My Superpower Is Nothing To Sniff Your Nose at

First, I want to apologize to all of you because I've not been around the past few months. I’ve missed hanging out with you. I haven't had the chance because I have been working on big things, hush-hush kind of things, but I'm among friends now so I can tell you. I'm a superhero now. Our market research with sample groups has been so positive that we are attracting capital investment. Superhero entertainment is a hot and still-growing multibillion-dollar industry, hungry for new ideas and diverse representation. Picture this: A person with a disability — a quadriplegic in a wheelchair, no less — who deploys high-tech gadgetry to manipulate and control his environment. Plus I have an attractive but tough love-interest with MacGuyver-like instincts and a snappy tongue, but more about her later. I've been meeting with my consulting team. My designers have come up with a sleek brownish costume — but I don’t want to reveal everything too soon. My writers are coming up with catchy taglines and scripts to pitch. My agent has feelers out to Marvel, DC, the CW, ABC, BBC, CBC and the CDC: This crimefighter is branded! The only thing I need — and it's a mere formality at this point — is a superpower.

So, how hard could this be? In our formative years and into adulthood they tell us to find our talent and pursue it: the thing that makes you you. Hm … to me, that was a toughie. As my English teacher, Mr. Lemon, who was tortured by Jesuits when he was a schoolboy, said as he was passing along his cup of cheer to the next generation, "You'll never amount to anything." Well, for a long time it looked like old Lemon was right. Some around me were good at figures and cyphering, and they became engineers or accountants. But no no no no, I wasn't good at that. Some were faster, stronger or more nimble, and they became athletes. No no no no, I wasn't good at that either. Design? Acting? The arts? No no no, no no no!

But there was something I was always good at — and I mean very good at, though I didn't want to be. So often we desire one thing, but life has entirely different plans for us. This thing has followed me around throughout my life. I try to run away from it but it's always there, hanging around me like a cloud, reminding me, and everyone around me, that it's there. I thought it was curse, just like I used to think of my disability too as a curse. But here was something that followed me throughout life, through my nondisabled to my disabled life.

To seek my destiny, I was looking up at the stars and finding nothing. But I had to learn that my calling had been with me all along, right under my nose. Actually, under my shoes. It was there the whole time, but I’d been holding my nose to the truth. Because always, from the earliest age, I was the one who would step in it. This is my singular talent. To my horror, finding thick, lustrous layers of it slathered up and down the soles of my brand-new school sneakers like my grandmother's rich apple-butter, and so zesty it makes my eyes water and my vision shimmer like a desert mirage. I never tracked it on my mom’s carpet, but I did on my friend’s mom’s carpet, her metallic baby blue shag that she lovingly raked every day in parallel rows with a dedicated matching baby-blue garden rake, but all of that care and refinement was laid waste by my awesomely awkward powers. The power that stirred horror into those around me, who fled like I was Godzilla and they were the people of Tokyo, all gagging. My unbridled powers knew no borders or boundaries: At the beach, I did it. At my prom, I did it. While holding my baby goddaughter when she was being christened outdoors: did it did it did it.

And the inclusive, accessible, truly ADA angle to this is that it’s followed me up to and into my progressing disability, through shoes, cane, walker and wheelchair. It's like the Riddle of the Disabled Sphinx: What steps in poo on 2 legs, then steps in poo on 3 legs, then steps in poo on 6 legs, then steps in poo on 4 wheels? It's me! The answer is me.

When I exile myself into the wilderness, to remove myself from the company of man and his pooping pets, I will run over the scat of deer, possums and raccoons; wombats and armadillos; and all of God's creatures that defecate. So this is the thing I am definitely good at, if you can say that a talent like mine is good. And I hated it. Who wouldn’t, right? That is, until one particular incident turned my thinking completely around. When I awoke that morning, it was a proclivity. And when I went to bed, it had become a superpower.

This was the worst of splooshes, it was the best of splooshes. It was fresh, it was enormous, and in my leather-soled dress shoes, it was what we call a slider. This was the magnificent poo of destiny. The ulti-poo. The poo that made me the man I am today.

I was running late, and in a very Clark-Kentish way. I had a hot date, with somebody way, way out of my league. Intelligent, capable, independent, who had traveled the world, a beautiful fair-skinned brunette with smoky eyes, and she was an actress! Oo, she was exotic. This was such an improbable date, I was still stunned she said yes, so I could not be late.

So of course I was running late, and her neighborhood was notorious for its lack of parking. This is a whole other story, but I made a deal with God, or the devil, whoever was manning the window that day, and I shoehorned my car into a space, and dashed from my car to her apartment building.

