I have a friend who has been writing fantastic blogs for a while now, most of it is off the wall stuff that makes you laugh your ass off but then there are others where he lets you have a peek into his life and you realize that there’s actually something pretty amazing going on inside that hard sun baked Aussie head of his. He’s let me/us see the building blocks of what has made him the man he is and I’ve always felt that knowing those beginning steps that people have taken are the very best way to know a person and in turn learn something about the rest of the world. So because of you my dear friend Addy, I open a vein and bleed my own life onto the pages for those who care to take the time to really get to know me for outside fantasyland… Hugs B! (Ah, and also by his inspiration since this is a long tale to tell I’ll break it up in parts, plus I don’t have it all written yet – hey, I’m still living my life, don’t have freakin forever to sit down all the time and write about it! LOL)....
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Frame of reference - Date: 1897 ....
1: an arbitrary set of axes with reference to which the position or motion of something is described or physical laws are formulated ....
2: a set of ideas, conditions, or assumptions that determine how something will be approached, perceived, or understood.....
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I was first made aware of this concept via a teacher I’d had in elementary school as early as the second grade. The teacher explained that everything we experienced, every person, place; event that touched our life would mold the person that we came to be. I remember being fascinated with the premise that the things around me, both externally and internally, would have such an impact of who and what I was to become. I think this is where I first started looking at people as puzzles, ones that’s had to be solved in reverse. You couldn’t really know them till you could take them apart and find out what it had been that had created who they were. The phrase and concept has stayed with me and served me for four decades since I first heard it used. Of course my understanding of it has greatly expanded over that time period. It has helped me to understand not only those around me but in turn it has given me insight into myself that I might not have otherwise had. Isn’t it funny how relevant terms that speak specifically to our own self truth can stick with us even before we’re fully aware of their impact. Another that I heard that relates to the previous defined term is ‘there is no such thing as reality, there is only perception.’ Another connective light bulb moment. There is no truth, no fact, no concrete anything because we will always place our own frame of reference filter over the lens of how we perceive all that is around us. That truly is the very best analogy of what we are – a camera looking at life through a lens that has a multitude of colored filters and those filters enhance or distort what imprints on the film of who and what we are. No two people will have an exact frame of reference; they can be similar but never exact. We often make the assumption that if someone is similar to us that they should think as we do, process life as we do, conclude as we do but when they don’t we have a hard time understanding why. The simple fact is that they aren’t us and quite frankly, they don’t have to be. Here’s a ponderer for you - what is the ratio balance of how you are perceived by others; how much is dependent on what you put out there by comparison to how others perceive you through those filters I mentioned earlier? What responsibility do we hold in how others see us and at what point is it beyond our control and in the conception or misconception of others?....
I have found that we are fanatic story tellers. We see something and from our own frame of reference we fill in the facts as we believe they exist. Now this doesn’t make it accurate or inaccurate. Our experience and judgment does count for something. How many times have we met someone and thought them to be of a character that perhaps they don’t turn out to be in the long run. Does this mean we were entirely wrong about them? Perhaps not. It may instead have been that we perceive them to be what they ‘could’ be rather than what they actually are. This doesn’t make us wrong but perhaps they can’t see their own potential as we do. Or perhaps we close our eyes to the whole person so as to serve the purpose of making them less than they are. Reducing them in our eyes so as to justify our negativity regarding them. The problem comes when we make the choice to believe ONLY those areas that we’ve filled in without probing further for what might not be so easily seen. Sadly we too often take our fleshing out of the unknown as fact/reality. We are all guilty of it to some extent though there are some who absolutely swear that they ‘know’ all there is to know about a situation or person and that’s all they need to know after having done nothing more than make a world of assumptions. They’ve told themselves a story to explain why things are the way they are and no matter how fantastic or fabricated the story is they are so self absorbed that they believe if they think it then it has to be true when it may not even be on the same planet as the truth. Sometimes the story isn’t interesting enough for us to want to create or probe for more so we ignore it and go on our way. Other times we crave to probe, to learn more, to fill the blanks with the other person’s truths but that person shuts us out so we’re left with a sort of emptiness and longing that make us feel vulnerable and we’re afraid to speculate why the information isn’t forthcoming. We shy away from the snub because not to do so means that the other person sees us as one of those uninteresting ones that they’ve ignored and moved away from. We’ve all been on either side of that scenario at one time or another haven’t we? Wanting to know someone desperately or knowing that there is someone who wants to know us desperately. Neither are comfortable places to be yet we still place ourselves and others in that situation knowing what it feels like to be there. A rather Sadistic/masochistic coin is it not?....
It has long been my perception that if someone wants to know me then they’ll ask. I’ve never been a big volunteer of information about myself. I told myself that if someone REALLY cared they’d want to know more and therefore would ask. Well, this idea has gotten me a life with few people who know me at all because most people don’t ask. They again assume that their perception is fact and that’s all they need to know. I’ve decided to take back the power of my own story, my life by offering it up. Now talk about vulnerable! To write is to open a vein and bleed on the paper, at least when writing about one’s self. Perhaps that’s why I never before gave up the information readily, to do so was to give a part of myself that I protected from the outside. So why do it now. Because I want to. I want to make that connection with those who are open to it and the only way we can do that is to share our thoughts and experiences. This won’t be for everyone, it doesn’t have to be; but for those who can muster empathy, even compassion, then a door that once had been unseen is now open, a connection is made. To allow you entrance and to pave that path I must prepare the way by working at becoming more exhibitionistic about my life and my thoughts.....
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The best place to begin is the beginning… Pre-me… My mother, ‘Jean’, 16 year old high school girl in love with 18 year old Kenny… They were tragic lovers on the scale of Romeo and Juliet… Or at least they thought they were. As passionate about this brand new thing love that no one had ever experienced as they had. Well, they maneuvered themselves into somehow getting married at such young ages - thinking that playing house would be like some romance novel rather than the reality it was. She quit school, he went into the Army after he got out of high school, was stationed away from his young bride who went through most of her honeymoon induced pregnancy with the support of her mother, my wonderful grandmother (known as Katie to her friends). I was born 10 days before my mother’s 17th birthday. She was no more ready to be a mother than she had been to be a wife or an adult but she had my grandma, which was my salvation, at least for the short 13 years that I had her in my life. My father soon went his own way; due I’m told in great part, to the influence of his mother who never wanted the two together in the first place, not long after I was born. The last I remember seeing him was when I was 5 years old at his father’s funeral where he picked me up and cried. He still made the choice to step out of my life all the same. I don’t know where he may be or even if he still is alive. There are times when I wonder what my life might have been like if he’d been there, wondered if my battles with my mother might have been lessened and my life might have been happier. I wondered if he ever thought of me, remembered my birthday, wished he were a part of my life or even wished me well in my life without him. But then I may be better off for his being absent. I’ll never know and you can’t truly miss what you’ve never had can you… At least not entirely. ....
