My Wheels Are Still Turning

Hello Readers!

  Sorry I've not posted in a while, it's been a busy summer, but I promise a new post will be up soon! I recently took a road trip with my brother and am writing a lengthy blog about our adventures (pics and vids to be included). Also, I am taking some time away from blogging in general to work on my book. I feel like I've been talking about my book forever, but I am proud to say I've made it through the first draft and it has made writing the second draft much easier now I have a blueprint of sorts to guide me. In addition to writing I am doing a book reading challenge. I love to read and so I found a list of topics and selected books for each one. If you would like to join me below is the list of topics: 

• A book based on a fairy tale
• A National Book Award winner
• A YA bestseller
• A book you haven't read since HS (or if you are in high school, ask a teacher to recommend a book for you)
• A book set in your home state
• A book translated to English
• A romance set in the future
• A book set in Europe
• A book that's under 150 pages
• A New York Times best seller
• A book becoming a movie this year
• A book recommended by someone you just met
• A book you can finish in a day
• A book written by a celebrity 
• A political memoir
• A book at least 100 years older than you
• A book more than 600 pages
• A book from Oprah's book club
• A science fiction novel
• A book recommended by a family member
• A graphic novel
• A book published in 2016
• A book with a protagonist who has the same occupation you have or would like to have
• A book which takes place during summer
• A book and its prequel
• A murder mystery 
• A book by a comedian
• A dystopian novel 
• A book of poetry
• The first book you see in a bookstore
• A classic from the 20th century
• A book from the library
• An autobiography
• A book about a road trip
• A book about a culture you're unfamiliar with 
• A satire
• A book with an island setting
• A book guaranteed to bring you joy

You can find most of these books on goodreads. Unless otherwise specified, try to select books you haven't read. The point of the challenge is to experience new stories and expand your reading library. I have enjoyed the books I've read immensely. 

Enjoy your summer my readers, I'll write again soon!

Shopping Cart Wheels

  Grocery shopping in a wheelchair is not easy. I can't push the cart around while pushing myself. I am too small to operate those big electric carts easily and I can't carry a basket, so whenever I went shopping by myself I was resigned to getting only a few small items. One day, I came up with a way to manage carrying more stuff.

  I emptied out my backpack and put it on the back of my wheelchair.

"I don't think you can do that, they might think you are shoplifting," my fiancé said to me, when I explained why I was taking my bag. 

"It will be fine. No one is going to accuse me of stealing," I scoffed. 

"Why don't you just wait for me to get done at the gym," he offered. 

"I can do this." 

  The thing I love most about my husband to be is he never holds me back. If I believe I can do something, he has enough faith in me to believe it too (unless it's standing on my tiptoes to see over a really tall book case).

  I arrive at the store and proceed to shop. As I go along the isles, my fiancé's words echo in the back of my mind: They might think you are shoplifting. To quell the paranoid voice in my head, I leave the backpack open, hoping employees might realize my intent.

  At the dairy section I see the fridge with the rows of coffee creamer. I scan each row and realize the one I want is at the top. I look around to see if anyone is coming, who may be able to help. At that moment a woman pushing her child emerged from around the corner.

"Excuse me ma'am," I approached. "I've looked for an attendant, but couldn't find one. Could you please help me reach the coffee creamer?" I asked.

"Sure," she smiled and handed me the one I pointed to.

"Thank you," I replied.

  I shoved the coffee creamer into my backpack and proceeded to shop. As I continued along, I noticed a tall elderly woman was following me. She showed up in almost every isle I visited. I tried not to pay too much attention to her, but when I got to the bread isle (where the snack cakes and danishes are) she finally approached me.

"Can I help you retrieve anything from the shelf?" She asked.

"Oh, please," I said, relieved by her kindness. "I am looking for cheese danishes, do you see any up top?"

  She looked, "No, sorry dear. Can I get you anything else?"

"Just those oatmeal creme pies, thank you." I replied when she handed them to me.

  I stuck them in my almost full backpack.

"My, you've got a lot of items in that bag," she noted.

"Yeah, and I promise I am not stealing," I assured, remembering why she'd made me feel nervous.

"Oh dear, I wasn't trying to accuse you," the lady said in an apologetic tone.

