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!

Go Go Gadget Wheelchair

  Every morning I make coffee for my fiancé and I. There aren't many things I can physically do to help him around the house (he does the cooking and the laundry) so waking up and making coffee is something I take pride in, because I love and appreciate him.

  He often gives me our coffee cups after they've been washed. I keep them by our bed so that I can take them into the kitchen with me. I can't climb on the counter to reach dishes, because the curve of my spine has become so severe that I can no longer stand on my wheelchair or climb. I don't want to wait until morning, because the point of me making coffee is to let him relax before he has to spend the rest of the day helping me.

  However, one day I forgot to get the cups out and the next morning, I was faced with the frustration that the cups were up in the cupboard where I couldn't reach them. I was considering waking my fiancé up, but knowing him once he got the cups, he'd insist on making the coffee - not because he doesn't think I can, but because he loves me that much.

  So instead of waking him up, I decided it was time to use the problem solving skills taught to me by my dad and my brother. When I was young my father and brother were the two primarily responsible for teaching me how to do things independently. My brother taught me how to climb, my dad taught me what was safe for me to climb on. Both were also good at rigging gadgets for me to use. Since I couldn't climb, rigging some sort of gadget to retrieve a cup was the best solution.

  I started looking around the kitchen. In the corner, by the trashcan, there was a long broken broom handle. The broom was aluminum and had rusted until it broke. I carried the handle over to the cupboard and reached up. It was long enough to reach the cups, but the broom handle was too wide to go through the cup handles.

  However, the broom handle was hallow and this gave me an idea. I rummaged through the silverware drawer until I found a large serving fork. I stuck the end of the fork into the aluminum handle. Now I had an odd looking pitchfork. I reached up with my rigged device and slipped it through the handle of the first cup.

  I'd like to brag that my tool was an awesome success, but alas it was not. The fork kept slipping out every time I tried to lift the cup. The cup was too heavy and the rusted end of the broom handle began to crack. Afraid that it would split open and the cup would break, I decided to look for a plan B.

  I began digging through other drawers in the kitchen until I came across a long wooden spoon. I took it out and reached up toward the cupboard with it. The spoon reached the cup handles perfectly! I slid the handle of the spoon through the first cup handle and nervously pulled the cup toward the edge, praying I wouldn't break it. Like a zip-line, I let the cup slide down the long wooden spoon handle, catching it at the end.

  Success!

  I did the same with the second coffee cup and cheered when it too, landed safely in my hands. I made the coffee and took the cups to our room.

  As we watched Netflix and drank our coffee, I recounted my dilemma.

"I totally Macgyvered the thing," I boasted about my weirdly made pitchfork, "but it didn't work so I found a wooden spoon with a long handle - a simple yet effective tool."

"That's what I love about you - you always find a way," my fiancé added, "but you know you can always ask me for help."

"I know, but only if I need it. I like to do as much as I can for myself - and for you," I gestured to his cup of coffee.

"You don't have to make me coffee every morning," he said.

"I never do anything I don't want to do. You know that," I replied.

"True," he smiled and drank his coffee.

"Damn true," I said, grabbing the remote.

"Hey, my turn," my fiancé argued.

"Nope, I'm still drinking coffee and you know the rule--" In a modified quote from one of our favorite shows 'Supernatural,' I said, "Coffee maker picks the show, drinker shuts his cake hole."

A Wheelchair For A Walker

  In elementary school, because of my brittle bones and the need to sit out some days during physical education, during the twenty minutes my classmates were playing dodge ball or other rough sports, I attended special physical education. I'll admit that this was not my favorite class. Despite my physical limitations I was quick witted, hyper and admittedly eager to impress. 

  The kids in my class had a variety of conditions: a boy with down-syndorome, another with cerebral palsy and a little girl with Spina-bifida. The girl had a walker that she used to get around school.

"Why don't you use a wheelchair?" I asked her one day. "It would be a lot faster to move with."

"Yeah, I'll probably have to get a wheelchair someday," she confessed, "but I want to walk for as long as I can. My doctor says if you don't use your leg muscles, they will shrink and you won't be able to walk anymore."

"Is that true?" I asked our teacher.

"In a way," he responded. 

"I want to do my leg exercises today," I said to him.

"Alright," he replied. 

  I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much time I spent in my wheelchair. I began to worry that the school was trying to take away my ability to walk by making me stay in it all day. Later at home I voiced this fear to my parents. 

"Well, I was against getting you a wheelchair, but they wouldn't let you attend school without it, because the teachers are afraid we'd take them to court if you got hurt," my dad explained. 

"What if I got a walker?" I asked my dad. "There is a girl in my class who has a walker that she uses and she has a crooked back." (This was before I developed scoliosis)

"You have one," my dad reminded me.

  I'd forgotten about the little aluminum walker that came with my first wheelchair. My parents must have left it in the storage shed since I never used it. They brought it out that evening and showed me how to use it. 

"The only problem is your backpack," my dad said as he adjusted the straps. I slipped my arms through them and my parents laughed.

"It's as big as you are kiddo," he chuckled. 

