We moved to Kansas when I was eight years old and stayed for a couple of years. Besides moving to a two-story home with a basement, the coolest thing about our small town was the brick streets. The bricks made bicycle rides fun, bumpy, and occasionally accident causing. One day I was playing on the porch when a sound caught my attention, scrape…ssshhhp….scrape…..sssshhhhp. I looked up and saw a man in a wheelchair slowly making his way down the street, the uneven bricks keeping his progress slow. He had greasy gray hair, a bit of a hunch in his back between the shoulder blades, and gnarled hands that couldn’t quite grasp the wheels of his chair. Both feet covered in socks, the left foot slowly stepped in front to pull the wheelchair forward to aid his hands and arms while the right foot dragged under the chair. He was leaning forward and to right, and as I approached him I saw his gooey, crusted eyes and drool covered chin as he turned to look at me. He reached out with his left hand and I gave him mine. His palm was very soft and his hand very strong as he squeezed mine. I asked him if he wanted me to push him a couple of blocks (because I couldn’t go too far from home). He said he would and then something else, but I couldn’t understand his slurred speech very well. The sound of his voice is still with me.

He was heavy in his wheelchair, and as I pushed I realized that both his feet were dragging now. I stopped and went around in front of him. I lifted his feet and put them on the foot rests. He helped lift his left foot, but his right was very weak and he couldn’t help me much. As I pushed him to the end of the second block he asked what my name was and introduced himself as Bob. He then reached for my hand again and as I gave it too him he slowly leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. It was a slobbery kiss and I got a nose-full of his unwashed self. It wasn’t pleasant, but I understood his gratitude. I set his left foot back down on the ground and said goodbye.

I think we saw Bob pass by our house maybe once every week or two. Most of the time I would push him a few blocks and we would chat a little. Sometimes kids or teens would make mean comments about Bob, but we’d just move on and ignore them. I felt sorry for Bob, but I didn’t want to. I remember struggling with my feelings and trying to understand them.

I’m glad to have had that time with Bob, and often think that he was one of the reasons I ended up working in the fields of education, foster care, and developmental disabilities. I also wonder how I have impacted children, and hope that the experiences were good and positive, as Bob impacted me.

Photo found here.