| Each summer in the late 1960s,
my two sisters and I would ride the
Greyhound bus from Arizona
to Arkansas to stay with our father.
A World War II veteran, Dad had many medical problems,
any one of which could cause many people to lose more than
their sense of humor, but not him.
I have vivid memories of Dad waking
us up in the morning. Before he'd put on his legs
for the day (he had lost his legs after his discharge),
his wheelchair was his mobility.
Holding his cane, which was his extended
arm, he would roll through
the house yelling, "Up, up, up! Get up and face
the day! It's a beautiful day! Rise and Shine!" If
we didn't get up right away, he would repeat his song in
rhythm with his cane hitting the end of our beds. This was
no performance put on for our benefit; every day was truly
a beautiful day to him.
Back in the sixties, there
was no handicapped parking or wheelchair-accessible ramps
like there are now, so even a trip to the grocery store
was a difficult task. Dad wanted no assistance from anyone.
He would climb stairs slowly but surely, whistling all the
way. As a teenager, I found this embarrassing, but if Dad
noticed, he didn't let on.
Once during a trip to the store, he found the three of
us in the makeup department and began to look at makeup
with us. He picked up a container of powder and started
reading the label out loud. "'Leaves your skin soft
and silky from head to toe.' Well that leaves half of me
out," he said, laughing. We had to laugh, too. He
had a talent
for finding humor in everything he did.
Those summers always ended too soon. He would drive us
back to Arizona every year, stopping at the checkpoint for
fruit and vegetables at the New Mexico-Arizona border.
When asked if he had any fruits or vegetables, he would
reply, "Just three sweet peas."
Our father has been gone for a long time now, but not
the lesson that he taught us: You are only as handicapped
as you let yourself be.
I know now, too late, that any one of his "sweet
peas" would be proud to walk beside him - whistling
- up a set of stairs. And be
glad to wake to the sound of his voice,
to
rise and shine and see one of his beautiful days.
By Susan Arnett-Hutson |
