[stylist] Chris Kuell in current Braille Monitor

[Bridgit Pollpeter]

                      Blind Guy versus the Rhododendron
                               by Chris Kuell

>From the Editor: Chris Kuell is president of the Danbury Chapter of the

>NFB
of Connecticut and the father of two children. His daughter is a senior
in high school and plans to attend the University of Connecticut to
major in psychology. His son, a senior at the same university, plans to
get a graduate degree and become an English teacher. The article we are
reprinting appeared in the Fall 2013 issue of the Minnesota Bulletin and
relates an interesting incident that occurred when Chris was walking his
elementary-school-aged children to school every day. Here is what he
says:

      One of the better aspects of losing my job along with my sight is
that I get to spend more time with my kids. Every morning I walk them
the half mile to school, and I return in the afternoon to accompany them
home. During our walks they tell me about their days, who got in
trouble, who likes whom, and how a kid named Brian always cheats at
kickball.
      We live in an old neighborhood, and along my route are a dozen
homes with bushes planted near the sidewalk. While there are several
varieties, they all inevitably grow outwards, eager for the opportunity
to snag an unobservant pedestrian. At the beginning of every school year
I bring a pair of clippers with me as I drop the kids off, and on my way
home I help those who are too busy to trim their bushes.
      One house has a huge rhododendron bush, which must be decades old.
Tall and thick, branches hang over the sidewalk like a canopy. When it's
blooming, the fragrance is unmistakable, and I'm sure it's quite
beautiful.
      I'm about five foot eleven, and I could feel the presence of one
close branch as I passed underneath. Following a heavy rain, the branch
got heavier, hung lower, and whacked me in the head. After the third or
fourth such incident with the wayward branch, I asked around and found
out the name of the homeowner. I called and left a message stating that
I was the neighborhood blind guy and that their shrubbery had assaulted
me and asking if they would please do something about it. Several weeks
went by and no action was taken, so I followed up with another, stronger
phone message. When winter came, the aggressive branch adopted a regular
five-foot nine stance. Most days I was able to duck and miss it. But
every now and then I'd wind up with another hunk of flesh donated to the
rhododendron god and five more points on my blood pressure reading. I
sent a letter asking the homeowner please to take care of the bush. I
even volunteered to help tie the branch up higher if they needed
assistance. Nobody did anything.
      One morning we all got up late because the power had gone out and
the alarm clock hadn't worked. Everybody scrambled to get ready on time.
During the frenzy I knocked a box of cat food on the floor, accidentally
poured orange juice on my cereal, and misplaced my left shoe, so I
wasn't feeling particularly loving or charitable. The kids had warned me
to duck on the way to school, but the battering bush got me on my return
trip. As Popeye used to say, "That's all I can stands, I can't stands no
more!"
      At home I stuck a wad of toilet paper on the gash in my forehead
and grabbed my tree saw. I tapped back down the street, with one arm
raised protectively in front of me, and located the assailant. At first
I started trimming small branches to take weight off the thick bough
overhanging the sidewalk, but this was time-consuming and had little
effect. So I went to the major branch, one evil nub still sticky with my
blood, and started to saw.
      About this time I heard a car pull into the driveway and stop, not
five feet from me. This was a little awkward. While I'm no lawyer, I
figured that cutting down a neighbor's bush was probably illegal. But
the car just sat there idling. I imagine the driver, presumably the
homeowner, was frightened by the sight of the angry blind guy, a wad of
bloody toilet paper stuck to his forehead, waving a saw around like the
villain in a bad horror movie. I did a quick mental calculation and
figured that, if the driver had called the cops on a cell phone, I was
already in trouble, so I might as well finish the job. I found where I'd
been cutting, completed the amputation, and dragged the limb to the edge
of the property. Still no activity from the vehicle, so I picked up my
cane, gave them my best Jack Nicholson smile, wished them a good day,
and returned home.
      I don't expect to be invited over any time soon for a barbeque,
but at least my forehead and hairline will stay intact. Now, if I could
only do something about the guy who refuses to shovel his sidewalk.