My Opa and the ADA@30

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, because there are no hidden motives.  It's all there in the name.  There's no manual, no fine print, no telemarketers.  Observe it religiously, secularly or with a simple nap in front of the football game: you can't mess it up.

What a cool holiday, where you appreciate what's in front of you now, instead of focusing on what you still want.  Where do the Black Fridayers fit into that? I like watching cartoons.

As thankful as I feel on that day, it doesn't compare to my parents, both of whom are immigrants and refugees.  They know Thanksgiving, and their parents did too.

Maybe it's age, but I tend to think about my grandfather on that day and this day too.  Opa died over 40 years ago.  He still teaches me stuff.

Already before he came over, he was in a chair. In his early twenties they slapped a polio diagnosis on him after the fact, but they never knew what hit him; they certainly didn't know MS back then, if that's what it was. (I doubt it: his arms would have destroyed mine in arm-wrestling.)  After Ellis Island, he came to Chicago.  In 1955, there was no such thing as accessible housing.  I wonder how many times he got to feel the sun and breeze on his skin in the final 20 years of his life.

They cast away their wheelchairs and wouldn't be stopped...

ADA activists' famous crawl up the Capitol steps, 1990.
 

Opa was a big man, and to me the smartest in the world. I would lug over his huge atlas and sit on his lap, and he would tell me about a new country.  I was fascinated to learn that China was thousands of years older than the U.S.  So I assumed then that every country had its own calendar; later, on a visit to Canada I silenced an entire room when I asked, "What year is it up here, anyway?"  Way to represent.

He was good-natured and strong.  It break my heart seeing him struggle across the carpet to the apartment bathroom when my grandmother was at the factory. I think back with amazement after writing that sentence: that I actually see that? I did. He hissed with effort, but I never heard him complain.  Saturdays he filled a bucket with suds and scrubbed down floors.  He didn't post it on Insta. That was what he did.

A generation later, my life, next to his, is boundless.  We each are blessed with a strong, hard-working wife and loving family.  But I live in an accessible home in an increasingly accessible nation.  I own a power wheelchair.  I order accessibility devices delivered off the Internet that to him would all be science fiction. In my garage is a van with a powered lift.  I write books, plays, columns on an affordable computer that operates by the sound of my voice.  Also operate my lights, fan, radio stations from around the world and everything else through the Echo Dot, all easy as Open Sesame.

Opa had none of this, but he sang.  He smiled.  He laughed at Granny clunking Jethro Bodine with an umbrella on an old sitcom: I loved that crazy hiccuping laugh.  He gave thanks simply for being in America.

This life of opportunities is an accident of time and place.  Opa and I were born on opposite sides of the Americans With Disabilities Act, that 30 years ago today began opening doors for millions like me. Thirty years ago I was hospitalized for the first time with MS. A nurse said, This is a big deal. It's going to change the world. 

So today I remember the people who fought to create the ADA. I remember my Opa, and wish he had even a little of this.  He tried so hard, without his courage my family wouldn't be in the US, and he should have had this. I remember, and give a lot of thanks.

Hacks for Troubles handling pills

Got an email: My mom's hands seem to be losing the sense of touch. Has anyone invented a tool that she could use to pick up pills? If she has three in her hand, she will drop at least one of them.

So we started digging:

- Mab's idea is using those large daily pill dispensers, and at dosage time, pouring the pills into a cup or a mug with a handle.

- Wet your fingertip.

- "We resort to putting the pills in a little applesauce and if handling a utensil is not as problematic as fingering an object – it’s an alternative. The pills stick to the applesauce and they go down smoothly, as well." Mab said: not too much applesauce, because you don't want them dissolving before you get them down.

- Or push them into a Fig Newton (but what about biting into the pills?)

- “Dropping pills is a problem for anyone with hand issues (e.g., arthritis). A shallow silicone bowl to tip pills into lets you see what you have & makes it easier to get pills, by gripping table, not allowing pills to roll away, & providing wall to help catch.” e.g., the ezpz Happy Bowl

- Double-shot sized shot glass for the meds.

- Pour pills over a felt tablecloth or contrasting color mouse pad below to see if a pill fell out.

- A single-pill dispenser.

- A pharmacist pill tray.

Any ideas? Comments appreciated.

