Remembering when Others Forget

What is Memorial Day?  I can tell you one thing:  Not a day goes by that I don’t remember my Granddad.  With remembering him, I remember our cribbage games, his stories, his characteristics, his expressions, and of course his service and sacrifice.  I remember the things he taught me about people, life, giving, doing.  I wouldn’t be who I am without him.  My life reflects him.

So why is there one day out of the year to remember people like him?  I’m not really sure.  Maybe because it’s too time-consuming to go to the cemetery more frequently to sing, pray, read, and show appreciation to the great men and women who have gone before us.  Maybe it’s because it’s not feasible to gather extended family more often by the lake to spend time chatting, sharing stories, fishing, eating, and spending quality time together.  Maybe it’s because it’s not easy to put flags up by graves.  Or maybe it’s because without one nationally-recognized day, most people wouldn’t remember at all.

How could you forget?  How could you ignore the sacrifices and the lives of the people who built this nation?  The people who fought to give us freedom?!  The people who gave everything that was asked of them, and often more—often their lives, so that we can live the lives we have.  How could you forget?

Memorial Day isn’t for me—It’s for you who would forget without it.  So please:  Learn about the people who we need to remember, and never forget them.  Our nation—our lives—are a reflection of the sacrifices made by other men and women.  Take Memorial Day to learn about them, and take the rest of the days of the year to remember them.  And don’t you dare forget.

Living with [almost] Constant Pain and Discomfort

I have a really hard time publishing this post.  I don’t want people assuming that I’m sick or weak, or someone you shouldn’t invite on hikes or other adventures.  I don’t write these posts for pity, but I write them for understanding.  So here’s what it’s really like:

First off, I’d like to make sure it’s understood that the pain I live with hasn’t been constant.  This miserable pain and discomfort has been coming and going for about four years.  Then last year the discomfort never left me.  The pain still comes and goes.  As I type, the pain is very present.  It’s a sharp pain in my throat and a sickening feeling in my chest.  I feel it with every breath, and when I walk, bend, lie down, talk, sing, laugh, or move at all.  It exhausts me.

I have found respite from the pain by taking a Proton Pump Inhibitor (a medication like Prevacid), but it hasn’t resolved the discomfort which is almost always present now.  I am awaiting a medical test to investigate the issue further, and so have been required to stop taking the PPI.  I suspect that is why the pain has returned and is so strong.

When it’s bad (like it is now), I find that I talk to myself:

[Lie down in bed.  Feel a wave of extreme discomfort and pain]

“I can do this.  I can do this.”

[Walk to my car and get in.  Start driving.  Feel pain from ‘exerting’ myself]

“I can’t do this.  It’s too much.  I can’t do this.”

When the pain comes, I have a pity party for myself, and then I get on with my life.  Sometimes I cry or complain to the people closest to me, but I don’t spend my days in bed.  I don’t skip work.  I don’t ditch parties or events.  Usually, I don’t even tell people.  How awkward would that be, anyway? 

“Hi, Jenna!  How are you?” 

“Oh, I’m OK, except I’m experiencing excruciating pain right now.”  How in the world would someone respond to that?!  And really, there’s more going on in my life than the pain and discomfort.  I’ll choose to focus on the positives, thank you very much!  When someone asks me how I’m doing, I can honestly say that life is great!  Because it really is—all except for the physical pain.

I’m not the kind of person who will be a spectator when everyone else is having fun.  If there’s a water fight, I’ll be the one with the hose!  OK, OK, I’ll be the one who starts it…  But this discomfort is getting pretty bad.  There are more and more days when I should make the prudent decision to not participate in things that are physically exerting because I pay for it later, sometimes only moments after the fun ends, or even before the fun ends.  That’s what scares me the most:  This pain might be the end of all fun that involves physical energy.

I remember having this pain and discomfort one spring, right before I drove from Utah to Minnesota.  It was horrible.  But then it lessened.  I camped for a night in the Rocky Mountains.  I felt better than I had in a week and I ran everywhere just to feel my lungs work.  It was wonderful!  Having a body that works feels so good!

When you experience recurring pain, you would do anything to make it go away.  And you fear that it never will.  What if the day comes that this discomfort comes and never leaves?  Well, you only live once, and if this is going to be a regular part of my life, I’m going to find a way to live happily with it.  Nothing could happen to me that will keep me from living my life.  Nothing.

