My Ramblings

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My Ramblings

The Master Archer

Walking With Angels

The Master Archer

By: Paulette M. Eberle ©

They tell me Ralph is dead and the tears sting at my eyes, perching precariously on my lower lids. Pain rips through my heart and it sinks, a leaden weight, into my belly. The voices fade and I return to the happier time of my first encounter with Ralph.

It's well into the afternoon of the second day of a facilitator's meeting for a disabilities rights organization. We've met to form a plan of action and to congratulate the architect, the construction firm and a host of personal care assistants. They've built and staffed a housing development for disabled people and we are here to applaud them. I'm dozing. It's been a long two days and my mind will no longer respond.

A man's voice, struggling to be heard from the back of the room, jars me to wakefulness. His words are unintelligible. They are wrested from his gut, choking him in their eagerness to be out. His Personal Care Assistant interprets. “This is nothing but a disabilities ghetto! You have these people locked away from humanity, out of sight, where the rest of the world doesn't have to think about their own mortality. You could've built this complex near civilization, or better yet, modified some existing construction. That would've allowed them to interact with their community.” His voice is rich with purpose. Though his words are tortured and twisted, they fly like arrows shot straight and true, finding their mark unerringly.

A gavel strikes loudly against its' wooden base. The moderator announces a fifteen-minute break. In the hall, I hear Ralph's voice and make my way to him. I introduce myself, congratulating him on giving voice to the sentiments held by most of us present. He speaks, but I cannot understand. His PCA, once again, interprets. “We have to speak up. As long as we're content to pat `em on the back for giving us nothing, they'll continue to give us nothing! Are you joining the Project as a facilitator?”

“Oh no! I could never stand at the forefront. I'd just freeze. Public speaking is not my…” Oh God! I can't believe the words that are tumbling out of my mouth! How could I be saying these things to a man willing to risk ridicule on behalf of others?

Ralph chuckles, or makes a sound that passes for a chuckle. “None of us are, sweetie. Come! Lend your voice. We need you.”

In the months that followed, I would come to know Ralph well. If there was injustice, Ralph crusaded. If another was in pain, Ralph offered comfort. And he spoke. He spoke constantly. He told me once that if he said things often enough, sooner or later somebody would listen just to shut him up.

I learned about Ralph as our time together went on. Imprisoned by cerebral palsy in a twisted mass of flesh since infancy, he could not walk, could barely speak and had little use of his hands. He had never known the simple pleasure of feeding himself. He had never asked why. He simply went about his daily routine, taking joy in the gift of life.

Ralph became my mentor. We didn't plan it that way. It just happened. I was a dry sponge, thirstily soaking up his wisdom. I would sit or stand near him taking in the necessary gifts of the spirit that would strengthen me for the war to come. And it would be a war! Our cause is a popular one, but it is an uncomfortable popularity. Our disabilities are like a dirty mirror. Those untouched by disability fear to look at their muddied reflections, knowing that they could be us in an instant.

I went on, with Ralph's encouragement, to become an active leader in the disabilities rights movement. I learned to ignore the bile that rose when it was my turn to speak. Whenever I wanted to tuck my tail and run, I thought of Ralph and gleaned courage from him.

A cacophony of voices surrounds me, calling me back to the suddenly too small room. “Come on! You're up next.” The man's voice urges me to the podium. I stand before the crowd of people and begin to speak. My words fly like arrows, shot straight and true, finding their mark.

They tell me Ralph is dead and a smile plays at the corners of my mouth and my heart takes wing, soaring towards the heavens, knowing no bounds.

Walking With Angels

By Paulette M. Eberle ©

My first response to the news that I would soon be blind was complete denial. I could still see! The doctors had to be wrong. In true Scarlet O'Hara fashion, I vowed to worry about that on another day. As the darkness encroached, I withdrew from life to mourn my loss. The insidious disease that had taken my sight had also robbed me of my vision. It would be many years before I would allow the flame of life, reduced to a dying ember in my soul, to be fanned, once again, into a glorious blaze. As the first of these embers sparked, one thought filled my every waking hour - I just might succeed with a guide dog to lead me through the darkness.

As I look back on the last three years of my life, I've come to realize that my journey on the path to self-determination was not made alone. There were many people ready to lend their hearts and their hands to assist me along that some times perilous way. One of those people was Zilla Husbands.

During the third week of training at the Seeing Eye, students must negotiate a particularly difficult route, called the “high school route”. It is long with many turns and twists and some diabolical traffic patterns. If we were to graduate, we would be expected to solo this route. An instructor would follow us as we worked our dogs, but would offer no assistance. Whatever we encountered, we would be expected to handle. If I wanted to go home with my new Seeing Eye dog, Quilt, I would have to master this route.

Our instructors took us to a house in Morristown know as “the lounge”. There we would wait for what seemed like hours for our turn to practice this route. As we piled into the van and headed to the lounge, I searched inside myself for the courage to overcome this hurdle. I did not find it there. I found it in the personage of Zilla.

The weather outside had turned on us. The temperature had plummeted and shards of ice were being hurled into our faces. Both my dog and I were soaked through to the skin. As I walked through the door of the lounge I was greeted by a rich, alto voice singing a Calypso tune. A warm arm around my shoulder guided me to a chair where a towel was thrust into my hands and the same gentle voice that had been singing commanded me to “take care of your dog, darlin'”. I unharnessed Quilt and dried her as best I could. The towel was removed from my hand and replaced with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. I collapsed deep into the chair and gratefully sipped the hot beverage. As Zilla began to speak, her voice, as warm and sunny as the island that gave birth to her, began to work it's magic on my bruised spirit. I relaxed, drawing strength from this great lady.

During the next two days, Zilla would sit and talk with me, sharing her life, holding nothing back. She told of the good times and the bad, making no apology for anything she had done. She had lived her life of over seventy years fully, accepting what she could not change and enjoying, to the fullest, every pleasant moment that she had been granted. As she spoke, my confidence grew, fed by the strength of her indomitable spirit.

Soon it was my turn to solo the infamous high school route. I picked up Quilt's harness and gave her the forward command with confidence. We were off! There were times on that twenty-minute walk when my spirit faltered, but I would hear Zilla's strong alto voice singing me onward and I would take courage and continue. We finished the route in good time, having made only a few errors, which we recovered from with aplomb.

We returned to the lounge for the trip back t the Seeing Eye campus and I embraced Zilla for the last time. I knew beyond any certainty that we would never say goodbye. As I embark on my new life, I walk tall, my shoulders back, my head held high, and I do not walk alone. I walk with an angel on my left side and one, who sings God's praises with a Calypso beat, in my heart.