Ever since I first
ventured forth on a walker, Jordan has been on a crusade on my behalf. She
finds most handicapped access and facilities in Fort Worth inadequate. There’s
the restaurant that has a ramp—in a brick herring-bone pattern. If you haven’t
ever tried, please borrow a walker and negotiate a patterned brick walkway. Or
a pebbled one. Or one with deep cracks between squares of concrete—perfect for
tripping up a walker. I nearly took a tumble in front of the chancel at church
one morning, because my wheels caught on a crack where floor covering met
brick. The walker stopped but my body’s forward momentum didn’t, and I nearly
went head first over the walker. I did instinctively (and loudly) call out,
“Jordan!” She turned around, looked at me, and said, “You’ve got to be careful,
Mom.” Thank you, Miss Defender of Those with Disabilities.
Bathroom facilities
and handicapped parking spots are whole other topics. Both are required by law,
and in some places, they make life ever so much easier to deal with. But some
high-traffic establishments have only one or two reserved handicapped spots.
And bathroom facilities? Needless to say it’s bad form to use that big stall if
you don’t need to.
Today in
the grocery store our frustration levels came to a head. When we grocery shop,
I ride one of those carts. Secret: I find it sort of fun and am pretty proud of
my ability to guide it. But there’s one store, part of a chain, then private,
and now once again part of a chain where we have shopped off and on for over
thirty years. It’s obviously an older store and has not been updated, the
aisles widened. That wouldn’t be too big a problem if management didn’t put
display dumps at each end of aisles. Jordan routinely goes ahead of me and
shifts dumps out of the way.
At one store
(where the aisles are wider) they have a philosophical attitude about it. “If
you hit something, just come tell us. We’ll pick it up. Happens all the time.”
But not where we were this morning. I’ve been lucky—or careful—and only had one
true accident, in which I ran into a display of Bundt cakes that ended up,
unhurt, on the floor. The bakery attendant did not smile; with an exasperated
sigh, she gave me a dirty look.
This morning, I
sailed down one aisle only to be met by a wall of soft-drink cartons, a wall
taller than Jordan and overlapping both sides of the aisle. My first attempt to
maneuver almost took out a hanging display of some sort on my right, and I
surely didn’t want to bring all those soft drinks crashing down on my head. I
considered backing up that whole long aisle, but I’m not good at backing
without a rear-view mirror. Jordan waved at a clerk at the check-out stand, but
to no avail—maybe he thought she was just being friendly. (If he’d talked to
her at that moment, he’d have known how wrong that thought was.)
While she stormed
off to find help, I tried again and was able to maneuver around that corner,
without damage to myself or any dumps. I think we’re through with the store—and
I told the checker that. I know the handicapped are a small fraction of the
store’s business, but they do have four carts lined up for those who need them,
and it is in a neighborhood with an elderly population.
Later this
afternoon I’ll go to curbside pickup at Central Market for things I couldn’t
get where we were. It may be foolish to go to two stores, but I don’t like to
buy ground meat anywhere but Central Market (did you read about the loosened
standards for hamburger? No? I won’t spoil your day) but you can’t buy
household staples—paper towels, Kleenex, baggies, etc. there.
I read recently
that the administration is thinking of monitoring the social media of people
with disabilities to see if they’re “too happy”—if so, they’ll lose part of
their disability benefits. After all, we can’t have happy handicapped citizens.
But who would decide how happy is “too happy”? I swear the buffoon in the White
House wants everyone to be as miserable as he is. Please don’t tell him how
happy I am riding my grocery carts—oh well, I don’t get disability benefits
anyway, so go ahead—fling it in his face.
Tonight, I could hardly be happier--I have so much good food in my fridge and freezer that each meal for the next few days will be a matter of choice and whim, I have a project on my desk that I'm excited about, I have family, friends, dog, and cottage. Life is sweet. Don't tell trump.
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