[stylist] feedback/critique request

Sun Jun 10 23:31:37 UTC 2012

Chris,
This piece is very powerful and special to me. I am so thankful that you got
to see the canyon before your vision was too far gone to see everything you
did.
>From your start from Phoenix, every mile was      a treasure trove of
memories for me. Your description of the red rocks of Sedona is masterful.
Did you pass "Slide Rock?"
Our dog got a nose full of the barrel cactus stickers.
Instead of the South rim, We stayed at the North rim, and I rode Elderberry,
a mule, I think, down as far as the plant that generated energy. The mules
traverse right next to the rim edge while passing hikers who get the safer
right of way. I never hugged anybody like I did Elderberry with my knees.
The experience of seeing a deer so close is a moment no one could forget.
This seems altogether an excellent piece of writing as well as a motivating
one for anyone with impaired vision: to see any of the wonders of this earth
while they can.
I might mention also that I went river rafting down the Colorado which you
saw looking down from the rim, with my grandson, 9, with an Elderhostel
group of grandparents and grandchildren. 
I had to write a poem about that experience, attached,  just as you wrote
about yours in prose. 
I see no reason why yours should not be selected. It has a wonderful ending.
Jackie

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Chris Kuell
Sent: Friday, June 08, 2012 5:44 AM
To: Writer's Division Mailing List
Subject: Re: [stylist] feedback/critique request

Thanks, Shawn. For anyone interested, below is the final version that I sent

into the contest, after receiving feedback from this group. It's a big 
contest, so I'll never win, but the exercise is good for the writing 
muscles.

chris

  *   *   *   *

A Grand Perspective

By Chris Kuell

I stepped outside the ophthalmologist's office, squinting in the sunshine. 
People walked briskly by as I stood dumbfounded. Another surgery. Nothing 
could
have scared me more.

I became diabetic at age nine, and hadn't been very careful about what I 
consumed growing up. Mountain Dew, Ring Dings-I ate whatever the other kids 
ate. At thirty, I developed diabetic retinopathy in my right eye. I began a 
strict diet and daily exercise, but still needed surgery to fight the 
destructive vein growth. Despite the efforts of the best retinal specialists

on the East Coast, I lost all sight in that eye. Two years later, it was 
happening again in my left eye.

I ambled down the sidewalk, keeping my emotions under control. My dilated 
left eye focused on a neon sign that read "McCarthy Travel." The window 
showed off colorful pictures of Cozumel, Hamburg, Prague. A bell jingled as 
I went inside.

Back home, my wife asked about my appointment. "Not good," I said. "Think 
you can take off work Friday?"

 The spoon dropped into her coffee. "Do you need to go back to the doctor?"

"No. I bought us tickets to Phoenix, departing Friday morning. I want to see
the Grand Canyon."

Our ten-month-old daughter cried through most of the flight, and our son, 
who was almost five at the time, didn't understand why we were even going. 
"Isn't the Grand Canyon just a big crack in the earth?"

"Yes, but it's a really big crack," I told him. "Trust me, you'll be 
impressed."

In Phoenix, we ditched our jackets and headed north on I-17. Our first stop 
came after only twenty minutes, at a cheesy tourist trap called Frontier 
Town. There were several old, crooked buildings, some folks dressed in Old 
West garb, and even a simulated gun fight every other hour. The most 
excitement came when my son kicked a small barrel cactus and ended up with a

sneaker full of thorns and a newfound respect for the native flora. We also 
paused to take a family photo in front of a twenty-five-foot saguaro cactus 
with a base the size of a beer keg. One particularly good shot became our 
Christmas card photo that year.

We continued a hundred miles north to Sedona, which was as close to Mars as 
I'll ever get. We climbed around the brick-colored terrain, amazed at the 
beauty of a world so different from our native New England. Without trees or

vegetation, it appeared as though the hand of God had reached down from 
heaven and ripped everything off, exposing the rocky red innards of our 
planet.

We spent the night in Flagstaff, heading for the Grand Canyon the following 
morning. As my wife drove, we saw a beautiful, snow-capped mountain peak 
rising up from the desert to our right. It looked to be ten or fifteen miles

away. The desert is deceptive, though, because the mountain stayed off in 
the distance for more than an hour before
we passed it.

We arrived at the South Rim of Grand Canyon National Park and stopped at the

first scenic overlook we came to. As we left the parking lot, a gust of wind

blew off my Red Sox hat. The temperature was somewhere in the mid-eighties, 
and though the sun was shining brightly, the wind made it almost chilly. My 
wife carried our daughter and reminded me to hold my son's hand tightly.

We made our way to a railed overlook extending thirty feet into the canyon. 
The view was magnificent, the rock wall a yellow-gold color with many 
striations visible across the way on the North Rim. With nothing but 
awe-inspiring space to the east and west of us, this was definitely one hell

of a big crack. The slope was such that we couldn't see the Colorado River 
below, so I followed my son's lead and stuck my head through the railing to 
get a better view. The wind was so strong I could barely hear my wife's 
shouts to get our heads back in.

We walked the Rim Trail the rest of the day. Much to my wife's dismay, the 
trail ran without any railing just feet from the edge of the canyon. When 
she stopped to drink some water or change the baby, my son and I went 
off-trail, climbing out onto rocks that jutted out into the canyon, thrilled

as much by the danger as the breathtaking view.

We drove and explored the various vistas along the South Rim, enjoying 
occasional views of wildlife as well as the canyon itself. The park is home 
to mule deer, which are very different than the deer we see in Connecticut, 
as well as elk, rock squirrels, and small lizards. At one point my son 
pointed skyward and asked, "Dad, is that an eagle?"

I looked up, but my vision was so bad I couldn't see anything. "I'm not 
sure," I said. "Could be."

The sunset at Mohave Point was spectacular. As the light grew low, the 
canyon walls turned amazing shades of red and orange. After eating buffalo 
burgers in the village, we checked into our lodge, which was more like a 
hotel than some national park cabins we'd camped in. Exhausted, we all slept

like bears, and in the morning were greeted
by a shocking surprise.

While the previous day had been sunny and in the mid-eighties, we woke to an

inch of fresh snow on the ground, a few flakes still meandering earthward. 
The view from the rim was completely different-a sheen of white everywhere, 
with vortexes of snow blowing around like stationary tornadoes within the 
walls of the canyon.

My son found deer tracks and we followed them while my wife packed up our 
gear. A half hour later, the deer tracks disappeared as the snow melted and 
we helped
load up the car.

When all our belongings were packed, we walked to the rim for one final look

at the canyon we'd traveled 2700 miles to see. I held my wife's hand, 
grateful for her
love and support.

"Ready to go?" she asked.

"You go ahead. I'll join you in a minute."

I stood and gazed into the vastness of the Grand Canyon, humbled by the work

nature had performed. An ancient river carved this masterpiece over the 
course of seventy million years. It was beautiful, it was awe-inspiring, and

it would likely be the last time I ever saw such a wonder. A mist of tears 
clouded my waning vision. As I blinked them away, I heard a soft snap to my 
right. There, not five feet from me, was a deer. I stood, motionless, not 
even breathing, as it bent its head, nibbled on a plant, and paid me no 
mind. Although I had no idea how, in that instant, I knew everything would 
be okay.

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