actual article

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BY G O R D PAY N T E R
P H OTO G R A P H Y BY
C AT H E R I N E C A M P - PAY N T E R
C
lose your eyes because today I would
like you to travel with me as a blind
person. I realize that will make reading this column slightly awkward, but do
your best.
Imagine yourself at a busy airport. As
you await your flight to be called, listen to
the commotion surrounding you. Snippets
of conversations. Maybe the zip of a purse
or carry-on bag.
And the constant announcements of
flights delayed, flights boarding, and every
ten minutes you’ll hear: “Any unattended
baggage will be immediately taken away
and destroyed.”
A word of warning, this would be a poor
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moment to shoot a glance at your spouse.
“No. No, no. Honest, Honey, I don’t think
of you as baggage. Honest. It was just a
coincidence. Honest.”
It is a full, full flight. Which means
you’re probably not going to Winnipeg or
Sudbury.
And as your flight is called, you rise and
stroll past the snaking queue of fellow passengers to the very front of the line. You’re
not the pilot or a member of the crew and
you’re likely not traveling first class, but if
you are blind, you do get to pre-board.
What a wonderful luxury. You have time to
organize your junk in the overhead compartment and settle comfortably into your
seat before the rest of the mob arrives.
On our last trip to London, England,
Catherine and I decided it was high time
we revisited the Tower of London. The
first and only time Catherine had been
there she was 16 and on the first ever high
school summer excursion to Europe. It
was something like sixteen hundred countries in four days. Great price. Anyhow,
that was way, way back in . . .
Well, perhaps for my own safety we best
leave that out. But for what it’s worth,
rumour has it that Catherine was the last
to shake hands with Anne Boleyn.
I was fourteen when my Mum dragged
my brother Michael, my sister Joanne and
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Continued on Page 47 >>
..
ON THE ROAD AGAIN. R
ith
E
GORD & CATHwERINE PAYNaTtion
I s y ou r c l u b , g r o u p o r o r g a n i z
i n n ee d o f a “ li f t ? ”
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myself off to the Tower. I had behaved so terribly on that British
vacation, having wanted to stay home and golf all summer at
Northridge. My Mum forced me to go. And so I decided to make
things miserable for her and everyone.
So as we approached the tourist’s point of entry, I figured Mum
had just had enough and was actually asking about available
accommodations for myself within the Tower.
So on a brilliantly sunny Monday in January, temperature a
balmy seven or eight degrees Celsius, Catherine and I
approached the entranceway to these historic grounds.
It is awe-inspiring. The buildings heavy and ominous. You can’t
help but imagine the terror faced by those imprisoned. The
beheadings, the torture, the fear and the absolute shock and horror that greets you when you reach the box office.
“How MUCH? For two people? I mean I’m not paying for this
tour group over here, ya know. It’s just me and the missus. I’m
not lookin’ to buy the place.”
“Do you have any kind of discount for the blind?” asks
Catherine. “Oh, you do and I acting as his guide would get in
free.”
We joined a tour group; just a mishmash of folks, but the
Beefeater conducting our group was terrific. He was funny, and
had a great ability to play the crowd. He skillfully moved us
along, but at each stop, his graphic and dramatic portrayals of
life and death, mostly death, were riveting. At one point he realized that I was blind and with great ease and sensitivity he
allowed me to feel his Beefeater’s tunic and hat. I decided it was
nothing that I would wear.
Once inside the Tower where the crown jewels were displayed,
my white cane acted like some sort of beacon, drawing in guides
from all over the place.
One in particular, Peter, was thrilled to be my personal escort.
He took tremendous pleasure in explaining the succession of the
monarchy. Peter encouraged me to feel the coats of arms, shields
and emblems that covered the walls and as I did so, he related
the stories behind each monarch’s reign. Over an hour we spent,
from Edward and James, Victoria and Henrys, it was the history
lesson I must have skipped back in grade 10.
Catherine was bored to tears, but has experienced enough of
these moments of incredible human kindness that she stifles her
screams of impatience.