Being the Granddaughter of a Hero

From the time I was about 3 years old, Granddad lived in a small house on my family’s farm.  I spent every day at his place.  My mom would even say that his house was my first home, and my parent’s house was my second home!  I could write all day about how Granddad was the greatest man I’ve known, or about how he and I had a special relationship, but I’ll try to keep my thoughts centered around his service in the Army Air Corps in World War II.

Granddad (along with his two brothers, Jim and John) served in the military during WWII.  Granddad was the Engineer and Top Turret Gunner on a crew that flew a B17 heavy bomber.  In 1944 he married my Gran, who he met in England.  Two weeks after their wedding, in May of 1944, Granddad was shot down over Denmark.  Their plane made a crash landing, and the crew was captured.

Granddad's mother would wait two months to hear on the radio that her son was alive, and four months to be formally informed that he was a Prisoner of War.  I don’t know how long it took for Gran to know of her new husband’s fate.  These are the women from whom I have come.  These are strong and brave women, and I hope and pray that I can be like them.

When the plane came down, Granddad thought quickly and lowered the landing gear half way.  When the plane belly-landed in a field, the landing gear acted as a sort of shockabsorber.  The crew was captured and sent on tightly-packed train cars to prison camps.  Granddad ended up in Stalag Luft IV.  He was 25 years old and made a room leader in the camp where all the younger men looked up to him.  Men and women were definitely made from a seriously sturdy stock in those days.  Granddad was in the camp until February of 1945 when he and 8000 other men were forced to walk 630 miles in 83 days with no food or shelter provided.  This death march is known as the Black March.  He credits his upbringing for helping him survive.  Granddad knew that he shouldn’t take his shoes off—the swelling would have made it nearly impossible for him to get them back on.  Growing up he had watched his father chew on a small piece of a tree twig while he worked in the woods.  While on the march Granddad did this and said that it helped sustain his strength (Saylor, p.156).  He was liberated in April of 1945 and sometime after that met his wife and 8 month old son.

Growing up, Granddad and I would talk about a lot of things.  I learned from him that the Red Cross provided decks of cards to the POWs and to pass the time they would play cribbage.  He told me about the time when everybody in camp was getting dysentery and how his mother had taught him that if you ate charcoal it would cure you.  He burned his bread and ate it and never got dysentery.  He taught other prisoners what he had learned from his mother, and saved a lot of lives.

There are things that my Granddad never told me, though.  Like how he weighed 185 pounds when he was captured by the Germans, weighed 130 pounds when he started the 630 mile death march, and how he weighed 115 pounds when he was liberated.  He didn’t share with me how he was only given dried cabbage to eat for the first six weeks of confinement after he was captured.  He never told me about the people he had seen shot and killed in front of him, or how he had to fight to survive the death march. 

Granddad was a gruff, opinionated, straight-forward, intelligent man.  No doubt these personality characteristics were useful during the 11 months he spent as a Prisoner of War.  As his granddaughter, I was among the privileged to see him share his story with students of all ages in our town and the surrounding areas.  There were occasions when people would visit him and record his experiences for books they would write.  Granddad would often declare “freedom isn’t free.”  Nothing could be truer.  Towards the end of his life he would express how the numbers identifying your birth and death aren’t what are important on your gravestone.  He said it was that little dash between the years that meant something.  He said that he lived a full and meaningful life, and he wanted the same for me.  He wanted that for everybody.  I’ve never met a man quite like him, and I don’t expect I’ll ever meet his equal for as long as I live.

The information used for this post was obtained from sites linked in the body of the post, and also from Thomas Saylor's book Long Hard Road: American POWs During World War II, 2007.

When Life Plans Change

When I was younger, this is what I imagined my life would be like by now:  Married with a kid or two.  My husband and I would own a house.  I would have a degree and a few years of experience in the workforce, but I would probably be a stay-at-home mom.  We would have pets.  Life would be predictable and good.

Now I am 27.  I am as single as can be.  I’m 2 online classes away from having my bachelor’s degree.  I have a job.  I live in my twin sister’s basement.  But I've also learned that you can never make plans for the best things in life.

