Child's Play

As a small boy, I used to look forward to visiting my grandparents. Their small woodframe house at the edge of the woods was a place of warm smells and happy sounds. There was always a fresh apple or cherry pie to greet me when I arrived, and a glass of cold milk to wash it down. And after I'd had my fill, and had told them just about everything I had done since I had seen them last, we would proceed to the living room and spend the rest of the afternoon playing the most wonderful games a small boy could ever imagine. My grandparents seemed to have an endless variety of them tucked up their sleeves and an infinite amount of time to play them with me.

One of my favorites was played with a soft rubber ball which must have been around since my father was a lad. My grandfather would roll it along the floor in my direction. I would listen to the sound it made while it rolled, and, if I were lucky, I'd position my hands in the right place to catch it. I would then roll it to my grandmother and she, in turn, would roll it back to my grandfather. If we all caught the ball, things would go along smoothly. But if any of us ever missed it, we'd be in big trouble. Oh, I forgot to mention, my grandmother and grandfather played this game with their eyes closed. They wanted, they said, to know what it was like to be like me, totally blind.

"Ah, come on now, Charlotte," my grandfather would say with a smile in his voice, "you can roll it straighter than that." And off he'd go, crawling under the table and squeezing behind the couch. I would hear the sound of his hands feeling along the smooth, wooden floor, and as often as not, the bump of his head against numerous objects which somehow always seemed to be in his way.

I remember the day my grandfather, thinking the ball had gone behind the potbellied stove, got the broom and, reaching into the corner, excitedly swept something out into the middle of the floor, whereupon it stood up, shook itself, and meowed.

Perhaps it was some half-forgotten memory of a game played long ago that gave my grandparents the patience to collect the bumps and bruises necessary to satisfy the simple wishes of a small boy. If teaching their blind grandchild how to play a game of ball was what it was all about, there must surely have been an easier way. They could have said, as have many people, that playing ball is not something a blind child can really be taught to do. Or, they could have explained to me, in that knowing tone which sighted adults have sometimes use, that I should follow the sound of the rolling ball with my ears and position my hands just so, in order to stop its forward progress without, of course, letting it get away. The above suggestion is a good one, but such wisdom had not yet penetrated the quiet timelessness of my grandparent's small, rural community.

My grandparents had learned, from previous experience, that if they played with me long enough, I would discover the non-visual senses I needed to play almost any game well. But I am convinced that there was another reason for their willingness to bump their heads against the underside of their not-so-soft furniture. They knew, I suspect, that because I was forced to perceive things with all my senses, I would ultimately discover my own way of "seeing." They also knew, that as I learned to use those senses, I would ultimately become better at this game than they were. And yet, at the risk of being replaced as coach, they were still willing to be my playmates.

What particular wisdom enabled them to drop the reins of adult power for a moment, to allow a small boy who couldn't see to teach them to improve upon their very own game? Had they learned, through some process which only age reveals, that wisdom comes just as readily from the actions of children? Did they know that my sense of self worth would forever be strengthened because they had allowed me to teach what I had learned to my elders? Or were we just playing a game of ball with our eyes closed? I think I know the answer.