RantMOM is about to hit a major birthday. Elections are upon us and RantWoman hopes to be relieved of the call to attend to the doings of a certain southern CO Congresswoman. The weather is shifting and RantWoman's mind is prone for various reasons this time of year to wander among various moments of her life. And frankly, RantWoman needs a break from her YouTube diet.
RantWoman and RantMom have both already separately filled out and mailed our ballots, but the stream of ads is still enough to make people's heads explode. RantWoman absolutely does not want to discourage anyone from voting. However, for people who need a warmup, RantWoman invites readers to consider which of the four items from the Newsline, the newsletter of WA Council of the Blind should win the Readers Choice recognition.
Blog readers who want to weigh in about which piece is a favorite are invited to follow directions and submit comments.
Dear Readers. We are happy to bring you this special email issue containing the finalists for the 4th annual Readers’ Choice Award. As chosen by you. Rather than you having to hunt them down, we present all of them here to make it easier for you to make your decision and vote for your favorite article or story.
The winner for the fall issue was, Chris Coulter’s “Music of Trains.” Please don’t delay in voting. Submit your nomination for the 2022 award winner, along with any articles or other content for our January issue, to TheWCBNewsline@Gmail.com by no later than November 30.
We hope you will enjoy this special short issue. Be sure to join us on Zoom for our virtual award presentation held in December, date to be announced soon. Thank you for supporting Your WCB Newsline.
Winter: “Too Hot to Handle”
by Frank Cuta
Glass-blowing for many may bring to mind a handsome, young dude somewhere in a Mediterranean country, wearing thick leather gloves and blowing into existence a beautiful flask through a long tube that he constantly keeps rotating. The brilliant orange object on the end of the tube is so hot it singes his eyebrows. At 2,100 degrees, the liquid in a glass-blowing kiln pours like Karo syrup but avoid putting it on your pancakes. It would incinerate your breakfast, and the pyrotechnics would probably burn through your cookware and table. Even so, the hazards are over-blown. With safety gear, a little training, and the right tools, an average person can have a lot of fun and create impressive glass art.
I had previously heard about glass-blowing classes, and it was on my bucket list. Early in December, a window of opportunity opened, and I got a chance to give it a try. I confirmed that a blind person can leap through such a window, and 30 minutes later walked away, proud to have fashioned a unique glass object.
We were in Lincoln City, OR, and visited a business called the Lincoln City Glass Center. Such facilities are a common tourist attraction on the Oregon Coast. The glass-blowing experience generally includes two principal production-approach choices, and then several additional choices of specific, possible formed objects. The production choices are to expand a blob of molten glass with air pressure, or to sculpt a glass form from a small piece of semi-solid glass, adding colors and shaping it with tools.
In these days of COVID-19 concerns, actual blowing glass with your lungs has been replaced by using an air compressor to do the blowing for you. Really!? How romantic is that? I signed up for the glass-sculpting option, and I believe it turned out to be the most interactive and engaging choice.
If you live in even a moderate-sized community, it probably has a glass-blowing business like the one in Lincoln City. Most such businesses have probably never had the opportunity to teach the art to a person who is blind. Therefore, you can imagine my great surprise and relief to find that my ability to take part in the Lincoln City class was never questioned. In fact, they just assumed that I would be able to complete the required tasks. Later, I learned that one of the teachers has a visually-impaired son, and this might have had something to do with it. All I know for sure is that I had no trouble and a wonderfully memorable experience.
In a glass-blowing workshop, several kilns are all fired up, with several people sharing them. At least one is used just for reheating, while some provide reservoirs of molten glass, and others hold the finished objects, which must cool off very slowly. People work in teams. One person may be keeping the piece hot and spinning, another may be adding more colored glass, while a third is using tools to modify its shape.
After I donned the required heavy leather gloves, my instructor Daniel Hogan gave me a solid steel rod about 5/8-inch in diameter and 5 feet long. As I pushed it into a kiln that held molten glass, he told me how far in to go, until I had succeeded in getting a small blob of glass stuck onto the end of the rod. I then pulled the rod out, carrying it as he guided me over to a workbench, where I laid the rod across two steel support rails. Daniel then took the cool end of the rod, turning it in a constant slow spin to keep the glass on the hot end of the rod. The rod stuck out past the support rails, with the slowly spinning blob of near-molten glass available for me to work on.
