THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, January 21, 1996 TAG: 9601170026
SECTION: REALLIFE PAGE: K5 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: ALEXANDRIA BERGER
LENGTH: Medium: 68 lines
IMAGINE THAT TODAY is Sunday, Jan. 14, 1945. The mayor of New York, Fiorello LaGuardia, is reading the funny papers over radio WNYC. My family, you and I huddle around this talking box, intent on hearing every visual word. Then it happens.
``Oh, God!'' my father yells, turning from the window. ``It's starting to snow. Look at the size of those flakes. We're trapped!''
Looking back on that Sunday, it was no doubt my first inkling of what it's like to be disabled. My father was obsessed with the thought that being stopped dead in a winter storm would kill his ability to function. His worst nightmare was being homebound, which he swore would force him to operate at less than capacity. It meant being handicapped.
My father's obsession with the wet white stuff continued throughout his life. He was the ``snow king,'' of our neighborhood. Armed with his collection of shovels, a snow blower, and supply of De-Icer, he'd venture forth into the elements. At the sign of the first flake, he'd salt down everything in sight. My brother and I would nudge each other. A snowstorm meant only one thing. No school! Then, as now, snow cripples.
Temporarily.
For the disabled, it's different. A part of us always remains ``snowed in.'' As life returns to normal, with the thaw of the emerging sun, we know confinement or limitations will never, magically, disappear.
During the recent snowstorm, I thought about my father's snow removal days. Unlike my father, whose frantic preparation robbed him of his childlike wonder, being physically challenged has provided me with an insight that eluded him as he tunneled through each day. It's given me the chance to recover my own childlike wonder.
From my chair, I watched for hours as the first snow fell silently, swirling and layering the ground with pristine beauty.
When my neighbors arrived, pummeling our back door with a batch of finely crafted snowballs, I took the cue. I put on every piece of ``evening blizzard wear'' I owned, and chose to follow my bliss. My husband panicked. I grabbed my cane to forge into the night. ``No, you're not!'' my husband cried out. ``You're not going out there to break a hip, without me.''
I yelled back, ``OK, but hurry up. You're going to miss the snow.''
There it was! I could touch it. I could taste it. I could smell the cold air, and feel the flakes falling on my face, melting like little jeweled beads on my nose. It was freezing. Within minutes my forging turned into foraging - for warmth. The warm steam of the hydrotherapy pool on the deck floated up to meet the falling snow. ``Let's swim,'' my optimist spouse said.
``Are you out of your mind?'' I replied, my teeth chattering. ``Look at the size of those flakes. It's freezing. I won't fall and break a hip. It'll be death by pneumonia.''
He went into the house, returning moments later draped in a towel. ``This feels great,'' he said, descending into the steaming water.
``I'm losing my muscles,'' I said, as I careened into the door. ``I'll sit in my wheelchair and pretend I'm in Switzerland.''
``Exactly my sentiments,'' he shouted from the pool. ``This is just like being in Switzerland, only better. We don't have to fly home. Be careful going in the house. It's slippery.''
So, when the snow hits the ground, we all become handicapped. I turn on the radio and acknowledge childlike wonder. Unless you're really sure-footed, you could fall and break a hip. As Mayor LaGuardia would have said, ``patience and fortitude.'' MEMO: Write Alexandria Berger, The Imperfect Navigator c/o Real Life, The
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