"I kind of noticed you earlier. I thought you followed me, because you assumed I was stealing -- though I guess I don't blame you. Who shops by shoving items into a back pack? I hoped leaving it open would give people the realization it wasn't shoplifting," I explained.

  She chuckled, "It makes a lot of sense. I was just fascinated by your independence and ingenuity. You've adapted so well. I doubt I could have come up with the idea of using my backpack like that."

"I bet you would," I told her. "My whole life has been about adapting, just like anyone who has a condition like mine or any other disability. We all find ways to adjust, so for me this is normal."

"I've never thought of it that way," she smiled. "It's a great perspective to have."

"Well, I try." I grinned.

  After speaking a little more, we bid each other good afternoon. I took my items to the front and paid for them, then I went to the coffee bar inside the store to wait for my fiancé. I was sipping coffee, the grocery bags hanging on the back of my wheelchair, when he arrived.

"I was followed," I said when he approached.

"I told you they'd think you were shoplifting," he grinned. "Looks like you got your items though."

"It wasn't an employee who followed me," and I proceeded to tell him about my interaction.

"Did any store clerks notice you?" he asked.

"If anyone did, I doubt they were concerned. What would I do, push myself really fast across the parking lot?"

"Really fast? They'd catch you before you reached the door," he laughed as we exited the store.

"That's why you're my bodyguard / get away driver," I told him.

"Oh that's why I'm here? Forget it," he pretended to be offended and walked off.

"But I love you," I pleaded and wheeled after him.

  He stopped and reached for my hand.

"Don't you want to be my partner in crime?" I asked.

"Never," he smirked. I pouted.

"Fine." he conceded.

"I win." I beamed, rolling beside him; hand in hand.

  I take pride in my independence, but it's great to know he is there when I need him.

My Wheelchair Gets A Paint Job

  In first grade, our class was chosen to make a friendship banner for the hallway. The teacher decided to have us do hand prints on a large paper banner. The next day she brought two large rolls of white paper and three bottles of red, yellow and blue paint. She incorporated the project into our art lesson. We were learning primary and secondary colors.

"These three colors are the--" she indicated to the red, yellow and blue paint.

"Primary colors!" we all chimed.

"Very good. And when they're mixed together, what kind of colors do they make?"

"Secondary!" we responded.

"Excellent, yes, when mixed together primary colors make secondary colors. Blue and yellow mixed together make?" I raised my hand and she pointed to me. 

"Blue and yellow make green!" I exclaimed enthusiastically. 

"Correct," she smiled. 

  The teacher continued questioning each of us, until she was satisfied we understood the lesson. Soon it was on to the most anticipated part of the project, getting to cover our hands in paint and splattering them against the white paper. We moved our desk to the side of the classroom and the teacher rolled one of the banners out across the floor, creating an inviting white road of artistic possibility.

 I got out of my wheelchair and knelt with my classmates along the banner as the teacher set down three circular aluminum pie pans in front of every other student.

"There aren't enough pans for everyone to have their own, so you will work together in groups of three and share. Decide now what color hand prints you want first. Everyone gets to make three hand prints. Only place your hands along the top and bottom of the banner," she instructed.

  I worked with the girl and boy to the left of me and they chose red and blue. I mixed blue and yellow together to make green. Satisfied I had the shade of green I wanted, I stuck my right hand into the pan and began to mix it around, covering it with paint.

"You don't need to cover your whole hand," the teacher said. "Just get enough paint on the bottom of your palm."

  But I continued to cover my hand in paint, imagining I was dipping it into a rainbow.

"No don't slap the paper," she chided a boy who was slapping his paint covered palm on the banner. Drops of blue splattered his clothes; his laughter suggested he was deliberately making a mess.

  When we'd finished filling up the first banner, the teacher had everyone line up to use the sink in the back of the classroom. I got in my wheelchair, not realizing that one of the pans of paint sat behind me. I rolled backwards, tipping it over and rolled through the paint. The rest spilled onto the floor. I turned my wheelchair around to see the mess I'd made and knocked over another pan. Now my wheels and hands were covered in green, red and blue paint. The wheels left a trail as I pushed myself over the banner, toward the back of the room.

"Teacher, I accidentally made a mess!" I panicked.

"I'll be there in a moment," she replied.

  I knew that dry paint was much more difficult to clean up.