At this point, the glass is still so soft that if the rod is not kept rotating the blob sags and the piece loses its symmetry. As he kept turning the rod, I used various tools to extrude the blob, transforming it into a long narrow cylinder that protruded from the end of the rod. Then, I took over the spinning chore while he fetched and added more colored material to our base cylinder. At the top end, he added yellow and red. Farther down, he added spots of black, blue, and green.
He then went back to the turning job, and I used a large crimping tool to make a deep impression close to the end of the piece, where we wanted it to eventually break off the rod. I used a sharp awl to pull each of the black, green, and blue spots into long streamers. At this point, the object had already cooled so much that the glass was of caramel consistency. It took a lot of force to move the point of the awl through the glass.
Now it was time to go back to another kiln, where I dipped the piece on the end of the rod into a huge reservoir of molten glass, to pick up a thick clear outer layer. Then, it was back to the workbench, where Daniel had me finish the forming and prepare it for removal. I used a large wooden tool with a deep cylindrical cutout in the end, called a block, to smooth and contour the end of the piece while he continued to keep rotating it It was now shaped like a bulbous bullet, about 3 inches in diameter and 4.5 inches long.
Finally, we stood the supporting rod up on end and Daniel handed me a blowtorch. He guided my hands to direct the torch at a specific location on the end of the rod. Heating it expanded the metal so that my piece popped off the rod. The glass was still soft enough for one last step. With the piece inverted and supported in some manner, he guided my hand to press a small steel stamp against the exposed end to flatten it and emboss it with the place of origin and the date. Daniel then moved the piece into the cooling kiln, where it was kept overnight, and I was able to pick up my work the next day.
My shiny new finished piece weighs two pounds and feels wonderfully smooth and substantial in my hands. It is clear glass with a three-dimensional representation of a jellyfish-like sea creature, with black, blue, and green tentacles hanging in delicate spirals from its center. The whole experience cost me about $85.
One last comment: Over the years, all attempts on my part to be allowed to look at glass-blown art on display in the Tacoma and Seattle area have been very discouraging. I have consistently gotten the cold shoulder and very transparent "you are not welcome” messages. We had a completely different experience at the Lincoln City Glass Center. After we had disinfected our hands, we were actively encouraged to touch everything on display. This experience alone was worth the visit to this gallery, for they had shelves and shelves of glass-blown vessels, glass-blown floats of many colors and sizes, solid glass-formed animals, ocean waves, and abstract free-form art pieces that can only be felt to be appreciated.
If you have access to a similar glass-blowing business, you may want to put this experience on your personal bucket list. Or maybe even make an organized group outing out of it.
Spring: “I Choose Joy”
by Hayley Agers
Have you ever been in that place where you feel so alone with your blindness? Nobody around you, despite a full room, seems to get you or even see you. Circumstances appear as though they should be enough, but nothing heals the wounded heart you are so in touch with in that moment. Well friends, let me share about my recent trip to Las Vegas.
My bags were packed, my entire body screaming for a change of scenery, a change of pace, and some everyday demands to be taken off of my plate. It was all about to come to fruition. That being said and filled with excitement, I had no idea what a roller-coaster ride my emotions were about to endure.
After a long day of gymnastics competition and several Uber trips, I was ready to just sit back and enjoy a show. The entire level six and seven girls and their mums had decided before the trip to purchase tickets for a Cirque du Soleil show, and my daughter, Sydney, was so excited. I had gone to this type of show before, when I still had some vision. I knew how amazing it was going to be, and that my experience would now be very different as a totally blind person.
After putting on something a little nicer, applying a full face of makeup, and putting on some killer heels that would later have me wanting to take them off and walk home barefoot, I was ready to go.
My husband, David, did offer to attend with Sydney, knowing I may not enjoy it as much as I had hoped, but I insisted I go so that I could have some mummy/daughter time, and not be the only mum who didn’t accompany their daughter on this special night.
Before the show even began, while eating dinner with the group, I began to doubt my choice. Why were all these mums sitting around talking, and I was in a totally different spot in the restaurant, eating my food? I know I couldn’t see them, but I knew they could see me. What were my expectations of them, and was it really about me stepping out of my comfort zone to go over and say hello? Was I making this about blindness when it had nothing to do with it?
My sweet husband recently reminded me that sometimes I can miss visual cues, which leads me to make assumptions. Was I doing this now?
