Pennies from Heaven

Many times I have heard that hearing people assumed that all deaf person are fluent in American Sign Language, yet they are learning that it is a myth. I have been deaf since birth and I was not exposed to the world of ASL until later at school. At home, my parents were told not to learn the language because their doctor believed that it would hinder my ability to form the language required for the speaking world. He believed that I would not function "normally" out in the world full of hearing people. Talk about dispelling his myth! I will get into that later, but first let me share how I learned the language. The first time I saw a signed word was in the school cafeteria. My classmate suddenly threw up and it spilled over his tray full of lunch food. The teacher quickly puts down the silverware. Yes, at that time we had a nice hot meal with divided tray and silver cutlery not plasticwares. She placed her hand over his forehead and quickly signed a word by using open hand wi...

I know in my heart that my father wanted to share his experience of my life. Before I was born, my birth, and when they discovered my hidden disability as a young child, how he watched me grow and his last words. It was not found in his memoir, and he closed it with "I've had a hell of a good life considering it overall. I've had many outstanding events not mentioned in my writings. And I've had one extremely bitter experience that has taken me years to learn to deal with." I am fairly confident that the bitter experience he mentioned was the loss of his son, my brother Paul. He ended with, "First, as I've told her already, Bernice is the nicest thing that ever happened to me." Bernice was my mother, his wife of 50 years. Let me start at the beginning; I was born Severely Deaf with Sensorineural Loss. Currently my deafness is measured as profoundly. I use the BTE , behind the ear, hearing aid in my right ear and a Cochlear Implant in my left ea...

I know, I haven't been posting a blog for a long while. It was forgotten until I received an email reminding me to keep the subscription going. When I saw the title, I was confused. I had no clue who wrote it, so I clicked on the link to take me here. Oh it was me! I wrote it. A lot has happened since I last wrote it. My mother passed in 2014 and we buried her with my dad's ashes in the cardboard box measuring eight inches by five inches by five inches at her feet. Along with them was the broken watch my brother wore the day he was killed in 1973. My mother held onto her prized possession that identify him. I was oblivious to the fact that she took down all the photos of my brother until they bought the house when my father retired. The smiling baby that sort of resembles the happy Buddha in the framed eight by ten photo was hanging in the guest bedroom. It was as if she wanted to keep him close by. They rarely spoke of my brother. It wasn't that they were ashamed. They...