I do remember much of those very early years as being happy and being loved by the only person who at that time mattered most in my world, not my mother, but my grandmother. She was one of those rare souls who had the wisdom of ages, a heart that was open to all who needed it and extraordinary ability to make me feel that I was the most precious thing to ever set foot on this earth. My childhood in her home was like living in the Garden of Eden. Everything she ever touched flourished. My favorite place was the backyard. All along the fences there were peonies, small roses, poppies, morning glories and of course my snowball bush that I’d lay under when the tiny petals fell off so that I’d be covered in their soft snowy flakes. There had once been a small wading pool near the garage that was shaped as a giant’s foot with a small bridge built into the sidewalk at the arch of the foot. By the time I was growing up there it had been filled with dirt and in the larger side every year my grandmother planted it full of multi colored marigolds. In the heal side was one of the two apple trees in the back yard. The idea of ....Eden.... continued in that there were not only the two apple trees but there were also two different kinds of cherry trees, rhubarb and a very large grape arbor that formed an awning over the sidewalk before getting to the giant’s foot bridge. It truly felt magical. Her pride and glory though were her roses. There was a huge red rambler that grew beside the porch as well as on the other side against the house. Behind the porch which contained the swing that was always in use was her peace rose. They were gorgeous huge buttery yellow blossoms that were the envy of any who saw them. I remember when the roots from the rambler connected to those of the peace rose and caused the most amazing red streak through the yellow petals, as if they’d been smeared with blood but they were still beautiful. At the front of the house was the large porch where I spent so many hours on a hot summer afternoon. Oh and when it would rain there was nothing more peaceful for me than to go to sleep on the glider as the rain sheeted off the roof like curtains of water or thrill as the lightening split the sky and thunder shook the ground. Those days are why I still love rain storms so much, why they relax me so when they are downpours and excite me so when they create such a ruckus. It’s little wonder with this entire sensory stimulus that I grew up to so wholly appreciate the wonders of the sensuality of all the ways we take in the world around us. There was nothing my grandmother couldn’t do. I grew up watching her paint her own house, plant gardens every year, process most of our food for the winter, do her own carpentry, work on her own car, roof her own garage. She had a heart of gold. Every morning that I would get up while she was able I would walk into the kitchen where she was always sitting on her stool in the corner with her coffee and smokes. She’d immediately get up to hug me and ask how her girl was doing today. There was never a question I couldn’t ask her that she didn’t have an answer for. No mistake that I could make that would ever make her love me less. She did discipline me, even made me cut my own switch off one of those fruit trees if she deemed it to be my punishment but unlike my mother, who would actually laugh at my panicked pleading when she would spank me, my grandmother truly hated the deed. I also don’t believe that I was an unusually bad child but I specifically remember one time digging in the heel of the giants foot with Grandma and proudly piping up that I hadn’t been spanked that day to which my grandmother with a smile reminded me that the day wasn’t over yet! Most often I was trying to help. Looking back I’d say that it was the adults who got me in trouble most, not being clear or careful about what was being said around children. One prime example of that is when my uncle, who had his own room in the basement of grandma’s house, bought a Thunderbird but said that he didn’t like the color so he wanted to get it painted. I was all of four at this time and because I loved my uncle and wanted to help I proceeded to go out to the garage, find an old house painting brush, some white house paint and yes, did the deed all over the one side of the car I could reach. I proudly walked back to the house, covered in the paint myself and when they asked what I’d been doing to get paint all over me I told them I’d did his car for him! I then remember him tearing out the door and of course my getting into trouble yet again… *grins* Another of the multitude of tales that followed me through my life was that of when I was very small and I first noticed that there were people of different colors and asked her why. *smiles* Her answer to me remains with me to this day as an example of the kind of heart she held - “God made people like cookies ..Vicki.., some he just left in the oven a bit longer than others.” That’s just how she was; fair, open minded and generous with herself and her life. I can only hope that I am in some way a fraction of the woman she was… ....
This isn’t to say that I didn’t love my mother or want her attention and approval; it just wasn’t mine to ever have. I suppose I was a tangible reminder of her bad choices as well as the life she’d given up in favor of a tragic fairy tale. My mother had the gift of an amazing voice and might have easily had a career as an opera singer if she’d have followed the guidance of her vocal teacher but of course she was hell bent to do what she wanted because the young simply aren’t able to properly predict the outcome of their choices. She had my sister almost 4 years after I was born during a brief reconciliation with my father, my sister’s name is Debbie. Then mom married Bill, a man who had no interest in the two daughters that preceded the birth of his son, my brother Scott, five years younger than me. That marriage didn’t end any better or last any longer than her first had. Bill was equally as involved with Scott after the divorce as my father had been, not at all. Mom was great at always choosing the wrong men but at least Bill was the last one she actually married. So, except for a few months here and there we lived at my grandmother’s for the first 15 years of my life. ....
Mom had a natural talent for retail. She was fortunate in that she had mentors in the field who trained and guided her into a career that made her happy as a retail manager but it was more her life than we were. She spent long and varied hours working. I remember before I’d turned ten I strongly felt the need of her attention but she was never home and even when she was she wasn’t a maternal figure ever. I was such a sad lonely child where she was concerned. I remember being so desperate for her attention that I wrote her letters, put them in our mailbox because I was too afraid to approach her directly and just hoped that she’d talk to me about them. I’d see her bring them in, look at them but she never said a word, never even acknowledged they existed or I suppose that I did either. Needless to say my self value as an older child and teenager was non-existent. Hell, if the one person in my life who should value me didn’t then no one else could… For all the help my grandmother was to my mother I think mom was often jealous of the relationship that my grandmother and I had. They would get into arguments and mom would drag us out for one of those torturous rides in the car where she’d blow off steam by regaling us kids as to what her life could have been had she not had us. Mercifully my brother and sister were too young for these trips to stick in their memory but they were carved painfully deep into mine. The ride would always end the same, mom would drive by the children’s home, point it out and say, ‘That’s where you kids would be if it weren’t for your grandmother…’ Gee, can’t make a kid feel any less wanted could she? Yes, she was emotionally and verbally abusive and for me that was just the way she was. She was poisonously negative and seemed to feel better about her misery if she could make others/me in particular, just as unhappy as she always seemed to be. Mom gave my sister and brother hell as they got older too but in different ways. She drove my sister to be perfect and was damned cruel if Debbie didn’t measure up. Sadly my sister holds herself and others to that standard on her own today. My brother was forced to be the ‘man of the family’ which meant mom was up his ass and always in his business to the point where it was just un-natural and my brother HATED it. I often wonder if perhaps that had a hand in his being gay even though I do believe someone is born that way. I’m sure it didn’t help him to view women any better at any rate. Of course after living with her all those years after the fact I found it was little wonder our fathers had escaped and not looked back. We had no choice but to live with her, no one who could choose would have stayed. I was never really close to my sister but my brother is still my best friend even to this day. Whenever there were family fights it always paired off to myself and Scott against Mom and Debbie. My sister has grown to be much like her and even though she’d piss and moan about Mom behind her back as we were growing up she now sees her as some sort of saint. I think its guilt. Mom was fantastic at laying loads of that out on all of us. My brother left the state to join the air force to get away from her attention and control right after high school and has only come back to visit.....Got sidetracked – back to where I’d left off… The situation didn’t improve when my dear grandmother first had a heart attack while I was with her at the store when I was 12 or died when I was with her alone but for my brother and sister when I was 13… I can’t begin to tell you how hard that part of my life was. To see someone die is hard on anyone. To see the person you love most in your life die when you’re so young is just scarring. It’s still a painful memory… I can be pretty dispassionate in relating the other instances in my life, way too much heartache and tears spent on them already, but never about her. Grandma had come from a family of 13 and she’d had 7 of her own children so when she’d been alive there was always family nearby, cousins, aunts, uncles. But when she died the divisions that I’d not even had any idea existed were exposed so not only was she gone but the rest of the structure of my life crumbled along with her. The only light that ever shone in my life was then gone and I really was lost. I look back on it all now and as sad as it was I realize that none of us are promised some utopian existence. As a matter of fact from what I’ve learned from others there are very, very few who have something even close to what is portrayed as being ‘normal’ childhoods. We do what we can to take what we’re given and make sense with it. Hopefully we learn along the way and make better choices, or at least adjust our attitude to make it as pleasant or as unpleasant as we think we deserve. When Grandma died it became my responsibility at age 13 to do all that a mother would have done in our home for my brother and sister and our home while mom continued to escape life in the one place she found it easy to succeed. I had no choice in the matter, it had to be done, I was there and no one else was going to do it. Eventually the family sold Grandma’s house, much to my heartbreak, and we moved to a small town, the first time my mother had ever really been out on her own alone… Well, she really wasn’t because instead of grandma she now had me taking care of all the things she couldn’t bother with…....
