Wilma
The local credit union has a ramp up to one door to accommodate the handicapped. That door though, like the other one at the top of a short flight of stairs, is too heavy to open by someone in a wheelchair or a young mother pushing a stroller. So also need struggle those of us who use a cane, or a walker.
I pointed the problem out to them a few times over the course of a year. Part of a small chain with branches and head office in other towns, nothing changed. I don’t go there any more. Transferred my account to one of the more enlightened banks in town. Increased expense, greater convenience.
My friend Lillian and her husband Gene used to attend annual reunions in various locations in the Pacific Northwest. Meeting them there made attending worthwhile for me. A necessary couple of overnights—coming and going—ended that for us. Gene could still drive but could no longer lift Lil after he suffered an injury of his own. Every hotel and motel has bathroom grab bars on the same side. The wrong side for Lil. They and I did not—don’t—live close enough for me to help.
Some restaurants and meeting halls have become out-of-bounds for certain of my friends and me. We may still be able to wash hands in restrooms but using another important facility is impossible. Even the ones with grab bars may still be wrong for individuals like Lillian. Most without a way to lift with arms have the door too close to sit down or get up.
In a pretty much retirement community there are young mothers with two or three preschool children who need to go on errands too. To many places needlessly off limits for both old and younger. Aggravating, when some who could help change things just shrug their shoulders.
The Raymond post office has no handicap access. On the Historic Register, claims making an adaptation despite laws requiring such for others, does not apply: according to my friend and neighbor Wilma who lives across the hall from me. Another friend of our mature vintage, points out how difficult the door at the top of the stairs is to open. That, they can and will change. A post office eight to ten kilometers away has easy access—but not for us from out of town constrained to public transportation. Meeting a bus schedule and walking to and from a marked bus stop—as alternative to begging for help from friends and neighbors.
Wilma was 95 in March 2008 and goes walking daily, pushing her wheeled walker that has a seat for pauses as convenient. She can enter the post office by using the railing beside the stairs. Dares not, because someone might steal her walker left at the bottom. It happens too often with bicycles.
My activist friend is working on it. Wilma bought another electric typewriter to replace the new one given her at her retirement. She had worn out the first. She hasn’t time to learn using a computer so spends quite a lot for postage and telephone calls. Unfortunately, after many months she still has not gotten very far. Her small progress has located other post offices in the state facing the same problem and getting nowhere, but just one prevailed. An hour away by car, a willing relative to take her, an appointment with the successful person, and maybe she’ll be a step ahead?
Wouldn’t you think a post office should be eager to provide such a good customer as she is, easy access?
The confrontation with Brian Baird, our congressional representative, was more successful than planned. We had a careful plan of attack, but nothing like the one/two/three way it turned out. The town meeting invitation had been sent the afternoon before, but I hadn’t checked my email until morning.
I enlarged the invitation for a poster; printed and posted it in the elevator. Wilma living across the hall knocked on my door after seeing it. We who no longer drive envisioned a van loaded with tenants or maybe a few cars, ready to stress the needs of our elderly peers. She tried to spread the word. Where had everyone gone? She couldn’t reach anyone by telephone and it wasn’t worth leaving a message on such short notice. Wilma called for the Dial-a-Ride bus to pick us up at 6:30 for the 7 PM meeting at the county seat. We climbed on the bus. Two of us.
In South Bend a couple approached us in the commissioner meeting room; he the fellow in the wheelchair who had called Wilma about her published letter to the editor. Neither of us had met him. They moved to the far end of the room from us. We sat at the side; when the room filled Wilma moved to sit in her walker across the aisle.
A man began the discussion, horrified at the possibilities of war escalation in the Mid-East. Fearful of massive nuclear bomb threat against the non-Muslim world instigated by Iran because of Iraq/Israeli differences. He asked Brian Baird for various alternatives. First as dialogue and then with others partaking, no solution was forthcoming though Baird reasoned sanity would prevail.
The fellow in the wheelchair mentioned the Raymond post office impasse. On the Historic Register excuse of refusing to consider needs of the public. Back to the perceived world danger subject.
Diagonally across the room I asked why a post office could not install a handicap-access ramp at the rear. That not only the old and already infirm should be accommodated, but those fortunate enough to return from military service in less than body bags. More military discussion: the good job being done by our troops in Iraq with resulting improvements in casualty numbers. The environment. The plight of small business.