The other thing about that block was that it was around the corner from the lakefront, lined with expensive high-rises filled with wealthy folks and wealthy folks' doggies who all had to go walkies somewhere. That is how trickle-down economics works, folks, and Mab's block of older buildings for working-class folks had only thin strips of grass along the street. Something had to give. I had picked up my lovely date, on time (thanks, deity!), and while I basked in her presence and attention, I let my guard down. You all know what happened next.

As brown bombers to go, it was a legend. I’ll spare you descriptions, only to say that for a second or two I was literally surfing on it. I remember trying to wipe it off, to scrape it off, but I was swallowed in its vortex. Probably there were other active bombs all too, all waiting to be tripped off, because quickly it had spread to my other shoe. Of course I couldn’t let on what had happened, but inside I was having a poo panic attack, at least until we got in the car together and I had to roll down the window, apologizing profusely. "Do you want to take a walk instead, or do this some other time?" "No, we have reservations," she said, "don't worry." OK then.

We pulled away and went to the newest Mexican restaurant in the neighborhood, thankfully not far away, which had a wall of windows and bright sunshine illuminating the bright, colorful murals on the walls, and unique specialty dishes. She was dazzling and delightful. 

But our date was on a downward spiral. Neighboring tables made comments about a distinct odor in the air. I made sympathetic expressions to them, “I know, right. Ew.” And it became difficult to enjoy the fresh salsas we ordered, because of my gagging reflex. Later, in the movie theater, I took off my shoes and slid them under the empty seats a few spaces away. A couple of women actually sat next to the stink chair. After a short time, they wrinkled their noses and left for other seats.

Fast-forward, I somehow got through the disastrous date until finally, mercifully, it came time to make my escape… I mean, say good night. I saw her to her door and when I was turning away, she stunned me by asking me out. I was taken so unawares that she had to repeat herself, and eventually said, “But if you don't want to go …”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. So I said the worst possible thing: “Really?”

Her jaw dropped. “If you don't want to go,” she said, “I'll just find a friend —”

“No no no, I'll go. I'm just surprised,” I said, “after all this putridness and all.”

She said that the way I dealt with it and joked around about it all evening was endearing. “You could have done typical guy-stuff, but you didn't.”

I don’t know what the lessons are here. I’m not proud. I did a lot of squirming, but 24 years ago today, I placed a ring on that girl’s finger! All because of my unique talent.

Don't you know I saved the mementos, those shoes, and have them to this very day to remind me about my realization about myself? No, of course not, I threw those shitty things out! But I got the girl, and I got3 a newfound superpower that nobody else has — and I'm leaning into it, baby, or stepping into it, or rolling into it, or whatever. I gotta be me, and this is me.

The Lawyer in His Lair: Lincoln, Springfield, and Honestly Laid-Back Camping

  Take I-55 North from St. Louis and after a while you start seeing a lot of stuff named after a local lawyer. Lincoln is his name, and Springfield, Illinois, was his hometown in the years before he hopped a train to Washington to helm an absolute headache of a job. The State of Illinois dubbed itself the Land of said Lawyer, and Springfield, 90 miles northeast of St. Louis, is its capital. With museums, capitol-related tours, Route 66 hangouts, lake recreation and loads of Lincolnalia everywhere, Springfield is definitely worth a day-visit, weekend or even more. We had both been there before, but now we had only one day and I wanted my gal to at least see the lawyer's house, which still stands proudly and is maintained as a national historic site, and maybe we could fit in the fantastic hologram-powered presidential museum, another must-see.

Did I say we only had a day? We had a short day. This was a rough trip. We've been doing this for almost four years now, and it was bound to happen. We were headed north for the summer, and packing for six months away is difficult on her, plus the rainy weather made things sloppy and stressful -- at one point the right rear tire got buried in the mud -- and the accommodations were difficult when one of the RV campground operators shoehorned us into a soggy, inaccessible spot even though I had reserved an accessible spot weeks in advance. For every all the angels I've met in this bumpy ride called life, there are some devils thrown in too. Just like they'll screw over the elderly, some will prey on the disabled. Simply by not listening and being greedy, Jerry at Southgate RV Campground in Fayetteville, Arkansas, really ****ed us over. Watch out for the Jerrys out there.

