Three guys named Bill walk into an Eastside LaRosa’s. They order some hoagies and a round of beers. Over dinner they hatch a plan: Create one-of-a kind devices to help kids and adults with one-of-a-kind disabilities.
The three Bills decide to call their unique, nonprofit, volunteer venture May We Help.
Equal parts Santa Claus, Good Samaritan and Rube Goldberg, the three Bills – Bill Sand, Bill Wood and Bill Deimling, two engineers and an injection mold maker – take a pledge. Their gizmos and gadgets may be made by a guy named Bill, but the people on the receiving end will never, ever get a bill.
The work they’ve done for free over the last six years has helped two sisters without arms play the cello and a paraplegic man feed himself. Their inventions turned a woman who couldn’t turn a page into a bookworm. Their creations enabled a paralyzed roofer to play harmonica in a blues band and a wheelchair-bound boy to take a shower by himself.
Just this year, May We Help’s good deeds and four devices, including a scooter and a portable iPad stand, have given 9-year-old Ireland Reed the sense of independence every kid craves and deserves. They have helped her go from class to class in school, learn new words, go to the grocery store with her mom and dance while sitting on the green, specially made scooter she calls the Shamrock Express.
“This guy named Bill is an angel, a godsend. I can’t find the words to express what he has done for my little girl,” said Amy Reed. Standing in her Colerain Township living room, she looked appreciatively at Sand and lovingly at Ireland.
Ireland had just finished performing for the 65-year-old man she calls Bill. She did a dance routine on her scooter, spinning around and bowing at the end of the tune blasting from her iPad, “Put a Little Love in Your Heart,” a piece that could be May We Help’s theme song.
Ireland scooted across the floor to the computer that speaks for her. She was born with a rare condition called Miller syndrome. Affecting one in 1 million newborns, this genetic condition hampers development of the face and limbs. “Ireland was born without eyelids, missing fingers and toes and the tibia bones in her legs,” her mom said.
Turning on her computer, Ireland pecked at the keys to give her thoughts on Sand, who sat across the room.
“He’s nice,” Ireland’s stand-in voice said.
She paused. Then she started typing again and her computer said: “Bill makes me better.”
Sand waved his hands, as if to ward off the compliment. Then he brought his hands to his face to wipe away some tears.
“I just like to help people,” he said.
“He’s done this as long as I’ve known him, and we’ve known each other since high school,” added Karen Sand, Bill’s wife. She came from their Delhi Township home with her husband as he paid one of his periodic house calls to see Ireland.
“He’s always thinking about how he can fix something to help someone,” Karen Sand said. “He’ll be driving along, deep in thought, and then, suddenly, he’ll say out loud: ‘That’s how I’ll do it!’ ”
She always knows what he’s talking about: Another project for May We Help.
“I don’t know how those guys at May We Help got together,” Amy Reed added. “But we need more people like them.”
The three Bills met because of two torn rotator cuffs. Deimling and Wood tore up their shoulders and wound up going to the same physical therapist, Ben Sherman. Asked what he did for a living, Deimling told the therapist about making a device for a friend’s son paralyzed by a car wreck.
“His son drove his wheelchair by putting a device made of wood in his mouth,” recalled Deimling, 69, of Clermont County. “The wood got wet and swelled and fell apart every six weeks. The thing didn’t even cost a buck to make, but it cost $130 to buy. I made one for him out of aluminum. Fifteen years later, he’s still using it.”
Sherman told Deimling he had another patient “who does the same things you do. His name is Bill, too, Bill Wood.”
Deimling invited Wood to his shop. A customer of Deimling’s, Bill Sand, happened to be there working on another project. And that’s how three guys named Bill met.
“May We Help was Bill Wood’s inspiration,” Deimling said. Wood died in 2010. “We are maintaining the two main tenets he established: We don’t do home improvements. We build, for free, one-of-a-kind things that didn’t exist before.”
This little-known but greatly appreciated nonprofit has gradually raised its public profile since Wood’s death.
