2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 2

An immobile adventurer lived in the person of Zelda. She was immobile as defined by American culture. Zelda didn't operate motor vehicles. To her, the open road meant walking along the railroad tracks. The few trains that rumbled past were freighters. All that engine power pulling varying numbers of cars. Sixty–four cars added up to a mile.

Zelda was physically small. Although she carried a little extra freight, it remained proportional to her body. She balanced atop the three–and–a–half–inch–wide rail head, traveling as if on a regular sidewalk. Her engineer's cabin carried large glasses and wavy, shoulder–length black hair. The rail rambler moved through a material world containing scattered hearty plants, bits of broken glass, general litter, and small–sized gravel.

It was the performance of a lifetime.

All my acting training, the dozens of roles I'd portrayed, the thousands of plays I'd performed in. It all led up to this. My piece de resistance. My entire life's work had been preparation for this one  .  .  .  split  .  .  .  second.

Was I ready? Did I have the balls for it?

"Are you in trouble? Do you need any help?"

This isn't the first car to pull out of morning traffic and stop beside us. We're unloading and organizing our kayaks on the grassy center median of a highway that runs along the west coast of Florida. We assure them that we're fine. We say that the river is waiting. They merge back into the flow of work-bound cars, shaking their heads.

I am strapped down
The surgeon begins
finding out if the tissue
can be excised

I read pictures, to elicit
my speech. Stimulating
my brain, they pinpoint
possibilities. I feel no pain

Full–time dad and husband, part–time advocate and writer/philosopher — a morning person whose favorite day of the week is Wednesday and whose "words of wisdom" to share with Breath & Shadow readers are: "Liquor to beer, never fear. Beer to liquor, never sicker" — these are some of the ways 44–year–old Chris Kuell describes himself. A former research chemist who lost his sight at 35 from diabetic retinopathy, Chris is the dynamic volunteer editor who's been filling in admirably for Sharon while she's needed extra help. I was lucky enough to be asked to write a few words about him.

Chris lives in Danbury, Connecticut, with his wife and their 14–year–old son and 11–year–old daughter. Born in Massachusetts, he grew up mainly in Sharonville, Ohio, a suburb of Cincinnati that he describes as "pretty much average America."