Prodding with song, chicken, Emily Dickinson

RantWoman is clear that Paul Simon's You can call me Al belongs in her morning meditations. The reason is not necesarily obvious to RantWoman and therefore RantWoman has no expectation that any reason will be obvious to anyone else especially considering the other things destined for ths meditation.



(Just for the record, who are Betty and all anyway?)

When someone is alive, one does not necessarily think of them every darn day. When someone who worked near where RantWoman lives died suddenly of a massive heart attack while at work, somehow RantWoman thought of him every time she looked in the direction of his place of employment.

The deceased, director of strategic recruiting at his employer was a complete force of nature. RantWoman herself had two important interactions. An interview gave RantWoman more than enough confidence to pass up what was on offer. A referral for someone on RantWoman's list of blind people among Quakers.resulted in a job, a job with an impossible bus commute and thus  need for his wife to drive him to work. Thankfully, another job step resulted in work much closer to home, that is amenable to commuting by bus, and that sounds really rewarding. Such though are the recruiting realities that other blind people do put up with...

Like RantWoman the deceased could pass as sighted, get around without a cane, recognize people visually, and generally exhibit some other tells recognizable in the blindness community. None of that made him any less of a force of nature, in the spirit of how can anyone be that nice all the time to everyone? On her way to the memorial, RantWoman even met someone on the bus who knew him, had prayed with him, was shocked to learn of his passing, asked RantWoman to record her condolences somehow (Thank you Facebook.)

All of that helps make the list of complete transportation fiascoes involved in taking public transit to the memorial almost worthwhile. Almost. RantWoman sometimes tries to tough it out when other blind people would just take a cab or paratransit. Look. It was a bright breezy day. The exercise was worth it even though there was a loud busy road involved. And the return trip to the Light Rail happened via Lincoln town car at the insistence of a staffperson from the funeral home.

But back to the grieving. The thing that sort of put the visual reminder to rest was not the memorial it was a chicken, an elderly chicken from a backyard flock that had never been culled. The chicken had not laid aggs for quite awhile and its day started with some kind of loud noise in the coop. The chicken tender, who happens to be blind, noticed that the bird was distressed, wondered whether the chicken might be on its way to the next realm. She brought it indoors and then proceeded to read it Emily Dickinson for a long time.

Not only did the chicken not die, it laid an enormous egg and then resumed its average presence in the flock.  Simultaneously its story helped dislodge RantWoman from the moments of inchoate grief every time she looked at the deceased's employer.

The day of the memorial, there was more grief in Twitter. The world gets the blow-by-blow transit saga elsewhere. Suffice it to say RantWoman made it to the memorial, on foot from her last transit leg. The memorial was about what RantWoman expected: There was a magnificent rendering of Amazing Grace by the fabulous Ms. Meka W. RantWoman managed to resist the temptation to yell and ask people to use the mic better. RantWoman is also not going to froth at the keyboard about restroom accessibility. The building's restrooms being repaired and available restroom options included VERY fancy trucked in portable restrooms with running water and everything one could want--as long as one could make it up the three steps.

RantWoman manage just about the expected level of social interaction in a noisy reception with many strangers and few voices RantWoman could pull out of the hubbub. Then it was time to go home. RantWoman figured she would just retrace the route that got her there, walk back to the bus stop, cross the street, catch a bus back to the Light Rail, and go home. However one of the funeral home employees came running out all flustered and insisted RantWoman let someone drive her to the Light Rail.

Back to the bodyguard motif: RantWoman rode to the light rail in some kind of Lincoln town car common in funeral processions. The interior was very well-padded and the whole experience made RantWoman think of of a couple interpreter gigs where riding around in much fancier wheels than RantWoman is used to were part of the territory.

So thank you I guess to KD for prodding to RantWoman again, along with some other threads, to think about expanding her horizons and in the meantime, enjoy the music.