For years the three Bills shunned publicity. As the chief financial officer of Tire Discounters, Wood did not want anyone to think he was doing good deeds to get business for the family firm that was founded by his son, Chip Wood. The younger Wood donated the company’s former Columbia Township headquarters to May We Help to house the nonprofit’s offices and workshops.
Deimling “went along with Bill Wood’s wishes” for anonymity. “I grew up poor,” he said. “But I have been very lucky with my company. I don’t need any attention. Or praise. Just helping someone get something that’s not available anywhere else is enough for me.”
With Wood’s passing, May We Help’s workload increased. The two Bills decided they needed help. They put out a call for volunteers. A core group of 15 creative types, mostly engineers, responded.
May We Help also received another assist from Tire Discounters. During the Cincinnati Reds’ just-concluded 2012 season, whenever the home team scored its first run of the game, broadcaster Marty Brennaman told his millions of listeners: “With that run driven in, Tire Discounters will make a donation to maywehelp.org, engineers creating devices to help the disabled.”
The exposure paid off. The good deeds business is booming. May We Help has so many projects in the works, the two Bills hired their first two full-time employees: executive director Terry McManus and project director Chris Kubik.
Hoping to expand May We Help’s reach and share ideas, McManus and Kubik conducted a worldwide search for similar operations. They found like-minded nonprofits in Israel, Canada, Australia and South Carolina. But they were not exactly alike. They were either affiliated with a university, received government money, restricted their client list or charged for their services. That makes May We Help an independent, one-of-a-kind outfit doing one-of-a-kind work.
“We give people independence,” Deimling said. “Everything we do allows someone to accomplish something they could not do without what we did. And it lets them do things we take for granted.”
Things such as relax in the shower, read a book, walk down a hallway. Bill Sand came up with gizmos – a shelf for a plastic shower-proof wheelchair, an adjustable bookstand/clipboard, a walker that won’t automatically go in reverse – that enabled 9-year-old Mason Murphy of Mariemont, who has cerebral palsy, to do just that.
“Before Bill came along, Mason didn’t want to get in the shower. I had to help him,” said Mason’s mom, Page Murphy.
“Now, thanks to Bill’s device, I can’t get Mason out of the shower. Mason has trouble reading things when they are flat on a table. Bill made the adjustable stand. Now, Mason can do his homework with his books at just the right level. Mason had trouble stopping his walker from going backward. Bill fixed it. Now, Mason zooms right along the halls at school.”
“When I think about the difference May We Help has made in Mason’s life, and that people like Bill do this out of the goodness of their hearts,” she said, “I always get choked up.”
After leaving Mason’s house, Bill Sand drove in silence for several minutes. For once he was not thinking about how to solve a May We Help project. He was contemplating why he does what he does.
Monday 15 October 2012
Monday 8 October 2012
The Books That Can Be Judged by Their Covers
Whenever anyone drafts a hit list of familiar things that are likely to be rendered obsolete by digital technology, the printed book is almost always near the top.
And why not? Who can justify wasting paper to print bulky books whose pages are prone to staining or tearing, when the digital and electronic versions are so much more convenient to use and store? But even though we don’t need printed books as much as we once did, we can always be persuaded to want them, if they are cleverly designed.
If a designer produces a printed book that is compelling, possibly because it is luscious to look at, or presents its contents in an unusually ingenious or lucid way, we will still long to read it. Here are four recently published books on art and design whose designers have done just that.
Whenever Paul Neale and his colleagues at the British design group Graphic Thought Facility mentioned that they were designing a book about the work of their French counterparts, Michael Amzalag and Mathias Augustyniak of (Paris), the response was the same. “Everyone said: ‘Why aren’t they doing it themselves?”’ Mr. Neale recalled. “Designing a book for other graphic designers is always tricky. We wanted to avoid producing a pastiche of ’s work or a neutral response. Our guiding principle was to make their work look great and as digestible as possible.”
Written by the British design historian Emily King, “M to M of (Paris)” is organized around the particular alphabet, a defining theme of ’s output, though this alphabet runs from “Mi” for Michael, to “Ma” for Mathias. The book begins with Mr. Amzalag’s interview with Ms. King on page 311, and ends with Mr. Augustyniak’s on page 310. Placed in alphabetical order between them are visual depictions of each design project and interviews with ’s collaborators, with page 1 falling near the middle.