The reasons I love working with teens

Life hasn’t unfolded AT ALL how I expected it would.  I never imagined that I would serve a full-time mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  I never thought I would know three languages.  I never knew that I would be an Americorps member and learn to live and work outdoors building trails.  It never crossed my mind that I would love working with teenagers.  I never planned all the great adventures I’ve experienced while traveling across the country.  I never knew I would meet people so wonderful that would become as dear to me as family.

Wonderful people from my mission

Margaret and Bob

I never knew that Margaret and Bob would all but adopt me when I lived in North Dakota, and that Margaret would become my best friend even though she’s 53 years older than me.  I never knew that I would find a place among the kind people of Askov, Minnesota (look it up, it’s a tiny town and it has some of the state’s most thoughtful people).  I never knew that I would call the woods of St. Croix State Park home—and not because of the cabins, but because of the inclusive nature of the people around whom I found myself being completely comfortable as I am.  I never knew I would learn the true meaning of respect and listening from the amazing examples of people I worked and learned with on the North Shore of Lake Superior.  I never knew I would have a large base of friends in Utah—so large that I can go by myself to an activity and know that I would find people to have fun with, and that I wouldn’t be alone.  I never knew that I would have the kind of friend in South Dakota that I could call in the middle of the night if I needed someone to talk to, and that he could also do the same if he needed.  I never knew that there would be people willing to drive through a blizzard to pick me up and bring me back to North Dakota when I rolled the truck; and a friend who would say to me, “I’m sorry you rolled the truck, but I’m glad you get to stay one more night with me.”  And then to have a family friend drive 100 miles to ND and 100 miles back to bring me home again after the weather had calmed down.  I never knew that when I waited several years to be baptized that at least 100 people would unexpectedly come to show me that they had been waiting with me.  I never knew that a wonderful and generous family would invite me on their family vacation to Nauvoo, Illinois—a place I never would have seen if not for them.  I never knew that I would have friends that meant so much to me that I would cry when I said goodbye to them—not knowing when I would see them next—only to begin laughing and smiling to know that I had friends dear enough to me to make me cry.

Some of the people I shared 'home' with in the woods

Life is about learning and growing.  I may not have reached all of the personal goals I set when I was younger, but I’d say I have definitely learned and grown an awful lot.  I sometimes feel like I’m a little behind, but I never feel like I’ve failed.  And really, I’m not behind.  One day I’ll look back and see the brilliance of it all.  It’s not what I thought it would be, and it’s not what others might think it ought to be, but somehow it’s just right.  No, life isn't at all what I expected it would be when I was a teenager.  It's much, much better.  You can't plan on meeting amazing people.  You can't plan on love or friendship or experiences that mold you.  I consider my life to be truly blessed, and I wouldn't change the path I've traveled on for the world.

To Have a Bizarre Fascination

We’re all individuals, right?  We have our quirks.  There’s no reason to be ashamed.  Our differences make us unique.  Some people spend their lives trying to conform to the standards of “normalcy,” and that’s OK, if it’s important to you.  I, however, will never be able to deny that some specific things interest me.  Fascinate me.  Beckon to me.  And very few things draw my absolute attention like garbage trucks. 

That’s right, you heard me:  Garbage trucks.

I’m not ashamed.  Have you ever seen the way those big trucks extend their mechanical arms and grab the can, then robotically lift it up and empty the trash into the giant thing-a-ma-jig?  COOLEST THING EVER!!!

Now, I have no extreme fascination with robotics, engineering, or refuse.  I just think garbage trucks are cool.  When I was two years-old I thought garbage men were cool.  Every week my twin sister and I would go out and greet the garbage man and watch him empty our garbage cans into the truck and watch the truck mash the garbage.  That was cool, too.  I’m pretty sure he even said, “it’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it.”  By the time I was three or four we moved to the country and we had to haul our garbage to town in the back of the truck.  That was not cool.

I could probably evaluate my life and delve into the deepest corners of my mind in an attempt to figure out just what it is that draws me to garbage trucks, but what’s the use?  I won’t think any more or any less of them.  It’s not like answering the question “why do I have this bizarre fascination” will unlock my deepest personal mysteries and lead to self-discovery, self-mastery, or higher understanding.  I just think garbage trucks are cool.  That’s all there is to it.

