The View From Down Here
One of the most difficult things to accept as a child is that you are different in some way. The desire of most people is to be just like everyone else. That is why we use the plea, “Everyone else is doing it,” to convince our parents that we should receive permission. It is wonderful for a child to believe he is just like everyone else, even when he is not.
I must have been about ten or eleven years old when the reality that I was different entered my consciousness. It probably had something to do with baseball.
Like many boys who were children in the fifties and sixties, I was a baseball fan. But, I was not just a fan; I loved the game. Whenever I could find an available neighborhood friend, I would initiate a game of catch. If no one was on hand, I would throw the ball against the side of the house or toss it on the roof and catch it as it fell back to the ground.
In the evening when it was too dark to play or in the winter when it was too cold, I created imaginary games that I could play indoors. At night lying in bed, or on Sunday sitting in the church pew, I would play games in my mind. I was into fantasy baseball long before it became a popular pastime. I probably should be embarrassed now to admit how much time I spent thinking about baseball.
Like any boy who loved the game, my plan was to be a big league player one day. First Base for the New York Yankees was the goal. In fact, when I wore out the glove my parents gave me, I saved and purchased a genuine leather first baseman’s mitt. It was a Rawlings, light tan color with dark lacing. The deep pocket with a woven web captured every baseball that came near. I fell in love with it the moment I discovered it at the Woolworth store. I knew it was destined for me because it was for a left-hander, and trust me; left-handed gloves were scarce at the Woolworth.
Although the glove was far too large for a kid my size, I learned to handle it with grace. If I could reach a ball, I would catch it. If getting to the Major Leagues was only a matter of desire and hard work, I was well on my way.
Then it hit me. It was not an instantaneous realization, but rather something that developed over a period of time. What everyone else knew, I finally understood. I would never be a ball player. Not in the Major Leagues, not in the Minor Leagues, not even in the Little Leagues.
The reality is that I spent the first eleven and a half years of my life living in a wheelchair. The fact that it took me nearly a dozen years to recognize the obvious might cause you to think that I am an idiot. I don’t think my inability to recognize the apparent is evidence of stupidity. Instead, I think it was because I have an overpowering determination that prevents me from giving up without a fight. In some idealistic way, I honestly believed that one day I would walk, run, and play first base for the New York Yankees.
Obviously, it did not happen. In fact, I write these words with more than five and a half decades of experiences, and my physical ability is not much different than it was in the first few years of my life. I gave up the hope of walking many years ago. My dreams usually die hard, but I am not a psychological cripple living under some sort of disillusionment.
The wheelchair thing started in early October of 1951 in Brownwood, Texas, when I was just two weeks short of birthday number one. I became one of approximately one hundred thousand other polio victims that year. I knew nothing about polio until the past few years when I have done a smattering of reading on the subject. To be honest, the disease itself did not interest me; I was more concerned with living with the remnants. I am what millions of American parents feared their children would become.
Surviving the initial onslaught of the virus, I was left with the challenge of living with only a small percentage of my physical capability. Since I do not remember having complete physical capacity, I do not know the experience of being at full strength. In some ways, that has probably made it easier for me to adapt; I do not know any other way.
At the age of five I was enrolled in first grade at the elementary school in Eads, Colorado. I also received my first wheelchair. Unless I was crawling on the living room floor or in the front yard bluegrass, I was sitting in a wheelchair.
For some reason, at the age of eleven, I decided it was time to walk. I grabbed a pair of crutches that my mother kept handy, strapped on leg braces, and taught myself to walk. I tried to be out of the wheelchair as much as possible, however, it was still utilized for school and long excursions. I was never very far from the chair.
Once I finished graduate school, I was able to put the wheelchair in a closet. Like most young men, these were the strongest years of my life. Also like most men, the strength did not last forever. In my late thirties, I began to need assistance with walking long distances once again. From that point until today, I became more and more dependant upon the chair. Today I am no longer able to walk at all.
I realize that statement evokes sympathy in some of you. However, that is not my purpose; I don’t need sympathy. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I have always known that the day would come when I would have to give up walking. To be honest, it has not been such a bad deal. I no longer worry about falling, which was always a painful ordeal. Long distances do not concern me. In a way that I can’t explain, the wheelchair has become a source of comfort for me.
Along the way, I have learned some fascinating things about life and people because of the wheelchair. The world does look different from down here. Everything about who I am has been bent and tinted by my seated position.
I was sitting in a classroom waiting for the professor to arrive. It was one of those rare occasions when he was late and students were wandering around while more than a few had started counting the minutes until we could leave without breaking school policy. A fellow who always sat in the back came and sat down in the seat next to me and introduced himself. We shook hands and then he made a statement and I did not know how to respond.
“I have always wanted to talk to you,” he said, “but I didn’t know what to say to someone in a wheelchair.”
For the first time it dawned on me that I made people uncomfortable. We were in seminary, preparing to minister to folks, and he didn’t know how to speak to someone in a wheelchair. I was not like I had spastic movements and drool running down the side of my face. I thought I was just a normal person who happened to be sitting down.
Apparently I had mistakenly assumed that I was just like everyone else. In whatever manner you might greet a person with healthy legs would be an appropriate greeting for me. But, that is not true. It is different down here. Twenty four inches of height is significant.
Several years ago when they first developed automobile paint that changed colors, my son and I flew to Nashville and rented to car. Arriving at our destination in the middle of the afternoon, we spent several hours tending to business. Coming out of the building after the sun had crossed the afternoon sky, we could not find our car. We thought we remembered where we had parked, but there were no blue cars in the vicinity. After a few minutes, we both realized that the car we thought was blue was now green. It was the same vehicle but the angle of the light had changed our perspective.
The angle changes everything. The stories that follow are told from my vantage point. One thing I know for sure is that it is not the same as your vantage point. I might see a blue Ford while you observe it is as a green Ford. However, it is the still the same Ford. In other words, the lessons learned from my experiences will probably be very similar to the lessons you have learned from your experiences.
We see truth from different views but it is still truth. These stories illustrate some of the important lessons of life that I have learned. I hope they challenge you to appreciate your own unique viewpoint.