Showing posts with label vision loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vision loss. Show all posts
Saturday, July 25, 2009
*EEB - Bad Eye Day (03-02-2008)
"Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn in whatever state I am in, therein to be content."..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
~Helen Keller
It would be nice if everyday could be full of fantasy and erotica but the truth is that is but a fraction of my life. Occasionally reality steps in and reminds me that there are things not quite as pleasant.
This has been for me what I call a 'bad eye' week. Sometimes I struggle even with my glasses to read what I find on the computer screen. Thank you ever so much Web 2.0! All those nice subtle shades on top of a white background… And what happened to the concept of making the internet disability friendly? I think the problem is that people make the error in thinking that you either see or you don't, like there's no place in between. Well let me tell you – there is in between.
First, for those who may not know, I have a hereditary eye condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. It's a degenerative disease that I was diagnosed with at the age of nine so this is something I've known about all my life. Although knowing about it and now experiencing it's much increased progression now that I am older is a lot different than I thought it was going to be. I am legally blind by definition that my peripheral vision is less than 20°. Some may not understand what that means so I'll explain. The average person has a visual radius of 180°, so that even when you're looking straight ahead you are able to see a wide view of what's around you without looking directly at it. Also that area where the fields overlap between the eyes gives you your three dimensional vision and your depth perception. Now, try to imagine going through your world without that. Try looking through two paper towel tubes and you'll get the basic idea of what it might be to see how I see. Ah but it doesn't end there! The central vision is affected too! I still have corrected vision of 20/40-50 but now put a sort of sunglass filter at the end of those tubes because the rod and cone in my eyes that process light are dying so when it's dark for me it's REALLY dark and when it's light it's not as light or depending on the type of light – its glaringly bright! (The glare isn't as bad now that I've had cataract surgery in both eyes as it once had been) There are times, such as this, when the central vision is affected. My vision goes between clear to blurry and back again. The harder I try to focus the worse it gets and if I work to hard to get my eyes to work I end up straining them to the point where I can find it even harder to see for days. My doc says this is due to a side condition called Cystic Macular Edema. In other words, being female whenever my body decides to retain fluids my eyes pay the price for it too. I do have drops and those help but they sting a great deal and I have to use them consistently for a couple days before I anticipate this issue to occur to reduce the problem.
Over the years I have been lucky that it progressed very slowly. My family first suspected there was a problem when I would run into things in the house at night. One of the first signs of the disease is night blindness. From the beginning it set me apart from my peers. I couldn't see the stars as easily at night, people who didn't know about my condition just thought I was clumsy because people always believe their own assumptions rather than seeking the truth. It's kept me from participating in many of the normal social activities that most teens engage in. It showed me who were not my friends were when they couldn't be bothered to include me because I was work to assist. It kept me from having the complete freedom that driving affords, it's kept me from doing many things that others without it take for granted. Now, let me tell you what it's given me. It's given me time to be more thoughtful about myself, my life and others. It kept me from going out and engaging in some, not all, of the dangerous behavior that my peers threw them selves into. It made me appreciate the absolute glory of the things around me. It made me choose better friends because often when being out with them I literally had to entrust them with my life by allowing them to guide me. (*grins* Tramping around in state parks, climbing up and down hills, walking over narrow high bridges all in the dead of night seeing only blackness and feeling only the warmth of the hand or arm beside me… Funny how brave you can be when you don't see the dangers surrounding you) There have been disadvantages as well as advantages. A couple good points - I've never had to be the designated driver. I get to use a sort of hands on approach to seeing things in my world – people included. The bad - I have to rely on others to get me where I need to go so I don't have a personal escape other than inside my own head. And worst is the knowledge that my son not only inherited my quick cutting wit, my stubborn streak but also this damned disease.
When I was younger it was easy to know I was going to lose my vision because I had no concept of what that entails. At the time it just meant that I got a lot more attention from my eye doctors and maybe felt a little outside my peers but I was that way with or without the RP. For the longest time I was very lucky in that it didn't progress that rapidly. That has changed. Sometimes I wonder where to find the strength and heart to go blind with grace and dignity. I think that having known so young does give me the advantage of having had the ability to learn to adapt more readily than one might who is stricken suddenly. But there's this limbo that I exist in now. Seeing and not seeing enough to be confusing and even dangerous. I've often said that I had RP, it didn't have me. Is certainly isn't who I am although it has had an impact. It's no different that any other struggle that any of us might face. It won't kill me, at least not directly, although it does sometimes make me feel frighteningly vulnerable. It's a specific ambiguity, if such a thing can be said, which at least means it's something I can focus on overcoming. Time will tell whether I do it well or not. But I take inspiration from Helen Keller's quote above. My interpretation of it is that the beauty in life doesn't end simply because the eyes are no longer able to behold them. We are conduits through which our life passes; it is either minimized or amplified via the lens of our being. Today isn't a day it'll burden my heart – tomorrow is tomorrow, I'll see what that brings as it comes. As with my eyes, some days are easier than others.
~Helen Keller
It would be nice if everyday could be full of fantasy and erotica but the truth is that is but a fraction of my life. Occasionally reality steps in and reminds me that there are things not quite as pleasant.
This has been for me what I call a 'bad eye' week. Sometimes I struggle even with my glasses to read what I find on the computer screen. Thank you ever so much Web 2.0! All those nice subtle shades on top of a white background… And what happened to the concept of making the internet disability friendly? I think the problem is that people make the error in thinking that you either see or you don't, like there's no place in between. Well let me tell you – there is in between.
