Since its inception, I've viewed this column as the "community's column" and this month I'd like to highlight additional recreation and entertainment accessibility information readers have sent to me.

I admit it. I have potty envy. I dream of a world filled with beautiful accessible bathrooms. An accessible bathroom first and foremost has space. There are grab bars, easy-to-reach soap, towels, sinks/faucets and personal product dispensers. The mirrors are hung horizontally and vertically.

I learned much of what I know about film festival accessibility by attending the Cannes Film Festival. That gigantic international event attends to every language, nationality, class and physical ability. I was impressed with both the overall operation and attention given to every detail. Here in Traverse City, local people with disabilities and others have worked to improve accessibility and accountability at the Traverse City Film Festival.

A few years ago, I spent the summer in Europe. There were record high temperatures that year and many people died. Everyone was looking for ways to stay cool. I was thrilled when I found an accessible beach in France, the "Handi-Plage." I came home from Europe wondering how my town, with its miles of shoreline, could create more beach accessibility. I'm still thinking about this challenge.

I have had to develop a repertoire of skills to cope with hurtful staring. I have done everything from ignoring it (not always easy) to performing for the starer. I have tried to avoid snarky verbal comments (not always easy). If staring is looking intently, then the intent becomes important.

I wear a skirt every day of my life. I own slacks and shorts, but I rarely wear them. I live in a world that doesn't easily recognize that women with disabilities are full women. I view my skirts as politically symbolic declarations that I am a woman. I have legs -- even if I don't use them to walk like other people.

Each of us has had our lives change in an instant -- the sudden death of a loved one, suicide attempt, accidents, the diagnosis of a serious illness, the end of a marriage, miscarriage, layoff or firing, arrests, foreclosure, bankruptcy, mental health breakdown, a newborn with serious birth defects and the sharing of important news. Life becomes divided into before and after. No one forgets the date.

I look to my side and realize the floor I've landed on is made of ceramic tile. Luckily, the plastic travel box of hand wipes in my backpack has cushioned my head, preventing me from splitting it wide open. After more than three decades of using a wheelchair, I've never been in this situation. I see stars.

I'm sitting near the back of the bus, watching as we stop and pick up each passenger. In the first seat is a young man with intellectual disabilities. We've just picked him up at his job. He inserts his ear plugs and begins singing. Soon, a young woman, also with intellectual disabilities, boards the bus and takes the seat behind the young man. He smiles at her.

After much debate about about meeting for a special dinner, my friends tell me to decide. As they concur, "If the place works for you, it will probably work for all of us." So, I go through my mental checklist of concerns -- avalanche, hanging snow, giant dagger icicles, steep slippery ramps, rock salt so thick it could puncture my tires...

It's 5 p.m. on a Friday in downtown Traverse City. The winter traffic is heavy and I could use some help getting myself and my wheelchair across the busy intersection. I ask a stranger, a businessman, if he can give me a quick push. He agrees and in a matter of minutes asks me too loudly and very s-l-o-w-l-y, "How long have you been stuck in that thing?"