Easy in the RV: Mexican spiced red lentils

Another one that puts together easy. It comes from Denise Wright (MyLifeCookbook.com). It's spicy and hearty, right up there with chili. Mab likes it on rice, but we tried it with macaroni the way my mother always eats chili and now that's my favorite. Vegan, whole food plant-based, fits the OMS Diet.

It's a go-to for us, one of our "Dirty 30" favorite easy-to-make dishes.

Active time: 5 minutes
Total time: 35 minutes
Serves: 4

INGREDIENTS
1 cup red lentils
3 cups water
1 Tablespoon olive oil
1 cup onions, chopped
1 can diced tomatoes
1 1/2 teaspoons cumin
1 Tablespoon chili powder
1 Tablespoon garlic powder
1 Tablespoon onion powder
1 Tablespoon paprika
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon cayenne powder
1 teaspoon crushed garlic

INSTRUCTIONS
1. Add your olive oil and onions to a pot and cook until they are starting to brown.
2. In the meantime rinse your lentils and set aside.
3. When the onions start to brown, add the rest of the ingredients and bring to boil.
4. Once boiling, turn down the heat to a simmer.
5. Cook for 10-15 minutes or until lentils are tender.
6. Garnish with sour cream and cilantro if using.

NOTES
Replace sour cream with cashew cream.

Primo Cool Italian Bean Spread for Summer

Mab's come up with a creamy summer spread that's vegan and tasty. It's Cannelini Beans with Sundried Tomatoes, Kalamata Olives  and Capers, and fits the Jelinek OMS diet (whole food plant-based, low sat fats and oils).

It's a hot summer, we want to eat something cold. With this in mind Mab retires to her Maboratory and whips up these concoctions that fit the midday bill perfectly: they're satisfying but don't weigh you down, plus easy to make in the RV. She's a great scratch cook: give her a few ingredients and she'll whip up something good.

"I was thinking of Salad Nicoise when I made this - why I don't know, since they are nothing alike except for the olives & tomatoes.

Cannelini Beans (mash to a consistency you like - these mash easier than chickpeas)

Sundried tomatoes in olive oil w/ italian herbs (chopped up)

capers

Kalamata olives, chopped

green onions, sliced

veganaise

basil

oregano

garlic powder

onion powder

"Serving idea: on bread with spinach leaves; also good with jalepeno or banana pepper slices."

She's come up with four of these summer bean sandwich spreads, including a black bean Tex-Mex and a Deviled Hamless spread with pinto beans. She's writing down the recipes and I'll post them and others that work in the RV.

We'll be taking them on the road soon.

Myakka River State Park - the best of FLA

(7 mi. east of I-75 on Atlantic coast, 12 mi. SE of Sarasota)

13208 State Rd. 72, Sarasota FL, 941-361-5511

Myakka River State Park Website 

As of July 1, 2020, some but not all amenities are open at this park. Call before visiting 941-361-5511.

Heading south from St. Petersburg on the way to surprise the parents in Labelle, Myakka River State Park is my favorite of Florida's gorgeous state parks. The wilds and the camping facilities here are a pleasure. Business first: the roads of the campground and campsite number 84 are well-paved and spacious all around, back-in, with water, electric and sewer, plus grill, fire pit and sun, shade and some privacy behind trees. Next-door was a nice, clean shower facility with I think laundry. All the facilities were top-notch. Because we had to stop for a new battery in Port Charlotte (a story that will definitely be told) we arrived at night. We're still getting the timing thing down. But no matter, the cool campground host helped us back into the spot (another thing we're still learning).

Next day, Mab took a walk that ended up being a 5K because the park road and the park itself stretch for miles. The entire park is 58 square miles. Along the way she spotted gators. Later we went along the large accessible birdwalk, beautifully built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, overlooking the river floodplain (looks like a lake) to see the sunset as well as waterbirds and nearby wild hogs. Make sure you check out the website, because there's a lot to do that we didn't even touch, like water activities, wheelchair-accessible wildlife tours by boat and tram, and a canopy walkway above the treetops.

Great moment that night: at the end of the day we went to unwind at a ranger program of Florida tall tales. It was held in a small cabin built by the CCC, so all around was tight, superb woodwork. The guys were goosenecking through the whole program, wanting to climb up there and eat the wood or something. A ranger and a volunteer read Dave Barry and other Florida writers.