  Not only was it too big, but filled with my school supplies, the bag was too heavy. I felt frustrated as I tried to figure out a way to carry my backpack. I sat in front of my walker when I noticed the front handle bars. They reminded me of the push handle bars on my wheelchair so I took my backpack off of my shoulders and slid the straps onto my walker. 

  It was a perfect fit. 

"Can I take this to school tomorrow instead of my wheelchair?" I asked my parents. 

"Yes," they agreed. 

  The next morning I pushed my walker out to the bus. 

"Where is your wheelchair?" The driver asked. 

"I'm going to take this from now on!" I proclaimed. 

"Okay, but let me carry that walker up for you," she said, and I let her. 

  It was a steep climb up the bus steps. I'd seen other kids climb up easily, but I didn't understand how. I had to hold on to the rail with one hand and use the other to pull myself up each step. I took a seat in the middle and the bus driver wedged the walker between the seats. It was a monumental moment for me, sitting in the wide seats. Without the restrictive belts that normally held my wheelchair down, I felt like I'd achieved freedom. I hummed happily to myself as we made the drive to school.

  With the backpack secured to the front, I pushed my walker into the elementary building, being mindful of each step I took. My parents cautioned me before I left not to behave recklessly. I entered my second grade class feeling proud. I was now on level with my peers, because I could walk. A few of my friends came up to me. 

"What happened to your chair?" she asked.

"I don't need it anymore," I proclaimed. "I can walk now." I said looking up. 

  For the first time it dawned on me how much shorter I was than kids my age. I barely came up to their elbows.

"What's that?" another asked.

"It's a walker," I answered dismissively. 

"Can you walk without it?" he asked.

"No, she can't, don't be rude," the other friend snapped at him.

"I can so!" I protested.

"Then why do you have it?" she queried.

"Because of my backpack," I said, omitting that the school wouldn't let me walk without it.  

  This seemed to satisfy my friend's curiosities. The rest of the morning went okay - I walked to and from my cubby hole, leaving my walker at my desk. It remained forgotten during science lab, story time and art. I was extremely tired from walking around the classroom all morning, but my dream of being treated like every other student had finally come true, However, when recess came that dream was crushed. 

"You have to sit at the picnic tables," my teacher told me. 

"Why?" I asked. "I'm not in a wheelchair anymore."

"You still have brittle bones," my teacher reminded me. 

  It was then that I realized my wheelchair wasn't to blame for my banishment from the playground. Now I understood what my parents told me. The teacher was afraid of me breaking my bones.

"I know you are scared of me breaking my bones, but I'm not scared. I do stuff all the time at home - I climb trees, build forts and play outside with my brother and sister, but I am not scared," I said boldly. 

"Exactly," my teacher replied, turning to watch my classmates. 

  I was dumbstruck by her words. 

  When I got home from school, exhausted from pushing my walker with the heavy backpack, I told my mom what the teacher said. 

"Why is it bad to not be scared?" I asked. 

"It's not," my mom assured me. "She doesn't think you know anything about having brittle bones, which is stupid because you know better than anyone. Heck, you learned to spell it when you were four--" 

"O-S-T-E-O-G-E-N-E-S-I-S I-M-P-E-R-F-E-C-T-A!" I spelled triumphantly."

"Smart aleck!" she hugged me and we laughed. 

"So are you gonna take your walker again tomorrow?" my mom asked.

"I think it's better to take my wheelchair, because I can't keep up with my friends, using the walker, and the other kids are really tall," I admitted. "I don't like it."

"That's never gonna change," my mom said.

"I know, but at least in my wheelchair I can run over them if they're mean!"

I'm Wheeling In The Rain

  Sometimes it's hard to maneuver my wheelchair and hold on to things, but it can be especially tough when the elements are working against me.

  I was getting ready for work one morning. The sky was dark with rain clouds, though the forecast promised it wouldn't start raining until the afternoon.

"Do you have an extra umbrella?" I asked my parents. 

"Here," my dad said, handing me one from their closet. 

"Thanks," I put it in my backpack on the back of my wheelchair and headed out the door. 

  I didn't like driving in the rain and was really grateful it hadn't begun, but I'd left a few minutes early just in case. I arrived a half hour before my shift. I considered going into work, but since it didn't rain I used the extra time to stop at my favorite cafe for coffee and a blueberry muffin.

  Big mistake.

  As I sat at my usual spot by the window awaiting my order, it began to rain. The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and a hot blueberry muffin, which she placed in front of me.

"I hope you brought an umbrella," she said, as she poured the coffee.

"Oh yes, in my back pack," I assured her.

  I reached inside my bag, beside the umbrella and pulled out a book. It was the perfect morning. I wished I could spend the rest of the day with my nose in a book, nibbling my blueberry muffin and sipping coffee to the steady rhythm of pouring rain.

  After finishing my first cup of coffee, I looked at my watch. I had five minutes. It would take me that long to get there. The rain let up, but there was still a light drizzle. I debated waiting a bit longer, but decided not to. I got into my van barely dampened and drove down the street to work.

  When I pulled into the parking lot, I was shocked to find there was nowhere to park. My job was at a call center and although we shared a building with two other businesses, we rarely had an issue with parking. I drove around to the other parking lot and saw the issue -- Road Work.