"I just need a napkin," I said.

"Take one from the table," she instructed.

  The teacher was busy helping one of my classmates scrub his hands. I grabbed a few paper towels and turned around. I pushed myself over to my desk, leaving a colorful trail behind me. There were a few moist wipes in my backpack and I used these to wipe my hands, then I returned to the mess on the floor.

  I got out of my wheelchair and began laying paper towels down over the paint. I'd seen my mother do this anytime my siblings or I spilled something. She said it absorbed the spills and made messes easier to clean. When the main spill was covered, I set to work trying to cover the colorful trail my wheelchair had made.

  By the time it was done, my classmates were clean and coming to see what I was doing. A few even offered to help by attempting to wipe up the main spill with the napkins, but they only succeeded in creating an even larger mess. Amidst all of the chaos, the forgotten banner was ruined by the many feet which trampled it in our clean up effort.

"Stop," my teacher exclaimed, when she saw what we were doing.

  I got up and saw the trail of smudged paint leading to the large smear in the center of the spill. A few foot prints from kids who stepped in paint, faintly marked the floor. My wheelchair tires were also covered in paint.

"Everyone back to your desk and don't touch anything," the teacher instructed.

  We all went to our seats, and I was told to leave my wheelchair where it was and sit in a regular chair. The teacher pressed the intercom and asked for a janitor. Then she brought around wet paper towels for everyone to wipe their hands and shoes. When the janitor arrived, he took one look at the mess and called in a second janitor to bring extra cleaning supplies. While one cleaned the floor, the other took my wheelchair outside.

  I sat quietly at my desk wondering how much trouble I was going to be in. The first janitor finished mopping the floor and our lessons resumed. But I found it hard to pay attention. I stared at the door waiting; my wheelchair had not been returned and it made me nervous. What if they were unable to remove the paint? I'd seen my parents throw away things my siblings and I 'ruined' with paint or permanent markers. Thinking the janitor might throw away my wheelchair terrified me and I burst into tears.

"What's wrong?" my teacher asked.

"Don't let them throw away my wheelchair!" I sobbed.

  At that moment the janitor returned with my wheelchair. Surprisingly, he was able to clean off the paint. I sat in it.

"Thank you for not throwing away my wheelchair," I smiled at him, tears still on my face.

"I would never do that," he chuckled. "Is that why you were crying?"

"Yes," I admitted.

"Well, next time you want to give your wheelchair a paint job, just ask me. I have a garage where my brother and I paint cars. I can make your wheelchair look really cool!" he chuckled.

  I laughed, imagining him with acrylic paints and those tiny brushes, painting my parent's car. Later when I got home, I told my brother about the paint accident.

"I want to paint your wheelchair!" his five year old eyes lit up.

"Only when you grow up. I think mom and dad would be mad if you did it now," I told him.

  Today, my brother is an amazing artist, but I have yet to let him paint my wheelchair.

Ditching My Wheelchair For Blackberries

  My generation was the last group of kids born before technology took off. This meant on weekends, rather than sit indoors, playing on iPads and game systems, our parents kicked us out of the house for the better part of the day. Being in a wheelchair did not give me a free pass to be lazy. Fortunately for me I had two siblings who were just as imaginative as I, and we always found something fun to do...

"We're bored," I complained to our mom, hoping she'd suggest going to the park or somewhere fun. However, she was busy cleaning the house -- something that always seemed to escape our notice. 

"If I hear that again, I'm putting y'all to work. Go outside and play." she said. Then to me, "Put your wheelchair on the porch so I can wash it."

  We grabbed popsicles from the freezer. Then I took my wheelchair out and parked it on the porch. We went over to the tire swing in our front yard and my brother and sister fought over who would push and who would swing first. 

  Mom came outside with soap and water. She cleaned my wheelchair and rinsed it off with the garden hose. I went up to the porch to get my wheelchair. 

"Let it dry first," she instructed, then went into the house. 

  After a while of swinging...

"Lets go pick backberries," I suggested. 

"We aren't allowed to go down the street without mom or dad," my brother reminded me. 

"I'll go ask," I said.

  I went inside. "Mom can we have the Easter baskets to go berry picking?"

"Sure," my mom said. 