Finally the volunteer got up to talk about Bertha Palmer, and Mab and I looked at one another. Earlier on a map I found a Bertha Palmer homestead located on the far side of the park, miles away. That was the name of someone we both knew of, a socialite in Chicago a century ago, who helped start a lot of the things that millions of people still enjoy today, like the museums. Potter Palmer, her husband, established the famous downtown hotel, the Palmer House. We'll check into it later, we decided.


That night, listening to the volunteer's story, it turned out to be one and the same person. Bertha Palmer was vacationing in Sarasota (I forget, but it may have been after her husband passed away) and bought some land in Florida. She started growing rubber and it turned into a big industry for the area. Eventually she donated the lands, which became Myakka River State Park. Then came the funny part. At the end they asked where everybody was from, and when we said Chicago they asked if we already knew of Bertha Palmer. Mab is modest, so I just had to tell everyone that she is an actress (retired) and on one of her jobs she researched Bertha Palmer, looks, personality, history, everything. So here was one of their visitors who actually played Bertha Palmer. What are the odds? They will never hear that one again, for sure.

Life is a lot more interesting when you get out there meeting people. Can't wait to hit the road again.

Delta Blues Museum - Hey Hey The blues is all right

1 Blues Alley, Clarksdale, MS (an hour and a half south of Memphis), 662-627-6820

I can't believe I forgot to write this up – I love this place! We were in Vicksburg and ready to turn north for home, when the Mab came to me as if out of a dream, whispering in my ear, "Go down to the crossroads."

I was stunned and amazed. "Are you saying what I think you saying?"

She said, Puhlease! In Mississippi is a town called Clarksdale, and I saw there's a Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale. Do you want to go?

Well, she knows that I'm a blues fiend from the southside of Chicago. I'd heard of the storied place of Clarksdale. What? I said, You really want to do this?

She rolled her eyes. I'm dense sometimes.

She'd read that a lot of big blues musicians came from here. It's the Mississippi Delta, after all, the birthplace of the blues. But the sheer number of these stars blew me away. I'd find that out later. From Vicksburg, we made a beeline north, following the river.

We drove past mile after mile of scrubby cotton fields, more than we'd ever seen. So much, that windblown cotton was strewn on the sides of the road like the whispers of early November roadside snow in Illinois. The plants themselves were thigh-high scrub bushes with snowy-looking leaves. Field after field, mile after mile on both sides.

Not only that, but then it sunk in, what road we were riding. It was US Highway 61 North. This is Highway 61. We are on the Highway 61, like from the Dylan song and album. So that's what's what about Highway 61. It's where the blues came from. It's the birthplace of rock 'n roll. Right here, under our tires, out in these miles of snowy bushes that brought all of the money and sorrow. Like I said, I'm dense. And up ahead, where Highway 61 meets Highway 49, is the fabled crossroads where you might meet the devil, sung about by Robert Johnson and all the people before and after him. Now those crossroads look like a busy intersection in Anytown, USA, but this place has history, it has roots. We put on the Dylan song to get us to Clarksdale.

The crossroads of Hgwy 61 & 49: where's Robert? where's Eric?

It's in the old train station in Clarksdale which Muddy Waters himself took out of town to Chicago and never looked back.

There's a long, completely safe concrete ramp leading in, but before I tackled it I had to check out the outdoor stage and performance space because I thought I saw a familiar face there. It was painted on the corner of the stage.

,

Sure enough it was a painting of Robert Plant, who visited along with Jimmy Page when they released their album, Walking Into Clarksdale. Plant is a major donor. I was going to like this place.

The place is a huge collection of memorabilia, costumes and guitars from the vast army of blues musicians who came out of these parts. The list of them is dizzying: Robert Johnson, Howlin' Wolf, Charley Patton, Muddy Waters, John Lee Hooker, Son House, Sam Cooke, W. C. Handy, Koko Taylor, Ike Turner, Junior Parker, and that's only some of them. My jaw kept dropping everywhere I turned. You can't snap pictures because of copyrights. No pictures of the shack that was Muddy Waters' childhood home, that now stands in one end of the museum. No pictures of Alan Lomax's sedan, outfitted with a recording rig in the trunk that he used to tape blues songs in the field that are now legend. No videos of the concerts that were running on the museum's monitors either. Sure makes you pay attention though!

