----- Original Message -----

From: BRADKNICK@aol.com

To: maxadams@cfdinc.com

Sent: Saturday, January 15, 2005 3:49 PM

Subject: 45th reunion

Hi Maxine,

Good to hear from you, and quite a coincidence to find your reunion announcement in my stack of mail. I just got back last night from Delmar, where I was visiting my parents. In 2003, after 50 years in Delmar, they moved to the Beverwyck retirement facility in Slingerlands. My sister Kim (BCHS 1962) and brother Dan (BCHS 1970) were there too to help celebrate my mother's 93rd birthday. Fun to see some familiar faces there, including Elsie (O'Hara) Stout, our 8th grade algebra teacher. Also went to a lecture by former BCHS English teacher Helen Adler, who gives regular talks to a book group in town. And then one day this past week Bill Frueh was featured in a big (and quite inspiring) front-page story in the Times-Union, which I've pasted below. If you have a class email list, I'm sure lots of other folks would like to see it. Perhaps you could forward this to our electronically-connected classmates. Many thanks for being class "scribe." I look forward to hearing from you again.

Cheers,

Brad Knickerbocker

Times-Union

A life guided by inner vision

January 13, 2005

By PAUL GRONDAHL

Staff Writer

For 37 years, Bill Frueh, who is blind, caught CDTA bus No. 18 at 6:50 a.m. in front of his Delmar home for his commute to work in Menands.

The trip took an hour. He transferred to the No. 22 bus in Albany.Each morning, since 1967, through all seasons, he waited at the corner of State and Pearl with a red and white cane and deadened, half-open eyes. He took it on faith that a kindly stranger would tell him when the No. 22 was coming.

"I always considered it one of the proofs of the existence of God that somebody would tell me when the right bus came," the 62-year-old Frueh said.

Faith is a daily companion for Frueh (pronounced "Free"). He lives in the moment. In 56-inch increments, to be precise. That's the length of the cane he sweeps in front of him as he walks.

Frueh doesn't need to test his faith at the bus stop anymore. His co-workers threw him a retirement party Monday at Northeast Career Planning, where he was a sheltered employment counselor.

The not-for-profit agency was formed in 1954. It used to be called The Workshop Inc. It has an $8 million annual budget and employs 200 disabled people at a warehouse in Menands. They pack GE caulking tubes into plastic bags; sort and pack local college printed materials; label and pack Beech-Nut baby foods. Each year, the agency also places more than 400 disabled workers with local companies.

Frueh worked with people often marginalized by society, those with mental retardation, cerebral palsy, brain injuries, mental illness, blindness and deafness. He helped them believe in self-reliance instead of self-pity. Even when they were earning $6.75 per hour, on average, in an assembly line-type operation.

"The first thing I tried to teach them was that the world doesn't owe them anything," said Frueh, who earned a bachelor's degree in sociology from Siena College and a master's in social work from the University at Albany.

His mother read to her son all of his textbooks in his undergraduate and graduate school courses. He absorbed all she read, listened to the professor's lectures and typed his homework and term papers on a standard manual typewriter.

Frueh imparted his up-by-the-bootstraps philosophy to his workers.

"If an employee started whining, I told them that wasn't going to cut it with me," Frueh said. "I told them to get a life and not to sit at home feeling sorry for yourself."

His gruff message was delivered with acceptance and a willingness to push others to achieve heights they never thought possible.

"You can't manage with a disability until you realize you can't change it," Frueh said. "If you're still fighting the disability and blaming the world, you'll never be successful."

With a giving heart, a dry wit, a bellowing laugh and a steady supply of blind jokes, Frueh succeeded in what his boss called "the most difficult job in rehabilitation."

"Bill helped hundreds and hun dreds of disabled people over the years with his teaching and career advice," said Bill Norton, Northeast Career Planning's executive director, who worked with Frueh since 1972.

Frueh did his job seated at a wide desk across from Wladyslaw Soloniewicz, his reader. Soloniewicz, who emigrated from Poland in 1950 and speaks seven languages, is legally blind.

"We were the blind leading the blind," Frueh said.

Frueh recruited Soloniewicz, 58, of Schenectady, after Soloniewicz's dad, who had been his reader for many years, became too old and infirm to work about a decade ago.

Norton recalled the first day Soloniewicz showed up to read memos, forms and paperwork for Frueh: "He had thick glasses and a magnifying glass taped to the side of his glasses and he was holding some papers right up to his nose. Somehow, those two guys got the job done."

"The job required patience from both of us," said Soloniewicz, whose job ended with Frueh's retirement.

Frueh's astonishing memory was a major asset. "He kept everything in his head. Phone numbers, addresses, you name it," Soloniewicz said. "Former employees from 20 years ago could walk into the office, and Bill would know who it was by the sound of their voice."

At one point, Frueh maintained a caseload of 100 employees. All stored in his mind. When he retired, his caseload was 38. But the paperwork has grown exponentially in recent years, since state agencies began providing funding.

Frueh was born with cataracts in both eyes. Both retinas later detached. He had five surgeries. His parents took him to the best eye surgeon in New York City, who had preserved the sight of Cardinal Spellman the week before Frueh's surgery. There would be no miracle for Frueh.

"I guess they used it all up on the cardinal," Frueh said.

Frueh's sight drained away gradually. At age 25, in 1979, he lost the final smidgen of light perception. Now Frueh has a constant irritation in his eyes that doesn't change whether he's in bright sunlight or in a darkened room fading off to sleep.

"It's like dirty soap suds," he said. "Purples and browns and blues that move around like amoebas. It bears no resemblance to light. I've learned to pretend it's not there. It can be very distracting and almost drive you crazy if you let it."

Family, friends and co-workers attended Frueh's retirement party.

Frueh's 92-year-old father, Bill, was there. (His mother, who read to him through college, is deceased.)

Frueh's wife, Donna, is disabled with arthritis and lives in the Albany County Nursing Home. She attended the party with the help of a motorized wheelchair. Their three children also were there. Two are grown, have their own families and live in the area. The youngest, Sarah, 18, is a freshman at the State University College at Oneonta.

Former employees read testimonials to Frueh. One man sang.

In retirement, Frueh plans to spend more time as a Revolutionary War re-enactor and to expand the number of schools he visits as a guest history lecturer. He will remain active as an elder in his church, Bethlehem Community.

Frueh plays drums, guitar, banjo and tin whistle. He's been a member of Village Volunteers of Delmar, a fife and drum corps, since 1960.

"In a strange way, I think my blindness is a gift," Frueh said. "It's God's way of showing that blindness is no impediment to success."

An article on Wednesday's A1 about career counselor Bill Frueh included two errors. Frueh lost his sight completely in 1979, when he was 37, and his father previously worked as his reader at Northeast Career Planning.