With the wintry weather drawing near, I’ve been picturing the extraordinary setting of the last thing I ever saw: a snowfall in the Oakland neighborhood, the day before Thanksgiving, 1969. I’ve pictured other snowy memories and even visualized many sights I’ve never seen, like the snowman I made with my husband. And those are beautiful gifts. After I became blind, ophthalmologists explained that people who lost sight would eventually lose the ability to visualize colors, loved ones, everything. But year after year, the images of my brother and sister, and the skill to form pictures of something described, remain with me. And I’m so thankful.
But … though visual and other memories are so often reasons for gratitude, snow and ice are rarely gifts to us blind people. They present serious, even dangerous, tests despite our expertise. Help comes from the cooperation of the sighted public, a few city departments and new, improved products — but perfect solutions still evade us.
Take my experience that day in 1969. After a year and a half of failed efforts to stop the retinal hemorrhaging, I could see only out of the bottom of my left eye. Surprisingly, that proved helpful.
I stepped out of my apartment building to meet my friend Mike. He’d been driving me to our workplace, a rehab center for newly blind adults. Under my apartment building’s red awning, I noticed first the unusual quiet — no cars along Bigelow Boulevard, and none on the perpendicular Centre Avenue.
One step off the porch, and I discovered an astonishing 8 inches of snow. Everywhere, an endless field of white. Wow! All gentle, different from the hard concrete surface that usually defined my world. The silence spread around me like a hug. Snow flurries touched my nose and cheeks.
I decided to meet Mike at the corner. Any time he turned right onto Bigelow to reach my building’s entrance, he would have to negotiate a one-eighty and backtrack.
I moved my cane left, then right, and realized the challenge. In my first snow as a legally blind person, my cane bogged down with the weight of the accumulated flakes. I lifted the tip a foot to swing it left, then right and slogged to what I thought was the intersection. Yet, without the sound or tactile clues, I wasn’t sure. I extended my cane to the left and felt nothing. Why wasn’t I feeling a curb?
I turned back but couldn’t see the red awning. Damn. I wish I’d counted steps from the intersection to my building entrance before this snowfall. That would have offered some means of approximating my location, though counting steps is never precise. My chest ached. I suddenly understood why people call snow “blind person’s fog.”
Then, I heard a car to my left, tires spinning. Mike. I moved in that direction only to hear spinning wheels from my right. Then all quieted. Not Mike. I was in big trouble. Tears threatened, but I stood still, listening, fighting fear.
“Sally, oh my God.” Mike wrapped me in a huge hug. “What are you doing, Girl? You’re way down by Schenley High.”
Oh no. I scrambled for a joke to hide my shame. “Thought I’d make a snowman.”
He laughed. “Grab an arm.” And we plodded through the drifts to his car.
For the rest of that day, I took in other sights, but none I remember. That night I had a final hemorrhage and joined the ranks of those totally blind, a surprisingly large group. The Center for Disease Control estimates that almost 3% of children in the U.S. under 18 have visual impairments or blindness. And the American Foundation for the Blind reported in 2019 that about 15% of people over 40 in the U.S. were totally blind.
Wintry weather poses many hurdles to our community, and a little more awareness could make a difference.
Unshoveled sidewalks
As my Schenley High excursion demonstrated, snow-covered walkways present huge problems to all blind people and, frankly, to all pedestrians when temperatures fall below freezing. But even unfrozen, the snow cover wreaks havoc for blind cane users. The weight and thickness of the snow obscure obstacles, curbs, or ups and downs. Our tactile sense is as important as our auditory. When traffic sounds are muted, as in heavy snows, we distinguish between the sidewalk and street and identify intersections underfoot by feeling a raised curb or the rivets at crossings.
Using a cane, a blind friend stepped accidentally into a three-foot snow drift that straddled the sidewalk and street. At five feet tall, she struggled mightily to escape. Finally, she got both feet on the sidewalk and pushed with the cane to get herself into a standing position. Somehow, she returned home.
Those of us using dogs can usually rely on them to keep us out of deep snow piles; they balk or steer us around them. But snowy sidewalks are harmful to dogs.
So, please shovel. Blind people do it. It’s completely tactile. We picture the sidewalk as a tabletop, and move left to right, scoop and pitch.
Frigid snow and guide dogs
Cold presents problems for all dogs. It’s no better for them than for us. Vets recommend that we keep our guides’ “outside work” very short when temps fall to 20 degrees or below. Though their paw pads can protect them for a time, snow and ice can dry out their pads and leave them chapped and cracked. Worse, they can develop frostbite.
Because guide dogs are, so-to-speak, our transportation, we blind people may have little choice but to use them and risk injury to their paws. In super-snowy weather, buses may be several sidewalks away and rideshares delayed.
Most guide dog owners invest in dog boots with slip-resistant soles to provide traction. Too often, however, we dog users leave home with four booties on our dogs and come home with three. Our dogs find the footwear uncomfortable and distracting.
And if you’ve ever complained of the time it takes simply to dress yourself for below freezing weather, think of the additional time needed to wrestle your dog into their snow-proof footwear. My dog, Ozzy, is quite a competitive opponent in our match to install the booties. I plan a minimum of 15 additional minutes of prep to get outside.
Ice grippers
So much for dog booties. Many people also use some brand of ice cleats to negotiate the slippery surfaces. I’ve tried many options but have always found that the extra half inch or so of height throws me off balance. So, ice grippers aren’t always an option. According to ophthalmologist Richard Bowers, “Sight is generally considered a large contributor to one’s balance.” In fact, when testing a patient’s balance, doctors always request that the person close her eyes and try to stand on one foot. Because I saw for 26 years, then lost sight, I cannot linger on one foot longer than a few seconds. My congenitally blind friend has never managed it either.
Salted streets and sidewalks
For cane travelers, any salt is helpful for traveling safely and keeping our footing. But for guide dogs, as well as pet dogs, salt is very problematic. The sharp crystals can cause excessive dryness and cracking of their sensitive paw pads, just as the ice and snow can. Worse, salt can irritate, cut and burn them, causing discomfort, bleeding and potential infection.
Of course, booties can protect. Still, bare paws after a walk must be washed immediately.
Some dog owners spread an ointment called Musher’s Secret on the paws for protection. And some salt products, like GroundWorks Natural Ice Melter, seem to be less harsh. Several of us who are blind have spoken to Pittsburgh Regional Transit representatives about kinder rock salt usage. We need to continue these discussions this winter.
Sighted pedestrian help
If Mike hadn’t found me years ago, I would have continued walking until I heard a car or pedestrian to flag down. Empathetic sighted passers-by can be wonderful assists. But consider two important points:
First, please ask, “May I help you?”
Second, please don’t take our arms; offer your own arm. That way, we stay a step back and follow you.
Finally, those blind for many years may have learned ways to place one foot, then plant the other, which helps somewhat to avoid skidding. Another blind friend said, “I don’t pick up my foot until I know that the other foot is staying where it should.”
But this doesn’t always work. Nearly home, my friend’s boot caught in an icy crack, and she fell and broke her hip.
Always, blind independence in snow is work! Still, we trek on. Now, after our first snow storm, I visualize our city with about half the “blind person’s fog” as that remarkable 1969 storm. I sigh, “Where are Ozzy’s dog booties?”
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Sally Hobart Alexander is a blind, hearing-impaired author of eight books for children and teens. Six books were Junior Library Guild selections, and one, “Taking Hold: My Journey into Blindness,” won a Christopher Medal. Until 2015, she taught in Chatham University’s MFA program, She now leads a Zoom writing group.
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