And on to the show. As we all took our seats, girls in the first row, and parents in the row behind them, I prayed that I would be sandwiched between two mums whom I felt a connection with.
As soon as we entered the performance area, we were greeted by the sound of babies cooing and laughing, hmmm. What was this, how did it fit into the show, and why were these babies coming in over the speakers? It wasn’t until much later that I heard somebody mention that there were strollers on the stage, and as the show went on, the baby being present made somewhat more sense. If I was already confused before the show even began, what was I going to be in for?
As the lights lowered and the crowd began to clap, I took this as a sign the show was about to begin. It became apparent to me very early on that making my grocery list in my head while listening to the “Oh, that’s amazing! Oh my gosh, can you believe they are doing that? This is crazy good and I’m so glad I’m watching this!” Would be the extent of my excitement. As the show continued and I was feeling so alone, I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes. What if somebody, another parent or worse, Sydney, looked over to see tears streaming down my face? How would I explain that? I pinched the bridge of my nose and opened my eyes wide, pushing the tears aside.
There was one mum, Michelle, that I want to recognize. She was seated to my right, and as much as she was able, she did attempt to describe what was happening. That’s a whole other conversation I was having in my head, by the way. What if I am becoming a burden to her? What if she is thinking, “Oh man, I wish I hadn’t sat down next to Hayley.” I decided to have this conversation with her. I thanked her for being so generous with her time, and for describing, but also wanted to offer her an out by telling her that I wanted her to enjoy her experience and not to feel obligated to do so. This opened a door for her to ask me some questions. When we are willing to be honest and, yes, sometimes vulnerable with where we are, it opens the door for people to know they can ask the questions about blindness that they’ve been afraid to ask.
As I sat there, waiting for the next time Michelle would lean over with a brief, but appreciated, description, I felt my mindset change. Nothing around me had changed, but I knew it wasn’t healthy for me to stay in that place of darkness and negative self-talk. We all know rabbit holes can go for miles, and I didn’t want that.
So, as I sat there, I began to use and appreciate my other senses, and slowly noticed it changing my perspective, my level of gratitude, and my own unique awe of this show.
I could smell popcorn and it made me think of my son, Brayden, and how much he loves popcorn, and how much I love him. I thought to myself, “These are pretty comfortable seats. I should settle in and enjoy the fact that I have nothing else to do but relax: no laundry piling up, nobody saying they are hungry, wanting to know what’s for dinner, and knowing I’ll be the assigned chef.”
I listened to the amazing surround sound of drums and singing, and I found myself being swept up in all of that magic, despite not being able to see it.
Most importantly, I was enjoying listening to Sydney laughing and cheering with her friends. She sounded so happy, and I was blessed to hear her and delight in it. With just a little effort and intention, I was able to shift my heart from a place of sadness, loneliness, and even bitterness, to a place of joy, gratitude, and just being present. Not allowing my thoughts to go down the rabbit hole, think about all the other times I’d felt left out or take me to a place that was saying, “I hate this.”
This does not mean I will forever be rid of these feelings, or that they are not valid. What I’m sharing is just my own experience and ability to acknowledge that it’s okay to not be okay, and not to put my feelings on others. It was very real for me, and it hurt. My heart aches with the thought, “Blindness sucks today.” Once I allow myself to feel that, I discover what would get me through it and onto the other side.
And one last thing, in case you’ve ever felt this: Feeling not okay with my blindness in the moment, and struggling to pull myself out of it, does not make me any less of an amazing person. No need to compare myself to that blind person who always seems to have it all together – has awesome mobility skills, can cook like a chef, seems comfortable in their own skin, seems so confident all the time, etc. This is my journey, nobody else’s. We are all human beings who deal with different, varying degrees of struggle. Maybe that person whom you have compared yourself to is only showing what they want you to see. What if they, too, are a person who plays the comparison game?
Summer: “Cheshire Cat Interviews #16
Who Gives a Hoot?”
by Heather Meares
Sometimes, on a hot summer evening, I quite enjoy sitting on my back porch. The air is heavy and quiet, and I can hear all the gentle sounds of the night in my very own backyard. It was on one such night that I heard a Great Horned Owl not that far from me. All was still and silent, except for his call, “Hoo hoo, hoo, hoo, hoot.” I felt his eyes upon me, watching me with intrigue, as he assessed whether I was up for a conversation. Indeed, I was.
He said, “I see you have some new ducks.”