The woman at the front desk was a Southsider too, and there was a cool dude who took me around to the school space in back where lessons were in session for the next generation of bluesmen (and bluesbabes? because one was a girl).

The entire place is flat and accessible. There's even a ramp in the back room so I could join the jam session. They make sure the blues is for everybody, baby.

We also saw a telegram from the Rolling Stones to Muddy Waters, which was OK but it told us something outstanding. We used to live in Westmont, Illinois, and we knew that Muddy Waters had owned a home there too. We never knew where it was, although once Mab worked with a photographer who said he lived in the place. Well, we found out the address from the telegram, and he lived on the same street as us! Yeah baby.

I think anybody would like this place. I was a kid in a candy store.

Be Careful What You Wish For

That Crazy Little Thing Called Hugs

Maybe I'm getting to be a softie, but lately I wish I was like everybody else. Not about the walking thing - there's plenty of other people with disabilities too - but about something simpler and more basic.

I'm not a touchy-feely guy. I wasn't brought up that way. My family were not big huggers. In our working-class neighborhood I don't think most families were. Direct eye contact and a firm handshake was how you got around.

Times have changed. Guys hug guys, everybody hugs everybody. I think it's nice, but it has nothing to do with me, just like smart phones have nothing to do with me. Why? Because right before they both came in, hugs and smart phones, I done gone and got quadriplegic.

It's been years since smart phones became ubiquitous and indispensable but they're still as mysterious to me as Mr. Spock's tricorder. With hugs, I sort of tilt my head and study the way it's done, the same way I do with good dancing. (Raising hand. Terrible dancer. Still.) All the pieces seem to fold and fit together, like so. OK. Now I've got that stored away.

Your human rituals are most curious, Captain.

There are an intrepid few who try to hug me. These are sweet people, because it's hard to do. In my wheelchair I'm surrounded by a hive of switches and wires everywhere, and people don't know if they'll be hitting an ejection switch or messing me up positionwise or even hurting me. For the record, they probably won't do any of these, but what we're left with is a pantomime of awkwardness.

I give them so much credit though because at this point I go around like an iRobot. Everybody loves an iRobot. They clean up after you. They beep and squawk like R2-D2. Your cat can ride around on it. They bounce around the room like busy beavers, filling gaps in conversation. They can wear Groucho glasses like ours does. He's named Bob Roomba, after our friend, entertainer Bob Rumba, who also wears Groucho-type glasses. Me, I drive my wheelchair with a head array: My head presses on sensors in my headrest. People stare and wonder how's it moving - like an iRobot. I too run into walls. I too jerk back and forth like an iRobot, unless my headrest is in the perfect position. People stare at us in wonder, the iRobot and me, and stay the hell out of our way. Everybody loves an iRobot, but you don't hug one.

What the brave huggers are trying to do is puncture the force field around my wheelchair. There's a personal zone we all inhabit, and you just don't go traipsing into someone else's zone. I've got a big wheelchair, and it's got a big zone. My buffer is pretty large, I think it's the front-to-back length times the size of my large treaded tires raised to the power of the number of muted expletives overheard while wrangling the machine to go the way I want. I don't blame you people for keeping away. If I were in the same room with me, I'd hop on a piece of furniture.

Plus, truth be told, I was an awkward person even before the spinal column went wacko. Do you know that guy you come across on the sidewalk every five years or so who, when you go right he goes right, and when you go left he goes left, back and forth, back and forth? That was me.

Bob Roomba sees you.

In my buffer zone I observe you people with the hugs, and realize what related things I'm missing. Like goofing around with kids. Kids are the best. I get along better with them than anyone else. Kids like close contact play: chasing, hide and seek, making haunted houses, even reading to them you have to be right there with them. I do my best with what I've got, with jokes, noises, faces, but those are mind tricks and they see through those quickly. You don't form lasting bonds with mind tricks.
So for once, I wish to be like everybody else. If only for a day, a free trial.

There's a joke about a retired couple walking the beach in the morning and they find a lantern in the surf. When the husband picks it up, a genie pops out and says, "I'll give you one wish." Then the wife is horrified when she hears her husband say, "I want a wife who's 40 years younger than me." And presto, he turns 100.

Unfortunately, presto, now I am like everybody else. Nobody is hugging. And that's not the way I wanted this to go.

You can stay in the no-hug zone until the coast is clear but then I want you people out. Looks like you've got something good to look forward to.