A Few Moments in Time
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About this ebook
From sick-to-his-stomach first day jitters, through adolescent "love at first right hook," to the poignancy of high school graduation, Howard Geltman, in describing his experiences at Oak Hill School for the Blind, has told a universal story. All of us, sighted or not, can relate to the joys, the crushes, the insecurities, and the pranks... oh, the pranks! Howard captures a piece of precious time and has told it so well I felt I was there.
Rebecca Earl, PhD
Vice President for Programs and Staff Development, Oak Hill School (Retired)
This special memoir glows with warmth, affection, and compassion. It's about being different -- and making a difference. Mr. Geltman uses wry humor to deflect the deep ache that comes with living in an imperfect world. He shows how the pain of rejection can be transformed into the joy of self-acceptance. The narrative has everything: adventure, comedy, romance, poignant moments, and good lessons. It resounds with enthusiasm and trust in the possible. The overarching theme is of the ability of kindness and decency to triumph over depression and despair.
Dr. Seth Daniel Riemer
Rabbi, Temple Beth Torah, Wethersfield CT
Adjunct Professor, Southern Connecticut State University
Howard Geltman is a gifted storyteller with an amazing memory. My sister, Tina, grew up with him and also attended Oak Hill School for the Blind. We lived near the school, so I was astonished and delighted as I took this journey with him back to the past. Here he recounts numerous boyhood trials, accomplishments, and hilarious escapades. He shows that a disability does not have to define you or limit you as long as you keep a sense of adventure and seek out joy, love, and friendship.
Carla Grimes
A Few Moments in Time is a spectacular book full of fun and many touching moments. Howard Geltman allows the reader deep into his soul. He shows us that no matter how difficult the road may be, there is always hope. He also shows what a special commodity friendship is. I laughed and cried throughout the whole book, which has a little of all of us in it. How I wish I had had the courage to pull these kids' ingenious pranks! Let this wonderful book take you away for a little while to another time and place.
John Ryan
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Book preview
A Few Moments in Time - Howard Geltman
A FEW MOMENTS IN TIME
by
Howard A. Geltman
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Howard A. Geltman
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * * * *
Visit Howard’s author page at Smashwords.
* * * * *
Dedication
There are three special people who are no longer with us. Their names are Pete, Tommy, and Joe Z. You will read a lot about them and our lives together, and this book is dedicated to them. Guys, no matter where we are, your spirits are always with us like glimmering stars. Shine on!
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About the Cover Photograph
In 2000, Matt Langer, who was 10 years old and blind, participated in Eyes in the Mind,
a workshop funded in part by a UTC Innovation Grant awarded through the Greater Hartford Arts Council. Under the direction of Roger Maynard from Oak Hill, this workshop opens up the world of photography to people with visual impairments. Participants learn how to take photographs using senses other than their sight. Those photographs are then reproduced on a special graphics printer called a tactile image enhancer. The paper used is heat sensitive and raises the darker objects in the image so the participants can perceive the images through their sense of touch.
Matt, intensely curious and quite knowledgeable, was eager to learn about photography. He quickly picked up on the mechanics of the camera and how to hold it against his chest to keep it vertical and steady. Then Matt began his foray into photography. From the campus of Oak Hill, to Jonathan’s Dream Playground, to Elizabeth Park, Matt photographed objects that he could first smell, like a flower, or touch, like the bark of a tree. Matt’s enthusiasm and talent produced results that are quite extraordinary.
This year’s gift for our award recipients is a photograph that Matt took of the oak tree on Oak Hill's campus. Roger first had Matt feel the texture and width of this majestic tree and then had him walk around it while touching the grooves in the bark. The photograph that Matt created captures beautifully the essence of this tree that has come to symbolize Oak Hill.
Suzanne Heise
Director of Development and Communication (Retired)
Oak Hill
Since 1893, services and solutions for people with disabilities
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Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Foreword
Introduction
Chapter 1 — Me from a Miracle
Chapter 2 — Our Home Away From Home
Chapter 3 — The Russell Hall Years
Chapter 4 — Making It to the Main Building
Chapter 5 — An Egg–xeptional Mess
Chapter 6 — Gaining Some Independence
Chapter 7 — The Halloween Dance
Chapter 8 — Let the Fun Begin
Chapter 9 — Some Comic Relief (That Was a Gas!)
Chapter 10 — Weaving Friendships
Chapter 11 — Summer Camp
Chapter 12 — A Little Goes a Long Way
Chapter 13 — Casting a Vote
Chapter 14 — The Power of the Pen
Chapter 15 — Making a Difference
Chapter 16 — Tommy and Pete
Chapter 17 — Laughter in the Air
Chapter 18 — Weekends on the Farm
Chapter 19 — A Brother Moves On
Chapter 20 — Just a Little Take–Out
Chapter 21 — Our Senior Prom
Chapter 22 — Leaving Something Behind
Chapter 23 — Something Unexpected
Chapter 24 — Graduation
Chapter 25 — The Legacy Lives On
Chapter 26 — Today
About the Author
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
Special Thanks
Mrs. Marcia Watson (retired Blind Services Coordinator) and Dr. Rebecca Earl, PhD (retired Vice President of Development) at Oak Hill provided me with much assistance in the writing of this book. To both of you, I give my heartfelt thanks.