  It should be noted that (unbeknown to us) our mom had not yet learned about the black berry patch down the road. The kids that lived nearby told us when we saw them riding their bikes one day, carrying bags full of berries. I suppose to her we were pretending, but Mom gave me the baskets and I assumed permission to go pick blackberries. When I went back outside, I gave the good news to my siblings. I got in my wheelchair. 

"The seat is still wet," I said. 

"Just sit your basket on it and I'll carry you and push the wheelchair. I'm sure it will be dry when we get ready to come back," my brother offered. 

  My brother carried me on his back and pushed my wheelchair while our sister walked beside us. We weren't usually allowed to walk down the street by ourselves and I was excited mom allowed it now. 

  We came to a small sparse of woods. There was a large ditch, about five feet deep, between the road and the wooded area. The thicket of black berries sat just in front of the woods; we didn't know if they were wild or purposely planted, but neighborhood kids came here often to pick and eat the delicious, tangy berries. The only means of crossing was a thin, peninsula like patch of dirt. Walking across it was simple, but my wheelchair was a little too wide. 

"I am just going to leave your wheelchair parked on the side of the road," my brother said. 

"No, what if someone steals it?" I panicked. 

"But we'll be able to see it from the other side and I can run back over here and stop them," he boasted.

"What if we are way down there?" I pointed far off.

"Fine," my brother groaned. He gave the basket to our sister to carry and she took it across. Then to me, "You push, I will stand in front and guide it." 

  Everything worked out well enough, until we got about halfway across. It happened so fast, I spent the moment after frozen in shock. The left tire slipped off the side. Not wanting to be taken with it, I simply let go of the wheelchair. My brother did not give up right away; he grabbed onto the front and attempted to pull it up. But he was small for a seven year old and gravity quickly won that game of tug o' war. 

  The wheelchair landed in the ditch -- in a big puddle of mud. My brother and I used a few choice words we'd heard our dad say.

"Should we go get mom?" I asked him. 

"No, I can get it out," my brother insisted. 

  He went into the woods. I sat on the edge of the ditch looking down at my wheelchair and wondering what I would be in trouble for more; getting my wheelchair dirty or dropping it in a ditch. 

  A few moments later my brother reappeared carrying a bundle of long, slightly thick branches. He was sweaty and panting as he set to work angling them in the ditch. Many of them barely reached the top, but he put them as close together as he could to make a crude ramp.

"I'm going to jump in and push your wheelchair up the ramp. You grab the front and pull it up when it gets close," he said to me, then hopped into the ditch. 

  My brother attempted to push the wheelchair up his constructed ramp, but the branches were not solid and kept sliding apart. He rearranged them and tried a different approach. Laying the wheelchair on its side, he pushed/lifted it up toward me. This worked. I was able to get a hold of the handles, but I was too weak to pull the heavy wheelchair out myself and my brother wasn't able to push it any higher.

"Help her pull the wheelchair out," he directed our sister, who was watching from the other side. 

  She crossed back over to the road and together we pulled while our brother pushed. Slowly we succeeded in getting the wheelchair onto the road. 

"Okay, don't lay in the street," I instructed my little sister, who would definitely need a nap after this.

"I got berries," she answered, holding up her basket. There were only a few, while her mouth and t-shirt suggested what happened to the rest. 

"Let's just go home," my brother said. 

  We made it back to the house. Mom was waiting for us on the porch. 

"I could whip you three. You know better than to go down the street by yourselves."

"But you said we could pick berries," I argued. 

"You know I never would agree to that if I knew it meant going down the street." Then she saw the mud.

"What did you do to your wheelchair?" she demanded. 

  I decided honesty was the best policy and told her the story.

"Can I go inside now?" I asked, wanting only to lay down in front of the box fan.

"No, you're going to wash your wheelchair first."

  I looked at my brother. 

"He's already done his punishment; getting the wheelchair out of the ditch."

"I helped, too" I explained. 

"You manipulated them and tried to be sneaky with me, but you know better," she scolded. 

  As unbelievable as it sounds that wasn't my intention, because I thought she knew about the blackberries. However, I didn't try to argue, because I knew it would only make my punishment worse. The next day my mom asked if we would like pick blackberries with her. This time, I left my wheelchair at home. 