When Valeria Napoleone decided to make a book of the recipes she had learned from her mother and grandmother as a child in Lombardy, northern Italy, she determined to combine her favorite family dishes with another love, contemporary art. Now based in London, Ms. Napoleone has an extensive collection of work by women artists and chose to illustrate her book with relevant works by them, including Tomma Abts, Spartacus Chetwynd, Aleksandra Mir and Francis Upritchard.
“The book has over 180 recipes and over 150 images, but I didn’t want the connection between them to be literal,” Ms. Napoleone said. “I wanted the designers to act as curators by orchestrating the location and lay-out of each image in a fresh and unexpected way. When I looked into different designers, I felt that Ab?ke really got the book.”
Ab?ke, which is also based in London, wanted the book to reflect Ms. Napoleone’s character and the personal nature of the project, and devised bespoke typefaces for the cover and inside pages. The former is inspired by the font used in the video game Pac-Man, and the latter based on the elegant typography designed by Giambattista Bodoni in northern Italy at the turn of the 19th century. The cover is bound in cloth like old-fashioned cookery books (though this cloth, called “Pepperoni,” shimmers) and the paper is one that will age beautifully, especially if splattered with food.
And why not? Who can justify wasting paper to print bulky books whose pages are prone to staining or tearing, when the digital and electronic versions are so much more convenient to use and store? But even though we don’t need printed books as much as we once did, we can always be persuaded to want them, if they are cleverly designed.
If a designer produces a printed book that is compelling, possibly because it is luscious to look at, or presents its contents in an unusually ingenious or lucid way, we will still long to read it. Here are four recently published books on art and design whose designers have done just that.
Whenever Paul Neale and his colleagues at the British design group Graphic Thought Facility mentioned that they were designing a book about the work of their French counterparts, Michael Amzalag and Mathias Augustyniak of (Paris), the response was the same. “Everyone said: ‘Why aren’t they doing it themselves?”’ Mr. Neale recalled. “Designing a book for other graphic designers is always tricky. We wanted to avoid producing a pastiche of ’s work or a neutral response. Our guiding principle was to make their work look great and as digestible as possible.”
Written by the British design historian Emily King, “M to M of (Paris)” is organized around the particular alphabet, a defining theme of ’s output, though this alphabet runs from “Mi” for Michael, to “Ma” for Mathias. The book begins with Mr. Amzalag’s interview with Ms. King on page 311, and ends with Mr. Augustyniak’s on page 310. Placed in alphabetical order between them are visual depictions of each design project and interviews with ’s collaborators, with page 1 falling near the middle.
When Valeria Napoleone decided to make a book of the recipes she had learned from her mother and grandmother as a child in Lombardy, northern Italy, she determined to combine her favorite family dishes with another love, contemporary art. Now based in London, Ms. Napoleone has an extensive collection of work by women artists and chose to illustrate her book with relevant works by them, including Tomma Abts, Spartacus Chetwynd, Aleksandra Mir and Francis Upritchard.
“The book has over 180 recipes and over 150 images, but I didn’t want the connection between them to be literal,” Ms. Napoleone said. “I wanted the designers to act as curators by orchestrating the location and lay-out of each image in a fresh and unexpected way. When I looked into different designers, I felt that Ab?ke really got the book.”
Ab?ke, which is also based in London, wanted the book to reflect Ms. Napoleone’s character and the personal nature of the project, and devised bespoke typefaces for the cover and inside pages. The former is inspired by the font used in the video game Pac-Man, and the latter based on the elegant typography designed by Giambattista Bodoni in northern Italy at the turn of the 19th century. The cover is bound in cloth like old-fashioned cookery books (though this cloth, called “Pepperoni,” shimmers) and the paper is one that will age beautifully, especially if splattered with food.
Samuel’s Swinton Park, Masham
What, I wonder, is there left to say about a place that has received so many plaudits in recent times. The praise for the splendid castle which is Swinton Park Hotel in Masham is lavish. There is barely an award, regionally and nationally, they and Samuel’s, the three AA rosette fine-dining restaurant at the hotel, hasn’t scooped up, including restaurant of the year last week at Welcome to Yorkshire’s White Rose awards.