If you have any bizarre fascinations, please feel free to share them in the comments!

To Not be a Mother on Mother's Day

My experiences and my perspective are totally my own.  I acknowledge that many others might have different emotions associated with Mother’s Day, but these are mine:

When I was a kid, Mother’s Day was for Mom.  One day I found myself, 19 years old, living alone in North Dakota, 200 miles from Mom.  The day was for her, sure, but I wasn't just thinking about chatting with her on the phone that afternoon.  I sat in church by myself, and an extremely clear notion came to my mind:  I’m a mother—I just don’t have my children with me yet.  And it’s true.  I will have children one day, they will be “mine” and they will probably make me bracelets out of pipe cleaners and plastic beads for Mother’s Day (And I hope I’ll be a big enough person to actually think that the jewelry is beautiful and wear it proudly to church).

So Mother’s Day is for me.

I sometimes get the sense that mothers set themselves apart from women who have not woken up with babies in the middle of the night, or who have never had the magical power to heal owies with kisses.  I might never have babies.  I might adopt older children who sleep through the night (that is, until they sneak out of the house at midnight, and then I’ll have some extra special strong mothering to do).  I might never know what it’s like to give birth or nurse my child.  I might have children who balk at affection, but are in need of a different type of deep and lasting comfort.  Or I might not have any children that I can call “mine.”

I’m 27, single, and “childless,” but I have mothered.  If you tell me that I haven’t been a strong and permanent influence on my nephews, just listen to three year old Caleb call me Super Auntie.  If you tell me that all the teenagers I've worked with called me “mom” for no reason, I’ll find no less than 20 young people who can tell you that I was important to them.

When people say things like, “I have a sense about these things, I’m a mom.”  Or, “if you need someone to talk to, I’m good at it.  I’m a mom,” I struggle to not take offense.  I have so many of the same skills that these proud mothers do, but I can't claim the same title.  My maternal aptitude is here, but my children are not.  In so much of my work with adolescents, I have received feedback that I have a “calming presence, much like a mother,” and that’s because I am a mom.  I just don’t have my children with me yet.

I don’t expect special recognition on Mother’s Day.  I’m not even sure I want flowers, chocolates, or pictures or jewelry made by children.  I wouldn't mind it, though, if women weren't categorized by those who have children, and those who do not.  Because where do I belong?  I don’t have my very own children yet, but I do have children, and I have mothered.  Am I both?  Maybe I am.

To See

There are times when I look, and there are times when I see.  I don’t very often stop to see the beauty and mystery of the mountains that surround me, but I really saw the majesty of my surroundings at the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota.  I’m still learning to use my vision.  It’s a priceless gift that many people weren’t given, and one that some of us might even lose in our lifetimes.  Helen Keller is a person who saw things with her fingertips, and understood with her creativity and intellect.  She is the author of one of the most beautiful writings I have ever read.  I hope that you will take the time to read all of it, and by so doing, commit yourselves to see the world from a new perspective.  I know I will.

Three Days to See

by Helen Keller 

I

All of us have read thrilling stories in which the hero had only a limited and specified time to live. Sometimes it was as long as a year; sometimes as short as twenty-four hours. But always we were interested in discovering just how the doomed man chose to spend his last days or his last hours. I speak, of course, of free men who have a choice, not condemned criminals whose sphere of activities is strictly delimited.

Such stories set us thinking, wondering what we should do under similar circumstances. What events, what experiences, what associations, should we crowd into those last hours as mortal beings? What happiness should we find in reviewing the past, what regrets?

Sometimes I have thought it would be an excellent rule to live each day as if we should die to-morrow. Such an attitude would emphasize sharply the values of life. We should live each day with a gentleness, a vigor, and a keenness of appreciation which are often lost when time stretches before us in the constant panorama of more days and months and years to come. There are those, of course, who would adopt the epicurean motto of 'Eat, drink, and be merry,' but most people would be chastened by the certainty of impending death.

In stories, the doomed hero is usually saved at the last minute by some stroke of fortune, but almost always his sense of values is changed. He becomes more appreciative of the meaning of life and its permanent spiritual values. It has often been noted that those who live, or have lived, in the shadow of death bring a mellow sweetness to everything they do.