Another pause just long enough for Wilma to address the floor. She stood—as none of the rest of us had—identified herself by name and age of 95. Said she wanted the post office access resolved during what few years she might have left. For herself who could climb the stairs if she left the walker on the sidewalk, and those in wheelchairs who could not enter in any way.
Representative Baird said he hoped she could survive well beyond resolution, and a humorous exchange took place, with scattered laughter throughout the room. He outlined problems and possible solutions, saying it could take a long time. It of course already has, as Wilma coped with buck-passing for months.
There were digital cameras, a laptop computer and what I think was a camcorder in use. I had seen a reporter from the local weekly, and then the young woman from the county seat equivalent identified herself. Later, a young man journalist from the daily serving our community came around to collect names and information.
It won’t be resolved overnight, but Wilma’s cause—airing the plight of the handicapped—had a picture and first mention in the top story of The Daily World of Aberdeen, picture included. At least more area residents will know something is in process. Wilma and I call that progress.
About a year ago, still well before her 95th birthday, my neighbor started her campaign to get handicapped access to the local post office. As I got acquainted with Wilma Pundars living in the apartment across the hall, she told me about obstacles being encountered.
We had not met, though I remembered my father mentioning her late husband’s name. More recently, she had known my brother, and, his widow. We had many acquaintances in common because she had lived in the community much of her life and recently returned, as I had my first twenty and most recent ten.
The problem, she said, was that a thirteen minute walk using her wheeled walker could get her to the Raymond Post Office, but not inside. To climb the stairs was possible though with a package, difficult. Worse, an appliance left was vulnerable to prankster young people reported by newspapers to sometimes remove untethered bicycles and wheelchairs.
A ramp into the building. Simple enough with the law on her side; so she thought. The post office building was on the historic register? Why should that matter? Wilma was told it made this building immune from the law. She’d see about that!
Not so easily. Wilma had worn out the electric typewriter given her on retirement about the time we met, still writing and making long distance telephone calls. More people in other small cities of Western Washington State where we lived were having similar problems.
One had access created when a postal employee fell, was injured and sued. Our hair dresser, Linda Ellsworth, owner of Linda’s Salon, had fallen and paid for medical care needed after injury. No one paid attention. More recently, Hazel Johnson employed at the Public Utility District #2 building across the street had fallen. Still, nothing could be done.
Wilma was told the post office four miles away at the Pacific county seat of South Bend had access for the handicapped. Our more agile neighbors could walk and stop at the post office for a few minutes, but any physically impaired were second-hand citizens who needed to procure transportation and spend half a day to mail a package to a loved one? She was incensed!
We learned our Congressional representative, Brian Baird, was to hold a meeting at the county commissioner meeting room in South Bend. With her agreement, I made a reservation on the Dial-a-Ride bus to take us to the evening meeting. The difficulty that presented, was we would have no way home. Bus service ended with daytime hours. Not to worry Wilma assured me, she was sure someone she knew would bring us home. If not, I said, we could make telephone calls to ask for help.
The first questions to Representative Baird were about the war in Iraq and related subjects. A younger fellow up front in a wheelchair had seen Wilma’s letter to the editor published in a newspaper, and brought up Post Office access for the handicapped. The next question was about Iraq. I stood and said, “About handicapped person access . . .” and again the topic was trampled.
Wilma rose from where seated on her walker and began by introducing herself, said, “I’m 95 years old . . .” That she wanted it settled in her lifetime. Baird got the laugh of the evening, saying she wasn’t allowed to die until she succeeded. She had the attention of all, including the press attending. The result: a newspaper story with a picture of Tony in his wheelchair in front of the Raymond Post Office. Alas, only one step forward.
Publicity had brought the difficulty of the handicapped getting into the Raymond Post Office to the attention of the able bodied. Not to mention those younger with physical handicaps, and young mothers with small children in strollers and their arms unable to negotiate stairs and doors too heavy to open.
“And how about our military?” I asked. “Veterans returned disabled and denied access to a government building.” We needed VFW and Legion input.
