First solo ‘white cane’ outing…

The morning started out foggy; the suburban streetscape softened and made mysterious seeming by the enveloping haze. The huge cedars across the street loomed a half-tone grey in the pearly atmosphere. The bus stop sign, directly across from my house, was a marginally visible standard. It was to be my destination upon making my first foray, alone and without companions, into the streets. The objective was to travel the few miles by bus, downtown, and run some errands with a hopeful and uneventful return home within a couple of hours.

At breakfast, Rumpole gave me my marching instructions. These were to move slowly, cross streets with great care paying especial attention to my blind left side and to deploy my brand new cane while doing so. “Give drivers exta time to spot you, before crossing a street,” he cautioned, “and, brandish that cane to make yourself noticed.” Then, he added, “for Heaven’s sake, don’t get yourself run over!”

“Yassuh, boss-man,” I growled at him while unsnapping my cane and taking an “en Garde” position to skewer him, if my depth perception might allow. I made a feint to my left and promptly knocked my sunglasses off the table. “You know very well I am not completely blind.”

“Yeah, right.” He shrugged into his winter coat and braved his way over to plant a kiss on my lips. ” Take care, but enjoy yourself,” he said, smiling, as he let himself out the back door.

I began making preparations for my outing. Dug out the bus tickets from my purse; detached a chit, and put it into my coat pocket. Retrieved my sunglasses from the kitchen floor; double checked the bus schedule; downed half a cup of coldish coffee; readied my carry-all; shrugged into my coat; grabbed my purse and keys and took a final look at the kitchen clock. Only ten minutes to go before the bus would stop across the street. But wait! That allowed just enough time to nip into the bedroom and blast myself over thoroughly with my Elizabeth Arden perfume. Even if I am one of the invisible group of ageing women, people might as well smell me from a mile away! (Lookingforbeauty, whenever she drives me downtown makes hideous gagging noises and covers her nose if I have been the slightest bit spritzer happy with the perfume bottle, or, rather if I had forgotten she cannot breathe in the presence of perfume) I figured by the time the bus arrived, the miasma of Elizabeth Arden within which I moved might be somewhat dissipated by the foggy air outside, so the bus driver would not be overcome by my olfactory splendour.

I left the house and locked up. made my way gingerly across the road at the corner and took up position by the bus sign. To busy myself while waiting for the bus to arrive, I carved little animal footprints into the nearby snowbank with the tip of my cane, and then to leave permanent mark of my passage carved in my initials. This activity occupied me until the bus arrived. It slid to a stop on the icy road; the door sighed open and I clambered aboard. Had a bit of difficulty remembering which end of the bus ticket to feed into the reader. The driver, tiring of my attempts to turn the blasted card this way and that in a confusing and idecisive manner, smartly plucked the ticket from my fingers and fed it in. He grabbed it from the machine and read off for me for how long the ticket might be effective. I had 90 minutes to do my stuff downtown. I sat down behind the driver, figuring that he might appreciate the wafting of delicious smell from behind him; after all, he did not pass out while I was fooling around at the ticket reader. He did not gag, but then maybe he was holding his breath, because he was kind of surly and quiet when I attempted to engage him in small talk. Maybe he was deaf?

Since my last trip by bus downtown, the vehicles have been equipped with a system whereby a woman, who sounds suspiciously like the woman they have on recorded messages for all local utility companies, read out the names of all stops. Very irritating, this. She sounds a bit like a breathless radio announcer. Maybe all the bus drivers in the Bus Drivers Union demanded that a recording spare them from using their voices; or at least maybe this installed system allows the bus company to interchange drivers at will – they won’t have to know where they are if unfamiliar with the routes. Sally tells them where they are.

