Valley Album

Valley Album

The Braille Monitor

June 2003

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Valley Album

by Ed Kemmick

From the Editor: On

February 6, 2003, the Billings Gazette published a piece about Federationist

Jim Aldrich and his method of traveling around town as a blind person. The reporter,

who writes a monthly column providing snapshots of people in the Yellowstone

area, did a fine job of expressing Jim's attitudes while educating the public

about one of their neighbors. Here is the article:

Jim Aldrich knows he's

lucky to be living at the turn of the third millennium. "If I lived a hundred

years ago and had to make a wood fire, I don't think I'd survive," he said.

"We've got it pretty good."

Among the technological devices that make his life pretty

good are talking clocks, a talking thermometer, a microwave oven with a Braille

keypad, and a computer that can translate text into audio. He also has a couple

of Palm Pilot‑like devices that convert information from the Internet

into refreshable Braille on a miniature keyboard.

But when Jim ventures outside his house, he leaves technology

behind and confronts a world that he can't see, armed only with a white cane,

his sense of hearing, and his sense of touch. His cane, made of flexible fiberglass

with a steel tip, tells Jim most of what he needs to know. His ears are alert

for what's going on in a wider area, but mainly he concentrates on the small

swath of space directly in front of him, the space reached by his cane.

The cane tells him about cracks in the sidewalk, about

potholes and fire hydrants, curbs, patches of ice, telephone poles, fences,

and stop signs. He moves forward like a mine sweeper, his cane constantly in

motion. By describing a small arc with the tip of the cane and directing his

steps toward the middle of the arc, Jim is able to proceed in a relatively straight

line.

Walking from his house near Terry Park to the Albertson's

store near the Sixth Street underpass, Jim strides confidently, having made

the five‑block trip many times before. He talks about landmarks on the

way-‑feeders where birds flock in the spring, a day care where the children

often greet him, and the familiar intersections, each with its distinctive landmarks.

At the grocery store he waits near the racks of shopping

carts for someone to help him. On this particular day his guide is Christina

Kober, a young courtesy clerk who guides Jim's cart down the aisles, finds what

he's looking for, and tells him about sales and special offers.

In the check-out line he's on his own. There is no one

to read him the headlines about Winona Ryder, Halle Berry, and Joe Millionaire

in the scandal magazines, no one to read him the big headline-‑"Duck

hunters shoot angel!"-‑on the cover of World Weekly News.

On the way home on Miles Avenue between Fifth and Sixth

Streets, one section of the sidewalk is pushed up a couple of inches, probably

by tree roots. "I call that the homestretch," Jim says, tapping the

raised concrete with his cane. "When I hit that, I know I'm on the homestretch."

When the wind is blowing hard-‑hard enough to

limit his hearing-‑going out can be a problem. But the worst thing is

snow, which Jim calls "a blind man's fog." If you're used to seeing

the sidewalk with a cane, snow levels out contours, hides curbs, and erases

the contrast between the concrete and what blind people call the "shoreline,"

the grass or dirt on either edge of a sidewalk.

And if you cross streets by using the sound of passing

cars to time your movements, snow presents another obstacle. "It sounds

like the traffic is on a carpet," Jim says. "It's much more muffled."

Despite the difficulties attending something as simple

as walking to the store, Jim says blindness is no more than a limitation. And

it could be worse. There are people who are blind and deaf, and they still manage

to get out into the world."It's beyond my imagining," Jim says, slowly

shaking his head. "I don't know what I'd do."

Jim and his twin brother John were born in Billings

almost fifty-four years ago. They were born prematurely, Jim with fragile, undeveloped

eyes. He was given too much oxygen shortly after birth, which further damaged

his eyes, resulting in complete blindness.

He says his hometown is "a wonderful place,"

and he has spent most of his life here. He wishes there were better transportation-‑buses

running seven days a week and late at night, for starters-‑but other than

that he has no complaints, and he is generally pleased at how helpful people

are.

Even when he doesn't need help, he says, he thanks people

for trying, "because I think it's a good idea."

Jim particularly likes the downtown, where he can walk

almost anywhere he wants to go. On a recent stroll through the downtown, Jim

was unfamiliar with the new curbside improvements, including fenced‑in

patios, benches, and the Skypoint public sculpture at Second and Broadway. He

liked them all, however, for reasons most people would never consider. Encountering

an iron enclosure around the patio in front of Travel Cafe, Jim carefully runs

his hand over the fence, storing memories for future reference. It will be an

important landmark, telling him where he is even if there's snow.

A block later he comes in contact with one of Skypoint's

support legs. "Again," he says, "this is a good clue. When I

get to this, I'll know where I am."

Across the street Jim passes beneath an awning over

the entrance to a store. "I must be under an awning," he says. "I

could hear the sound change." In the same way, he knows he's crossing an

alley because there's a gap in the reflected sound. He guesses correctly when

he passes a parking garage, saying he could hear the way the traffic sounds

echoed through it.

The only trouble he has is at the corners. The new sidewalks

have wide, smooth openings to accommodate wheelchairs, but they don't help people

with white canes. Normally Jim finds the edge of the curb and waits there for

the light to change. Without a distinct curb, he doesn't know where the edge

is, where the sidewalk ends.

But he'll find his way.

He usually does. "I'd say we're generally very normal people," he

says. "When it comes to getting about, we have to adapt. We have to find

our own way."

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