Most of us, however, take life for granted. We know that one day we must die, but usually we picture that day as far in the future. When we are in buoyant health, death is all but unimaginable. We seldom think of it. The days stretch out in an endless vista. So we go about our petty tasks, hardly aware of our listless attitude toward life.

The same lethargy, I am afraid, characterizes the use of all our facilities and senses. Only the deaf appreciate hearing, only the blind realize the manifold blessings that lie in sight. Particularly does this observation apply to those who have lost sight and hearing in adult life. But those who have never suffered impairment of sight or hearing seldom make the fullest use of these blessed faculties. Their eyes and ears take in all sights and sounds hazily, without concentration and with little appreciation. It is the same old story of not being grateful for what we have until we lose it, of not being conscious of health until we are ill.

I have often thought it would be a blessing if each human being were stricken blind and deaf for a few days at some time during his early adult life. Darkness would make him more appreciative of sight; silence would teach him the joys of sound.

Now and then I have tested my seeing friends to discover what they see. Recently I was visited by a very good friend who had just returned from a long walk in the woods, and I asked her what she had observed. 'Nothing in particular,' she replied. I might have been incredulous had I not been accustomed to such responses, for long ago I became convinced that the seeing see little.

How was it possible, I asked myself, to walk for an hour through the woods and see nothing worthy of note? I who cannot see find hundreds of things to interest me through mere touch. I feel the delicate symmetry of a leaf. I pass my hands lovingly about the smooth skin of a silver birch, or the rough, shaggy bark of a pine. In spring I touch the branches of trees hopefully in search of a bud, the first sign of awakening Nature after her winter's sleep. I feel the delightful, velvety texture of a flower, and discover its remarkable convolutions; and something of the miracle of Nature is revealed to me. Occasionally, if I am very fortunate, I place my hand gently on a small tree and feel the happy quiver of a bird in full song. I am delighted to have the cool waters of a brook rush through my open fingers. To me a lush carpet of pine needles or spongy grass is more welcome than the most luxurious Persian rug. To me the pageant of seasons is a thrilling and unending drama, the action of which streams through my finger tips.

At times my heart cries out with longing to see all these things. If I can get so much pleasure from mere touch, how much more beauty must be revealed by sight. Yet, those who have eyes apparently see little. The panorama of color and action which fills the world is taken for granted. It is human, perhaps, to appreciate little that which have and to long for that which we have not, but it is a great pity that in the world of light the gift of sight is used only as a mere convenience rather than as a means of adding fullness to life.

If I were the president of a university I should establish a compulsory course in 'How to Use Your Eyes'. The professor would try to show his pupils how they could add joy to their lives by really seeing what passes unnoticed before them. He would try to awake their dormant and sluggish faculties.

II

Perhaps I can best illustrate by imagining what I should most like to see if I was given the use of my eyes, say, for just three days. And while I am imagining, suppose you, too, set your mind to work on the problem of how to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had only three days to see. If with the oncoming darkness if the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?

I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you into the night that loomed before you.

If, by some miracle, I were granted three seeing days, to be followed by a relapse into darkness, I should divide the period into three parts.

On the first day, I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my dear teacher, Mrs. Ann Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely to see the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

I do not know what it is to see into the heart of a friend through that 'window of the soul,' the eye. I can only 'see' through my finger tips the outline of a face. I can detect laughter, sorrow, and many other obvious emotions. I know my friends from the feel of their faces. But I cannot really picture their personalities, of course, through the thoughts they express to me, through whatever of their actions are revealed to me. But I am denied that deeper understanding of them which I am sure would come through sight of them, through watching their reactions to various expressed and circumstances, through noting the immediate and fleeting reactions of their eyes and countenance.

Friends who are near to me I know well, because through the months and years they reveal themselves to me in all their phases; but of casual friends I have only an incomplete impression, an impression gained from handclasp, from spoken words which I take from their lips with my finger tips, or which they tap into the palm of my hand.

How much easier, how much more satisfying it is for you who can see to grasp quickly the essential qualities of another person by watching the subtleties of expression, the quiver of a muscle, the flutter of a hand. But does it ever occur to you to use your sight to see the inner nature of a friend or acquaintance? Do not most of you seeing people grasp casually the outward features of a face and let it go at that?

