To the Editor:

In my wheelchair, ice and snow deprive me of my mobility and independence. My wheels have no brakes on ice and no traction in snow.

The handicap ramp at my front door is a non-stop toboggan run to the un-shoveled pile of snow waiting at the bottom. This piggy would yell, “Wee, wee,” all the way down if my teeth weren’t so tightly clenched.

Obviously, I’m in need of a caregiver to extricate me and steer me to the car door. Getting into the front seat of the SUV however, is a tricky maneuver that goes like this: plant my foot on the ice-covered ground and using my grip on the open door, I launch myself up and out of the wheelchair. Gaining my upright balance, I pivot my hips to sit on the car seat.

Sounds easy, right? I forgot to mention I only have one leg and the pivot to the front seat is a Hail Mary when I’m on ice. If I’m not careful, I can slide right under the car. I always make sure I have a tight grip on the car door before there is daylight between my butt and the wheelchair.

Why go out in the winter if you don’t have to? Cabin fever and depression are the biggest threats to people with mobility issues.

I protect my peace of mind by volunteering at community committees and activities. For instance, I’m the veteran advisor to the Hometown Heroes Committee.

I also started an after-school backgammon club at the town library for all ages who are interested in learning to play the game. The library staff are wonderfully supportive.

My wife and I joined a memoir-writing group a decade ago and we submit our efforts biweekly for comments and critiques. We began meeting in Albany until COVID and now we meet by zoom. Our face-to-face readings about our lives have fostered remote friendships.

Our neighbors are an important part of our social life. If we don’t visit at each other’s home, we go out. Every week I get calls to go somewhere to eat or catch some live music at a local bar. As long as there’s access and a handicapped bathroom, count me in.

My life is rich. We don’t have a lot of money but we are a family of seven living together in a 21-room farmhouse built in 1793. Our grandchildren add a dimension of positivity to our home life that makes us feel blessed. Cabin fever doesn’t live here and depression doesn’t stand a chance in our house.

Tony Falese

Westerlo