I would also like to thank Leonore H. Dvorkin, of Denver, Colorado, who proofread and edited the text. Her husband, David Dvorkin, designed the cover of the book and did the technical formatting of the manuscript.
To learn more about their services, see their websites:
www.leonoredvorkin.com
www.dvorkin.com
My Special Two
To my darling wife, Terri: You stood by me during the past three years of writing this book. At times I wanted to give up, but you pushed me on to finally complete my project of love. And to my wonderful son, Evan: You also gave me the strength and encouragement I needed to finish this project. Both of you have my undying love.
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Foreword
Prior to the 1970s, specialized schools for those with disabilities were considered to be the best way of teaching the whole person. The Connecticut Institute for the Blind (eventually known as Oak Hill School) was founded in 1893 to create the best learning environment for blind children, one where they could master both academics and independence in a residential setting.
When a group of people live and learn together, a family is formed. This is true of prep schools, colleges, and military troops. It was certainly true of Oak Hill School.
In this book, Howard Geltman has captured the essence of the old
Oak Hill, before the days of mainstreaming blind children in public schools. Students and staff worked and played together, forming lifelong bonds. As one reads this book, it is difficult not to wonder: Is progress
always the best solution? Was there even a problem that needed to be solved?
Enjoy the Oak Hill family reunion. Then you decide….
Josephine Pace
Oak Hill School alumna
Former Oak Hill teacher, Principal, and Director of Group Homes
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Introduction
This book is based primarily on the teenage years of a group of students who attended and lived at an outstanding boarding school. These individuals lived together as family members, with all that implies. As such, they led lives that some people can only dream of. I was proud to be one of them. The only difference between all of us and most of the rest of the world is that we attended a school for the blind.
The Connecticut Institute for the Blind, founded in 1893, is located in Hartford, Connecticut. The campus stands on the tallest hill in Hartford. Early on, the old oak tree on the hill near the gym inspired the name Oak Hill School, a name that was voted on by the students of that day. When I was a student there, roughly 220 students attended the school, which was also known as the Oak Hill School for the Blind.
It was a wonderful place. The teachers were top notch, and most of us received a very good education. I would say all of us, but the fact is that anywhere you go for an education, there are always some who feel they might have gotten a better education somewhere else.
During my time at the school, from the early 1960s to the early 1970s, my friends and I grew together, studied and learned together, laughed and cried together, and created a special bond among us that could never be broken.
The stories in this book are about our lives and the people we interacted with daily. Many of us graduated from Oak Hill School. Others went to public school during the last years of their high school education and graduated from there. Some of us went on to gain further education, marry, and have families. But we all remain friends until this day.
Having friendships remain intact for over 45 years is a feat in itself. We know how fortunate we are to have these wonderful relationships, and we are deeply grateful to one another for our mutual support through thick and thin over so many decades.
This book is my tribute to Oak Hill School and all my wonderful friends and teachers there. Like the branches of the oak tree that gave the school its original name, they are closely intertwined in my memory, where they live on still.
Howard A. Geltman
Wethersfield, Connecticut
July 2011
* * * * *
Chapter 1
Me from a Miracle
I was born several weeks premature in 1953. As was the practice of the day, I was placed in an incubator for many weeks to ensure that I had enough oxygen to survive. Back then, doctors did not know that too much oxygen given to premature babies could cause blindness. Later that year, doctors discovered the problem and changed the way oxygen and certain medications were given to babies in incubators. I guess it could have been worse. With all those great heat lamps overhead, all I would have needed was some barbecue sauce and a good turn every few minutes.
Too much oxygen caused Retrolental Fibroplasia (RLF), the condition I and many other visually impaired or blind babies had. Now doctors have given it a new, shorter name, Retinopathy of Prematura.
(Mmm. That sounds like a good Italian dish!)
Officially, I weighed two pounds at birth. In fact, my mother tells me I fell below that weight. As with many preemies in that extremely low weight class, the doctors did not expect me to live. My wife, Terri, picks up a small chicken in the store and tells me, This is bigger than you were when you were born.
I always feel somewhat awkward for the chicken when she says that, but boy, you should see me now!
Back in the days of the dinosaurs, when I attended public school, special education
for students with anything much in the way of a disability was almost non–existent. I started kindergarten in 1958 at the Roger Sherman Elementary School, in New Haven, Connecticut.
The following year, I was transferred to a special sight saving class
at the Scranton Street School in New Haven, one of just two such classes in the school system. I attended the class for the younger children. Almost all the time, we simply drew pictures, played with clay, did some simple math, and read from papers that had enlarged print. Our teacher was nice but strict. The classroom across from us was for high school students. All of us were bunched together in the classes. For me, it was terrible. The other kids in the school wanted nothing to do with any of us, and to make it even worse, the high school students in the other classroom wanted nothing to do with us either.