A Daring Turn Of The Wheels

  On a rainy afternoon, I was waiting on my dad to pick me up from school. My friend waited with me and we sat under the breezeway. Soon the rain let up, but the walkway and carport were covered in about an inch of water. I entertained myself by driving my electric wheelchair back and forth across it and watching the water splash up from under my tires. An idea occurred to me.

"I bet I could peel out like those cars, turn sharp and splash water really high into the air!" I thrilled. 

"You should do it," my friend encouraged, grinning. 

  I went back about halfway down the walk. I wanted to be careful, because I wasn't sure what to expect, so I only turned up the speed to medium, and took off. Needless to say it wasn't the thrill I thought it would be. My wheels barely expelled any water and the turn was precise and unhindered. I did not slide or glide like I imagined would happen. 

"Maybe you should try further back," my friend suggested. 

"Yeah, and this time I'll put it on full speed."

"It goes faster?" she asked.

"Yeah," I smirked, "but I never drive it on full speed so I don't run the battery down."

"I can't wait to see how fast it goes," my friend said enthusiastically. 

  This was my chance to impress. With my power turned on high and a good distance to go, I shoved the control stick and flew forward. I could hear the water splash up beneath my tires. I did not look down, but stayed focused on the turn ahead. As soon as I came to it, I yanked the lever to the left. 

  Apparently, I misjudged how far into the turn I was and instead of a side-splashing display of awesome, I made a wide arc and flew off of the sidewalk, into the grass. My wheelchair shut off. My friend came running. 

"Oh my god, are you okay?" she asked. 

"Yeah," I said, shakily. "Thankfully, I didn't flip over or get thrown!" I exclaimed, realizing that I was still upright and in my wheelchair.

"No kidding," my friend agreed. "Can you get back on the sidewalk?" she asked.

  I flipped the switch; the wheelchair didn't turn on.

  Crap. 

"Oh man, my dad is going to kill me," I freaked.

"What do you think happened?" she asked. 

  I got out of my wheelchair and knelt in the mud to investigate. After a few moments of searching I discovered the battery was knocked loose. My friend helped me snap it back into place. I flipped the switch. The wheelchair came back on.

"It's alive!" I shouted, laughing. 

  I drove the wheelchair over to the sidewalk. Thankfully it was not a steep drop and my friend was able to help get it back onto the curb, just in time for my dad to arrive. As he was putting my wheelchair in the car, he noticed the mud on my tires. 

"You need to watch where you drive, you're getting mud in the car," he scolded. "Don't you see those mud holes?"

"Sorry Dad. I must have been going too fast."

"Well slow down," he said.

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea." I said, smiling to myself. 

Happy Wheels

  The summer before Kindergarden started I broke my legs and was forced to spend the last part of vacation in a spica cast. Fortunately, I'd just received my new wheelchair, so rather than laying around immobile, I was able to roll around the house. It was a little difficult pushing myself in the chair, because the spica cast went from my waist to my toes and did not allow me to sit per se, but because I was so small, my parents figured out a way to angle me in the chair with pillows so I could "sit."

"I push you around okay?" my little brother said.

"Okay, go fast." I squealed.

"No, don't go fast." my mom chided from the laundry room. "And don't wake your sister."

  Too late.

  My little brother raced my wheelchair and I around the kitchen and into the living room where he crashed me into a corner of the couch. Luckily, I did not fall out, but my near painful accident did not deter us from rushing down the hall, screaming at the top of our lungs. Our baby sister's cries joined us.

"I told you two not to wake your sister," our mom snapped at us as she left half folded clothes to attend her.

  She brought my sister out into the living room and let her crawl around.

"Watch her while I finish the laundry and then we will go to McDonald's for lunch," our mom offered.

  My brother and I relished the thought of collecting another Happy Meal toy so we succeeded in keeping a vigilant eye on our baby sister. Soon we were on our way!

  The great thing about going to McDonald's in the late eighties, early nineties was - apart from the Happy Meal toy - kids had the joy of jumping around in pits of brightly colored plastic balls. My brother and I would spend all day throwing the balls at each other or burying ourselves beneath them if our parents allowed it.

  On this trip however, I was unable to jump into the ball pit, but was confined to my wheelchair instead. My little brother sat at the table with me for as long as his four year old attention span would allow him, but then...

"I wanna go play," he whined.