Not everything was terrible. We got to see our nephew's Little League game on a beautiful evening in Waco, and in Fayetteville, Arkansas, reunited with friends whom we hadn't seen in 20 years! I hadn't realized it had been that long until we sat and reminisced, and of course like true friends tend to do, we gabbed away like no time had passed at all. Dick was a biker and Itera was a nun. They met and got married a week later, and that was over 50 years ago. Back when we lived across the street from each other, Dick was a Dean at DeVry Institute of Technology and loved using his know-how to come up with accessibility devices for me and my progressive condition: an adaptive, locking door-latch and adaptive wheelchair controller -- both beautifully machined -- as well as an adaptive spoon and a refrigerator door-opener, which you had to see to believe ... but it worked! Itera has the giving heart of a saint and was learning how to do energy work, so she would come over and spend hours working with me, in peaceful sessions that would leave us both blissed out. Today they are as welcoming and generous as ever, and these were more great times together. It's turned out to be one of the real jewels of traveling in our little trailer is actually visiting and spending time with loved ones instead of always saying we're going to, but never doing it. This visit meant a lot to us.

But arriving in Illinois was its own relaxing reward, with its comfortable weather and gentle green farming landscape. We went to call on said lawyer at his home. Dude was not around. I figured it was cool to stretch out in his backyard for a few, and catch some rays. I knew there was a tour going inside the home, and what if they came out the back door and were like, "Hey you, shoo, shoo!" But in my shades I was too cool to think about it, busy basking in the power of Lincoln rays.

The Lincoln Home National Historic Site surrounds the home for two square blocks, and is made up of crisscrossing Eighth and Jackson streets lined with two dozen restored homes and out-structures. The area is closed to traffic, so you can go along on the packed gravel streets or on the plankboard sidewalks, both in good shape for easy wheeling in a power chair at least. In a manual chair ...?

        From a wheelchair-accessibility perspective, you'll have to decide which you will do, streets or sidewalks, because it's one or the other: Apparently there were no curb cut-outs in the Great Emancipator's day, right? If you're on a sidewalk or on a street, the only way to cross over into the other is by going to the end of the block. You'll want to do both levels.

Now the home itself is only partially accessible. The Lincolns lived there for 17 years and they added on a second floor, which is not accessible to wheelchairs. The first floor is accessible to manual chairs only: No power wheelchairs or scooters. I'd seen it already in my other, walking life, and my queen was taking a pass that day. There are workarounds, but it's always a bummer to see or hear the word, "NO." From our experience, National Park Service usually does a good job with accessibility. My accessibility questions were answered by the Illinois Department of Natural Resources like so: 

"Most power wheelchairs are unfortunately unable to go inside the Lincoln Home due to their weight and their width. If you have a particularly light (65 pounds or less) and narrower power chair, it may be able to fit. (You can send me the specifications of the chair to check, if you would like.) As many of the structural components of the Lincoln Home are original, including the doorways, this unfortunately affects what devices can be used inside the home. Manual wheelchairs, as long as they can fit inside the Lincoln Home doorways, can go inside the home. We have a measurement device at our visitor center we use to check if a guest's manual wheelchair can fit through the doorways. If their wheelchair cannot fit, we also have manual wheelchairs guests can check out free of charge to use.

"When using a wheelchair on the Lincoln Home tour, the individual using the wheelchair (and another individual in their party, if desired/applicable) will receive their own tour guide for the duration of the tour. The rest of the tour group who are not using wheelchairs will go with another tour guide and enter the home using the steps that lead up to the front door. The party that includes the individual in the wheelchair will enter the house through a different entrance, one which uses a wheelchair lift to lift the individuals to the house's first floor level. (The house is raised and on a slight hill.) The first floor of the home tour will be given, and then the tour guide can offer showing pictures of the second floor with narration, to any individuals who choose not to go upstairs.

"Please just inform the person at the Visitor Center front desk that there is an individual in your group that cannot go up and down stairs, and they will communicate with the appropriate staff to prepare the lift. ...The maximum length, I have been told, that wheelchairs can be to fit is 29.5 inches. ...

"We may be able to make it work with 2 individuals in wheelchairs, but any more than that really cannot fit on one tour due to the size of the rooms and the room partitions. ... If this applies to your party, please let me know and we can discuss potential options."

Tall tales be spoken here: the Railsplitter's porch. (Shhh, I'm creeping in the backyard.)

Jennifer Caldwell of Illinois DNR adds more:

"The courtyard and the main level of the house can be accessed by wheelchair. The wheelchair accessible entrance is through the carriage house, which is at the back of the property near the railroad tracks.  The narrowest of the doors/gates along the path is 32 inches wide.