Disabled veterans from any war
deserve access consideration
Wilma continued her letter writing and telephone calls as we both talked to everyone we knew, enlisting their interest. One of her letters had gone to Washington Governor Chris Gregoire who assigned a volunteer—Gloria—in the capital city of Olympia to help. Gloria came to Wilma’s apartment for a conference where I met her too. For ease in communication between Olympia and Raymond when the telephone didn’t quite serve, Gloria and I could use email and I would make printouts for Wilma’s records. To be added to a file she had collected from the beginning.
Wilma made the reservation for a town meeting, on a date the Elks Lodge Hall was available fitting into Gloria’s schedule for attendance. Gloria would design, manufacture and send flyers to be distributed. See about getting people from elsewhere to attend.
It was important had said Sean, assistant to Representative Brian Baird when he called Wilma, to get as many signatures as possible and Gloria agreed, saying collecting those of local dignitaries would help. I made up loose leaf notebook sheets for Wilma—and me—to circulate ahead of time in case the town meeting didn’t draw a big enough crowd.
Visiting the local school library I asked for teacher, administration and older teen signatures, and said we hoped someone representing the school would attend the town meeting. She knew just the person said the librarian, Michelle: the husband of a woman working at the school had fallen at the post office, injured his shoulder, needed surgery, and filed suit.
Who? When? A third person falling: Wilma needed to know. We were conferring daily. Another evening my telephone rang with invitation from Edythe to the annual holiday outing of the VFW Auxiliary where we are members. Sorry, not this year . . . we talked about post office injuries.
Edythe knew the man whose shoulder was so badly injured by the fall that he needed surgery. I told her about the two women who had fallen and she told me about another. That made four. I went across the hall immediately to tell Wilma; it was dark out but still before 9 PM. She pulled out the telephone book, found names and marked them. This made four people who could speak to the problem. Make a case for all the others present to back them.
Tony, whose picture, sitting in front of the post office in his wheelchair, was used in a story by the daily newspaper covering our community from the next county, was not listed in the telephone book. Wilma had tried to leave messages for him to call her, the way he had before the meeting with Representative Brian Baird that resulted in the newspaper picture. He didn’t.
The Daily World (Aberdeen) photo with story
The Thanksgiving weekend with so many places closed for four days, complicated matters. But Wilma had the invitational letters to people she wanted to speak, ready to mail, going out Monday. Letters only. Packages were what made access to the post office so necessary. And I had learned where Tony’s wife worked. She was accessible to be called after the holiday closures too.
When the time came for the town meeting Wilma had arranged, five of us, her tenant neighbors in the thirty-six unit Raymond Manor apartments, were backing her. Three of us women and two men: each one single and of retirement age though all younger than she is by more than a decade; Marian, Caroline, Dennis, Burke, and me.
Wilma had started the whole protest more than a year earlier with a letter to the Washington State Governor, Chris Gregoire. Additionally she wrote letters and made long distance telephone calls—all at her own expense—to other post offices in the state operating under the same conditions; her frustration grew no less as the discrimination continued unabated.
Retired from fifteen years working for a labor union after having been a shop steward, this widowed from a happy second marriage—the abandoned first had not been—woman forged ahead. She learned of an evening town meeting at the county seat and we rode the Dial-a-Ride bus, unsure how to get home.
It was on a chilly December afternoon with warning of a severe winter storm less than 24 hours ahead that would again flood downtown Raymond forcing many detours, that a delegation came to attend the meeting from the capital, Olympia: Gloria, Chairperson of the Community Outreach Subcommittee of the Governor’s Committee on Disability issues and Employment, and two men also from the GCDE.
Marian and Caroline
The best time for participation by invited guests was before the Elk’s Lodge annual charity event. We had to be out of there in time for them to set up for the dinner at the beautifully decorated for the season hall.
The mayor was there on Wilma’s invitation Tony present in his wheelchair, and a commissioner. The postmaster too, he the most directly concerned. Others, who were not there from all over town, had signed the petitions—knowing what it was all about before anyone spoke to them. The message had gotten out to the 3000 or so population even to those who had not read Wilma’s letters in the newspapers.
Sean Murphy, assistant to our Representative Brian Baird in Congress, one of the dignitaries at the head table led the entirely amicable general discussion, and everyone in the audience had chance to take part. The consensus reached was, the Raymond Post Office building on the historic register, needs a ramp for access by the public, disabled or not.
