Most Memorial Day weekends, you can find me at the Baker’s fishing cabin on the Deschutes River in Central Oregon. The river roar is constant. Ospreys fish from the same tree. The stand of yellow irises by the dock are almost in bloom when we arrive. Bill makes gumbo and cornbread that first night. Other feasts follow. Andrea brings lattes bedside along with unending amounts of kindness. Leslie likes to perch on the porch with a book in her lap and watch the otters and the swallows. Other friends join for afternoons of easy talk and hearty toasts. It’s a place where you can lay your burdens down.
Last year, Andrea and Bill built a concrete ramp to ease my way into the cabin. I live a jumbled, awkward life, and here was smooth passage, reminding me of the fluidity I crave. So now I can roll with Bill while he tends to whatever he’s got in the smoker out front. I can roam with Gus who wants to sniff the sage and patrol the fields. Or I can take a sun break with Andrea and bask in new-found freedom. Both awareness and empathy led to this change. We see your struggle. We want to ease it. We need you to join us. So we built this ramp.
Ramps are a thing of beauty to me. This may sound silly and sentimental, but building a ramp can be a gesture of love. Because of them, my situation is acknowledged, my way cleared. I’m not the only one to use lofty and emotional terms to describe ramps. Since I started this blog, I’ve heard from former colleagues, good buddies, and complete strangers about victories, large and small, around the mini-miracle of ramp installation.
Here’s the latest in a steady stream of snapshots of success: “I had a win recently. The retreat center we use on Vashon Island isn’t super accessible, and this year we had a student leader who uses a wheelchair. She had to take the back door to the dining hall. I should have noticed this before, of course. During our stay there, I had a conversation with the director. This was back in September. We returned last weekend, and they have re-done their outside ramp and added a ramp inside so our student could access all parts of the dining hall.”
Her win is definitely my win and your win, too. It can be demoralizing to be forced to split from a group in order to find your special entrance, especially when that entrance might take you through some unsavory parts of buildings and leave you a little lost. You (and I) can do something about those situations. We can’t always count on other people to notice a problem and act on it. But we can all try to take the following steps: Identify a need. Address it. Ask for action. Follow up. Report progress. Repeat as often as necessary to achieve change. Imagine the amplifying effect of all these struggles surmounted. There’s a finite amount of me but an endless supply of we.
Any other wins to report?
Loved your story: your ramp has a steep slope and an obliquity about it.
You, too, should be applauded for the hand-built ramps you installed in your house, Sterling. That’s definitely a win. And you’re right to make the metaphor. I could not have predicted the slope and the turns in this ramp called my life.
I’m not sure this counts yet as a win because I’m not asking for change or improvement but two weeks ago when I went to the high school in Wayland, I was carrying things in both hands and, as has happened often, was grateful for the ADA and reminded of how we all benefit at one point or another from the (few) changes made to accommodate people with disabilities, pushed the large silver “button” to open the heavy double doors into the main entrance to the school. Nothing. Ok, maybe I hadn’t pushed hard enough. I pushed again. Again, nothing. I put one bag down, opened the door with my now-free hand, held the door with my foot, picked up the bag an walked to the second door, repeated these steps, and then repeated these steps a third time to get into the main office. “You know the automatic doors are not working? … You should get that fixed.” “Still? I’ve called but I’ll call again…” Mary said. When I came back two weeks later, button pushed, nothing moved. When I got to Mary, I repeated what I’d said before but added, “I’m sure that’s a violation of the ADA.” Mary promised she’d call again….. I’ll be checking, and asking until it’s fixed. Seems like a really, really small thing. Not asking for much, nothing new, no changes to the buildings, parking lot. Just get the existing doors to function. I’ll follow up until I get this mini-win.
Your persistence counts as a win, Al, and I trust your persistence will translate into action. Yours is the call to action that precedes action, even if that action is more about maintenance than movement. You were both bothered and bothered to say something so that an important function didn’t slide into neglect. That silver button isn’t a silver bullet, but its presence is emblematic of a hard-fought battle. May all our emblems be in good working order, that’s my fervent wish.
Well said…and the cabin sounds lovely.
Randy–you never cease to inspire me, and I hope this blog inspires others to build more ramps to make places more accessible. My building is another “historic” site in the neighborhood that is not accessible, but it should be. Seeing the world through your lens helps me understand, so thanks for sharing your excellent blogs. I don’t look at our neighborhood the same now. I see it as you see it. Let’s take some pictures to illustrate.