Rob Shindler - Hot Dogs & Hamburgers: Unlocking Lifes Potential by Inspiring Literacy at Any Age

The names and identifying characteristics of persons referenced in this book, as well as identifying events and places, may have been changed to protect the privacy of the individuals and their families.

Published by River Grove Books
Austin, TX
www.greenleafbookgroup.com

Copyright 2012 Rob Shindler
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Distributed by River Grove Books
For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact River Grove Books at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group LLC
Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group LLC

Cover photo: iStockphoto.com/Stanislav Pobytov

Publishers Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Shindler, Rob.
Hot dogs & hamburgers: unlocking lifes potential by inspiring literacy at any age / Rob Shindler.1st ed.
p.; cm.
Issued also as an ebook.
Includes bibliographical references.
1. Shindler, Rob. 2. Functional literacyUnited States. 3. Tutors and tutoringUnited States. 4. Learning disabled childrenUnited States. 5. Parents of children with disabilitiesUnited States. I. Title. II. Title: Hot dogs and hamburgers

Print ISBN: 978-1-938416-09-5
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-938416-10-1

First Edition

To my wife, Andi, who always makes me feel like the most
important person in the room, even when Im not.

I only have an hour, only sixty minutes in it. Forced upon me, cant refuse it. Didnt seek it, didnt choose it. But its up to me to use it. Give account if I abuse it. Just a tiny little hour. But eternity is in it.
Anonymous

S PECIAL ED are not exactly the two words you think about when youre picking out cribs and playpens. Fathers future hopes for their kids begin the first moment they know they want to be a dad. I was devastated to discover that my offspring, my son, wasnt perfect. And unlike a captain who stands strong when his ship unexpectedly sails off course, I temporarily abandoned my first mate. But thats not where my story starts and my journey begins.

I lived at home with my parents until I was thirtythirty-one, if were giving out brownie points for honesty. Id still be sleeping on my Batman & Robin sheets if Princess Andi hadnt rescued me. She turned me into a man. It was Oliver, however, who made me a dad.

After getting married, Andi and I moved into our dream house, ready to start a family. The house sat right behind a beautiful park with swings, monkey bars, and teeter-totters. A week after unpacking, we discovered we couldnt make a baby. So began our climb up and down the ladder of infertility. After years filled with shots and prayers, potions and lotionsnot to mention the hundreds of vacant ultrasound screens we stared at downheartedlywe finally struck gold. Twice. With the help of our fertility specialist (and God), we made our twins, Isabella and Oliver.

After they started school, we were told that Oliver had a severe learning disability. Although I knew how to entertain my children by making the funny noise with my hand under my armpit, I gave up on trying to help my son, and I let everyone else carry the load. Eventually, however, I found my sons dad. By discovering a way to teach adult strangers, I found the road to helping my own little boy.

The common perception about learning issues and adult illiteracy is that somehow theyre reserved for a certain group of people. In other words, uneducated, lazy, apathetic minorities. I know now, firsthand, how ridiculous this theory is. Over the last few years, I have been surrounded by ambitious people who are eloquent, driven, clever, and funny enough to make you laugh out loud. They couldnt read, but they wanted to become better.

My hope is that our story will show readers that literacy issues reside in all neighborhoods and that the victims of illiteracy can find dignity and lifes possibilities by learning to read.

I m waiting for the elevator to arrive. Even though its the middle of the day, the lobby of this busy metropolitan building is completely empty. Finally the bell dings, the doors open, and I step inside. After pressing number nine, I notice my shoelace is undone, so I kneel down to tie it. Before the steel doors close, a hand pokes its way in and prevents them from shutting. Actually, its more like a pawof a grizzly bear. Its fingers resemble five frozen bananas dipped in chocolate sauce. I gaze at the owner of that paw as he steps inside to join me. I feel as though Im looking up at the character Jack discovered when he reached the top of the beanstalk.

I wonder if this man is wondering why I hadnt held the door for him. As we climb upward, I realize he may be bigger than a grizzly bear. I also cant help noticing he has yet to select his own floor. While waiting downstairs in the lobby, I had glanced at the directory of the different businesses and establishments in the building. I reviewed them now as the elevator began its climb. The Department of Transportation has two offices, one on the tenth floor and the other on the twelfth. Theres a massage school on the fifth, a real estate school on the seventh, and a travel agency on the eighth. You can become a hair stylist by pressing three, and you can learn to make a wicked Long Island Iced Tea stepping off on six.

As we ride together in silence, I cant stop looking at my traveling companions nails. Theyre the size of postage stamps. Im forty-five, and the top of my head barely reaches the zipper on his light brown United Parcel Service jacket.

Normally, it would be quite comforting to know this elevator had been tested and properly maintained just fourteen short months ago by Earl T. Wilkens. But with Bigfoot standing next to me, Im not so sure Im safe. He could finish me for lunch before hunting for dinner. Please dont break down now, I pray.

Elevators are funny little cubed places. You can choose to be alone in these motorized squares even when sharing intimate space with complete strangers who are standing closer to one another than theyve stood among relatives in their own family. You can say hello, good-bye, or nothing at all. You can be a stand-up comic, a philosopher, a weatherman, or a tour guide. Ive cried in elevators. Ive practiced closing arguments inside them. Ive daydreamed. As Ive mentioned, Ive prayed.

Elevators are also like shadow boxes holding special memories from different chapters of our lives. I remember my very first elevator ride. I was about seven years old and I was shopping with my mom at Marshall Fields. I put on my fancy dress clothes and we rode the train to downtown Chicago. It was so exciting to push all the buttons. Even though back then they didnt light up, it was still pretty powerful to believe I could control the elevator. I loved it being just my mom and me inside there together.

I also remember the night I went to pick up Andi for our first date. I was so nervous I rode up and down to the fifteenth floor three separate times.

Years later, I remember riding the elevator down together moments after our wedding. How beautiful she looked in those mirrored steel doors and how her gown and train filled the compartment. I also remember riding the elevator up for our first appointment to see the infertility specialist. Both so nervous, neither speaking a word but knowing exactly what the other was thinking. And a few years later, the feeling of joy as we descended from the maternity ward at Northwestern Hospital with our two-day-old twins, ready to step outside to begin our new life together as a family.