"Where do they expect me to park?" I fumed at no one.

  I drove around the block and finally found a spot across the street.

"Well, at least it quit raining," I said out loud.

  I should have kept my mouth shut.

  A loud boom of thunder, then the rain came down in sheets. I sat frozen in disbelief for a moment. Then I looked at my watch. I was already ten minutes late. I would surely be reprimanded. I was not a tardy person, but the policies were strict - first time offense put you on automatic probation. I would have gone home, called in, but I was never good about making excuses. I just wasn't raised that way. So I got my umbrella out and exited my van.

  Getting my wheelchair out of the van was easy. All I had to do was push a few buttons and the automatic door would open, a claw would swing the wheelchair out, lower it and that was it. All I had to do was unstrap it. Thanks to the gust of wind that accompanied the rain, the wheelchair was blown violently against the van.

"Oh come on!" I shouted in frustration.

  I crawled over the backseat and leaned out to steady the wheelchair as it lowered to the ground. As soon as it was down I climbed back up front to turn off the van and retrieve the umbrella.

  The lift and back door worked weather the van was on or off thanks to the back up battery, so once I climbed out of the back door and into the chair, I opened the umbrella and moved away from the van to close it up with the remote. I put the remote and keys in my purse, adjusted my wheelchair settings and waited at the curb for my chance to cross the street.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind attempted to sweep the umbrella out of my grasp. I struggled with it as the signal to cross began flashing. I steered the wheelchair gear forward with my right hand, while the left was fighting a losing battle. I made it across the street and I thought I'd finally be able to beat the wind, but the rain fell harder and in combination with another gust of wind, turned my umbrella inside out!

"Fine!" I shouted, "Take it!" and I threw the broken umbrella on the sidewalk.

  The rain continued its steady downpour as I rolled down the sidewalk, up the ramp and into the office building. I entered the room where our cubicles were, some of my coworkers eyeing me with sadness, amusement or shock. I wheeled up to my supervisor and she covered her mouth. She was probably concerned about showing the appropriate response. I probably looked pathetic - a tiny girl in a wheelchair, drenched, shivering, on the verge of tears.

"I know I'm late, but can I go to the bathroom to dry off?" I asked in a low voice.

"Yes," she said, "and don't worry about being late -- are you okay?" she said, concerned.

"The wind broke my umbrella," I answered.

"Okay, go get dried off," she said.

  Later, when I came back to my desk there was a tall black umbrella leaning against it with a note that said:

This one is wind proof.

  And it was.

Wheelchair Pajama Party

  When I was younger people who didn't know me often told me how lucky I was to be in a wheelchair, because no one would scold me or deny me anything out of fear of offending me. I wished. But one time I decided to test that theory.

"Why aren't you ready for school? Doesn't your bus get here in a few minutes?" my sister asked as we sat at the table eating breakfast.

"I'm going to school in my pajamas," I told her.

"Why?" she inquired.

"Why not? It's not like they're going to say anything -- I'm in a wheelchair."

  I was wearing my Winnie the Pooh T-shirt, green polkadot fleece pants and Pooh Bear slippers. I draped my fleece blanket around my shoulders. My short blonde hair was swiftly brushed, but I still looked like I'd just rolled out of bed.

"I thought you didn't like to play that card," my sister accused.

"Yeah, well today is finals and I want to be comfortable," I confessed.

  I've always had test anxiety and I am pretty sure it has to do with the exit test we had to take in public school. I decided this time I was going to feel as relaxed as possible and that meant wearing my fleece pants and Winnie the Pooh slippers.

"You're gonna get in trouble," my sister warned.

  Our parents weren't home to reprimand me, having left for work a half hour ago. I was about to mention this to my sister when the interrupting 'beep, beep' signaled my bus' arrival.

"We'll see," I said, as I headed out the door.

"You're looking comfy today," the bus driver noted as I drove up onto the wheelchair lift.

"Test day," I said.

"You must have been up late studying," she assumed.

"Didn't have time to get ready," I joked. "Actually, I just wanted to be comfortable. Test stress me out."

"You got this, girl, you're a smart lady," my bus driver assured me.

  I was glad I'd brought my fleece blanket with me. I wrapped it around me and bunched up the back of it under my head for a pillow. I managed to sleep through two pick ups and the five minute ride to school.

  When we arrived, I entered the school feeling a little timid about my bold decision. What if my sister was right and I did get in trouble. My parents would be furious if they had to leave work just because I blatantly broke the dress code and thus failed my classes. I made my way to the cafeteria to meet a couple of friends before our first class.

"Are you attending a slumber party?"

  It was the assistant principal! Well, I couldn't take my decision back now.

"Yep, after the test I'm going home and going to sleep!" I said cheerfully.

  Surprisingly, she just laughed. "I wish I had my PJ's on!" she sighed. "I need some sleep. Good luck on your test." The assistant principal left the cafeteria with her coffee.

  It worked! I found my friends sitting at our usual spot by the large windows.

"You guys are not gonna believe this..." I proceeded to tell them about my idea to wear pajamas and my encounter with the assistant principal.

