Like many a widower I tried to continue my normal activities in the community. I maintained my interest in the arts, in church and personal relationships as best I could. Though lonely for my mate, I was beginning to cope with a lifestyle alone in a house big enough for a family. I lived pretty much an independent lifestyle.

About a year after my wife’s death I began to notice that it was harder to read the newspaper. I needed brighter light to see things clearly. I passed the eye exam for a driver’s permit, but it seemed much harder than before. I soon realized that I had the symptoms of macular degeneration, which meant that my sight would get only worse. Another change in lifestyle was inevitable. At first I could see well enough to do the regular household chores and even drive to my appointed rounds. As time went on I could not be sure of what I saw. This could be hazardous to not only myself, but to others.

My children had long ago moved far away. They all agreed that I should move out of my house for other accommodations. Should I seek a local abode or live with one of them was a question we discussed in detail. It would be hard to leave friends and neighbors after so many years. After thorough consideration I decided to move in with my daughter, Catherine and family. There I could have a private area and stay pretty much out of their way, and yet be close to some of my family. Thus it is that I live in Lafayette. 

What does one with restricted abilities do in a new environment? Catherine set out to answer the question. The best thing she came up with was the Life Writing class. At first I was reluctant to sign up for such a class. It sounded like work. I am the world’s worst letter writer, or close to it. I had written technical reports in my job as an engineer, but nothing more. She talked me into joining the class, citing stories she had heard me tell.

I felt out of place at the first class that I attended. Why was I there? Simply at the urging of my daughter. By the end of the session I felt more comfortable, at least willing to try my hand at writing a story. It was painful to write about things, which had been embarrassing to me at the time they happened. But when I read what I had written, I realized it wasn’t about me, but about a little boy who lived a long time ago. Upon hearing my classmates read their stories I realized that their lives might not have been so different from mine. That gave me confidence to write my own stories.

Participating in the class has benefits other than just teaching me to express my thoughts and feelings through narrative, dialogue and making a dull story interesting. Needing to write stories for class has given me an incentive to write that I would otherwise not have.  Writing gives me a sense of accomplishment. Kim, our instructor, has been very supportive of all in her class by encouraging us to write in our own styles.

Going to class gives me a good reason to get out of the house into different surroundings. It provides a fellowship with others that is valuable to all of us. We all get acquainted with others in a way that could not happen in any other way.

I have gained far more than I though possible. Thanks to the class, I have a gift to give to my children that I can’t buy for them at a shopping mall.