Tributes to Ken Metz

[We’ve received many memorials to Ken Metz, who passed away on May 5, 2018. The following are two of these, and the rest will be published in the fall issue of the BC]

Mike Cole: Friends Who Are Part Of Us

Have you ever had a friend you only see now and then, and yet they are part of you? Ken Metz and I met in 1952 at Bell School in Chicago. We were the only kids in our grade who brought our lunch to school, so we were separated from everyone else, banished to a side table in the cafeteria and we became friends.

The teacher who ran the cafeteria got everyone to be quiet by banging a milk bottle on the table. Yes in those days milk came in bottles small and large. One day she banged so hard the bottle broke, chaos ensued, a whole bunch of blind, low vision and deaf kids loved it.

Bell School was for all three categories of sensory disabled kids. Ken and I weren’t in the same class, indeed, with all the schooling we would have together, we never did find ourselves in the same class.

Ken had lived in Los Angeles where I was bound, so I remember standing in my kitchen talking on a wall phone, remember those? We talked about what I might expect at Frances Blend in Los Angeles. He had already been there, knew some of their traditions, like that they brought a Christmas tree in during the holidays. He mentioned it to say it was a good school, I would like it. He was right about that. I think back on this conversation, we were really little kids. That we spoke on the phone was remarkable, that he told me things I could use was typical of the Ken we all have known, always helpful always full of good information.

Then came the first day of the school year at John Marshall High School in Los Angeles, probably 1962. Who was this big guy, new student, wearing a suit? Something familiar, I know this guy! And indeed I did. We finished high school.

We spent hours on the phone, now talking girls, now sports, now blind world politics, now messing around with the phones themselves. Yes, we were at least marginally involved in what was called Phone Phreaking.

We lived a couple blocks from each other in Hollywood. Then he moved to the San Fernando Valley, and in those days you had to pretty much plan to sleep over, if you were going to hang out in to the evening.

Remembering, Ken made a deal with our beloved gym teacher in high school, he would climb the climbing rope to the top as the semester progressed, in our big urban high school of mostly sighted kids. He made it.

There he was working in the youth department at Braille Institute, I was at Los Angeles City College just up the street. We got together and had fun. We hung out with the same kids at Foundation for the Junior Blind. We went to camp, and we both went to UCLA. And when Ken, now about to be married moved to San Francisco, my wife and I stayed with him a couple nights until we found our first wonderful place in The City. The rumble of the street car going past Ken’s house in San Francisco was thrilling to me. That street car, The L if memory serves, I couldn’t wait to ride.

I had a guide Dog, he had several. At UCLA all the people and dogs had fun, and yes, we did turn them loose in the library, hey, we were maybe 19 or 20. And I remember he would play instruments and sing corny songs, not to drive the rest of us young people crazy, well maybe a little bit to drive us crazy, but because Ken was an enthusiastic guy. When he was in college, Ken typed for sighted kids, he was a very fast and accurate typist; he worked and worked, always thinking of ways to make a few dollars. He worked in sales, never much fun, but he did Telemarketing, if he got you to make an appointment with Mathews TV, "Top Of The Hill Daily City," he got paid a little. And he got in to a pyramid scheme selling an all-purpose cleaner called Haste. Oh we teased him, but gently. You know why? Simple respect, he was a blind person who was by God not going to be without money coming in. And he worked for the Phone Company, personnel you know. There he learned valuable lessons about proper reporting, which he took to his Lions Board membership, keeping an eye on personnel policy that proved to be excellent oversight. And he was a Rehabilitation Counselor and eventually the director of the DPI program, a contract with the Department of Rehabilitation. He left when he developed heart problems. And he had health concerns, but he always had energy for one more commitment, for one more meeting, for one more kind word.

He introduced me to Ralph Rock, the Telephone Pioneer who got Beep Ball going, one pitch, Ken broke his thumb.

Our friendship with Ken continued. We were Rehab colleagues, and in the last 20 years we were separated, with him living in Los Angeles and my wife and I living in Berkeley. He headed the DPI program at Junior Blind, I was at the Orientation Center for the Blind, we talked, commiserated, kept in touch. From being kids together, here we were supervising important programs in our state, like a couple of real grownups with rather important jobs.

We traveled together with canes and dogs, we laughed and kidded and always got along. Ken was such a talented guy you know, musical, funny with very corny jokes. He debated in high school, sometimes adopting a persona, playing a roll, he always won. At least, that’s how I remember it. We were the kind of friends who didn’t have to catch up, like family, whenever we spoke, we knew what we needed to know about each other’s lives, we could jump in to our interaction without need of background.

I saw Ken as a great model for us as blind people. He always worked, and he filled his time with civic activities. He was a Lion, he volunteered at our San Francisco Broadcast Services running a talk show. He was often the sound man at conventions, and lately many of us enjoyed his humorous congeniality hosting Tech Talk.

Two people growing up with California's blindness politics, we looked after each other. It's called having your back, well there were times when a word, a warning, an ever so slight indication, I could trust his judgment, and I think he could trust mine. Ken was my friend, and I know I was his friend. We knew our families, we went through some hard times and great happy times. That I will miss him, just knowing he was there, speaks volumes about how as we get older we must remember that our friends are assets better than riches. Hearing a familiar friendly voice at just the right moment is better than almost anything. My heart goes out to Pam and Ken’s children. He was a big man, someone who often did his best work behind the scenes, and those of us who knew him experienced his humanity and his love. Ken Metz was a great man who gave of himself with enthusiasm and kindness. His loss is a hard one for a great many of us. Farewell old friend. You have done more than your share.

Rob Turner

My first memory of Ken goes way back to 1966. I was fourteen, my voice was just beginning to change, and I was still a bit shy. Ken would have been eighteen or nineteen. Back then the Foundation for the Junior Blind offered classes and entertainment for blind youth. Many of you will remember its founder Norm Kaplan. His favorite slogan was "it's nice to be nice," which was immortalized in his voice in the movie Mask.

The drivers who transported us to and from events may have been paid. However, I believe that some were volunteers because one Saturday morning the actress Anne Hathaway, Mr. Drysdale's secretary on the Beverly Hillbillies, picked me up. I doubt that she was driving for pay. Anyway, the first time I met Ken was on a return trip home from the Foundation. On this occasion, the driver was a young lady with a very sexy voice. Ken blew me away when he boldly asked her out. I thought "hey, this guy's cool." Rumor has it that Ken was somewhat of a flirt. This little story of mine does nothing to dispel that rumor. Ken my friend, we're sure going to miss you.