"She didn't get mad or send me to the office for violating dress code. Maybe using wheelchair perks every now and then wouldn't be so bad..." It was then I noticed my friends were on the verge of laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked confused.

"Of course you didn't get in trouble, don't you remember what the principal said over the announcements yesterday?"

"I was out yesterday because of a doctor appointment," I said.

"Oh," my friend said, "well today is pajama day for finals."

  It was then I finally noticed all of my friends were in Pajama pants and T-shirts. One had brought a teddy bear while another, like me, had a fleece blanket in her lap.

"So much for wheelchair perks," I sighed.

"Not true. Today we all get wheelchair perks!" my friends cheered.

Wheelchair Bound

  When I was in Kindergarden, my teacher had a difficult time getting me to remain in my wheelchair all day. I was allowed to sit in the chairs at the desk, but I would take advantage of getting out of my wheelchair to run around the classroom.

"You know better than to leave your wheelchair in the hallway," my teacher scolded, after I finally admitted to once again pushing it out of the classroom in the hopes that she'd forget about it.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," I said, feigning shame. The next day, I hid my wheelchair in the coat closet.

  My teacher shook her head,

"You've given me no choice. I'm going to have a talk with your parents this time."

  That got my attention.

  After school she talked to my mom, who talked to my dad, who surprisingly did not talk to me. It seemed that after a few days I'd escaped punishment, because my parents had taken my side.

  Justice.

  Little did I know that my parents had ordered a clip on tray for my wheelchair so that I would no longer have an excuse to give the teacher so much frustration.

"No, I won't use it!" I protested when my parents presented the plastic table top.

"Young lady, don't give me lip," my mom warned. "You have to stay in your wheelchair at school, and since you won't listen, this is the alternative."

"But I'll be good, I'll listen," I begged and pouted. "Please don't make me use that stupid tray, it bothers!"

  I sat in my wheelchair while my parents adjusted the tray to fit me comfortably, but no matter what they did I protested that it bothered me - that I wouldn't be able to get out of my wheelchair anymore.

  The next day at school was frustrating. I tried to slip out of my wheelchair, but my dad, knowing my Houdini-esque abilities, had made sure there wasn't any wiggle room for me to do so. I endured the rest of the day in my rolling prison - only released with the help of the teacher so that I could use the restroom. I didn't know how to remove the tray and I had pinched my fingers trying.

  Later at home, my brother sat in my wheelchair.

"Can I put the tray on?" he asked, "I want to color and I don't want to sit at the kitchen table."

"Yeah, but it's hard to put on, dad might have to help you," I said.

  My brother picked up the tray and after a couple of adjustments, snapped it in place.

"Wow, can you take it off?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, easily unhooking the clips and removing the tray.

"Show me how to do that!" I begged.

"Okay," my brother said, and proceeded to teach me how to undo the clips.

  It was a little harder for me, because of my weak hands so I had to use two hands on each clip, undoing one at a time. After I had mastered taking the tray off, I gave my brother a big hug.

"Thank you!" I said, excitedly, while he clipped himself back into my wheelchair to color.

  The next day at school, I was in a much better mood. The teacher handed out our Alphabet workbooks. I thought about getting out of my wheelchair and sitting at my desk, just to show her that I could, but then I realized that my tray was wider than the desk and I would have more room for my workbook. So I sat in my wheelchair and did my work.

  When art time came, I discovered once again the benefits of using the tray. The same followed for lunch. Suddenly, I was happy to have the tray. I now had my own space to eat, read, draw and I didn't have to share my crayons, a major bonus for me.

"You seem to be in a better mood today," my teacher noted.

"I am," I said, "My brother showed me how to take the tray off, but you don't have to worry, I like it now."

"Well I am certainly glad," the teacher said. "You're a smart girl. I know that nothing can hold you back, even that tray."

Rock 'N' Roll Wheelchair

  My first rock 'n' roll show was the coolest ever, because of my wheelchair.

  When I was a teenager, I didn't go to parties or concerts a lot like most of my friends. I liked being a homebody for the most part, but one night I was really bored so I started calling around and seeing what my friends were doing. Most of them were already busy, but one of them called me back,

"Hey, I was thinking about seeing The Buzzcocks play tonight, downtown. Do you want to go?" he asked.

"Sure," I agreed. I'd heard a few of their songs and thought they were pretty good.

  Later, my friend picked me up and he and I went to the local warehouse. We'd arrived early to get a good spot, but when we went inside, the room was hardly crowded.

"I'm surprised the turn out was so weak," I said to my friend, "I thought this band was really popular."

"Oh, it's still early," he assured me. "Places like this can fill up fast."

  We watched the opening band play. One of the members brought out a guitar that was so small, I could have held it. I was mesmerized watching him play, until he smashed the instrument in front of me. I could hardly believe it. I was so angry, I thought I might explode - I wished he'd given me the guitar if he really didn't want it.

"Are you okay?" My friend asked, seeing my expression.

"That was a punk ass thing to do," I said motioning to the splintered wood and strings littered across the stage.

"Yeah it was," he agreed, understanding my anger.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back," I said.

"Okay, I'm gonna get a beer," my friend gestured toward the bar at the back.