"There is a lift on the north side of the house for guests unable to use the stairs. It is 32 inches wide by 48 inches deep and can accommodate up to 750 pounds.  The lift provides access to the main floor of the house.  Our staff are happy to help direct guests to the lift and assist with lift operation.

"Due to the varying elevations throughout the home, only the main level is accessible by wheelchair.  This includes the reception/fountain area, mother's bedroom, dining room, Victorian room, living room, kitchen and conservatory hall.  For other areas that are not accessible, we can provide live virtual access to those parts of the tour via iPad. (We will provide the iPad and other necessary equipment for this.)"

Contact her with your questions at jennifer.a.caldwell@illinois.gov or 217-685-9554.

Around the historic site, two of the houses are wheelchair accessible and in the cleverest way (see photos). 

I've never seen anything like them — literally, I could not see these lifts until my wife pointed out that they were there. Covered in matching board-work and swinging gates, I love these lifts.

        The houses have exhibits inside, and by the time we poked around the nooks and crannies, gardens and backyards of the tiny village area, the Butterball turkey timer in my head popped out, meaning, "Museummed out. Find another available brain." It usually takes a couple of hours to reach that point, but it was fun and I was done.

The afternoon was getting late and we walked around town. About five blocks away, we stumbled unto the Illinois State Police Memorial Park, at 722 S. Sixth St. It's on the corner of two reasonably busy streets, but set far enough off to be dignified and peaceful. It included enough human elements to make it quite touching, and when the evening bell started tolling at the nearby Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, I found myself very moved by it all. There is also an Illinois Police Officers Memorial not far away, at 840 S. Spring St., beside the Illinois State Museum.

Another few blocks and we reached Frank Lloyd Wright's Dana-Thomas House (phone 217-782-6776), now a state historic site, at 301 E. Lawrence Ave. Built in 1904, it was interesting seeing a museum-piece home -- oooh, it's Frank Lloyd Wright -- set within a neighborhood that's historic but a little worse for wear. I wheeled around the thing is much as I could, even around the back, to see all the different angles it presents. Unfortunately we were there after hours. From the website, the interiors look amazing although completely inaccessible. No response to my inquiry, so I'm guessing my conclusion is right.

Four blocks away, we came to the Illinois State Capitol building, at 401 S. Second St. At 361 feet, the Illinois State Capitol is the taller than the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C. Its central dome and towers are finished with a layer of zinc that provide its trademark silvery sheen which does not weather. On dreary, bad-weather days the dome looks heavy and leaden, or ironclad and oppressive -- which probably lies in the eye of the beholder depending on what the legislature inside has been up to lately, eh? But it was a bright, sunny day, which squares up with what I've seen coming out of there lately, and those towers were gleaming. Check out the features of the accessible tour here. A couple blocks away a Pride concert was blasting loud. It was a groovy, gorgeous day and folks were out enjoying it.

Camp A While, 1779 1250th Ave, Lincoln, IL 62656. 217-732-8840.

Thirty-five miles northeast of Springfield along I-55 lies a fantastic overnight spot, and it's the owners that make it so. It's a tiny place, maybe a dozen sites in all, very clean, quiet and well-maintained, ringed by trees and farmers' fields. It's a quarter-mile off the expressway, and with a historic pedigree as a traditional stopover spot along old Route 66 just a third of a mile away. Camp A While has been around for decades and was listed in all the old guidebooks. Full hookups, back-in spots of shallow gravel. The owners are hands-on and customer-service-oriented. You call them 15 minutes before arriving -- they insist on it in order to manage the available space, but it's well worth the call because they back you into the spot and see that you are set up with everything you need.

They are completely attentive to accessibility. After hearing my questions on the phone, they arranged a spot with a concrete pad where we could drop the wheelchair ramp, and checked that the gravel was OK with us beforehand. Sites are mostly level, with 15 feet of grass between them, fine for the wheelchair to get around, and there's always many empty spaces around so that the overall atmosphere is relaxed and quiet, never even close to crammed feeling. They get a lot of overnights to and from Florida, and workers. Last but not least, Wrigley, the camp dog, comes around to greet you, and if he likes you, maybe share one of his stuffed toys. He's a smooth operator, and he and my Queen are fast friends.

When we unloaded, two hot-air balloons drifted across the farmers field across the road, which kind of captured the cheerful mood after our short-but-sweet day. One of them had a likeness of the lawyer. While you're there in the town of Lincoln, you can drive through town on Route 66 to see the world's largest covered wagon. Guess who that wagon is driven by? It ain't Wrigley.