Bill’s Story - Chapter 18, 19, 20
Chapter Eighteen
When I had my accident, I soon learned that I had not only lost my sight, but most of my friends. They didn’t think I was the same person anymore.
One of my friends, Kevin, came across Cindy and me having lunch at the bowling alley near our home. He couldn’t understand how I managed to feed myself. He couldn’t figure out how I knew where things were on the plate and how I could put down my cup of coffee and then reach out and pick it up again a few minutes later. I was showing him how you use the positions of the numbers on a clock and other tricks to make eating easier when another acquaintance came by and asked if he could borrow my car keys in order to put something he purchased for me in the trunk. Not only was Kevin surprised that I was carrying car keys, but surprised that I went out to open the trunk and help move the merchandise.
After I left, Kevin turned to Cindy and asked, “Is Bill really as happy as he seems? How can he still laugh and joke around? Is he putting on a show?”
Cindy replied, “There have been some tough times, but the laughter is real.”
Kevin stated, “I think I would rather be dead.”
That conversation took place over twenty years ago. Twelve years after we spoke, Kevin was killed in a construction accident.
I often wonder how he feels about our situations now. I may need to do a lot of things differently since losing my sight, but over the years I got to watch my children grow. I went to graduations. I walked my daughter down the aisle at her wedding. I cheered for my son at his ball games and I got to hold my first grandson shortly after he was born. Kevin missed all of that. As for me, I’d rather be blind.
Chapter Nineteen
One evening in 1982, we were dining at an old restaurant that was under new management. That new manager stopped by our table. Within a few minutes we were old friends.
He told us about his plans for live entertainment on weekends and the new menus he was planning. Cindy spoke up and said, “My husband plays guitar and sings.” So thanks to her, by the time we left, I had a new job beginning the following week as a performer. The only problem was, I knew about eight songs and needed to learn that many more in as many days.
Well, Friday night arrived and a nervous, shaky, blind cowboy climbed up on an old bar stool and started playing. There were just four couples in the dining room and they liked John Denver, which was good because most of the songs I knew were his. We had a great time, me most of all. I played the twelve songs I knew, took a break and then played those same twelve songs again. I made more money in tips than the manager paid me, and a new career was born.
I first played in the Gunnison Wisteria for Sydney Vaughn, a gig that lasted two or three months.
Then I played the Richfield Down Under bar, located inside of Days Inn, with Bob McCall.
Cindy had a lot of foresight to make me take up guitar again. My reluctance was the blindness, because when I had those little moments of sight, I thought that maybe I would get enough sight back to at least know when the sun was up or to see objects move. Something’s better than nothing, so legally blind people use whatever sight they have. It’s your most dominant sense, followed by hearing, then touch, smell, and taste.
Think about this: sight gives you the ability to project yourself through your environment. You can sit in a chair and look across the room at something on the far side. Sight gives you the ability to walk and travel and see and understand what’s going on across the lawn and across the street.
My environment, or any blind person’s, ends at the tips of the fingers.
In the early days, it was very important to me that I continue doing some of the activities I’d done before my accident. As I have said, I knew my life had changed dramatically, and one of those ways was no more driving.
At least, not on the roads. But there was another way…
Chapter Twenty
When I attended the demolition derby at the county fair in 1982, I, along with a friend or two, determined that since the object was for the cars to hit each other, why couldn’t I accomplish that as well as anyone?
The demolition derby I drove in caused a real rift between my mom and me. She didn’t want me to participate in any way, shape, or form.
Yet if I had not followed through and ridden in the derby, there wouldn’t be a Palisade Pals, because successes like that made me feel like, “I can do this,” and when a person has confidence in one thing, you can build from that. Everyone builds one success after another.
That’s what the Palisade Pals program hopes to do, to help the participants build on one success after another.
In 1989, Palisade Pals was featured in a local television program. They caught a little boy on film jumping up and down shouting, “I hit the ball! I hit the ball!”
Hit the ball, catch a fish, ride a horse, sing a song. You use those successes to build on the next step. Maybe that boy will come running home, saying, “I rode the bus, I rode the bus!” then maybe, “I got the job, I got the job!” It takes a lot of ego to step out and do these things. Ego can be a good thing.
So, back to the derby, we spent the next summer practicing in my old jeep. I didn’t hit anything, but I learned to follow directions called to me on a walkie-talkie. We used the face of a clock painted on top of the car so that if my director called twelve o’clock I drove straight ahead. Six o’clock I drove straight back and one o’clock meant turning ten degrees to the right. For the left side, we used the numbers eight and ten to avoid pronunciation problems. It worked like a champ. Twenty-three years later, I am still asked when I’m going to do it again. It was really a lack-luster performance but one crazy, fun ride.
One stupid thing happened. A BYU TV news crew came down to document me in the derby. The cameraman climbed on the hood of my car and was filming as I drove into the arena. Well, I had no idea he was there. My director did not mention it. He just told me to “show off.” So I punched my 455 cubic inch Buick and let her roar. We were fishtailing across the arena throwing dirt fifteen feet high. As I am having a ball, the cameraman is holding onto the car and his camera for dear life! Suddenly I hear over the earphones “STOP!” I slammed on the brakes and the man, camera and all, went sliding off into the mud, the muck, and the fence. I thought the laughter and applause was for me.
Wrong.
I didn’t find out what had happened until long after the derby. Nobody dared tell me.
During the derby, I made some hits and I got hit. No one cut me any slack, and I had a great time until I got hung up on the tires lining the arena, which ended my career in the demolition derby.
It sounds arrogant and conceited, but yeah, I’ve done pretty well with my life even though I’m blind. That’s something I’m proud of. I don’t say that to many people, but, yeah, it’s okay.