First, for those who may not know, I have a hereditary eye condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. It's a degenerative disease that I was diagnosed with at the age of nine so this is something I've known about all my life. Although knowing about it and now experiencing it's much increased progression now that I am older is a lot different than I thought it was going to be. I am legally blind by definition that my peripheral vision is less than 20°. Some may not understand what that means so I'll explain. The average person has a visual radius of 180°, so that even when you're looking straight ahead you are able to see a wide view of what's around you without looking directly at it. Also that area where the fields overlap between the eyes gives you your three dimensional vision and your depth perception. Now, try to imagine going through your world without that. Try looking through two paper towel tubes and you'll get the basic idea of what it might be to see how I see. Ah but it doesn't end there! The central vision is affected too! I still have corrected vision of 20/40-50 but now put a sort of sunglass filter at the end of those tubes because the rod and cone in my eyes that process light are dying so when it's dark for me it's REALLY dark and when it's light it's not as light or depending on the type of light – its glaringly bright! (The glare isn't as bad now that I've had cataract surgery in both eyes as it once had been) There are times, such as this, when the central vision is affected. My vision goes between clear to blurry and back again. The harder I try to focus the worse it gets and if I work to hard to get my eyes to work I end up straining them to the point where I can find it even harder to see for days. My doc says this is due to a side condition called Cystic Macular Edema. In other words, being female whenever my body decides to retain fluids my eyes pay the price for it too. I do have drops and those help but they sting a great deal and I have to use them consistently for a couple days before I anticipate this issue to occur to reduce the problem.
Over the years I have been lucky that it progressed very slowly. My family first suspected there was a problem when I would run into things in the house at night. One of the first signs of the disease is night blindness. From the beginning it set me apart from my peers. I couldn't see the stars as easily at night, people who didn't know about my condition just thought I was clumsy because people always believe their own assumptions rather than seeking the truth. It's kept me from participating in many of the normal social activities that most teens engage in. It showed me who were not my friends were when they couldn't be bothered to include me because I was work to assist. It kept me from having the complete freedom that driving affords, it's kept me from doing many things that others without it take for granted. Now, let me tell you what it's given me. It's given me time to be more thoughtful about myself, my life and others. It kept me from going out and engaging in some, not all, of the dangerous behavior that my peers threw them selves into. It made me appreciate the absolute glory of the things around me. It made me choose better friends because often when being out with them I literally had to entrust them with my life by allowing them to guide me. (*grins* Tramping around in state parks, climbing up and down hills, walking over narrow high bridges all in the dead of night seeing only blackness and feeling only the warmth of the hand or arm beside me… Funny how brave you can be when you don't see the dangers surrounding you) There have been disadvantages as well as advantages. A couple good points - I've never had to be the designated driver. I get to use a sort of hands on approach to seeing things in my world – people included. The bad - I have to rely on others to get me where I need to go so I don't have a personal escape other than inside my own head. And worst is the knowledge that my son not only inherited my quick cutting wit, my stubborn streak but also this damned disease.
When I was younger it was easy to know I was going to lose my vision because I had no concept of what that entails. At the time it just meant that I got a lot more attention from my eye doctors and maybe felt a little outside my peers but I was that way with or without the RP. For the longest time I was very lucky in that it didn't progress that rapidly. That has changed. Sometimes I wonder where to find the strength and heart to go blind with grace and dignity. I think that having known so young does give me the advantage of having had the ability to learn to adapt more readily than one might who is stricken suddenly. But there's this limbo that I exist in now. Seeing and not seeing enough to be confusing and even dangerous. I've often said that I had RP, it didn't have me. Is certainly isn't who I am although it has had an impact. It's no different that any other struggle that any of us might face. It won't kill me, at least not directly, although it does sometimes make me feel frighteningly vulnerable. It's a specific ambiguity, if such a thing can be said, which at least means it's something I can focus on overcoming. Time will tell whether I do it well or not. But I take inspiration from Helen Keller's quote above. My interpretation of it is that the beauty in life doesn't end simply because the eyes are no longer able to behold them. We are conduits through which our life passes; it is either minimized or amplified via the lens of our being. Today isn't a day it'll burden my heart – tomorrow is tomorrow, I'll see what that brings as it comes. As with my eyes, some days are easier than others.
*EEB - Shut Up & Drive (08-18-2007)
Earlier Entry Blog***
I've loved cars for as long as I can remember. I've also loved either the idea or the reality of driving for equally as long. Once upon a time when it was safe to leave the kids in the car while the adults went into the store I would jump into the front seat as soon as I could where I'd immediately begin pretending to drive my younger sister and brother to parts unknown but enthusiastically imagined even though my feet couldn't yet reach the pedals on the floor. (I was a road trip kind of gal even then! *grin*) I spent many happy hours sitting in the front seat rambling roads to anywhere my fertile imagination would take me. I'd watch the beautiful cars and dream of one day owning them, taking care of them, showing them off and showing off in them.
When I finally became of age to learn to drive I did so in a boat of a 1965 Cadillac Sedan Deville! Serious land yacht (and it was purple!) but it had all the most modern of technologies for it's time. (It wasn't new; in fact it was just over ten years old when I was 16 and able to drive legally for the state of Ohio) If any of you are familiar with that car it had the very touchy power assist brakes, the tilting/telescopic steering wheel, the light sensors for the brights on the trim that topped the fenders, the "scan" feature on the radio, primitive power steering and could fit at least twenty people and their luggage! OK, so I'm exaggerating but not by much! This beast had a 472 big block and would run like a bat outta hell if you could manage to keep it on the road swinging on that steering wheel because the steering was so loose you looked like you were dancing with the car to get it to stay straight on the road! And Lord help you the first time you had to touch those damned brakes! You really were going to stop on a dime and you were going to need the change to buy new underwear because you'd soiled the ones you were wearing! Even though I learned to drive in that car at 16, I wasn't destined to get my license right away. My mom was a single parent, even though in those dark ages, I took drivers education through the school I wasn't able to go to the driving instruction lessons because they were scheduled on Saturdays. My mom always had to work and my getting my license wasn't as imperative to her as it had been for me. Does that mean that I didn't drive because I wasn't legal? NOT ON YOUR LIFE!!! Mom got rid of the grape monster after it had been stolen and stripped bare and left on cinder blocks and got a 1969 Chevy Impala. Oh what fun I had in that car! It had a 327 small block and my brother, who'd just started learning to tinker around with cars, built the top half of the engine as funds for a young man would permit. Mom never knew how many sets of keys I'd had made to that car or just how far and wide my travels took me along with anyone else who wanted to go and had the money for gas. (I didn't eat lunch so I could put that money into precious fuel) Mom also had a baby blue conversion Ford Econoline van, that was fun too but it didn't have the kick that the Impala had. Yep, mom would take off for work, I'd grab my set of keys and off my friends and I would go. She found out a few times that I had keys, even took them from me but I always had a backup. *grin* When I turned 18 I was at the license bureau taking my test - getting myself legal finally. That just made me worse! We lived in a boring little rural town, New Carlisle, Ohio, where the nearest life existed about 20 or so miles away in Springfield. I would drive that Impala on this hilly twisting back road to the big city and get there in less than 15 minutes. My brother eventually took his natural talents to the Joint Vocational School in Springfield where I was so proud to find out that he'd brag to his motor head friends that his sister could out drive any of them. And I really could! You can ask him! *grin* I'm sort of an oddity among women. Not that there aren't others like me out there who have the same natural affinities for this but we are a rare breed. I anticipated the road, felt the road through the car and the cars responses. I'm directionally literate and find it pretty hard to get lost which is another reason why I feel I was born to drive. I habitually hydroplaned that Impala, actually went airborne hill hopping just to get that tickle in mine and my passenger's stomachs. Oh yes, I was a reckless teen but then I was typical – I thought I was invincible.