“Well, yes I do … Sparkles, Luna, and Star. How did you know they are new?”
“I’ve been watching you for quite some time now. I know everything that happens in this neighborhood, but your yard is particularly fascinating to me. You have provided such an interesting habitat here. I can honestly say there aren’t many like it. I wondered if you might tell me a bit more about it. Most people have such manicured lawns and use lots of chemicals to kill the weeds and what they consider pests. There seems to be an abundance of both here, which by the way, I appreciate greatly.”
I replied, “I’m glad you do, but I honestly can’t say I feel the same way about the weeds, ants, spiders, and occasional mice.”
“Oh, those are my favorites! I help you out with those, don’t you worry about that.”
I thought for a moment, and then said, “I really do love all the wildlife that visits me here. I may not be able to see them, but I am very aware of their presence. I, too, have been observing you for a while now, and all the creatures who have felt safe and welcome in my yard. I frequently hear the hummingbirds clicking to each other in the trees. I was astonished one night when one buzzed right next to my face as I sat on my patio. He didn’t even seem to mind that I was merely a foot away from him, as he drank from the feeder hanging in one of my giant pots.”
The owl hopped a little with glee and said, “Hoo hoo! That was Jerry, he’s a hoot. His buddies dared him to do that and, of course, he’s always up for anything.”
This made me smile as I remembered how beautiful that moment was to me. I recalled asking myself if it was really happening, and being amazed that yes, it definitely was.
Then the owl said, “I’m Oliver, and I hear you are the Night Pixie.”
I answered, “Not many know that, but yes, I am. That’s a story for another day. Most just know me as Heather.”
“Ah yes, named after the wild Heather of the moors I presume? Anyhoo, I know you, no matter what your name is. I’ve been watching you care for your chickens and am impressed by some of the methods you’ve come up with. Those girls are a handful, and I know they will never forget the way you saved their lives last year in the extreme heat. Many others in your neighborhood did not survive.”
I said, “That was a pretty traumatic experience for us all. I almost lost Ruby, and had to hold her in front of an air conditioner for almost an hour to bring her back. It was about 115 degrees that day, and after bringing them bags of ice multiple times a day, using an air conditioner, and shade cloths, all to no avail, I finally just brought them into my guest bathroom. Yes, you heard me right. They stayed there four days, until it was safe to get them back outside and create a cooler coop environment for them. I have raised those girls since they were one day old, and was not about to lose them.”
Oliver said, “I love that little Ruby. She makes me sing Ruby-doobie-doo! She is such a firecracker. I remember seeing her run around with half an eggshell on her head like a bonnet when she was young. Punk Rock Chicken told me you have an agreement with them. Something about eggs and friendship?”
Heather: “That’s correct, I promised them the day they came to my home that my chickens would always be for eggs and friendship only. What I didn’t realize at the time was how many friends I would make because of the eggs.”
Oliver: “Each of them has a role in the flock. I’ve noticed Phoebe is a protector and could probably be a linebacker if she wanted a football career. Penelopeep is definitely the guardian of all things egg related, Clarabelle and Cleopatra are inseparable besties and fashionistas and, of course, Punker runs the whole crew with a quiet yet firm lady-in-charge manner. Ruby is her secondhand-hen and sunshine committee, always making sure everyone is happy. She is quite the diplomat.”
I replied, “They help me out, as well. One day, as winter was ending, I went to check on them and do my normal routine of feeding and cleaning, and I found a large pile of eggs right in front of the door as I opened it. They don’t lay eggs in the winter, and the nesting areas are in a loft. Somehow they knew I was unaware they had started laying again, so they moved every single egg down to the door where they knew I would find them. This amazed me, and filled me with joy and pride. Can you believe that?”
Oliver hooted a couple of times, and said, “Of course I can. Birds are extremely intelligent, even if I do say so myself! And I also have to say that dog of yours is quite the Barky-barkerton, but he is good at herding the chickens and defending his territory from potential predators. He takes his job very seriously.”
One of the girls chimed in, Penelopeep, “We call him the Chicken Sheriff! Sometimes after a long, hard day he is our bartender, as well. We love Arturo. He cheers us on when we lay our eggs, and sings with the sirens, even in his sleep.”
Oliver said, “Good evening, Lady Peep. Shouldn’t you be sleeping right now? Always a pleasure to be graced with your company.”
