Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [9]
My dad was reading the newspaper one Sunday afternoon. “There’s a new teacher out at Edwards Air Force Base. She’s blind,” he said. Dad worked out on the base as an electrical engineer. “Her name is Sharon Gold, and she’s been hired as a schoolteacher for children of military personnel on base.” The article went on to mention her guide dog. My parents were intrigued. We had never been around a blind person with a guide dog before, and they decided to invite her over to dinner. So one Sunday afternoon, Sharon came over with her German shepherd, Nola. Sharon came in, greeted us, then unharnessed Nola and set her free in the backyard to play with me. “She likes to run, Michael.”
Boy, did she. Nola was a typical German shepherd—large, intense, and energetic. We hit it off and in a few minutes we were running around the backyard together. At one point I grabbed onto her collar to try out the guide dog thing, and she dragged me across the grass. I think I did a few face plants. With her harness off, and because she could tell I had no idea what I was doing or how to use the guide dog commands, Nola was deep in dog play mode. Clearly, I had a lot to learn.
I loved Nola just because she was a big, friendly dog. And I loved Sharon because she was smart, eager to help, and blind like me. I was also curious about Sharon’s relationship with Nola and how the relationship between the two worked. I wanted to be around her and Nola more, so my parents became good friends with Sharon, and she began to come over regularly for meals. Sharon saw my interest in Nola and soon began encouraging my parents to explore the idea of getting a guide dog for me. My parents were open to the idea because one day soon I would be heading off to Palmdale High School, a larger, more complex campus than I was used to. At the elementary school, the campus had been laid out in simple wings, and it was easy for me to navigate the covered walkways once I learned how to “hear” the support columns. But high school was a different story, more crowded and with a much larger, more complicated campus.
Looking back, I should have started by learning to travel with a cane first. But people sometimes have complicated feelings about the white cane, seeing it as a sign of weakness and disability or a barrier to fitting into the community. I’m not sure if my parents felt that way or not, but I never had a cane until I ordered one for myself years later.
Meeting Sharon was life changing. She was the first blind person I ever got to know well. Besides meeting a guide dog and handler for the first time, I learned three other important things. First, Sharon was out in the community, teaching, not stuck at home feeling sorry for herself and letting others take care of her. She had a job, and she was good at it. If she can do it, then I can do it. Second, I realized there was life beyond the dusty streets of Palmdale. I knew I wanted to be a part of it. And last, I realized there were many other blind people in the world besides me. Of course I had known I wasn’t the only blind person, but sometimes I felt very alone. Growing up I didn’t have any other blind friends. I’m not sure if that was good or bad. Looking back, there were probably pluses and minuses to growing up outside the blind community because I didn’t really think of myself as blind. Perhaps mainstreaming forced me to find new and innovative ways of doing things in order to succeed. But at the same time, I didn’t have the support and friendship of others like me who were wiser and more experienced than I was.
I found out I was getting a guide dog one day while I was outside jumping rope in my eighth grade physical education class. Usually I didn’t get to participate much in PE, but I happened to be excellent at jumping rope.
A man walked up to me. “Hello, Michael. I am Larry Reese from Guide Dogs for the Blind.” I was so shocked, I let the rope drop.