  I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face to calm down. I wished I were old enough for a beer. I wasn't about to ask my friend to buy me one, though I doubt he would have - my dad wouldn't have let me hang out with him alone if he thought he would, and I didn't want to break my dad's trust.

  I wheeled back out and was shocked to see the venue was suddenly packed. Eventually, I found my friend at the back, by the bar.

"I told you this place could fill up," he said, sipping his beer. "I'm sorry, I should have gone back to the front and reserved our place."

"It's okay, maybe we can push our way back up," I suggested. But it was no use.

"When the show starts, I will let you sit on my shoulders," my friend offered.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Come on," he said and bent down so I could climb on.

  My brother let me sit on his shoulders numerous times, but I'd never trusted anyone else not to drop me. Still, I did want to see the band play - plus it didn't smell very pleasant the more crowded the room got. I stood up on my wheelchair and started to climb, when suddenly we were approached by the bouncer.

"You don't need to do that," he said to me. "Come on, we'll find you a place where you can see the band play."

  A place where we could see the band play. I imagined we were about to be escorted back to our earlier places in the front. Instead, the bouncer led us out of the side door, around to a ramp in the back, through a room behind the stage, up another ramp and then right up on stage!

"How is this for a view?" The bouncer grinned at me. We were positioned behind the left speaker, just in the shadows. Still, we could see the whole band.

  The Buzzcocks began to play and my friend and I were on cloud nine. It was so loud, I was sure I would be deaf, but I didn't care! I was amazed at their performance. Pete Shelley - the lead singer, who at the time was in his fifties - seemed to have the crazy energy of someone in his thirties. Every once in a while one of the members would look at us; smile, nod, wink or acknowledge our presence with some small gesture. After the show my friend and I got to meet the band who, despite their wild stage presence, were kindly spoken gentlemen.

"It was so wonderful to meet you my dear," Pete said, taking my hand with both of his as we said goodbye.

  His british accent made me feel as though I were being bid farewell by an elder knight.

  As my friend and I left in a daze my friend finally broke,

"Wow, that was so amazing!" he said.

"Yeah it was, thanks for bringing me!" I beamed.

"Thank you," he said. "It's because of you that we got to sit on stage. Do you always get to do stuff like that?"

"Not always," I answered.

"You should," he said.

"I'd feel guilty. I always say I want to be treated normal, but if I got special treatment all the time just because of my wheelchair, it would be kind of hypocritical," I reasoned.

"But you're short. Even if you weren't in a wheelchair, you would have had to move where you could see - that's normal," he countered.

"True," I agreed. "But wow, I wasn't expecting them to let us sit on stage!"

"I know, that was awesome!" My friend and I continued geeking out over our amazing night.

 ~*~

  Being in a wheelchair has taught me many things, but most importantly it has given me a deep appreciation for the kindness of people. I am grateful for every chance I am given to sit where I can enjoy a movie, concert or show; for every person who offers to hold a door or let me cut in line; for anyone who helps me reach things up high. If you're one of these people - from my heart, Thank You.

My Wheelchair Is Not A Lemon

  One hot summer day, my sister and I decided to set up a lemonade stand.

"I'm going to make the lemonade, because you make it too sweet," my sister insisted.

"Fine, I get to bake the cookies," I said.

"Will you leave a few in there a little longer?" she asked. My sister had a taste for slightly burnt cookies.

"No, these are for the customers," I frowned. "Unless you don't want to make money."

"Okay. What are we going to use for the stand?" she asked.

  There was a foldable card table in the utility room. I suggested that. We also got some paper and markers to make signs: Lemonade - 50 cents & Cookies 25 cents. We loaded our supplies in a box, set it in my wheelchair and toted everything outside.

  My sister and I set to work making our table presentable. I set a little shoe box, with a change jar beside it, on my wheelchair. This served as our cash register. My sister walked down to the corner of our street and posted a 'Lemonade For Sale' sign, complete with an arrow facing our house, on the stop sign.

"Lemonade! Cookies! Quench your thirst and have a snack!" my sister and I shouted to passersby.

  People walking their dogs, riding their bikes and even some drivers stopped and purchased our treats. Soon we had to restock on lemonade and I even let my sister handle the next batch of cookies. It was no surprise that some of them wound up burnt. I couldn't be too upset though, we sold most of our stock.

  As we were getting ready to set up our final batch of cookies and lemonade, one of my sister's friends came walking up. She looked really upset.

"You knew I was having a lemonade stand today!" she accused my sister.

  My sister's friend lived at the other end of our street and often she and my sister found themselves in competition. When my sister asked me to help her with the lemonade stand I'd agreed because it was something she and I enjoyed doing together. Now I could see that there was more to this than she'd let on.

"I can't believe you played the 'handicapped sister card!'" I said to my sister. I tried to sound disappointed, but she was young and I probably would have done the same at her age.

"You should give me your money," her friend insisted, to which my sister got defensive. Being the mediator between my siblings I stepped in.

"We're not giving up this money, because half of it's mine," I said, "However, I have an idea - let's combine our lemonade stands and we'll split the money three ways," I resolved.

"Okay," they agreed.