  Mom looked at me. This was the part she hoped to avoid. "Bubba (our nick name for him) can play for just a little bit, okay?"

  Tears welled up in my eyes.

"I wanna play too."

"Please don't be sad, I'll be right back," my brother insisted.

"Fine," I sulked.

  My little brother got up excitedly and raced to the pit. I sat in my wheelchair with my Happy Meal toy, tears running down my cheeks.

"It's not fair," I sniffed.

"I'm sorry, ladybug," my mom said, attempting to comfort me.

  My little sister sat in her highchair watching our brother with me. She pointed at one of the color balls that rolled out of the pit and close to our table.

"Ba," she demanded. Mom walked over, retrieved the ball and handed it to her. My little sister happily beat it against the table, threw it down and demanded it be given to her again.

"Do you want one?" Mom asked me, when she went to snatch another for sissy.

"Yes," I said.

"Bring your sister a few balls to play with," she shouted to my brother.

  He stuffed his shirt full of plastic colored balls and brought them to me. Then he turned my wheelchair to face the pit. Next to the entrance was a height chart. A tall tin picture of a character stood beside it with his hand stretched out.

"Try to hit his hand," my brother challenged.

  I threw the ball and missed entirely.

"You have to throw like this," my brother attempted to show me how to toss the ball, but it took him a couple of tries before he succeeded.

  I threw ball after ball and managed to hit the sign a few times. Whenever I ran out of balls my brother ran back in the pit to retrieve more. Soon there were so many balls outside of the pit the manager took notice and came outside to chide us. Mom explained the situation, but agreed to clean up the balls we'd taken from the pit. After that we only took out a few and used those to play our game.

"Did you have a good day?" mom asked as we drove out of the fast food parking lot.

"Yeah," I beamed. "Now whenever I break a bone, I know I can still have fun!"

  I realized then, even if I am confined to my wheelchair I can ALWAYS find a way to enjoy my life!

If My Wheelchair Had A Penny

  Be careful where you roll. One day I got gum in my hair and could not figure out how. I didn't chew gum and I can usually tell when someone touches my hair, so it was doubtful that anyone put it there. Frustrated, I began to look around my bed for possible rogue pieces of gum. I knew my sister had a particular fondness for chewing gum...

"Did you leave gum in my room?" I asked her. 

"No, I didn't eat gum in your room." she replied. 

"I got gum in my hair. You promise you didn't leave a piece in my room?"

"I didn't!" she insisted. 

"Then HOW did I get gum in my hair, because I didn't chew any and you always have gum," I argued.

"I don't know," she began to get upset. 

"Will you help me look, because someone left gum in my room or whatever and now it's in my hair."

  We looked around my bed, but could find no sign of gum, or wrappers. Exasperated, I gave up my search. I cut the piece of gum out with scissors. I'm the kind of person who will cut my own hair, before I spend an hour trying to wash or dissolve gum out of it (whatever, hair grows back). I put on my jacket and got in my wheelchair to go outside.

"There's gum on your jacket!" my sister said enthusiastically. 

  I took off the jacket and looked at the sleeve; sure enough there was gum on the back of the right arm. 

"How in the world did that happen?" I asked. 

"Are you sure YOU didn't have any gum?" my sister half accused. 

"Duh, I think I'd remember if I had gum, I must have got it on my arm somehow."

  I rolled myself forward.

"Stop," my sister said, "look."

  On my right tire a penny was stuck fast by a piece of gum.

"Guess that's how I got gum in my hair," I sighed. 

"Your wheelchair is a jerk," my sister said.  

"Yeah, it only gave me a penny for my troubles," I laughed, pulling the penny off of my tire.

Rent-A-Wheelchair

  I've heard people complain about having rental cars, how they don't drive the same as their own car. I never understood the sentiment until I had to get a rental wheelchair. I was 19 and my electric wheelchair was having some issues so we took it to the mobility center. It was late in the evening and they still hadn't figured out what was wrong.

"We are going to need to keep it over the weekend and should have the issue resolved by Monday." The rep said. 

"I have a class on Saturday," I said, referring to the college course I was taking. 

"We have a rental wheelchair available," the rep offered. 