For instance, can you describe accurately the faces of five good friends? Some of you can, but many cannot. As an experiment, I have questioned husbands of long standing about the color of their wives' eyes, and often they express embarrassed confusion and admit that they so not know. And, incidentally, it is a chronic complaint of wives that their husbands do not notice new dresses, new hats, and changes in household arrangements.

The eyes of seeing persons soon become accustomed to the routine of their surroundings, and they actually see only the startling and spectacular. But even in viewing the most spectacular sights the eyes are lazy. Court records reveal every day how inaccurately 'eyewitnesses' see. A given event will be 'seen' in several different ways by as many witnesses. Some see more than others, but few see everything that is within the range of their vision.

Oh, the things that I should see if I had the power of sight for just three days!

The first day would be a busy one. I should call to me all my dear friends and look long into their faces, imprinting upon my mind the outward evidence of the beauty that is within them. I should let my eyes rest, too, on the face of a baby, so that I could catch a vision of the eager, innocent beauty which precedes the individuals consciousness of the conflicts which life develops.

And I should like to look into the loyal, trusting eyes of my dogs - the grave, canny little Scottie, Darkie, and the stalwart, understanding Great Dane, Helga, whose warm, tender, and playful friendships are so comforting to me.

On that busy first day I should also view the small simple things of my home. I want to see the warm colors in the rugs under my feet, the pictures on the walls, the intimate trifles that transform a house into a home. My eyes would rest respectfully on the books in raised type which I have read, but they would be more eagerly interested in the printed books which seeing people can read, for during the long night of my life the books I have read and those which have been read to me have built themselves into a great shining lighthouse, revealing to me the deepest channels of human life and the human spirit.

In the afternoon of that first seeing day, I should take a long walk in the woods and intoxicate my eyes on the beauties of the world of Nature, trying desperately to absorb in a few hours the vast splendor which is constantly unfolding itself to those who can see. On the way home from my woodland jaunt my path would lie near a farm so that I might see the patient horses ploughing in the field (perhaps I should see only a tractor!) and the serene content of men living close to the soil. And I should pray for the glory of a colorful sunset.

When dusk had fallen, I should experience the double delight of being able to see by artificial light, which the genius of man has created to extend the power of his sight when Nature decrees darkness.

In the night of that first day of sight, I should not be able to sleep, so full would be my mind of the memories of the day.

III

The next day - the second day of sight - I should arise with the dawn and see the thrilling miracle by which night is transformed into day. I should behold with awe the magnificent panorama of light with which the sun awakens the sleeping earth.

This day I should devote to a hasty glimpse of the world, past and present. I should want to see the pageant of man's progress, the kaleidoscope of the ages. How can so much compressed into one day? Through the museums, of course. Often I have visited the New York Museum of Natural History to touch with my hands many of the objects there exhibited, but I have longed to see with my eyes the condensed history of the earth and its inhabitants displayed there - animals and the races of men pictured in their native environment; gigantic carcasses of dinosaurs and mastodons which roamed the earth long before man appeared, with his tiny stature and powerful brain, to conquer the animal kingdom; realistic presentations of the processes of evolution in animals, and in the implements which man has used to fashion for himself a secure home on this planet; and a thousand and one other aspects of natural history.

I wonder how many readers of this article have viewed this panorama of the face of living things as pictured in that inspiring museum. Many, of course, have not had the opportunity, but, I am sure that many who have had the opportunity have not made use of it. There, indeed, is a place to use your eyes. You who can see can spend many fruitful days there, but I, with my imaginary three days of sight, could only take a hasty glimpse, and pass on.

My next stop would be the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for just as the Museum of Natural History reveals the material aspects of the world, so does the Metropolitan show the myriad facets of the human spirit. Throughout the history of humanity the urge to artistic expression has been almost as powerful as the urge for food, shelter, and procreation. And here, in the vast chambers of the Metropolitan Museum, is unfolded before me the spirit of Egypt, Greece, and Rome, as expressed in their art. I know well through my hands the sculptured gods and goddesses of the ancient Nile-land. I have a few copies of Parthenon friezes, and I have sensed the rhythmic beauty of charging Athenian warriors. Apollos and Venuses and the winged victory of Samothrace are friends of my finger tips. The gnarled, bearded features of Homer are dear to me, for he, too, knew blindness.