Not only the elderly in wheelchairs or with walkers and canes, but returned veterans with injuries incurred while serving their country, teenagers with temporary sports injuries, and mothers with preschool children in strollers or held by the hand.
Someone expressed the wish that Wilma be the one to cut the ribbon when the ramp was in place. That, with her 96th birthday ahead in March remains her wish too. But, what to do? There is no funding allocated for this kind of improvement.
No, someone else can take care of that. Wilma plans to sit back and watch in confidence, her neighbors with her, while that is taken care of. No longer is this story “continued” but for the time being, concluded.
Oh, wait! Remember, there was a man filed suit and another of those who fell injured. Some of us have been wondering aloud, if a court battle would be cheaper than building the acknowledged to be needed ramp. Especially when there are more post offices in our state and all across the country in similar circumstances, watching to see what happens in this southwest out-of-the-way corner of the smallest of the eleven western states.
Collected to
be included in a book
Guerilla organizing
Persistent. That’s the word to describe my friend Wilma. She had been working at the problem for over a year when she arranged for the town meeting in the town of Raymond last November, in anticipation of her 96th birthday this winter of 2009.
Raymond is incorporated, the highest population about the time she was born, something like 5500 residents by census count. Little more than half that now, something like three thousand population, the whole of Pacific County a bit over 21,000. A decidedly rural area on the coast, about midway by highways from Portland, Oregon and Seattle. The county is split by Coast Highway 101 connecting across the border to Canada in the north and Mexico at the south, visible less than a city block to the east from her front window.
The town meeting was result of her frustration, not getting anywhere with the many letters she wrote … and telephone calls, mainly long distance. Expensive, sure. But how many precious hours of her time each month did it add up to? As the decades pile up, why should anyone give up time that can be spent doing fun things?
You could say the meeting was a success. Up to a point. Finally, she had agreement from dignitaries across the state, and the assistant to our Representative in Congress, besides the rest of us her neighbors, that making the local post office accessible to the handicapped was a worthy endeavor—even if said post office was on the historic register.
Ah, but while a ramp would be worthwhile to install, there was no funding. Something for others to work at. She came home to wait for the Representative’s assistant to call. Day after day, no call. Again, called on to be patient; as for much of her life. Wilma was in no mood for patience.
One of her friends present at the meeting suggested a call be made for cards wishing her a Happy Birthday. Sure, why not, she agreed. A stack of those to show she had backing, might get somewhere. With a badly faltering economy an inauguration coming up, stimulus was being designated for big business. Not for the elderly, the disabled, and those of the military coming home, but with body parts missing so they could no longer climb stairs.
When even some of the able-bodied have slipped, injuring themselves. Multiples—a man and a number of women for example—right here at the Raymond Post Office.
Some of us have told others, and some of those have been writing. She is getting cards. But they need to be addressed to where she lives. If she can’t climb post office stairs to mail packages, how could she collect cards and letters?
Write to:
Wilma, Raymond Manor, Raymond, Washington, 98577-1804 USA
and the postal clerks will find her.
And if your own post office is not accessible to the handicapped, we her friends would all like to know. Give the postal code of your own post office and tell her if the handicapped can go there or not.
Forward this to your own friends and acquaintances so they can pinpoint more post offices with and without access. She already knows those at Hoquiam, Montesano and Rochester—and some other farther to the north here in Western Washington State, present danger to users.
Who knows? If Wilma can get enough attention across the country in Washington DC, maybe some people in your own neighborhood can be hired to build a ramp. Bring a little of that stimulation taxpayers pay for, practically up to your own front door.
Senator Maria Cantwell wrote about “Giving Seniors More Time to Enroll in the New Prescription Drug Program” as obviously most of our members of Congress don’t have a clue! It seems they have the idea that ignorance is the problem of most people on Medicare who don’t jump at the chance to enrich Drug and Insurance companies.
She said seniors told her of problems understanding and enrolling—that “the program is too confusing and complicated.” Granted, it is that. So Cantwell supported legislation to extend the deadline another six months without penalty. As though that would solve anything. Extending the May 15 enrollment deadline would give time for further complications.