My mom had gotten us each an insurance policy when we'd been born and the deal had always been that as soon as we were of age, working and could buy our own policies, we could cash the old one in and use it for whatever we wanted. It hadn't been for much, $1000, but I'd always known that I was buying my own car with mine. Oh and I did too! My first love in a car and a huge mistake all at once. The money was burning a hole in my pocket and I scoured the Tradin Post for weeks before running across the ad for a 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo. Oh what a dream she was! Black as night with an electric sun roof, plush burgundy interior, swivel captain seats, console with king/queen shifter, and under the hood was a roarin 454 big block. I should have known that she was too good to be true but I fell in love the moment I saw her. I have always and still now have a soft spot in my heart for the Monte Carlo. How could you not love those body lines? My dream car would be a 1987 Monte Carlo SS Aero Coupe, double induction hood, sort of like the style on the new Trans Am, in a flashy red with black interior, gold accents and a built 427 under the hood… *sigh* (Or I sure wouldn't turn down a cherry red Chevy SSR either! A gorgeous machine! *wink*) I've loved the Monte Carlo with a passion since and no matter what I'm doing they always catch my eye and make my heart skip a beat. But that black beauty broke my heart. My brother had warned me not to go out looking at cars unless he was with me. Oh I know it was because he wanted to prevent me from buying something he's end up having to work on if it wasn't what it should have been but when I wanted to go see this one he was no where to be found. I felt panicked because the woman selling it had someone else looking at it and I knew that if I didn't jump on it I would lose it. I was 19, impulsive and far too naïve for my own good. Besides, what the hell could my brother detect that I couldn't I reasoned. So my mom took me to see her. Hindsight being 20/20 I should have let that one go but I was captured by her other obvious charms. I did learn a few valuable lessons… 1) Don't buy a used car that hasn't been gone over by someone who knows cars better than you think you do. 2) Even if it looks fantastic there's gotta be something wrong with it if the seller is willing to take less just to get rid of it. 3) Fifty weight oil covers a world of sins when it comes to the sounds a spun bearing makes…
There was the problem. I paid the woman, got the title, got her home where my brother proceeded to rip my ass for buying it without him being there. Of course I was resentful because when I'd needed him to be there he hadn't been anywhere around. The next day, heart breaking, I tried to undo the damage. I called the woman who'd sold it to me to get my money back. She wasn't reachable. Seems her and her boyfriend had left the state that morning on my dime. Though I didn't really find that out till I'd shown up for court after filing in small claims hoping to get my money back. Needless to say, I never did. I won but what good is that when she didn't bother to show up and she wasn't even in Ohio anymore? I'd spent all I had on the car so I didn't have the money to have the engine either rebuilt or replaced. My brother had me spooked so bad telling me if I dared drive it at all that it was going to throw a piston right through the side of the block and out the fender so I parked it in the driveway and let it sit without driving it for months. I'd often go out into the car, sit in it and cry because it was just a sin that such a machine should be wasted sitting still and there was nothing I could do about it.
My mom had gotten rid of the Impala and had lost the van to the repo man when she'd injured her back at work and was unable to pay the loan on it so between her and I we had to drive an ugly little Vega wagon back and forth to work. Still ever the lead foot, I could ping that little tin can pretty good up and down that old country road back and forth from home to work. That is until that fateful day in August when I'd decided on a whim to run back home in the time I had between when I got off work to when I had to go pick my mom up from her job. Another lesson to learn… Bald tires have no traction and they are especially useless when you hit fresh tar and gravel at 70+ mph! I was on the last leg home when I came over a hill and hit that fresh stone. The back swung to the right, I compensated but the front right tire blew and I went nose first into a six foot deep and wide drainage ditch. The car flipped end over nose and then rolled, they tell me, a couple times sideways till it landed right side up, nose in ditch facing back towards the road. Now let me tell you just how very lucky I am to be here today… I didn't wear seat belts then and again I'm told, in this one instance that may have been what saved my life. I remember that as the car rolled sideways I was freefalling inside the car like tumbling inside a dryer, rolling across the emergency brake on the console and into the passenger seat. At one point my head went out the side passenger window, hitting mud. The resilient ground bounced my head back into the car just before the top of the car would have come down and crushed my head. I remember hearing the crush of the metal behind my head right after I'd bounce inward again. When the car stopped and I opened my eyes all the windows had been popped out of the car and the top was totally bent sideways. There is a humorous side – when I realized what had just happened I looked around and I began to cry pitifully. There was someone running down to me from the road telling me that an ambulance had been called and was on their way. I kept crying and when the paramedics got there they started asking me if I was hurt. I remember telling them that I was ok, I could get out of the car myself if they'd just let me, I didn't feel any major pain. THEY so?Easy answer in my mind, when my mom saw the car SHE was going to kill me! She didn't obviously but at that moment I didn't know she wouldn't. I really was very lucky, I escaped with nothing more than being covered in mud, bruised horribly like someone had beat me and a set of stitches across my backside from having slide across that emergency brake. I also became a hell of a lot more of a cautious driver after that incident.
Eventually, when I finally realized that there was not going to be some sudden windfall of money that would allow me to make the needed repairs I sadly sold my Monte for $500. (I also thought of killing my brother when a couple months later after getting my tax return he pointed out that if I hadn't sold her, which he had harped on me to do because he wasn't going to work on it, I could have used the return to get another engine. Grrr!!! Not that I think he wouldn't have put it in for me if I'd been able to get it but I think he still wanted to punish me for getting it without him being there in the first place. Not like he ever worked on it anyway but the point was moot by then. It had been worse for it to sit there tormenting me - a constant reminder that I couldn't be out driving her and there was nothing I could do to fix her either. Every other aspect of the car was perfect. It had only been that damned engine!