This driver was in somewhat of a hurry because he took turns as if in the LeMans car race – with great verve and insouciance. It was a fun, but brief, trip to town centre and I felt as if I had survived a wee bit of adventure. I clambered down from the bus at the end of the line and took my bearings. Still the fog; not too many cars going by; not many persons on the street. I pitter pattered my way south in the direction of the mall where I had to do some business. Played with my cane, tapping and testing all and any surfaces along my passage to learn their characteristic sounds – ping, for metal; thunk, for wood; swish, for shrubbery; crisp scrunch, for frozen snow-banks; and finger-nail-file scraping for concrete. The place where crossing became necessary I misguaged the depth of the sidewalk and came down hard and short. Stood there craning my neck in all directions to spot moving cars and waited for them to roll to stop and let me make passage across. The left side vision is problematic for me, so I held out the cane and waited before proceeding. What a bother. No more nipping and skipping across the streets for me. Aargh! I hated feeling so vulnerable.

The walk was not the usual brisk one; it was more of a cautious creeping. The terrain was not familiar, and like all unfamiliar terrain must be learned to negotiate from scratch. No more automatic pilot for this old Gal! The walk, slow as it was, did feel good though, especially since I was independent and alone. The air felt moist and cool on my face; my hands were warm inside gloves; and I was snugly buttoned up in my wool coat.

I did my errands in the mall. Dropped in on a shop-keeping acquaintance, checked out her new shipment of beautiful spring clothes and gossiped a bit with her. Her shop dog, a spoiled Bichon Frise, bared her fangs at me and snarled. Nothing has changed there! Checked out a big sale of discontinued foot-wear, which did not tempt. Went into the childrens’ shop and browsed for books for Mousey. Nothing caught my interest there. I decided to retrace my steps back to the bus loop, if indeed I would be able to return home on my ticket before it expired.

I tap-tapped my way back and noted the metal grating around the trunks of decorative trees planted in the middle of the side-walk. Explored the pattern of the grating with my cane and the music that could be made by riffling the cane tip across the patterns. Very charming sounds! The tree trunks were smoothish, and I dragged the cane around the girths to hear the texture. This way of moving about intentionally gives rise to new and different sense experiences. One’s passage is accompanied by novel (to me) soundscape. The walk took me back to where the bus had ejected me. The time it took to take the walk was immeasurable. For one, I do not wear a watch. For another, I was happily occupied with new sensations.

The bus ride home was more leisurely; the driver more amenable to chatting. We exchanged sightings of Julia Major, a local woman who parades around topless as soon as the weather turns springish, and who is the bane of all public utilities which have to provide service for people with all kinds of ability and disability. She is litiginous in the extreme, and I told the driver of a Julia sighting where she threatened to sue Translink, when the bus’s ramp for wheelchairs broke at the stop she was insisting on getting off via the ramp, rather than walking off as she had walked on. The driver joked, that had Julia been on the bus with me this day, she would have given him an earful of diatribe for him allowing me to climb solo on to the bus without him helping me. We had a good chuckle.

The driver stopped the bus next to my driveway, so I wouldn’t have to stroll across any snow or ice. I thanked him and waved my cane in good-by, let myself in through the back door, hung up my coat and made myself a cup of coffee. It had been a satisfactory first outing with my white cane, and I had enjoyed myself.

14 Responses to “First solo ‘white cane’ outing…”

  1. Nita Says:

    So happy for you! Wish you many more such days!

  2. ybonesy Says:

    So glad to hear it went well, G. Your Julia Moor reminds me of how we in Albuquerque look for sightings of a particular fellow whose name we all know. He is a nudist, and he wears as soon as the weather is slightly warm, nothing but a pair of short-short denim cut-offs, the seams barely closed with pieces of string or leather. Nothing else, and always those same shorts.

  3. suburbanlife Says:

    Thanks Nita! I can hardly wait for all this snow to go away, so more adventures await. G

    Ybonesy – every city or town has such an odd-duck character, it seems. Sighting them is a fun distraction. Too bad it’s so blasted cold here; there will have to be several more months to wait for Julia Major sightings. She also is getting older, so perhaps this year she will spare us all views of her sagging boobs. :-O G

  4. tysdaddy Says:

    You tell such amazing stories. As you prepared to skewer Rumpole, I felt like I was there, smiling, my eyes shifting between you and him, nursing my orange juice.

    Very nice memoir . . .

