help but notice us. She called us over, asking if she could see our tickets. “I think we can move you somewhere better,” she said. We ended up right behind the Texas Ranger dugout.

Billy gave me play-by-play when necessary, the White Sox came from behind to win, and we had a ball.

The next time Mike, Hanni and I walked in to Hackney’s, we found Billy Balducci behind the bar telling the owner about the game. He waited until we were within earshot before adding one last detail. “And Jim, here’s the best part,” he gushed. “I was arm-in-arm with Beth the whole time!”

Cheers!

Last week Mike, Hanni and I brought a copy of Safe & Sound down to Hackney’s, our local tavern. Jim — one of the owners — Showed the book off to everyone at the bar. I was so busy answering questions about the illustrator – “He lives in a farm house two hours north of Minneapolis.”, “No, I didn’t know him before. The publisher chose him.” “Hanni and I took a bus up there from Chicago, he watched us working together and sent sample drawings to Mike.” “Oil. each page is a painting. He did them in oil.” — that I didn’t notice Jim slip away downstairs.
When Jim re-emerged, he had a couple of bottles in hand. Champagne! Not only that, but real champagne glasses, too. Oo la la! Everyone in the bar that night celebrated with us.
Cheers to Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound. And cheers to Hackney’s, too.