I had some other beaters along the way, a couple more Montes in fact but they were sadly lacking in the class that first one had even though they at least ran! It wasn't until 1987 that I felt like I'd finally gotten my dream car. An older friend of my brother had a constant turn over of cars that he'd buy, redo in one form or another, drive them a short time then sell them so he could be on to a new project. Oh that man put together some gorgeous rides! I was friends with both him and his wife so when they had problems and she'd left him I'd spent a lot of time talking to him and her on the phone trying to get them to work things out. It was during that time that he'd decided to put together a 1982 Monte Carlo. As soon as he'd told me his plans I told him I was going to buy it from him. That's how this car was put together specifically with me in mind. He'd consult me on what he was doing and asked me what I'd like. He took out the six cylinder and put in a 350, put a shift kit in the transmission, popped and filled the trunk lock, added a Hurst spoiler to the back, shaved and filled all the emblems, put in a toggle for the trunk, power antenna and had the hood louvered. I think he had it painted blue to match my eyes. *wink* She was my baby. Of course not every thing that could have been done was because we all had limited incomes so we did what we could afford. I bought the car for $3000 but she was worth so much more to me. I used any excuse I could to drive that car anywhere I could. *grin* And I should say now that by then I'd gotten married and my husband was not allowed to drive my car unless under dire emergencies. I figured we'd bought him two new cars since we'd been married so he didn't need to touch mine. Besides, he was safer in his economy cars, mine was too much for him to handle. As I said, she wasn't perfect. When Mike had changed out the engine he'd not changed any of the suspension or steering components so I had to be extra cautious of dips in the road which cause the wheel well to slam down on the suspension. Within the first year I'd put almost another $2000 in replacing that as well as new shocks and tires. I loved the looks and comments I got with that car. No matter where I'd go people would crane their necks to get a look…
Now, the not so nice part of my story… There has always been something lurking on the edge of my passion for cars and driving… When I was nine years old I was diagnosed with a genetic vision disorder called Retinitis Pigmentosa. The best way to describe it is that it's a reduction of the circulation in the eye. Just like any other cell in the body those in the eyes produce waste that has to be removed. Unfortunately for those of us with RP the waste isn't removed fast enough so that eventually a plaque builds up on the rods, which process light for night vision, and cones, which process light for day vision, of the retina and causes them to atrophy and die. RP is a fickle thing. It can progress very slowly or rapidly and differently for no apparent reason. There is no cure and it does lead to eventual blindness by reducing visual fields and the ability to process light and images, though thankfully, not usually total black blindness as most people would imagine it to be. Most with RP are still able to read with assistive devices and hold jobs in the workforce but they will use some sort of assistance, more so as the disease progresses. The first indications were when I was little I'd walk into things in a dark room because I couldn't see them. The night vision is the first to be affected. Because of this I never drove at night. Of course when I was a teen I thought this was the most horrendous injustice there could have been and spend plenty of time throwing myself pity parties. Again with that gift of hindsight I realize that not being able to drive at night most likely kept me from getting into trouble of one kind or another that was a bit harder to find in broad daylight. It also meant that I had to chose my friends more carefully because even if I weren't driving someone else was and I had to literally trust the people I was with to be my eyes if I was with them at night. Of course teens want their independence which means I felt isolated even more at times because sometimes those friends simply didn't want the responsibility of looking out for me. I think that's why my ability to have that freedom that driving gave me, even if it were only during the day, was oh so valuable to me.
As I got older more of my daylight vision was becoming affected. I began to drive less. Mostly out of the fear of what I might miss more than what I could no longer actually see. Common sense ruling out, if I wasn't comfortable with the conditions of the day then I wasn't driving. As much as I loved driving I loved living more. I hated that this disease was stealing this love of mine away from me. The Monte sat for longer periods of time in the garage. The paint was dying, the exhaust needed replacing and I simply couldn't afford to do anything but watch her suffer. The only reason I didn't sell her then was that I couldn't let her go and she did come in handy when my husband's car had to have work done on it so he'd have to drive her, still as gently as a baby, during those times. During her dormancy my mother passed away. My brother, sister and I got some money from the estate and after a time I decided to bring my girl back to glory. I had a custom exhaust put on her, new brakes all around, new headliner to replace the one falling down, and last but not least, a much needed and better paint job. Again she was gorgeous! We were taking her to cruise-ins now and showing her off. I'd never had the money to put into glaming up much more than the interior and exterior so under the hood didn't look like a jewel but she ran with all she had when I'd step into it. *grin* In the time that I owned her, from May of 1987 till March of 2003 I put just under 20,000 miles on her and she showed that she'd been loved. Maybe it's because she looked like such a jewel that again it broke my heart to have her sit in the garage. My husband, though a good man was never into cars. My brother had long since moved to another state so I no longer had him to share and feed my passion for cars. So in a decision that I regret every moment I decided to sell my beauty. I don't think I was all that serious to begin with. That's why I was asking $5000 for a car that was over 20 years old and still had some major flaws to be taken care of. I also hadn't foreseen how that body style in all the GM makes would become so popular and that so many of the young men where salivating to get their hands on one and mine was a big prize at that price. So I sold her to a young man who I was later told tried to pass himself off as being the one who put her together. Guess he hadn't counted on a woman taking her car to cruise-ins over the years so others going the circuit knew where she came from and who had loved her so.You may ask why I find it so important to be telling you this story… Because I know that some of you understand my passion for the cars we love and all they represent to our life. They are so much more than transportation. They're extensions of whom and what we are; they're our art, our power, our freedom and all on wheels which makes them a portable history of our life. I also tell you this because there's a thief who has stolen that from me. My passion remains but I no longer am able to see well enough to drive at all. It's like a piece of who I am has been wiped out along with my sight and I ache from the hollowness that remains. I still persuade my husband to go to cruise ins but it's not the same without having something to show off and oh what I'd give to have that again, even if I wasn't able to be the one behind the wheel anymore. Seeing a Monte Carlo now still tugs at my heart but it also reminds me of what I'm missing. Most of all I tell you this because this disease still exists. It's still robbing me and others of the loves we have and the dreams we once dreamed. I still dream of driving to those far away places in a glorious machine that others envy but I'm afraid they're only that now, dreams. If by chance this may have touched a kindred heart then please, just a request if you will – help put an end to this thief, give a donation, anything you'd care to give on behalf of the love of cars and the joy and freedom they bring, please do so at http://www.blindness.org/
I've loved cars for as long as I can remember. I've also loved either the idea or the reality of driving for equally as long. Once upon a time when it was safe to leave the kids in the car while the adults went into the store I would jump into the front seat as soon as I could where I'd immediately begin pretending to drive my younger sister and brother to parts unknown but enthusiastically imagined even though my feet couldn't yet reach the pedals on the floor. (I was a road trip kind of gal even then! *grin*) I spent many happy hours sitting in the front seat rambling roads to anywhere my fertile imagination would take me. I'd watch the beautiful cars and dream of one day owning them, taking care of them, showing them off and showing off in them.
