Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [33]
I want to tell him my blindness isn’t a handicap, but it’s not the right time for that lecture either. I use the last gun in my arsenal. “Look, my friend David is here. He can see, and we’re fine.”
The firefighter turns to David. “Are you with him? Is everything okay?” David reassures him we’re fine.
I hear him shrug his shoulders and resettle the tank on his back, and I know he’s about to head upstairs. The men below him stir, restless. They’re anxious to get upstairs and get to it.
“Is there anything we can do to help you guys?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “You’ve got to go.”
He gives Roselle one last pat. She kisses his hand and then he is gone. I would realize later that this touch was probably the last unconditional love he ever got.
I tighten my grip on the harness. The cold water is long gone, and I can taste the jet fuel again.
“Forward.” We head down the stairs. I think about Roselle and the firefighter and wonder, Can she smell courage?
I’ve had a lifetime to develop the skills needed to navigate through a world not set up for me. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: sight is not the only game in town.
Blindness is not a handicap; it’s something I’ve always lived with. The real handicap comes from the prejudices people have about blindness. I knew the firefighter was only trying to help, but sometimes help is not what I need. Even so, the firefighter couldn’t be diverted until I pointed out that I had a sighted colleague “assisting me.”
I just use a few different tools than other people do. One of the tools I got along the way allowed me to do something I’ve always wanted to do: pilot an airplane. But first let me tell you about some of the others.
It all started with Braille, my entry into the world of words and ideas. Unfortunately, the majority of blind people cannot read Braille. A tactile system developed in Paris by Louis Braille in 1821, Braille is a reading and writing language all blind people should learn how to use. By using combinations of up to six raised dots, a person can interpret printed codes for letters of the alphabet or combinations of letters by running an index finger across the raised surfaces.
In fourth grade, my parents bought me a Braille writer from Germany, called a Marburg. A Braille writer is a wood-and-metal machine about half the size of a typewriter. Six Braille keys and a spacing key are made of wood topped with ivory. The six keys operate the mechanism that produces dots to form the letters, contractions, or symbols used to write Braille. Paper is fed into a cylindrical paper roller and turning knobs at either end of the roller feeds the paper into the machine.
The Perkins Brailler, manufactured by Perkins Products/ Howe Press in Massachusetts, was the best Braille writer on the market, but it cost more than a hundred dollars, a small fortune at the time. The Marburg was half that, so I used it for three years before the local Lions club bought me a Perkins.
When I was nine, I discovered “talking books” and became enthralled with Perry Mason, the defense attorney determined to prove his clients’ innocence, and Nero Wolf, the fat, gourmet private detective. I listened to many classic and contemporary books recorded on twelve-inch records. These books were created by a program administered by the Library of Congress. Special libraries were established throughout the United States to distribute or loan out these books to blind people. Some books required ten to twenty records, and I remember hearing that the recording of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich required fifty-six records. I decided to skip that one.
I still listen to talking books, work on my computer, and use Braille daily. But instead of a wood, metal, and ivory manual Braille writer, I now use a BrailleNote, a small computer about the size of a medium size hardcover book with a tactile display that allows me to electronically read and write in Braille with no monitor needed.
Another technological tool I use daily is a talking smart phone. I have software