My hands have lingered upon the living marvel of Roman sculpture as well as that of later generations. I have passed my hands over a plaster cast of Michelangelo's inspiring and heroic Moses; I have sensed the power of Rodin; I have been awed by the devoted spirit of Gothic wood carving. These arts which can be touched have meaning for me, but even they were meant to be seen rather than felt, and I can only guess at the beauty which remains hidden from me. I can admire the simple lines of a Greek vase, but its figured decorations are lost to me.

So on this, my second day of sight, I should try to probe into the soul of man through his art. The things I knew through touch I should now see. More splendid still, the whole magnificent world of painting would be opened to me, from the Italian Primitives, with their serene religious devotion, to the Moderns, with their feverish visions. I should look deep into the canvases of Raphael, Leonardo Da Vinci, Titian, Rembrandt. I should want to feast my eyes upon the warm colors of Veronese, study the mysteries of El Greco, catch a new vision of Nature from Corot. Oh, there is so much rich meaning and beauty in the art of the ages for you who have eyes to see!

Upon my short visit to this temple of art I should not be able to review a fraction of that great world of art which is open to you. I should be able to get only a superficial impression. Artists tell me that for a deep and true appreciation of art one must educate the eye. One must learn from experience to weigh the merits of line, of composition, of form and color. If I had eyes, how happily would I embark upon so fascinating a study! Yet I am told that, to many of you who have eyes to see, the world of art is a dark night, unexplored and unilluminated.

It would be with extreme reluctance that I should leave the Metropolitan Museum, which contains the key to beauty - a beauty so neglected. Seeing persons, however, do not need a Metropolitan to find this key to beauty. The same key lies waiting in smaller museums, and in books on the shelves of even small libraries. But naturally, in my limited time of imaginary sight, I should choose the place where the key unlocks the greatest treasures in the shortest time.

The evening of my second day of sight I should spend at a theatre or at the movies. Even now I often attend theatrical performances of all sorts, but the action of the play must be spelled into my hand by a companion. But how I should like to see with my own eyes the fascinating figure of Hamlet, or the gusty Falstaff amid colorful Elizabethan trappings! How I should like to follow each movement of the graceful Hamlet, each strut of the hearty Falstaff! And since I could see only one play, I should be confronted by a many-horned dilemma, for there are scores of plays I should want to see. You who have eyes can see any you like. How many of you, I wonder, when you gaze at a play, a movie, or any spectacle, realize and give thanks for the miracle of sight which enables you to enjoy its color, grace, and movement?

I cannot enjoy the beauty rythmic movement except in a sphere restricted to the touch of my hands. I can vision only dimly the grace of a Pavlowa, although I know something of the delight of rhythm, for often I can sense the beat of music as it vibrates through the floor. I can well imagine that cadenced motion must be one of the most pleasing sights in the world. I have been able to gather something of this by tracing with my fingers the lines in sculptured marble; if this static grace can be so lovely, how much more acute must be the thrill of seeing grace in motion.

One of my dearest memories is of the time when Joseph Jefferson allowed me to touch his face and hands as he went through some of the gestures and speeches of his beloved Rip Van Winkle. I was able to catch thus a meager glimpse of the world of drama, and I shall never forget the delight of that moment. But, oh, how much I must miss, and how much pleasure you seeing ones can derive from watching and hearing the interplay of speech and movement in the unfolding of a dramatic performance! If I could see only one play, I should know how to picture in my mind the action of a hundred plays which I have read or had transferred to me through the medium of manual alphabet.

So, through the evening of my second imaginary day of sight, the great figures of dramatic literature would crowd sleep from my eyes.

IV

The following morning, I should again greet the dawn, anxious to discover new delights, for I am sure that, for those who have eyes which really see, the dawn of each day must be a perpetually new revelation of beauty.

This, according to the terms of my imagined miracle, is to be my third and last day of sight. I shall have no time to waste in regrets or longings; there is too much to see. The first day I devoted to my friends, animate and inanimate. The second revealed to me the history of man and Nature. To-day I shall spend in the workday world of the present, amid the haunts of men going about the business of life. And where one can find so many activities and conditions of men as in New York? So the city becomes my destination.