  5. Deborah Barlow Says:

    G, your visual imagination made the telling of this adventure real and authentic for me. I can count on your voice to be a truth speaker, fair and square. That clarity draws me in every time.

  6. christine Says:

    For a first outing you sure got your use of the cane – drawing in the snow, making different sounds, and then waving it to announce your presence. As usual, you make everyday life come alive with all your attention to detail. Let us know if you do catch site of bare breasted Julia. How nice to have a woman who shakes things up, no pun intended!

  7. suburbanlife Says:

    tysdaddy – thanks for the gracious comment! G

    Deborah – It is amazing how new any experence is when first time encountered – i feel very much like a neophyte wandering about in my current condition. Better than Jaded, i guess. G

    Christine – i amuse myself rather fully, given any and all occasions (and childishly, some may venture to say). So far it’s too nippy for Julia sightings, she is an odd duck, but not yet demonstrating masochistic tendencies, which given the inclement cold weather may be a tad too brisk for breast-baring. Ah, the dull life in the suburbs…. G

  8. The Querulous Squirrel Says:

    This may seem an irrelevant detail regarding the whole moving story, but I find that like using the Elizabeth Arden, I, too, have upped the ante on make-up and hair-dye as I’ve gotten older. I figure, no one’s looking anyway. I may as well have fun playing dress-up.

  9. suburbanlife Says:

    Squirrel – you are spot on! The canvas may be a bit spotty and saggy, but, by God, one can paint up a storm and have fun doing so.
    I remember an eccentric older lady substitute teacher from my grade 9 Latin class – she wore a pinafore with frills on top of a loudly patterned cotton dirndl skirt, had an atrociously colourful dye job done up un fluffy pig-tails and clown make-up. We must have been the best behaved group for her , as we simply sat, stunned, staring at her during the whole class. And so? Why not let loose a sense of fun at an older age? G

  10. onemoreoption Says:

    You capably use your abilities. You choose to see when it is not easy to see. You choose to read and study when it is not easy to read. You use your complimentary abilities to enable your diminishing abilities. You choose to walk as it is becoming riskier to walk. You choose to venture out when it is riskier to venture out. I admire so many things about you. Thank you for sharing your experiences.

  11. suburbanlife Says:

    Onemoreoption – when change happens to one, it is for the better to embrace the changes wholly, because the new realities are what govern our continuing satisfaction and learning in life. These changes may not be desired, however outcomes from learning to change with change yields a sense of constant surprise, which is a condition when we are young; so, in effect, a sort of renewal of wonder. Whole of life is a huge adeventure, and i intend to pursue that. G

  12. onemoreoption Says:


  13. HUnter4086 Says:

    I read somewhere once that this voice you refer to is (in the biz) known generically as ‘Marsha’. Knowing this has somehow made her seem less robotic and 1984ish. I can still imagine her announcing executions or something, though. “Number 125, for the crime of…treason…please proceed to gate 3.”

    I’ve been forced to root around in your archives since you’re not updating very much but I guess there are worse things to happen to bloggers! Archives are usually the deal limbs of a blog: no circulation, might as well be dead. But I am very entertained. I like your writing.

    When I was 20 my boyfriend’s mother gave me a big bottle of the perfume she always wore: Red Door. It was a sweet liquid punch in the nose. I had never owned something as frivolous and sexy as a big bottle of perfume. I was more of a Ponds and facecloth kind of person. So I wore the hell out of that bottle, of course not realizing that having his girlfriend emit his mothers very familiar scent must have been quite a turn off. Oh, memories.

  14. suburbanlife Says:

    Dear Hunter – thanks for the visit into my archive. Marsha, eh? I like that! These days the Marshas on telephone messages seem to have Punjabi accents, not quite as irritating as the ones on the bus, to me at least. As to your wearing the Mom’s Red Door – I chuckled, remembering when my mother tried to make me an olfactory clone of herself by constantly gifting me with bottles of 4711 – this pissed me off since I told her repeatedly that I preferred Arpege, to no avail.
    Thee days it seems to be considered impolite for women to wear perfume in public places, akin to the idea of farting in church. OY!

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