Blind Brother Teaches Insightful
Lessons
by Sharon Randall, Scripps Howard News Service, August
29, 2002
My brother,
who was born totally blind and insufferably stubborn, taught me a few
things about writing and life. The minute he learned to talk, Joe
started asking questions and he wouldn't quit until he got an answer.
When he was little, 4 or 5, he liked to watch the sunrise. He couldn't
see it, but he would feel it warming his face. Then he'd wake me up to
tell him what it looked like. And if he didn't like my answer he'd
say, "That's not it, try again." In writing, as in life: You have to
ask a lot of hard questions of yourself and of others, and never
settle for easy answers, even if it makes your sister really mad. Joe
had trouble not just with his eyes but his legs. He didn't walk until
he was 7. That's when he got his first taste of freedom: A red
tricycle that he couldn't pedal, but loved to push around the yard,
even if he ended up in a ditch looking like the loser of a bad fight.
"Why don't you stay out of that ditch?" I asked. "I can't," he said.
"It keeps finding me. But I crawl around and always find my way out."
In writing, as in life: If you want to be free, you have to keep
pushing, even if you can't see the road ahead. And if you end up in a
ditch, you have to find your way out - or not be too stubborn to yell
for help. Being blind didn't spare Joe from being teased on occasion
(blind is blind, but brothers are brothers) or from finding ways to
reap revenge. Whenever I did any of the usual things siblings do to
one another - throw cold water on him in the shower or maybe hide his
cane - he never tried to chase me. He'd just bide his time, lie awake
at night plotting vengeance, and wait for me to come to him. Then,
when I least expected it, he'd catch me in a corner and make me truly
sorry for my sins. In writing, as in life: Timing isn't everything,
but it's a lot. When something eludes you - say, a plot for a story or
a love you fear you've lost - you might want to give it time instead
of chasing it. If you wait a while, it just might come to you. When
Joe was a young man, tapping around town, going any place he pleased,
somebody decided a white cane and a fierce sense of independence were
not enough. So they raised some money and sent him off to a
seeing-eye-dog school in the hope that he could learn to follow,
rather than lead. If they'd asked me, which they didn't, I could have
told them it wouldn't work. Joe would never be a follower. Besides, he
hated dogs. Said he couldn't stand the way they slobbered on his
hands. So when he came home from seeing-eye-dog-school with no canine,
only a cane, I for one was not surprised. "How did you find your way
around in that place?" I asked. "I didn't," he said. "They made me
follow a dog." In writing, as in life: You get to lead sometimes, but
other times you have to follow, no matter how much it scares you. You
have to learn to trust - whether it's the writer's voice within you or
the dog that slobbers on your hand. Finally, some years ago, after my
mother phoned sobbing as if someone had died to tell me Joe had run
off and married a woman he barely knew, I called him, hoping he'd say
it wasn't so. Not only was it true, it was legal. Her name was Tommie
Jean, he said, and she was blind like him. He had known her just three
weeks, but he had been waiting for her all his life. I didn't know
what to say, so Joe said it for me: "It's OK, Sis, don't worry. Even a
blind man can fall in love at first sight." In writing, as in life:
Anything can happen; everything is possible. You just have to keep
writing and stay alive.
(Sharon
Randall is the author of "Birdbaths and Paper Cranes" (Sleeping Bear
Press). She can be e-mailed at
srandall@montereyherald.com.)
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