In 1962, I was eager to return to Roger Sherman School for the fourth grade, where I was sure I would enjoy it much more. My teacher, Mrs. Derucio, was nice, but she could not spend a lot of time with me. She had about 20 other students to teach as well, those with no physical disabilities. Those were the days when there were no accommodations in public schools for kids with truly special needs. Having limited vision made me someone too special,
too different, too difficult to accommodate. Most of the time, I was never even allowed to play outside during recess, because the teachers were afraid that I would fall and hurt myself.
Almost all the other students in the other classes, as well as many in my own, did not bother with me, because I was different. I didn't dress any differently, smell funny, or make strange noises. I just looked different from them because I had to put my face almost on top of the printed page of a book to attempt to read. In fact, many times when I tried to read, my nose would touch the page, and when I pulled my face away, I would have ink on the end of my nose. In class, I sat in the first row, closest to the blackboard, but I still had to get up and walk over to the blackboard to be able to copy down what the teacher was writing on it. Eventually I was placed at the back of the classroom, because I became too much of a distraction to the rest of the class.
One day all the students had to report with their teachers to the basement of the school for an eye test. Each of us was given a square piece of black construction paper and told to look at an eye chart that was lit from behind down at the far end of the room.
Then it was my turn. I was placed in position, told to put the paper over my left eye, and to read the chart. The only thing I saw was some white light and said so to Mrs. Walters, the school nurse. At that point, she told me to cover my right eye and look at the chart. When she asked me what I saw, I again said, Nothing but white light!
When I told her that I couldn't see much of anything at all out of my left eye anyway, she asked me to walk as close to the eye chart as I needed until I could see something. I had to walk until I was standing about a foot away from the eye chart before I could see the big E.
What made me feel even worse was the fact that the glasses I was wearing had lenses that were about an inch thick.
That afternoon, Mrs. Walters walked me home so she could have a conversation with my mother. I cried almost all the way home because I was afraid I had done something wrong and would be punished. As we were walking, she stopped, wiped the tears from my eyes, and told me I hadn't done anything wrong. Later, she and my mother had a long talk.
School was not the only thing that was difficult for me. After school was not very exciting either. I had a few friends, but no close friends. My middle brother, Stephen, who is about one and a half years older than I, and my older brother, Peter, who is five years older, were often my reluctant companions. If my brothers had plans with their friends, I had to be taken along with one of them, and I always felt like a third wheel. I knew they didn't want to take me with them, but if given a choice of taking your little brother or not going at all, you take your little brother along and you don’t complain.
I know in my heart that my brothers loved me, but I often felt out of place with them. If they went to play baseball or football with their friends, I would be planted on a swing in the playground while they went off with their friends. I do have to admit that riding high on the swing made me feel free, but I wanted very much to play baseball and football with my brothers.
My sister, Roberta, who is four years younger than I, was happier to play with me than were Stephen and Peter. Roberta and I played with her dolls and other toys. I did not mind playing with her because we were so very close. Don't get me wrong. I was close to both of my brothers, but they were older, and tagging along with them did not make me feel any better about my situation.
A few weeks after her talk with the school nurse, my mother took me to the Jewish Family Services in New Haven, where I met one of the most wonderful people in my entire life. I didn't know it at the time, but I realized it later, in high school. Mr. Isidore Offenbach was a special counselor there, and he was totally blind. My mother took me there because public school was not working out, and she was at her wits’ end as to what to do to help me.
That spring, Mr. Offenbach, my parents and I took a drive to see Oak Hill School. When we got there, I didn't know what to anticipate. This was a place that was different from any public school I had ever seen before. I was quite nervous and scared. It seemed that I was most likely going to go to yet another school. My parents were busy talking with Mr. Offenbach at first, and I couldn't get a read on what they were considering. And let's face it; if they had any concerns, they certainly weren't going to let on to a scared nine–year–old.
We all met with Miss Pace, the principal of the Lower School. (That’s private school language for the elementary grades.) She took us to visit a few classrooms in Russell Hall, the elementary school building. Miss Pace, who also had partial vision, gave me a nice smile and talked with me for a few minutes. Her smile and easy manner made me feel somewhat more at ease, but only for a short while. I was still quite nervous about the whole thing. We did not stay that long, and luckily for me, my parents and Mr. Offenbach did much of the talking.
When I returned and finished out fourth grade at Roger Sherman School, I had to meet with our school principal, Mrs. Fitzsimons, who was a nice woman. She and I talked, and she decided that I would not go on to fifth grade. She told me I hadn’t learned enough to be promoted.
It was a horrible feeling knowing that the other kids in class were being promoted and would go into a new class the next year while I would have to stay back. I felt as if I had done something terribly wrong. I knew I had tried as hard as I possibly could to stay caught up with my classmates, but I never could. To make things worse, I felt that I was to blame.
There were