It is worth visiting Swinton for the drive in, alone. The splendour of the castle sitting perfectly in its landscape, the free-roaming deer, magnificent trees and manicured grass, gets me every time. It is just so, so British.
The car park for the hotel is set a short walk away from the main entrance and I do appreciate a car park in front of the hotel would not work but can be annoying when, like on my visit, it is raining and I have to totter in my best heels. If there is valet parking, no one mentioned it.
Escorted by the doorman, I continued to totter down the long, carpeted hallway toward the Georgian drawing room where we were handed over to another member of staff who seats us. Another quickly arrives to welcome us and offers menus and requests for drinks, then shortly after, someone else with a plate of canapés which we respectfully enjoy surrounded by the Downton-esque grandeur of colossal oil paintings (presumably family ancestors), fine rugs and brocades.
Chef Simon Crannage leads the brigade in the kitchen. He has been considered one of the finest chefs in Yorkshire just now, which is probably just as well given the palette of ingredients he has to hand at Swinton. The 20,000-acre estate boasts game, fish and an abundance of fruits, herbs and vegetables in, what is reputably, the largest hotel kitchen garden in the UK. What chef wouldn’t like all of that to play with? Added to this, Simon has scoured Yorkshire for the best suppliers and embraced seasonal cooking at its core and all is strongly reflected in his menus.
At dinner there are three to choose from; a seven-course signature tasting menu (60 plus 28.50 for sommelier pairings); Samuel’s classic with three courses on offer (52); garden produce menu, again three courses but with less choice (also 52). The latter two are interchangeable, which send me into a spin, not for a long time have I wanted practically everything on offer. There is a comfortable wine list devoid of eye-wateringly expensive bottles, instead there’s plenty of old-world familiar names and the odd three-figure price tag for those wishing to impress.
Drinks finished, off we set again, this time to the dining room where a hushed reverence greeted us. This was an alarmingly long room to walk through in high heels on a wooden floor with no music or loud conversation to soak up the clatter. As expected with fine-dining, the amuse bouche was a mushroom velouté and a tarragon foam (I didn’t realise foams are still doing the rounds…). Quickly on its heels came my starter plate of beetroot and blackberry, and across the table, a slow-cooked Greedy Little Pig ham with butterbean purée, and piccalilli-spiced vegetables.
Simon Crannage is yet another chef to eschew the white plate. My starter was served in a dark, moody, stoneware bowl, which perfectly cupped the assorted textures of a feather-light mousse, shards of beetroot crisps tiny, tiny beetroots, purée and sharp-flavoured pickled blackberries (a first for me). I was giddy with delight. The Greedy Little Pig ham – greedy little pigs are dry cured bacon, fresh sausages and hams from a farm near Holmfirth – fell into chunky threads of tender, salty meat and came dressed with popcorn shaped crackling. A cracking dish I was informed.
Having stuck closely to the garden produce menu I went from dark earthy to the lighter textures of leek and potato. This dish fared less well for me as there was simply no wow. Equally, there was nothing wrong with it – soft potato, baby leeks and crispy leek on top – but I couldn’t help thinking that this dish has no protein and yet costs the same as one with a slab of meat or fish. I expected more for my money.
Bang for buck a-plenty with the roast loin of estate venison, grapes (good choice) crispy quinoa and squeaky, fresh garden kale bathed in a generous wash of game sauce. There were smiles in abundance for the flawless cooking and expert balance of tastes and textures.
Desserts did not disappoint. Meltingly soft blackcurrant and coconut financiers with a spiky blackcurrant sorbet was only bettered by the Granny Smith concoction of an apple mouse, crisp, and a face-sucking lemon sorbet. Two great desserts to both sweeten the taste buds and cleanse the palette at the same time. Very clever.
Service throughout dinner was as clean and sharp as the Granny Smith dessert, but with an added smile. And, it is the smile which moved this meal from a stiff, hushed-up, bow to gastronomy, prim and properness, through to a thoroughly pleasing, dinner, as staff chatted with guests and the atmosphere lightened.
