Three friends e-mail me about meeting for a special dinner. "How about the place near the parking structure?" offers the first pal. "Oh wait, it's impossible to get from the structure to the restaurant without traveling over that long stretch the developer has neglected. It's a snow-care wasteland. No one's responsible. I'm pregnant. I can't risk falling."
Another friend, "mature in age," just had foot surgery and is using a cane (she had the procedure now to not limit her spring/summer/autumn). "I heard their food was fabulous -- oh geez, they pile all of their snow in the handicap parking spaces -- I read they once even removed the handicap parking signs."
My buddy, who just returned from military service, throws out his suggestion. "There's the place near the mall. The hours and staff are great. Hmm, now that I think about it, I ruined a pair of dress slacks and shoes there. The curbs near the parking aren't plowed -- it's difficult to get out of the car without straddling a snow bank." His recent head injury also throws off his balance.
Finally, 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, soaking wet entry carpets/runners and slick floors, crosswalks and curb cuts filled with pools of water, drifting snow, crunchy, packed snow resembling the surface of the moon, greasy snow and slush. Worst of all, owner apathy.
Before I've even left the house, I'm exhausted by the strategic planning. Does going out have to be so hazardous? Is it worth it? I decide on our usual place. It has heated sidewalks without snow, and they shovel the adjoining walks several times a day. They value their customers' independence and safety. They truly deserve our business.
Heading for the restaurant, allowing three times the amount of time it would usually take to get there, I make sure I'm "winterized." This means I'm dressed in layers, wearing a hat, scarf, jackhammer gloves with gel pads, knit tights and a short down coat. I've exchanged my road tires for mountain bike tires (though no chains or studs -- who'd invite me indoors to traverse their floors?). My backpack is filled with baggies of ice melt, a kid's shovel, folded cardboard to put under my wheels, a soft brush for cleaning the snow from my rims/spokes, hand warmers, cell phone, ShamWows for mopping up my dripping snow and flares. (Once, I was very stuck. Fireworks get attention.) If I had room, I'd carry my own snow fencing to use as a portable sidewalk.
Soon, I realize the most accessible path is in the street. I'm about the height of the cars and I'm hoping the drivers can see me. I begin to wonder if I should have put a tall orange bike flag up my back end or perhaps a reflective triangle. Alas, I'm not a bike or a tractor. Next time, I may need to drape myself in battery operated Christmas lights.
Like many people, I winter in northern Michigan. I have a grand vision that we can be the most accessible community with a true winter. I believe we can learn from the experiences of places that receive significant snow. The universality of needs means access for all. People need to go to work, school, the bank, post office, grocery store and doctor. They need to get out. This is home for everyone -- whether by birth or adoption. Ordinances and laws must be enforced. Citizens can be deputized to report violations on their camera phones. As a last resort, lawsuits may be necessary.
None of us wants to live a life scripted by someone else. Sexism, racism, ageism -- but what about ableism? Others' abilities shouldn't limit my life. I don't want to live the "handicapped role." I want to make my own choices. The disability rights movement has stressed for years, "nothing about us, without us." Winter affects all of us. We need to be allies to one another.
After a wonderful evening, I say goodbye to my friends. I notice that the large, empty restaurant parking lot has been dusted with new snow. By the light of the winter moon, I glide my chair back and forth, making snow angels as I go.
Susan Odgers, a resident of Traverse City for the past 21 years, has used a wheelchair for 32 years. She is a faculty member at Northwestern Michigan College and Grand Valley State University, at the University Center. She is a board member and past president of Michigan Protection and Advocacy Service Inc. Her column will appear monthly. She can be reached via the Record-Eagle, 120 W. Front St., Traverse City MI 49684.
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