To the vault containing the Crown jewels we proceeded, where
a little conveyor belt slides the gawking tourists past the encased
glittering pieces.
Catherine’s description of the crowns, the rubies and emeralds
and diamonds goes something like “I want that one and that one
and that one and that one. Oh, and that one too.”
Not that I could ever weary of “that one and that one.” But
luckily, just like a knight in shining armour, Peter charges in with
an enormous book that they’ve created for the benefit of blind
visitors.
The book has raised images of all the jewel-encrusted crowns,
goblets and plates on display. I needed but to ask and Peter
flipped to the corresponding page, where my fingertips discovered the rubies and diamonds for myself. The ‘Star of India’,
that’s one nasty paper cut.
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Gord listens to our
guide via the
funnel tube.
Once on a trip to Bermuda, Catherine and
I had the opportunity to experience an
underwater walk. They took us out to an
area of reef where the water was perhaps 12
to 15 feet deep. The guide rigged us up with
these old-fashioned bell helmets. These helmets rested on your shoulders and air is
pumped down to you through an attached
hose. It was a bizarre feeling to have this
water just below your chin and to freely
reach in under the helmet to scratch your
nose or pick your teeth. Or vice versa.
Our guide was more than willing to make
a few adjustments that would allow me to
experience this walk to its fullest. He sets up
a smaller hose that extends from under his
helmet to under mine, and through this hose
we talk back and forth. He was able to guide
me around the coral and described the variety of colourful fish that were visible. We
had to be very careful walking. Slow steps so
as not to stir up the bottom too greatly for
the next tour group. We must have moved
and looked like some sort of horror flick
from the fifties. I half expected at any
moment the giant squid would attack or to
hear my companion say: “The creature from
the black lagoon has been known to summer
here.” At one point, our guide took my right
wrist and moved my hand gently forward
until my fingertips touched something.
“That’s an angel fish. Go ahead, you can
pet her.”
It was unbelievable; my fingers repeatedly
stroked the smooth, firm body of that Angel.
Later, through our hose connection he
says, “I want you to see if you can feel these.
There’s a cluster of little tiny fish right here
amongst this fan of coral.” But before my
fingers reach them, a 14-inch Damselfish
sweeps by and takes a nip at my hand. It
draws blood. We don’t hang around waiting
for the Great White to arrive.
That guide’s efforts took little on his part, but
what a tremendous experience he gave me.
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Dave Levac
M. P. P., Brant
www.davelevac.on.ca
Queen’s Park Office:
Room 251, Legislative Bldg.
Queen’s Park, ON M7A 1A4
Tel: (416) 325-6261
Constituency Office:
96 Nelson Street, Unit 101
Brantford, Ontario N3T 2N1
Tel: (519) 759-0361
E-mail: dlevac.mpp@liberal.ola.org
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EDITION 3
Gord and Catherine visit Stonehenge.
Stonehenge: What was it meant to be?
How did they ever manage to build it?
No longer can you wander freely
among its stones. A shame. But it was a
must if this site was to be preserved for
future generations. An effort by authorities to thwart the petty vandals that had
been chipping bits of the stone off for
their personal keepsakes, or others who
signed their names as if Stonehenge was
nothing more than some ancient wall of
graffiti.
So the tourists, hooked up to their audio
guides walk the perimeter, take their photographs and later say to friends back
home: “Now, that’s Stonehenge. And see in
this picture, there’s this blind guy out here
in the middle of it... Wow.”
With a personal guide I have slipped into
the cordoned off area. I wanted to slow
everything down. I wanted time to absorb
it all. I dragged my opened palm across a
stone; its surface was coarse and hard.
And immense. I had the guide lead me to
the centre of the stones and there I
paused, blind to the onlookers, not speaking, I breathed in the history of six thousand years.
This column has revealed four little
moments from my blind travels. The
wealth of these experiences is immeasurable. They come about because of the genuine caring and kindness of others.
I don’t suggest that after reading this
you all go out and become blind, but I am
forever grateful for the host of people that
blindness has introduced me to and forever thankful for the opportunities that
blindness has provided.
P.S. You can open your eyes now.