It is worth visiting Swinton for the drive in, alone. The splendour of the castle sitting perfectly in its landscape, the free-roaming deer, magnificent trees and manicured grass, gets me every time. It is just so, so British.
The car park for the hotel is set a short walk away from the main entrance and I do appreciate a car park in front of the hotel would not work but can be annoying when, like on my visit, it is raining and I have to totter in my best heels. If there is valet parking, no one mentioned it.
Escorted by the doorman, I continued to totter down the long, carpeted hallway toward the Georgian drawing room where we were handed over to another member of staff who seats us. Another quickly arrives to welcome us and offers menus and requests for drinks, then shortly after, someone else with a plate of canapés which we respectfully enjoy surrounded by the Downton-esque grandeur of colossal oil paintings (presumably family ancestors), fine rugs and brocades.
Chef Simon Crannage leads the brigade in the kitchen. He has been considered one of the finest chefs in Yorkshire just now, which is probably just as well given the palette of ingredients he has to hand at Swinton. The 20,000-acre estate boasts game, fish and an abundance of fruits, herbs and vegetables in, what is reputably, the largest hotel kitchen garden in the UK. What chef wouldn’t like all of that to play with? Added to this, Simon has scoured Yorkshire for the best suppliers and embraced seasonal cooking at its core and all is strongly reflected in his menus.
At dinner there are three to choose from; a seven-course signature tasting menu (60 plus 28.50 for sommelier pairings); Samuel’s classic with three courses on offer (52); garden produce menu, again three courses but with less choice (also 52). The latter two are interchangeable, which send me into a spin, not for a long time have I wanted practically everything on offer. There is a comfortable wine list devoid of eye-wateringly expensive bottles, instead there’s plenty of old-world familiar names and the odd three-figure price tag for those wishing to impress.
Drinks finished, off we set again, this time to the dining room where a hushed reverence greeted us. This was an alarmingly long room to walk through in high heels on a wooden floor with no music or loud conversation to soak up the clatter. As expected with fine-dining, the amuse bouche was a mushroom velouté and a tarragon foam (I didn’t realise foams are still doing the rounds…). Quickly on its heels came my starter plate of beetroot and blackberry, and across the table, a slow-cooked Greedy Little Pig ham with butterbean purée, and piccalilli-spiced vegetables.
Simon Crannage is yet another chef to eschew the white plate. My starter was served in a dark, moody, stoneware bowl, which perfectly cupped the assorted textures of a feather-light mousse, shards of beetroot crisps tiny, tiny beetroots, purée and sharp-flavoured pickled blackberries (a first for me). I was giddy with delight. The Greedy Little Pig ham – greedy little pigs are dry cured bacon, fresh sausages and hams from a farm near Holmfirth – fell into chunky threads of tender, salty meat and came dressed with popcorn shaped crackling. A cracking dish I was informed.
Having stuck closely to the garden produce menu I went from dark earthy to the lighter textures of leek and potato. This dish fared less well for me as there was simply no wow. Equally, there was nothing wrong with it – soft potato, baby leeks and crispy leek on top – but I couldn’t help thinking that this dish has no protein and yet costs the same as one with a slab of meat or fish. I expected more for my money.
Bang for buck a-plenty with the roast loin of estate venison, grapes (good choice) crispy quinoa and squeaky, fresh garden kale bathed in a generous wash of game sauce. There were smiles in abundance for the flawless cooking and expert balance of tastes and textures.
Desserts did not disappoint. Meltingly soft blackcurrant and coconut financiers with a spiky blackcurrant sorbet was only bettered by the Granny Smith concoction of an apple mouse, crisp, and a face-sucking lemon sorbet. Two great desserts to both sweeten the taste buds and cleanse the palette at the same time. Very clever.
Service throughout dinner was as clean and sharp as the Granny Smith dessert, but with an added smile. And, it is the smile which moved this meal from a stiff, hushed-up, bow to gastronomy, prim and properness, through to a thoroughly pleasing, dinner, as staff chatted with guests and the atmosphere lightened.
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