When I finally became of age to learn to drive I did so in a boat of a 1965 Cadillac Sedan Deville! Serious land yacht (and it was purple!) but it had all the most modern of technologies for it's time. (It wasn't new; in fact it was just over ten years old when I was 16 and able to drive legally for the state of Ohio) If any of you are familiar with that car it had the very touchy power assist brakes, the tilting/telescopic steering wheel, the light sensors for the brights on the trim that topped the fenders, the "scan" feature on the radio, primitive power steering and could fit at least twenty people and their luggage! OK, so I'm exaggerating but not by much! This beast had a 472 big block and would run like a bat outta hell if you could manage to keep it on the road swinging on that steering wheel because the steering was so loose you looked like you were dancing with the car to get it to stay straight on the road! And Lord help you the first time you had to touch those damned brakes! You really were going to stop on a dime and you were going to need the change to buy new underwear because you'd soiled the ones you were wearing! Even though I learned to drive in that car at 16, I wasn't destined to get my license right away. My mom was a single parent, even though in those dark ages, I took drivers education through the school I wasn't able to go to the driving instruction lessons because they were scheduled on Saturdays. My mom always had to work and my getting my license wasn't as imperative to her as it had been for me. Does that mean that I didn't drive because I wasn't legal? NOT ON YOUR LIFE!!! Mom got rid of the grape monster after it had been stolen and stripped bare and left on cinder blocks and got a 1969 Chevy Impala. Oh what fun I had in that car! It had a 327 small block and my brother, who'd just started learning to tinker around with cars, built the top half of the engine as funds for a young man would permit. Mom never knew how many sets of keys I'd had made to that car or just how far and wide my travels took me along with anyone else who wanted to go and had the money for gas. (I didn't eat lunch so I could put that money into precious fuel) Mom also had a baby blue conversion Ford Econoline van, that was fun too but it didn't have the kick that the Impala had. Yep, mom would take off for work, I'd grab my set of keys and off my friends and I would go. She found out a few times that I had keys, even took them from me but I always had a backup. *grin* When I turned 18 I was at the license bureau taking my test - getting myself legal finally. That just made me worse! We lived in a boring little rural town, New Carlisle, Ohio, where the nearest life existed about 20 or so miles away in Springfield. I would drive that Impala on this hilly twisting back road to the big city and get there in less than 15 minutes. My brother eventually took his natural talents to the Joint Vocational School in Springfield where I was so proud to find out that he'd brag to his motor head friends that his sister could out drive any of them. And I really could! You can ask him! *grin* I'm sort of an oddity among women. Not that there aren't others like me out there who have the same natural affinities for this but we are a rare breed. I anticipated the road, felt the road through the car and the cars responses. I'm directionally literate and find it pretty hard to get lost which is another reason why I feel I was born to drive. I habitually hydroplaned that Impala, actually went airborne hill hopping just to get that tickle in mine and my passenger's stomachs. Oh yes, I was a reckless teen but then I was typical – I thought I was invincible.
My mom had gotten us each an insurance policy when we'd been born and the deal had always been that as soon as we were of age, working and could buy our own policies, we could cash the old one in and use it for whatever we wanted. It hadn't been for much, $1000, but I'd always known that I was buying my own car with mine. Oh and I did too! My first love in a car and a huge mistake all at once. The money was burning a hole in my pocket and I scoured the Tradin Post for weeks before running across the ad for a 1974 Chevy Monte Carlo. Oh what a dream she was! Black as night with an electric sun roof, plush burgundy interior, swivel captain seats, console with king/queen shifter, and under the hood was a roarin 454 big block. I should have known that she was too good to be true but I fell in love the moment I saw her. I have always and still now have a soft spot in my heart for the Monte Carlo. How could you not love those body lines? My dream car would be a 1987 Monte Carlo SS Aero Coupe, double induction hood, sort of like the style on the new Trans Am, in a flashy red with black interior, gold accents and a built 427 under the hood… *sigh* (Or I sure wouldn't turn down a cherry red Chevy SSR either! A gorgeous machine! *wink*) I've loved the Monte Carlo with a passion since and no matter what I'm doing they always catch my eye and make my heart skip a beat. But that black beauty broke my heart. My brother had warned me not to go out looking at cars unless he was with me. Oh I know it was because he wanted to prevent me from buying something he's end up having to work on if it wasn't what it should have been but when I wanted to go see this one he was no where to be found. I felt panicked because the woman selling it had someone else looking at it and I knew that if I didn't jump on it I would lose it. I was 19, impulsive and far too naïve for my own good. Besides, what the hell could my brother detect that I couldn't I reasoned. So my mom took me to see her. Hindsight being 20/20 I should have let that one go but I was captured by her other obvious charms. I did learn a few valuable lessons… 1) Don't buy a used car that hasn't been gone over by someone who knows cars better than you think you do. 2) Even if it looks fantastic there's gotta be something wrong with it if the seller is willing to take less just to get rid of it. 3) Fifty weight oil covers a world of sins when it comes to the sounds a spun bearing makes…
There was the problem. I paid the woman, got the title, got her home where my brother proceeded to rip my ass for buying it without him being there. Of course I was resentful because when I'd needed him to be there he hadn't been anywhere around. The next day, heart breaking, I tried to undo the damage. I called the woman who'd sold it to me to get my money back. She wasn't reachable. Seems her and her boyfriend had left the state that morning on my dime. Though I didn't really find that out till I'd shown up for court after filing in small claims hoping to get my money back. Needless to say, I never did. I won but what good is that when she didn't bother to show up and she wasn't even in Ohio anymore? I'd spent all I had on the car so I didn't have the money to have the engine either rebuilt or replaced. My brother had me spooked so bad telling me if I dared drive it at all that it was going to throw a piston right through the side of the block and out the fender so I parked it in the driveway and let it sit without driving it for months. I'd often go out into the car, sit in it and cry because it was just a sin that such a machine should be wasted sitting still and there was nothing I could do about it.
My mom had gotten rid of the Impala and had lost the van to the repo man when she'd injured her back at work and was unable to pay the loan on it so between her and I we had to drive an ugly little Vega wagon back and forth to work. Still ever the lead foot, I could ping that little tin can pretty good up and down that old country road back and forth from home to work. That is until that fateful day in August when I'd decided on a whim to run back home in the time I had between when I got off work to when I had to go pick my mom up from her job. Another lesson to learn… Bald tires have no traction and they are especially useless when you hit fresh tar and gravel at 70+ mph! I was on the last leg home when I came over a hill and hit that fresh stone. The back swung to the right, I compensated but the front right tire blew and I went nose first into a six foot deep and wide drainage ditch. The car flipped end over nose and then rolled, they tell me, a couple times sideways till it landed right side up, nose in ditch facing back towards the road. Now let me tell you just how very lucky I am to be here today… I didn't wear seat belts then and again I'm told, in this one instance that may have been what saved my life. I remember that as the car rolled sideways I was freefalling inside the car like tumbling inside a dryer, rolling across the emergency brake on the console and into the passenger seat. At one point my head went out the side passenger window, hitting mud. The resilient ground bounced my head back into the car just before the top of the car would have come down and crushed my head. I remember hearing the crush of the metal behind my head right after I'd bounce inward again. When the car stopped and I opened my eyes all the windows had been popped out of the car and the top was totally bent sideways. There is a humorous side – when I realized what had just happened I looked around and I began to cry pitifully. There was someone running down to me from the road telling me that an ambulance had been called and was on their way. I kept crying and when the paramedics got there they started asking me if I was hurt. I remember telling them that I was ok, I could get out of the car myself if they'd just let me, I didn't feel any major pain. THEY so?Easy answer in my mind, when my mom saw the car SHE was going to kill me! She didn't obviously but at that moment I didn't know she wouldn't. I really was very lucky, I escaped with nothing more than being covered in mud, bruised horribly like someone had beat me and a set of stitches across my backside from having slide across that emergency brake. I also became a hell of a lot more of a cautious driver after that incident.