  My sister helped her friend bring everything from her stand over to ours. Her friend made pink lemonade and cookies with M&M's. Much to my sister's delight, many of the cookies were burnt. Together, we sold most of our stock. After three hours we were tired of sitting outside and decided to call it an afternoon. We took the stand down. My sister put the remaining lemonade in our refrigerator.

  The three of us sat outside together, counting our earnings. Aside from the sales, we'd been given tips. Our total collection came out to thirty-three dollars. We each took eleven.

"Let's do this again next weekend," my sister's friend said enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I bet we could really earn money if you sat in your wheelchair next time," my sister said.

  There are very few times I feel I've taught my siblings anything of value. This was one moment I hope made a lasting impression.

"I bet we could," I said, "but would that be right?" I asked my sister. She started to say something and then saw the look on my face.

"No?" she guessed.

"No." I confirmed.

Happy Hallo-Wheels

  Wheelchairs (especially electric) are helpful when collecting large amounts of candy.

  Halloween was my favorite event when I was a kid. It combined the two things I loved; playing dress up and eating chocolate. For awhile we didn't live in a neighborhood that was good for trick-or-treating. My parents weren't big on it anyway, so there were a few years when all we had was the local fall festivals at church (lots of costume restrictions and very little candy).

  Finally, when I was 14 we moved into a neighborhood full of kids. When Halloween came around, my siblings and I were eager to don our costumes and collect candy.

"You kids are too old for us to take you trick or treating," Our parents told us, when we brought up the evening plans.

"But we haven't been in a long time!" My little sister whined. She was only ten, still a child. I could see how supremely unfair this was to her. I was struck with an idea.

"I'm fourteen now, old enough to watch them on the weekends when you guys go to work. Can't I take them trick-or-treating tonight?" I offered. "I have my electric Wheelchair, so it will be fine."

  My parents considered this.

"Okay, but you kids need to be back by nine and don't leave the neighborhood." This was directed mostly at my thirteen year old brother, who was unafraid of walking anywhere on his own.

"Thanks sis!" my siblings said to me.

  That night my sister and I put on our costumes. I was a ninja and my sister was a princess. As for my brother, he went rebel. We left the house at 7pm, as the daylight was fading.

"Would you be okay if I went with my friends?" My brother asked. "I promise I'll be back by curfew."

"They told us to stick together." I hesitated. I wanted to obey the rules, but my younger siblings had the tendency to squabble a lot and just watching my sister would be easier.

"I'll get you guys some extra candy," he offered. It was then that I noticed he was holding a giant garbage bag. Another one was sticking out from his overstuffed pocket.

"Do you really think you're going to get that much candy?" I laughed.

"Duh," he said.

  I looked down at my small bucket.

"Forget this," I said. "Go back inside and get the pillowcases off of our beds," I directed at my sister. She took the buckets inside and came back out with four pillowcases.

"There's no way you girls are going to fill those," my brother taunted. "You won't even leave the neighborhood."

"Wanna make a wager?" I offered.

"Winner gets to go through loser's candy and claim their favorites - money and toys included," my brother said.

"Deal," we all agreed.

  So we split up, my brother off with his friends and my sister and I with ours. My sister stood on the back of my wheelchair. I held the candy bags in my lap. We traversed through three streets before the weight of the candy started to become tiresome.

"It's a good thing you have your wheelchair, or this would be really hard to do," my sister said as I drove us to the door of another house.

"One of the pros of having my wheelchair," I agreed.

  We collected more candy, but soon my arms began to ache.

"I wanna take this home, but it's close to curfew. I don't want to be told we can't go back out," I told my sister. It was 8:30.

  We decided to take the chance. When we arrived home, the living room was dark, except for one lamp. Our parents had gone to bed fully expecting that we would follow the rules. My sister and I dropped the bags of candy off in the bedroom. It was still fifteen minutes till curfew.

"Can we go back out for ten minutes?" My sister asked.

"Okay, but let's stay close. Our neighbors might have some extra candy."

  We took one pillow case and we back out. We managed to fill it a quarter of the way up when I saw my brother and one of his friends carrying two large garbage bags nearly full of candy.

"Where did you get all of that?" I asked in shock.

"I have my secrets," my brother grinned. He saw the single pillowcase in my hand.

"Slow night?" he asked.

"No, we have lots more in our room. Mom and dad are asleep by the way."

"Cool, can I go back out?"

"No, we have to go in," I said. "And your friend can take that other bag of candy, I've got a feeling dad is going to be pretty upset about this."

  Turns out, I was right. The next morning my dad nearly blew a fuse when he saw the garbage bag and pillowcases full of candy.

"You three are officially too old for trick-or-treating," he said after collecting the candy from our rooms.

  He poured some of it into a candy dish, he then placed the dish atop the refrigerator (not as an attempt to keep it out of reach, but to symbolically tell us that we were not to touch it without asking). The rest of our prized collection went promptly into the garbage.

  Little did he know that the previous night I'd warned my siblings this might happen. We worked together all night to secure our favorite pieces of candy. The wager of who collected the most no longer an issue, we were united with salvaging what I correctly assumed would be our final Halloween trick-or-treating together.