Cantwell wrote that 76% of seniors had never been online, yet the Internet “and a 100-page booklet” were primarily relied upon. She stated 26% of Medicare beneficiaries have cognitive impairments and three million, vision problems. Vision certainly, hearing too, and dental as well. None covered by Medicare. (Insurance companies are making a mint on those who don’t simply do without vision, hearing, and dental care. Except when taxpayer dollars provide Medicaid.) . . . . . . Two years later, things are no better at all.
The Washington State Legislature has for almost 30 years introduced and rejected a civil rights bill, allowing gay people equal rights with everyone else in the state. The bill in 2005 passed by 61 to 37 votes in the House, and lost by one in the Senate. It is the Republicans who oppose it, which does not make economic sense.
Still trying to legislate what consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedrooms, the Republican Party misses the point that any two people willing to take financial responsibility for each other can save taxpayers money. . . . . . . . .
Why buy any book, unless you want an autographed copy?
Sometimes, living through our personal days of individual history, it is hard to decide whether to laugh or cry. Currently I reside in a three story building of 36 apartments. A number of us subscribe to and trade various publications. Besides certain magazines, I subscribe to one weekly out-of-town newspaper. A friend downstairs subscribes to another, and her neighbor next door used to get the nearest daily newspaper.
He, and a few others, canceled when the rules changed and they were required to pay to the newspaper directly instead of the carrier—and it was demanded any tips be recorded by the newspaper. We independent types could afford more subscriptions but . . . . . . .
So many books, so little storage space
“Fashion” and “style” they call it, as each designer and manufacturer in lockstep changes offerings year by year. It is reported that long ago, Henry Ford said his customers could order any color of car they wanted—so long as it was black. Other manufacturers were more forward-looking and soon there were cars of many colors on the streets, changing year by year.
Clothing manufacturers don’t have the sense to realize the potential. Take pockets as an example. A pocket doesn’t require much fabric, and unused it lies unobtrusively flat. For those of us like myself however, who need a pocket because of allergies . . . . . . .
“Jobs Gone, never coming back?” Asked an Editor & Publisher headline, December 2005, page 33, where Mark Fitzgerald wrote, “Newspapers have lost over 2000 jobs this year. Are they ever coming back?” without much encouragement.
By August 2003, online access had steadied (for a couple of years) at 71% across the country. More people in the cities than out here in rural areas as I found by an informal survey, where any number seem terrified of computers and proud to be so. Despite email access being readily available.
Seventy-one percent is nowhere near those who have telephones, radios, television . . . nor refrigerators and indoor plumbing. All those took quite a few decades to reach nearly 100% so 71 in less than 20 years wasn’t bad.
During those two decades however, the trend of the number of newspapers in print continued downward. Some simply folded, others in JOAs—Joint Operating Agreements serving the same community client list—killed each other off. . . . . . . . .
Two years later in February 2008 Editor & Publisher and the newspapers they represent are crying just the same number of tears as the situation worsens. When pounding yourself into the ground with repeated blows on the head that proves no relief, why not stop and try something different???
Congressman Brian Baird was successful as he still tells us, in passage of a law he proposed to make the Washington State sales tax deductible on our annual federal income tax reports. There are a few things he seems to have overlooked which we might, however, point out.
Years ago when a federal law was passed making state income tax deductible and the state sales tax not, many Oregon residents and employed, gained a distinct advantage over us living and working north of the Columbia River. They had no sales tax to pay in Oregon, and the IRS forgave them the amount they had paid into state income tax coffers. If their incomes were such that they had no state income tax to pay, they still hadn’t lost anything.
Anyone in the State of Washington who does not have massive deductions to fill out the long form, gets no relief but still pays sales tax on everything where it is levied.
Most interesting in any publication are usually “Letters to the Editor.” Donated work the newspaper or magazine makes money on by selling it. Guest opinions on the Op-Ed page may—or may not—be paid work.
Copyright law protects creators, writing anything including letters whether personal or otherwise, drawings, cartoons and much more. What you created, is yours. Give it away if you want to--I do by Internet free newsletter, named Grimmly Reflecting--but if newspapers and magazines won't buy, do the give-away as competition to them.
Some of us first learned about the possibility of a discount well over a year ago in early 2005. Arrangements can take time, but details were learned and information published. About all the hoops that need to be jumped through.