Peep winks and says, “Hello Ollie. The pleasure is all mine. You know I’m a bit of a rule-breaker. I enjoy the night life around here, and it’s good to get some time to myself while the others are sleeping their little fluffy butts away. Have you seen the dragonflies lately? They are exquisite. They’re so fun to watch, and they really like the clawfoot tubs full of water. That new duck, Sparkles, thinks it’s her own private bathing pond, but I know for a fact that many others use it, day and night.”
Oliver is amused and says, “Hoo, Hoo, Hooee, lady! Do I detect a bit of jealousy? Don’t get your feathers ruffled. You know there is room for us all, and you will always be the most beautiful redhead I’ve ever seen. Those ducks are already helping fertilize and mow this yard, and you also know there are worms enough for all here. Don’t forget the words of our favorite praying mantis, Philippe Verde, ‘Stay gentle, be kind to all, and help each other out.’ I only see him every once in a while, but that dude is so wise.”
I reflected on these words of wisdom and said, “I have one last question for you, Oliver. Do we have bats?”
Oliver flapped his wings, and as he flew off into the night, I heard him echoing back to me, “Abso loo hoo hoot lee! Say hello to the cat with the bowtie in the window. Good night all.”
Fall: “Train Music”
by Chris Coulter
I must have been born with the sound of trains playing their distinctive rock and roll music in my ears, my heart and my bones. Of course, as a tiny, premature baby, I didn’t think about that. However, as time went by and I was no longer in the hospital in an incubator, my parents, my older sister and I began living a normal life. I began hearing and paying attention to all kinds of sounds. Prominent among those sounds were trains. We lived in Tacoma from the time I was born until I was 12 years old. I found myself going to sleep hearing the trains coming and going, usually going somewhere far away. Their long whistles would echo for miles and miles.
As I grew older, I didn’t have as much of an inclination to pay attention to train music. I was so interested in music by the Beatles or some of my favorite folk musicians. Instead of listening to the sounds of trains, I listened to the musicians who wrote songs about them.
My grandparents lived in Everett, and whenever we spent time with them, I still heard trains because we were just a little way down the hill that ended in railroad tracks.
We spent some time in Seattle, but Seattle was the “big city,” and I didn’t like the noise of the up-close-and-personal honking and braying of cars, trucks, and buses.
Another long stretch of years and my own fading interest in trains went by while I was at the Washington State School for the Blind. I tried to knuckle down and grow up and do my schoolwork, but somehow I found myself daydreaming a lot. As graduation from high school drew near, I realized that it was time to stop listening to sounds for the joy of it.
After my freshman and sophomore years at Everett Community College, I spent a year at the University of Washington. I became seriously interested in music therapy. Willamette University was the nearest school to offer a degree program in this field. After my junior year, I went to Oregon to finish my required five-year college program that Willamette had as its training for a degree in music therapy.
At the age of 23, I received my Bachelor of Music degree in music therapy. I needed to intern in the field, and I had to do the hard work of writing letters to various hospitals and institutions to find out if I would be accepted. Eventually, I was accepted as an intern at a mental hospital in the western part of Kansas. I loved working on the addiction unit that was part of that institution, and I met some people who became good friends.
Unfortunately, when I came back to Washington after the internship, I found out that the state of Washington was in a recession. Jobs for people working in the addiction and music therapy programs didn’t have a lot of money to spare.
After several years of working as a musician and singer, I found out that even the booming business of jazz singers and cocktail piano bars wasn’t really in tune with my style of entertaining an audience. My mom and I went on the road together, and the best thing that came out of that experience was that I got to know my mother as an adult. We were very close during the years just before her death.
In the last chapter of this narrative, both of my parents died; Mom died in 1998 and Dad died in 2007. My sisters and I lived fairly close to each other, and my youngest sister invited me to join a church that she had attended for a while. That church, and the communal house attached to it, was a place of rest for my weary soul. That is where I met the man who is now my husband.
Jon and I left Everett not long after we got married and eventually we moved to Centralia, where we now live. We found an apartment that was much less expensive than other places we had lived in. The first morning as we were taking a walk, I heard a familiar sound. At first it was faint. It was the rhythm of the rails, and it was the sound of their haunting, soothing music. I felt myself relax as I heard the nearby train. I didn’t know I had missed the music of trains. I don’t really know if I was born when the trains were running, but I go to sleep every night to the whistle and the rhythm of the rails.
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