A Blind Visionary
A father’s insightfulness inspired his son
My dad was 60 when I was born. Not only was he the oldest dad on the block, he was older than all of my friends’ grandfathers. He was also a blind man, having lost his sight while in his early 50s. After a few days of blurred vision, he became totally blind. The doctors guessed it was vascular, perhaps an aneurysm on the optic nerve.
It’s said that when one sense goes the others perk up a bit. Well, eight years after my dad went blind, I came along! Some things in life don’t require good vision!
Growing up with a blind dad wasn’t easy. Sometimes his blindness frightened me. On occasion I would play blind, walking through a room with my eyes tightly shut feeling my way with outstretched arms and walking in a halting gait wondering how my dad managed to move around with such effortless grace.
Beginning at age 9, it was my responsibility to read for Dad — mostly newspaper columns, editorials and letters from his friends. Walter Cronkite was his TV news anchor; I read the opinions.
When I read for him, he listened to me struggle through the tough words with patience. I had to spell out a few. But I’ll never forget the light that would shine from his blind eyes when I got to a phrase in an article or friend’s letter that moved him — a new fact or a fresh angle on an issue of concern. When that light went on, I knew I was doing a good job. He couldn’t see my smile, but I knew he sensed it.
Dad never went to school one day in his life. He was an immigrant who came to this country at the turn of the century to escape the tyranny of forced “conscription” in the Russian Czarist Army. The teenage boys gathered from the shtetles were not really being recruited or given uniforms; they were forced to run through the woods, used as human target practice, to hone the skills of the sharpshooters.
Those few who survived feigned death, crawled back to the village to warn the others, like my father, to run away and escape to the West. He and a friend, Benny, left their families
at age 14, working their way through Poland over a three-year period to save enough to board a ship in Danzig (now Gdansk) for the New World, for survival and to be free.
Dad spoke five languages and mastered Braille but was versed in the language of politics the best. He believed it was politics that forced those young kids to run through the woods as human prey, and it was politics and policies that needed to be influenced at every stage of his life.
I think of how different my childhood would have been if I had a different father — one who was not blind, who could play catch, or take me to a movie or compliment my drawings. Yet, I know I was enriched by being with a wise old man, helping to narrate his life’s events. For as long as I can remember, I saw for two people. That was both an obligation and an opportunity.
I think of Dad’s Day — now 40-plus years after my Dad’s death — as a chance to cherish the gifts he gave me that had no wrapping paper. His influence lives in the work I do, my appreciation of others’ challenges, and the relationship I have built with my own two sons who never got to meet the old guy with the gray beard and bright, shining eyes.
One of the most significant ways to heed the commandment, “Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother,” is to make a contribution in our parents’ name to a charity which reflects the values we’ve learned from those who paved our paths. Or volunteer to read to a child, visit a lonely elder or send a note to a long-lost friend. What better honor than to give of ourselves in the name of those who gave so much to us?