Eventually, when I finally realized that there was not going to be some sudden windfall of money that would allow me to make the needed repairs I sadly sold my Monte for $500. (I also thought of killing my brother when a couple months later after getting my tax return he pointed out that if I hadn't sold her, which he had harped on me to do because he wasn't going to work on it, I could have used the return to get another engine. Grrr!!! Not that I think he wouldn't have put it in for me if I'd been able to get it but I think he still wanted to punish me for getting it without him being there in the first place. Not like he ever worked on it anyway but the point was moot by then. It had been worse for it to sit there tormenting me - a constant reminder that I couldn't be out driving her and there was nothing I could do to fix her either. Every other aspect of the car was perfect. It had only been that damned engine!
I had some other beaters along the way, a couple more Montes in fact but they were sadly lacking in the class that first one had even though they at least ran! It wasn't until 1987 that I felt like I'd finally gotten my dream car. An older friend of my brother had a constant turn over of cars that he'd buy, redo in one form or another, drive them a short time then sell them so he could be on to a new project. Oh that man put together some gorgeous rides! I was friends with both him and his wife so when they had problems and she'd left him I'd spent a lot of time talking to him and her on the phone trying to get them to work things out. It was during that time that he'd decided to put together a 1982 Monte Carlo. As soon as he'd told me his plans I told him I was going to buy it from him. That's how this car was put together specifically with me in mind. He'd consult me on what he was doing and asked me what I'd like. He took out the six cylinder and put in a 350, put a shift kit in the transmission, popped and filled the trunk lock, added a Hurst spoiler to the back, shaved and filled all the emblems, put in a toggle for the trunk, power antenna and had the hood louvered. I think he had it painted blue to match my eyes. *wink* She was my baby. Of course not every thing that could have been done was because we all had limited incomes so we did what we could afford. I bought the car for $3000 but she was worth so much more to me. I used any excuse I could to drive that car anywhere I could. *grin* And I should say now that by then I'd gotten married and my husband was not allowed to drive my car unless under dire emergencies. I figured we'd bought him two new cars since we'd been married so he didn't need to touch mine. Besides, he was safer in his economy cars, mine was too much for him to handle. As I said, she wasn't perfect. When Mike had changed out the engine he'd not changed any of the suspension or steering components so I had to be extra cautious of dips in the road which cause the wheel well to slam down on the suspension. Within the first year I'd put almost another $2000 in replacing that as well as new shocks and tires. I loved the looks and comments I got with that car. No matter where I'd go people would crane their necks to get a look…
Now, the not so nice part of my story… There has always been something lurking on the edge of my passion for cars and driving… When I was nine years old I was diagnosed with a genetic vision disorder called Retinitis Pigmentosa. The best way to describe it is that it's a reduction of the circulation in the eye. Just like any other cell in the body those in the eyes produce waste that has to be removed. Unfortunately for those of us with RP the waste isn't removed fast enough so that eventually a plaque builds up on the rods, which process light for night vision, and cones, which process light for day vision, of the retina and causes them to atrophy and die. RP is a fickle thing. It can progress very slowly or rapidly and differently for no apparent reason. There is no cure and it does lead to eventual blindness by reducing visual fields and the ability to process light and images, though thankfully, not usually total black blindness as most people would imagine it to be. Most with RP are still able to read with assistive devices and hold jobs in the workforce but they will use some sort of assistance, more so as the disease progresses. The first indications were when I was little I'd walk into things in a dark room because I couldn't see them. The night vision is the first to be affected. Because of this I never drove at night. Of course when I was a teen I thought this was the most horrendous injustice there could have been and spend plenty of time throwing myself pity parties. Again with that gift of hindsight I realize that not being able to drive at night most likely kept me from getting into trouble of one kind or another that was a bit harder to find in broad daylight. It also meant that I had to chose my friends more carefully because even if I weren't driving someone else was and I had to literally trust the people I was with to be my eyes if I was with them at night. Of course teens want their independence which means I felt isolated even more at times because sometimes those friends simply didn't want the responsibility of looking out for me. I think that's why my ability to have that freedom that driving gave me, even if it were only during the day, was oh so valuable to me.
As I got older more of my daylight vision was becoming affected. I began to drive less. Mostly out of the fear of what I might miss more than what I could no longer actually see. Common sense ruling out, if I wasn't comfortable with the conditions of the day then I wasn't driving. As much as I loved driving I loved living more. I hated that this disease was stealing this love of mine away from me. The Monte sat for longer periods of time in the garage. The paint was dying, the exhaust needed replacing and I simply couldn't afford to do anything but watch her suffer. The only reason I didn't sell her then was that I couldn't let her go and she did come in handy when my husband's car had to have work done on it so he'd have to drive her, still as gently as a baby, during those times. During her dormancy my mother passed away. My brother, sister and I got some money from the estate and after a time I decided to bring my girl back to glory. I had a custom exhaust put on her, new brakes all around, new headliner to replace the one falling down, and last but not least, a much needed and better paint job. Again she was gorgeous! We were taking her to cruise-ins now and showing her off. I'd never had the money to put into glaming up much more than the interior and exterior so under the hood didn't look like a jewel but she ran with all she had when I'd step into it. *grin* In the time that I owned her, from May of 1987 till March of 2003 I put just under 20,000 miles on her and she showed that she'd been loved. Maybe it's because she looked like such a jewel that again it broke my heart to have her sit in the garage. My husband, though a good man was never into cars. My brother had long since moved to another state so I no longer had him to share and feed my passion for cars. So in a decision that I regret every moment I decided to sell my beauty. I don't think I was all that serious to begin with. That's why I was asking $5000 for a car that was over 20 years old and still had some major flaws to be taken care of. I also hadn't foreseen how that body style in all the GM makes would become so popular and that so many of the young men where salivating to get their hands on one and mine was a big prize at that price. So I sold her to a young man who I was later told tried to pass himself off as being the one who put her together. Guess he hadn't counted on a woman taking her car to cruise-ins over the years so others going the circuit knew where she came from and who had loved her so.You may ask why I find it so important to be telling you this story… Because I know that some of you understand my passion for the cars we love and all they represent to our life. They are so much more than transportation. They're extensions of whom and what we are; they're our art, our power, our freedom and all on wheels which makes them a portable history of our life. I also tell you this because there's a thief who has stolen that from me. My passion remains but I no longer am able to see well enough to drive at all. It's like a piece of who I am has been wiped out along with my sight and I ache from the hollowness that remains. I still persuade my husband to go to cruise ins but it's not the same without having something to show off and oh what I'd give to have that again, even if I wasn't able to be the one behind the wheel anymore. Seeing a Monte Carlo now still tugs at my heart but it also reminds me of what I'm missing. Most of all I tell you this because this disease still exists. It's still robbing me and others of the loves we have and the dreams we once dreamed. I still dream of driving to those far away places in a glorious machine that others envy but I'm afraid they're only that now, dreams. If by chance this may have touched a kindred heart then please, just a request if you will – help put an end to this thief, give a donation, anything you'd care to give on behalf of the love of cars and the joy and freedom they bring, please do so at http://www.blindness.org/
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