Crossing Five Lanes with a Blind Man

Our garage was a beautiful wide open space. There were trash cans and bicycles on one side and lawn care necessities on the other. Since all members of the household were either blind or children, the vast expanse in the middle was reserved for roller skating—no need to clutter that pristine space with a pointless car.

I was raised by visually-impaired parents; Mom and Dad had no sight in their left eyes and couldn’t see much with their rights. And before you ask…they met on a blind date.

Mom was a homemaker because she was raising two children and everything she did took twice as long as anyone else. Dad worked until I was twelve, at which time he was given his walking papers. His vision had deteriorated too far to fulfill his duties.

My parents met hurdles better than Jessie Owens. It was required of them to live the life they wanted, with so much less than anyone around them.

Getting things done

If we ran out of milk or bread or toilet paper, we could call on a friend to help us — but that never happened. My Mom was meticulous about her grocery list each Wednesday and we never ran out of anything in between shopping days.

For our weekly shopping, errands and appointments we used friends, church members, taxis or the ground-breaking “Call a Ride” which came on the scene when I was eleven for the handicapped and elderly.

For any need that could be done without bothering a friend, or shelling out money, we took to the streets. Crossing major streets on foot was the rational option when you had business to do on the other side — even if you’re five years old; leading a blind man; across five lanes of traffic.

The street I’m recalling is Manchester Road and I imagine most suburban towns have a road like just like it — five lanes wide, two lanes for each direction, and a center turn lane. And drivers that treat it like a highway.

Flanking 15 miles of this road were strip malls — stores shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. This meant there wasn’t an inch of Manchester Road where someone was not jockeying to get to a sale, a mechanic, or a Slushie.

We crossed this behemoth road when I was five years old because Dad needed to get to the cobbler on the other side. Having a cobbler repair your shoes was something we did in the 1980s, but not something I’ve ever done since. In fact, it was so important I can recall more than one traversal of terror to get shoes fixed.

I would hold Dad’s hand, tightly, and be amazed that he could see when cars were coming. Dad had tunnel vision so his distance vision was way better than seeing anything right in front of his face.

My dad never had a need to run. He couldn’t play sports and we didn’t live where nature would attack you. It was only in crossing that road that I saw my father run. I’m not sure who trusted the other more.

The “chicken shit lane”

I believe the correct use of the center turn lane is universally confusing. It was created so drivers wouldn’t have to slow the flow of traffic when they wanted to turn left. But more often it is used to get halfway across a road and then wait for an opening to finish your turn into traffic.

However you use that lane, the image takes a dark and gruesome turn when you realize a blind man and a child could be standing in the middle of it.

For you 70s kids, you may be picturing the video game, Frogger; but instead of an electronic amphibian getting flattened, it’s the bread winner and his second born.

Back in MY day

My brother, Michael, and I love to tell our children the crazy stories of our childhood. They enjoy the one about our required Saturday morning bike rides to get a dozen donuts.

Our children have no childhood traumas that comes close to the torture that Michael and I endured.

The route to Dunkin’ Donuts was plotted by a church friend to keep us off all major roads. It included cutting across a church parking lot and someone’s side yard. It also included a giant hill where I had to get off and walk my bike—luckily it was on the way to the donuts. In the five years that I biked that route I never made it up that blasted hill.

One Saturday — for the record books — it was Michael’s turn. Maybe he was having a growth spurt because we did indeed run out of milk. My poor brother had to schlep an entire gallon of milk—with the dozen donuts—three miles.

It’s the — “walk to school, uphill, in the snow, both ways” — story of all time.

What I got for my troubles

For all the complaining I do about my childhood there is truly a softness to it. I imagine being without a car in the 80s could be equivalent to living without a cell phone now. I’d feel the weight of missing out on so many conveniences that made everyone else’s life so much easier — ones they likely took for granted.

Throughout my parental life there have been several moments behind the wheel, with my children in the backseat, when I think about all my parents missed out on. No road trips, no long country drives, no quick pop-outs to the store for tampons or chocolate; or more importantly, getting the hell away from all of us.

They had no independence when it came to moving any of us around unless it was on foot or by peddle. But because of this my childhood gifted me with a lifetime of grit, courage, and compassion.

So much of who I am today is owed to the girl who began guiding her father across the street at five years old.