  They brought out an oversized electric monster of a wheelchair. The seat was like a car seat, much too large for me. The upholstery had rips in it, but the seat itself was fairly comfortable. The control panel looked like a video game pad with its large colorful buttons and oversized joystick. The whole wheelchair was covered in dust. I watched as the rep's assistant made a half-assed attempt at dusting it off. 

  What service. 

  I climbed into the wheelchair. They showed me all of the features. I turned on the wheelchair and pushed the joystick forward. I suppose I ought to have turned the speed down, because I lurched forward and into the wall. Fortunately, I wasn't hurt.

"Wow, it has a boost," I said, laughing. 

  I drove around the office for while, learning how to manage the controls, speed and turns. There were two particular features I really loved; the headlights and the chair lift.

"If this wheelchair wasn't so large, I'd say let's trade," I exclaimed, after raising myself at eye-level with the rep. 

"You're finally the same height as everyone else," my dad laughed. 

"I definitely wouldn't have to stand on my wheelchair anymore," I beamed. 

  The rest of the weekend was spent crashing into furniture, taking out corners of walls and getting stuck every time I accidentally ran off the sidewalk (thankfully I had a friend to assist me). The rental wheelchair was fun, but I was happy when my wheelchair was returned to me. 

"You may not have cool features like the other wheelchair," I said, patting its control pad, "but I'm glad you're my wheelchair."

  And yes, I talk to my wheelchair. 

My Color Wheels

  The first wheelchair I had at age four, was pink and black; It was chosen by my parents. They didn't do a bad job; pink was my favorite color at the time. However, when I was eleven, I'd out grown that wheelchair so it was time for an upgrade. I went with my parents to the mobility center and after measuring me, testing my strength and verifying my disability, it was time to pick my wheelchairs.

  I say wheelchairs, because I was qualified for two; a manual and an electric. My parents debated about allowing me to have an electric. My mother insisted I would need it in my new school, where I would have to travel to more than two classrooms everyday. It was finally agreed that we would get it since this would be the only opportunity to do so for a while - better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it was the final argument.

  Since I was older and very vocal about what I liked and disliked, they allowed me to choose what colors I wanted the wheelchairs to be. I sat down with the color tiles and flipped through them as the specialist explained that I could have my name embroidered in different colors or have beads added to the spokes of my manual wheelchair, my eyes lit up with interest, but my mom said 'no' -- anything that made a lot of noise was not my parent's favorite idea.

"Can I have two different colors?" I asked the lady assisting us.

"You can have as many as you'd like," she replied.

"Can I have different colors for both of my wheelchairs?"

"The manual one, we can use up to three colors, but the electric one we can only do one color." she answered.

  I thought about it for a moment. I was torn between six different colors.

"I want the electric one to be silver," I said, holding up the tile labeled 'silver.'

"That looks more like grey than silver," my mom frowned.

"But I like it." I said.

"No, pick out an actual color," she insisted.

"This is the color I want," I argued.

"If you want to argue with me, I'll pick out the colors," my mom warned.

  Some parents might say something like that as a threat, but mine never threatened us. If my folks said they'd do something (like throw away toys if we didn't clean our rooms) they did it. I didn't want to let my mom pick out the colors of my wheelchairs, so I conceded and picked out another color.

"Is this color okay?" I held up a teal colored tile. At the time, I thought it was a good second choice, but I wouldn't chose it today.

"Yes, that one is beautiful," my mom happily agreed.

  Finally, it was time to pick out the colors for my manual wheelchair. This was the chair I would spend the most time in, because I liked to push myself. I called it, 'exercise for my arms.' I put more time and thought into deciding which colors would best represent me. I wanted to be the cool, fun kid at my new school. When I look back now I realize that the colors I chose definitely represented my personality: Hot Pink, Yellow and Lime Green.

  I thought my mom would never let me have a wheelchair in those colors, but she seemed thrilled by my choices. When I asked her why she liked my manual wheelchair colors, but didn't let me have a silver one her response was, "Your wheelchair should reflect your personality and yours is not grey."

"It wasn't grey, it was silver," I corrected her.

"You're definitely not silver either," she said. "You're gold--or hot pink, yellow and green," she laughed.

"Why is that funny?" I asked.

"Oh you'll see, someday."

  And when I look at the photo of me in my crazy color wheelchair, I totally get it.

Me, age 15. Not the best quality, but the color is what counts!