Leaving aside for the moment the inherent unfairness of one person getting a discount which means another rather than paying a fair price must be overcharged for the difference, we leave that argument to those who will rightly argue that this is a common “marketing practice” (which we can note still prevails in 2008).
You know the name COMCAST. Telephone, cable television . . . . . . . . .
Why buy my books, unless ...
you want an autographed copy?
In the Western Hemisphere from the equator north, a quarantine system has been built, but it is like a house with one whole unscreened wall missing. Signs along our Washington state highways one year proclaimed an apple maggot quarantine in effect. Decades earlier it was a Mediterranean fruit fly—the Medfly—in California. It wasn't until I began traveling the PanAmerican highway in 1976, that I recognized the flaw.
One early morning in 1980, entering Nicaragua from Costa Rica . . . . . . . . .
Hard cover ISBN 1-4259-6213-0
Short fiction, romantic and not,
some get better than deserved
Quietly, without embellishment nor dramatization, he began speaking about the execution of Che Guevara. Some fewer than two dozen of us sat around the bright and comfortable room. About evenly male and female, ages from 19 to 55, our narrator at midpoint. By race we were from Black to blond. Our citizenship too was diverse, and the language, Spanish.
It was about a decade and a half since Che Guevara had faced the firing squad in Bolivia . . . . . . . .
There do remain some dumb mistakes I have not yet made. Never before the Internet however, can stupidity be made so public across so large a geographical area. Not by television, radio, telephone—and the only recourse is to apologize. Mea culpa . . . sorry about that . . . no excuse. That said, any dumb things I do, have nothing to do with my gender. I refuse a second 100% responsibility—to 200% total—for mistakes that men also make . . . and they sometimes try to crawl out from under.
You are more than welcome though, to laugh about how my mistake of sending out an email sized 3 MB caused multiple bounces including blockages of the message, tying up my own incoming for long periods of time. . . . . . . . .
Hard cover ISBN 1-4208-9269-X
Buy worldwide via Ingram
Priced in Pounds
Fewer than a quarter of the 39 people who live in this three story apartment building, smoke cigarettes. The rest of us either stopped before moving in, since becoming residents, or, like me, have never used tobacco.
Where I live is known as “senior housing.” That is, by law we must have reached a certain age, or have a disability. The kind of disability that provides a tag allowing special parking privilege to be displayed in the car.
Some tenants, like me, have allergies. One of mine being to tobacco smoke. . . . . . . . .
Paperback ISBN 978-1-4343-9911-3
Read-aloud stories for all ages
Cover art by Kenneth J Hurley
The sniper trial of John Allen Muhammad going on in Maryland is of much interest out here in the West where it all began, long before the publicized brutalities in 2002. The six Washington-area sniper shootings are only a part of his depredations.
No one so far as I’ve been able to tell, has ever said anything about the reason so many strangers all across the country—beginning in the Pacific Northwest—died. When it is so obvious . . . . . . . .
Paperback ISBN 978-1-4343-9911-3
Bylaws, free directions for adapting
The crossing signal made by railroad trains, is in Morse code. I was asked to explain this statement by a fellow with far more formal education than I, especially in mathematics. One who taught the classes which have resulted in my attaining the highest class possible as FCC-licensed radio amateur. My advantage is age—I have more history.
Not so far back as Native American smoke signals, though that and drumming is where this form of communication began in the Western Hemisphere. . . . . . . . .
Greed of the railroad barons was the first reason leading to certain of our traffic problems in the United States. The railroads were subsidized. Given outright, alternate sections of right-of-way across the country in order to build. But that wasn’t good enough. They priced themselves out of business to consumers until now even the good idea of Amtrak doesn’t do as well as railroads in other parts of the world.
Shipments which could go by train, congest highways. (“Ship-ments” by land and “car-go” by sea . . . strange, this English language.) Not only big trucks, but passenger vehicle travel, could be trimmed by transport over distances by train. The way tourists have their recreation vehicles tied onto flatcars to view while on board, a canyon in Mexico. Maybe not quite to my taste, though I’ve enjoyed it as a televised documentary.
A Western Hemisphere transcontinental railroad pre-dating the one in the United States—and so far as I know any other in North, Central and South America—was built in Panama. . . . . . .
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Or, my children did, as on the S S Cristobal
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