I start from my home in the quiet little suburb of Forest Hills, Long Island. Here, surrounded by green lawns, trees, and flowers, are neat little houses, happy with the voices and movements of wives and children, havens of peaceful rest for men who toil in the city. I drive across the lacy structure of steel which spans the East River, and I get a new and startling vision of the power and ingenuity of the mind of man. Busy boats chug and scurry about the river - racy speed, boats, stolid, snorting tugs. If I had long days of sight ahead, I should spend many of them watching the delightful activity upon the river.

I look ahead, and before me rise the fantastic towers of New York, a city that seems to have stepped from the pages of a fairy story. What an awe-inspiring sight, these glittering spires, these vast banks of stone and steel - sculptures such as the gods might build for themselves! This animated picture is a part of the lives of millions of people every day. How many, I wonder, give it so much as a second glance? Very few, I fear. Their eyes are blind to this magnificent sight because it is so familiar to them.

I hurry to the top of one of those gigantic structures, the Empire State Building, for there, a short time ago, I 'saw' the city below through the eyes of my secretary. I am anxious to compare my fancy with reality. I am sure I should not be disappointed in the panorama spread out before me, for to me it would be a vision of another world.

Now I begin my rounds of the city. First, I stand at a busy corner, merely looking at people, trying by sight of them to understand something of their lives. I see smiles, and I am happy. I see serious determination, and I am proud. I see suffering, and I am compassionate.

I stroll down Fifth Avenue. I throw my eyes out of focus, so that I see no particular object but a seething kaleidoscope of color. I am certain that the colors of women's dresses moving in a throng must be a gorgeous spectacle of which I should never tire. But perhaps if I had sight I should be like most other women - too interested in styles and the cut of individual dresses to give much attention to the splendor of color in the mass. And I am convinced, too, that I should become an inveterate window shopper, for it must be a delight to the eye to view the myriad articles of beauty on display.

From Fifth Avenue I make a tour of the city - to Park Avenue, to the slums, to factories, to parks where children play. I take a stay-at-home trip abroad by visiting the foreign quarters. Always my eyes are open wide to all the sights of both happiness and misery so that I may probe deep and add to my understanding of how people work and live. My heart is full of the images of people and things. My eye passes lightly over no single trifle; it strives to touch and hold closely each thing its gaze rests upon. Some sights are pleasant, filling the heart with happiness; but some are miserably pathetic. To these latter I do not shut my eyes, for they, too are part of life. To close the eye on them is to close the heart and mind.

My third day of sight is drawing to an end. Perhaps there are many serious pursuits to which I should devote the few remaining hours, but I am afraid that on the evening of that last day I should run away to the theatre, to a hilariously funny play, so that I might appreciate the overtones of comedy in the human spirit.

At midnight my temporary respite from blindness would cease, and permanent night would close in on me again. Naturally in those three short days I should not have seen all I wanted to see. Only when darkness had again descended upon me should I realize how much I had left unseen. But my mind would be so overcrowded with glorious memories that I should have little time for regrets. Thereafter the touch of every object would bring a glowing memory of how that object looked.

Perhaps this short outline of how I should spend three days of sight does not agree with the programme you would set for yourself if you knew that you were about to be stricken blind. I am, however, sure that if you actually faced that fate your eyes would open to things you had never seen before, storing up memories for the long night ahead. You would use your eyes as never before. Everything you saw would become dear to you. Your eyes would touch and embrace every object that came within your range of vision. Then, at last, you would really see, and a new world of beauty would open itself before you.

I who am blind can give one hint to those who see - one admonition to those who would make full use of the gift of sight: Use your eyes as if tomorrow you would be stricken blind. And the same method can be applied to other senses. Hear the music of voices, the song of a bird, the mighty strains of an orchestra, as if you would be stricken deaf to-morrow. Touch each object you want to touch as if tomorrow your tactile sense would fail. Smell the perfume of flowers, taste with relish each morsel, as if tomorrow you could never smell and taste again. Make the most of every sense; glory in all the facets of pleasure and beauty which the world reveals to you through the several means of contact which Nature provides. But of all the senses, I am sure that sight must be the most delightful.

Three Days to See used with permission from The American Federation for the Blind