Wheelchair Roulette

  When I was ten, I lost my marbles - and my wheelchair. I came home one evening after playing with my friends. I hoped my mom wouldn't remember that I'd taken my wheelchair out, as I often did when the walk was far, but it had been an unlucky day for me.

"Where is your wheelchair?" she asked.

"I lost it in a bet," I said, trying not to sound as scared as I felt.

"Excuse me?" my mom said.

"I was playing marbles," I lowered my gaze.

  Recently, the kids in my area had become addicted to playing marbles. My brother taught me how to play, but I had a hard time beating him.

"Don't get frustrated," he told me after I'd lost some of my allowance to him. "I'm just a pro. You need to find people less experienced, that you can beat."

  So I began playing my friends, even teaching some, and soon I had a beautiful collection of marbles I'd won in games.

  As kids, we were taught that gambling was a sin. That included making bets.

"Betting is a pathway to gambling, and gambling is a sin," my mother chanted. "You start gambling with the small things and soon you lose everything God gave you."

  I should have headed those words, but I had a weakness for the colorful, little glass orbs that rolled smoothly across a hardwood floor. The satisfaction of aiming one swift pawn marble at my target acquisition and hearing the little click that knocked it from the protective circle and into my silk pouch, where I kept at least a hundred other marbles, made me giddy with anticipation.

  Tonight, I lost almost all of my favorites. I didn't want to bet anymore of them out of fear that I'd have nothing left. In a desperate attempt to get at least one or two back I pleaded with my friend,

"Can't we bet something other than my last marbles?"

"Okay," she said, "We can bet your wheelchair."

  I thought about it. I knew my parents would be livid if I lost, but I really wanted my prized collection back.

"Fine," I sighed, "but you can't keep it. My mom won't let you. You can borrow it for a week."

"Deal," my friend agreed.

  The game was short and when it was over I went home without my marbles or my wheels.

"Whose house did you leave it at?" My mom asked and I told her.

"You stay put. I'm gonna go get your wheelchair," Mom said and left.

  It was sometime before my mom returned and when she wheeled my wheelchair into the bedroom she asked me for the silk pouch where I kept my remaining marbles.

"You're done playing with these for awhile," she said. "Do you want to know where I found your wheelchair?"

"Where?" I asked, confused.

"Apparently, your friend decided to bet your wheelchair in one of her games. I had to go two blocks away and the boys who had it, left it outside. You can consider yourself grounded for the next two weeks and if you do any betting again, I'll help you out and give away all of your toys." She stormed out of the room.

  A little while later my brother came in my room.

"Wow, I heard what happened. Do you want me to give you some of my marbles?" he offered.

"No, mom said she'd give away all of my stuff if she caught me betting again. You should probably stop too. I know she only said that to me, but I'm pretty sure she means you also, and she will catch you," I warned. My brother grinned.

"Wanna bet?"

The Perks Of Having A Wheelchair

  When I was younger, my manual wheelchair was a multi-purpose object. I used it for a step stool, a way to carry laundry to and from my room and sometimes I toted toys in and out of the house whenever I wanted to play outside.

  One day my siblings and I decided to go around the block to a friend's house. As always, I pushed the supplies (a box full of video games, barbie dolls and snacks) in my wheelchair, while my brother and sister walked behind and beside me.

"Guys, I need to sit down," I said to my siblings.

  The walks around the neighborhood often wore me out, so we parked my wheelchair on the curb and dug into the box to retrieve our sodas and cookies. After we finished them,

"Uh-oh," I said, "I have to use the bathroom."

"Do you think you can make it to our friend's house?" my brother asked.

"I don't know," I said, standing up. I could feel the pressure on my bladder and I knew that I'd have to go soon.

"Maybe you can knock on the neighbor's door," my sister pointed at the house in front of us.

  I wasn't too keen on the idea, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I ran ahead of my siblings to the front door and knocked. My tiny hands were never good at making noise and I was too short to reach the doorbell. Luckily, my brother ran up behind me, leaving our sister in the driveway with my wheelchair. He rang the doorbell. Still, no answer.

"Let's try another house," my brother suggested.

  We ran next door, our sister pushing the wheelchair behind us. Again we rang and knocked, but there was still no response.

"I don't think anyone is home anywhere," I said, noting the next three empty drive-ways. I felt a little ridiculous knocking on so many doors.

"Get in your wheelchair and I'll push you," my brother said.

"What about our stuff?" I asked.

"Can you carry it?" he asked our sister.

"No," she said.

"Wait here with it then," he told her.

"Don't leave me here!" my sister insisted.

"We can't leave her by herself," I told my brother. I thought for a moment. "Let's hide the box in the neighbor's bush then come back and get it."

  Our friend lived just one street over from where we were. My brother took the box and hid it in the bushes in front of the neighbor's window. I got in my wheelchair and he pushed me as swiftly as he could, with our sister running behind us. We made it to our friend's house just in time.

"Where is your stuff?" our friend asked.

"We had to hide it so it wouldn't get stolen," my brother said. "You girls stay and we'll go get it. Can I borrow your wheelchair, sis?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

  It took awhile, but when they returned, my brother and our friend were laughing hysterically.

"What happened?" I asked them eagerly.

