suddenly the din of chatter
the barrage of sounds
the parade of voices without faces

suddenly it was too much

but it was just another yoga class
same time, same people
same routine I’ve followed for years

but too much
suddenly different
suddenly overwhelming

out of the blue
all this noise
all these people

I was dumbstruck

disconnected

surrounded by life I
felt no part of

a blind man

alone

inside my bubble of being

tio stib

recently I had another blind guy first
a ride on a tandem bike
yes, a sighted and adventurous friend
piloted the machine in the front seat
me, I rode behind and simply pedaled

and trusted

if your the blind guy on the back of a tandem bicycle
trust is the biggest challenge
the only way to overcome fear that the trip will not have a happy ending
so I trusted my companion, a fit, athletic person
could reasonably handle the demands of driving a bike
with me on the back
across flat terrain

good, got that out of the way, what’s next?

communication
the rider in back needs to know what the rider in front is doing
ideally before it happens

turning left
turning right
coasting
braking
ready to stop

I am fortunate as my friend and I communicate well and
we quickly sort out a string of descriptors

okay, I’m almost feeling confident
let’s try this
how do we start

both lean left
both get our right foot atop our pedal
she says “ready, start”
we both push down on our pedals

hwoa!

I am suddenly off balance
I’d forgotten the momentary awkwardness
that interval between zero and building up enough momentum
for the bike to suddenly balance itself

we lurch to a stop but don’t crash

review the situation

try again

almost

and again…

YES!

suddenly a tandem bicycle becomes a flying machine
and a blind man becomes free again, but not quite ready
to release his death grip on the handle bars

the lesson-
sometimes you just have to jump into the void
trust you’ll get through the momentary awkwardness
build the momentum needed
to ride into life’s next great adventure

tio stib aka uncle steve

the blind man sits on a bench
breathing in the winter warmth
of blue sky sunshine

tasting the scent of low tide seaweed
on a love hungry tongue

smiling
as the gentle breeze
caresses his tear streaked face

once again
he reaches out
seeking the missing hand
the tender touch

to comfort his lonely soul

tio stib aka uncle steve

When Buildings Were Beautiful

he’d stared up in awe
the lanky fifteen year old boy
the boy who’d spent his life on a family farm
in Ashtabula, Ohio
until Mother suddenly died
until Father
not a strong willed or disciplined man
lost the place to the bank

and the kids, all eight of them
piled into
onto the old wagon
and the tired, hungry horse
slowly pulled them away
away from the homestead
away for the last time

a life working on somebody’ else’s farm
was not the future he had in mind
so he jumped off near Cleveland
hopped a train
slept rough
until he’d found himself caught up
swept along in the morning rush
of the bustling hive
that is New York’s Grand Central Station
then spat outside
onto the crowded sidewalk

a fifteen year old farm boy

bewildered

alone

naked on the stage
of unrelenting urban chaos

honking horns
screeching tires
Screaming boys hawking newspapers
and people
more people than he’d ever known

rivers of people streaming in all directions

pushing,
jostling,
hurrying by

and the farm boy from Ashtabula
who’d never seen anything taller
than the presbyterian church steeple
was suddenly lost in a forest of massive monuments
a forest of buildings so big, so tall
he was gasping in astonishment

then he saw it

its glittering spire
towering far above the skyline

and pulled by the sirens in his soul
his feet began walking

which is how a farm boy from Ashtabula, Ohio,
found himself on 42nd Street
found himself gaping up
gaping up at the staggering height
the 1046 feet
of Art Deco magnificence
that is the Chrysler Building

a building standing alone in symmetrical splendor
its triangular windows winking at clouds
its arched stainless steel spire
flashing sunbursts into the nearby heavens
its gargoyles staring
in stony silence
at ant like passersby below

now
fifty years on
boxed in by multi-storied ugliness
she was no longer the tallest
but she still dazzled
a timeless beauty

He looked up and smiled
tipped his hat
to the woman who had inspired a career

then the man
who’d once been a farm boy from Ashtabula, Ohio
turned and walked away

floating on memories of a time

when buildings were beautiful

tio stib aka uncle steve

A Blind Man Makes an Omelet

I mean really
how can it be that difficult
crack a few eggs
stir briskly
pour some olive oil into the frying pan
turn the dial to medium heat
oh, almost forgot
add salt and pepper to the eggs and a dash of water
stir even more
that’s supposed to make the eggs fluffy

okay, here we go
pour the aerated egg mixture into the frying pan
now it gets a bit more tricky
because I can’t really see what’s going on
but following the memorized instructions
I use a spatula to gently loosen the slowly cooking eggs
prodding the edges towards the center of the pan
can’t say I can feel much here as the eggs have little mass
but I keep going round and round while
at the same time
occasionally lifting the pan and moving it from side to side
imagining that the egg mixture is slip sliding around

now the fun begins
I set the frying pan down and reach for the plate
of previously stir fried veges
still sending up warmth to my hovering hand
the instructions said place the veges on one side
of the nearly cooked eggs
I take my best shot
using the pan handle as a reference point
in go the veges
no cheese, I’m off dairy

my nose is beginning to recognize pleasant aromas
this is positive, as my nose also remembers
the acrid stench of previous burned food adventures

so far so good, now the final touch
the instructions said
gently fold half the egg mixture over the veges
then turn off the heat and let things finish cooking
I’m trying to remember which side I put the veges on
I probe about with the spatula and realize
that the veges are spread over most of the eggs

no matter
I slip the spatula under the egg mixture
guessing at what seems to be halfway across the supposed circle
then, with an air of gusto
I flipped half my omelet onto its other side

didn’t quite feel right
but it does smell inviting

I take a deep breath
sip some cranberry sparkling cider
bolster courage
then slide my culinary creation onto a plate

I can tell it’s not quite the desired half moon shape
as I hear several slight thunks on the plate

Okay, maybe the final result doesn’t look much like the pic on the recipe
which I couldn’t see anyway

but these were the best scrambled eggs
this blind man has ever made

tio stib aka uncle steve