"When we went to get the stuff, there was a car in the driveway," my brother said. "I thought we'd get in trouble sneaking up to their window."

"So I got in your wheelchair and your brother pushed me up to the front door," our friend said. "He rang the bell and told the lady who answered that someone took my toys and we thought they hid them in her yard. She obviously felt sorry for me, because of the wheelchair, so she let us 'look' and we 'found' them!"

  The both started laughing again. My sister and I joined in.

"You're lucky," our friend said to me, when we'd calm down. "If I were in a wheelchair, I'd never get in trouble."

  My siblings and I looked at each other, and started laughing even harder.

Wheeling My Way To Disney World

  I've only ever participated in one school fundraiser. When I was fifteen, my choir teacher announced that we were going to raise money to go to Disney World the next year. The teacher planned three community ticketed events, including a bake sale, but first she said we'd have a catalogue fundraiser. I was so excited, because I'd always wanted to go to Disney World. It was a dream come true for me and the other girls in my class.

"We are also having a contest and the one who raises enough money at the end of the year will win free passes to Six Flags," our teacher announced.

  I took the fundraising packet home that evening and sat at the table looking through the catalogue. My sister looked with me.

"How are you going to raise enough money to go to Disney World?" she asked.

"If the class sells enough items to meet half of the cost, the school is going to pay the other half," I told her. "And, if I make enough sales on my own, I'll win free passes to Six Flags."

"Can I go?" my sister asked.

"I dunno about Disney World, but if you help me sell this stuff I'll definitely take you to San Antonio," I told her.

"Okay," she agreed.

  The next morning, with my electric wheelchair fully charged, my sister and I set out to make the sales. My sister stood on the back of the wheelchair while I drove us around the neighborhood. Our first stop was at the home of an older woman who lived across the street a few houses adjacent to us.

  We often saw her in the yard working on her flower bed and we always said hello. I figured that she would be open to buying some of the decorative trinkets in the catalogue. I'd never sold anything before and didn't know anything about having a good sales pitch. I was in for an interesting lesson.

"Good morning ma'am," I said when she answered the door.

"Hello girls," the lady beamed.

"I'm selling stuff to raise money at school," I said as polite as pudding, "would you like to buy anything?"

"Oh what are you raising money for?" she asked.

"She's going to Disney World with her class," my sister answered for me.

"How exciting," the lady replied. "I'm in the middle of baking. Will you come in and I'll look at the catalogue." she said.

  I could smell the evidence of baking cookies wafting toward us, so I motioned to my sister and we entered. The woman had a beautiful home with plush furniture and shelves full of trinkets - mostly ceramic cats. We sat in the bright, sunlit dining room at a wooden table with a white lace table cloth.

"I was baking these for my grandkids. They'll be here later today, but you girls can have a couple," she offered.

"Thank you," we said, and she put a few on a small plate.

  I pulled the catalogue from my backpack and sat it on the table. The woman sat down and began thumbing through the pages while my sister and I nibbled on the warm cookies.

"My granddaughter had one of these last year," the lady said to me. "I got some really nice scented candles," she motioned to the bar that had a few mason jars with candles in them.

  We spent the next four hours at her house listening to stories of her grandkids, her life in Germany and her love of cats. Gratefully, she bought five items and invited us to stop by again. By the time we left, it was well into the afternoon.

"Wow," I said to my sister as we headed down the street, "she was a sweet lady, but we have to be careful. No more going into people's homes. We'll never get anything sold if we sit around listening to everyone's life story."

  The rest of the day, my sister and I went around the neighborhood knocking on doors and hoping that nobody else would ask us to come in. Fortunately they didn't, but unfortunately not many people were as kind as the old woman had been. There were a few that said no almost as soon as we made our pitch and one even yelled at us in spanish before shutting the door in our faces.

"How many sales have we made today?" I asked my sister, as evening approached.

"Twelve," she replied, checking the list.

"Ready to do this again tomorrow?" I asked.

"If it wasn't for your wheelchair, I'd say no," she laughed.

"Honestly, if it wasn't for my wheelchair I'd say no too. I feel bad for my classmates who are doing this on foot."

  By the end of the weekend, we sold 42 items. I was sure I'd won the trip to San Antonio. However, when I got to class on Monday, I was shocked to discover that many of my classmates had sold well over forty-two products. Some had as many as 100 on their list.

"How did you sell that many? I went around the neighborhood in my wheelchair and it wore me out," I asked.

"I got my mom to take the catalogue to work and her co-workers bought most of it," one friend bragged.

"My grandma loves this kind of stuff and the ladies in her church group do too," another boasted.

  I felt like a goober. I never thought to enlist my parent's help. We all turned in our packets. The rest of the semester was fun. I sang in a talent show where we collected raffle tickets and sold snacks. We held a Disney themed concert and sang at the local community center, where we were given donations for our trip. At the end of the semester our teacher presented one of my friends with the tickets to Six Flags.

"And great news ladies," she said, "we've reached our intended goal so that means..."

"WE'RE GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!" we all screamed with excitement.

  My spirit soared. So what if I wasn't going to San Antonio. Our class would be singing for Mickey and I would finally visit the most magical place on earth. Nothing could take that away...

  And then my family moved.