All short stories Copyright © 1997 Ruth C. Webb. All rights reserved.
"Who Is Freddie?"
"Phoning Is Better Than Walking!"
"The Mistress of the Briarpath"
"Coming In On A Wave"
"Climbing Up the Hill"
"Saved by A Timely Thank You"
"To Walk Or Not To"
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It has been said that life is a series of up and down hills. When I was a very little girl, this adage became real to me. I was then seven years old and knew I was a "spastic" that’s why I couldn’t walk except when my parents took my shoulders and walked behind me. I remember it was very hard to step with my right foot and that my ankle would turn over whenever I got excited. I couldn’t talk very well and people who didn’t know me didn’t know what I said. Only Mother, Daddy, and Brother could understand me.
This made me very ashamed, especially at birthday parties.
My mother was a teacher and was very anxious that I learn to walk alone. She was quite determined that I do my exercises every morning. She would stand behind me and put her hands on my shoulders to balance me as I walked. If Mother had her way, I would have practiced walking all day long. But right then the only way I could get around the house and yard was by crawling. In this way, I could go wherever I wanted in the house. I saw Miss Patten, my physical therapist, every Wednesday. She was a sour-faced lady with flashing black eyes and a high, thin voice. She really made me work by standing me in the bag she called "The Hanging Saddle." This burlap bag with two holes for my legs hung from the ceiling on a sliding hook which was supposed to move when I took a step. I tried very hard to step, but somehow I could not lean forward enough to make the Saddle move. Miss Patten became irritated and scolded me; I would begin to cry and refuse to try to step with the Hanging Saddle. Right then, I did not like Miss Patten. I thought she was a mean woman. I thought even worse things about Miss Patten when, though the open door, she said very firmly to my mother, "Ruthie must not crawl on her knees any more. If she does, her knees will become/ bent and she will never walk by herself." "Never walk!" cried my mother, "That would never do! Then my little girl would never get around by herself! Ruthie will walk someday if I have anything to say about it." Inside the training room, I thought, "Miss Patten, you are an old witch! How will I get around to play if I can’t crawl?" This question became a crucial issue when Mother strictly forbade me to crawl anywhere in the house or yard. The first week, I tried at least five times to sneak to the kitchen on my knees. Mother always caught me and gave me a scolding. "You are going to walk, Ruthie! Crawling is for babies and even they don’t do it when they learn to walk. Don’t let me catch you on your knees again! Daddy and I will help you walk wherever you need to go. If you don’t obey me, I’ll have to tie you in your chair." Faced with this ultimatum, I gradually gave up crawling in the house and learned to wait for Mother or Daddy to put their hands on my shoulders and help me walk from one room to the other. I tried hard to stay off my knees but sometimes the urge to play with friends who came to visit was just too great. Without crawling, I couldn’t play in the sand box in the back yard, have tea parties for my dolls under the oak tree by the driveway or make mud pies with Pam, my little tomboy neighbor. One afternoon Pam suggested we go over to the maple tree in the front yard and play in the pink and orange petunia bed that encircled the tree. "Let’s make mud pies—no, petunia mud pies!" she chanted. I thought, "I can’t make mud pies if I don’t crawl over to the petunia bed around the oak tree and sit on my knees." I remember looking furtively toward our front door before getting on my knees. Mother wasn’t around then. "Yes," I answered Pam, "Let’s make petunia meringue mud pies." Pam looked at me. "What will your mother say? I thought she told you not to sit on your knees." "Mother is in town. She won’t know," I declared. "You will get it if she comes home and finds you crawling in the dirt, won’t you? You’d better let me start the pie, " my friend asserts. She immediately dumped a nearby pail of water on the petunia bed and passed a four-inch pie tin to me and ordered, "Fill it up with dirt, then put petunia petals on top. That will make a good petunia meringue mud pie." We worked hard for what seemed a long time. My good left hand got tired shoveling dirt from the petunia bed to the pie tins, but finally both our tins were full. The orange and pink petunia petals around the edge of the pan when I saw Mother coming up the walk and I said to Pam, "Quick! Mother is coming! Cover up the pies with some petunia petals." We both hurried to scatter blossoms on top of our pies. Mother stopped right beside me. "Why are you girls digging in my petunia bed? You are ruining it!" "We are making mud pies. Ruthie calls them petunia meringue mud pies." Pam held up an incriminating pie pan full of dirt and flowers. "Do you have to make meringue pies in my petunia bed?" Mother asked looking at Pam. "Pam, you had better go home to your mother and show her your dirty overalls." Turning to me, she asked, "Ruthie, do you have to sit on your knees to make your pies? Have you forgotten that you are not to sit on your legs? You seem determined to crawl and play on your knees. Don’t you realize you will never walk if you persist in crawling? And if you don’t learn to walk, what am I going to do with you?" "Mother, I need to get around now -- I can’t wait to walk. Don’t make me sit in one spot all the time. I can’t do anything then!" This encounter with Mother did not stop me from sitting and moving on my knees when I could get the chance. . . . Because Daddy was an officer in the U.S. Army, we lived on an army post near Boston. The gently sloping hill beside our quarters presented a temptation to crawl that could not be resisted. Tall grass covered the hill, making it a fascinating place to visit. Even under the threat of being tied in my chair, I often sneaked on my knees to the brim of the hill. One day I leaned too far over the edge of this mini precipice and down I went, rolling over and over, till I reached the bottom. There was no one nearby who could hear my frantic cries for help. I realized that it was up to me to get up the hill by myself if I did not want a fierce scolding from Mother! I tried to climb up the slippery grass. I put my left knee forward, then my right. At first, my left knee slid back while I pulled the right one up. I repeated these knee movements one, two, three, four, five times--but always slid back. I got tired and barely moved my left knee. It stayed put! I then inched my right knee up and it stayed put too. In this way, I moved slowly up the hill, inch by inch. It took a long, long time to reach the top. I finally made it in late. I lay exhausted, panting on the grass, looking up at the sky. Then it hit me. I did it! I climbed the hill all by myself! I laughed out loud--and because I climbed the hill once, I could do it again. I could have my own rolling-down-the-hill game. Now I had my own secret rolling-off place. I could roll down and crawl up the hill whenever Mother wasn’t looking. What fun! When I was halfway up the hill on my second trip, I looked up and saw Mother peering down at me. I got very afraid and sweat ran down my back. What would she say? Would she ever let me roll down the hill again? And then, a most dreadful thought came: Would she tie me in the chair? Mother waited until I got up to the top before she spoke. She was smiling but her tone was very serious. "Ruthie, I’m proud of you," she said. "You persisted in accomplishing your goal. Even though you disobeyed me and crawled on your knees, you kept climbing till you reached the top. And now that you know how to climb hills on your knees, I’m sure that someday you will climb mountains on your feet." Throughout the years I have often been reminded of the day I climbed the hill with the tall grass. Many times I have fallen into deep valleys, and many times I have climbed windy hills. I have often heard my mother’s voice repeat, "Now that you know how to climb hills on your knees, I’m sure that someday you will climb mountains on your feet." Even though my feet have not ascended geographical peaks, Mother’s faith still encourages me to continue climbing up and over the hills lying in my daily path.
"Saved by a Timely Thank You" "Ms. Knight, I doubt you can counsel handicapped clients, especially the emotionally disturbed and delinquent adolescents that we have in our workshop. However, Dr. McCormick, our director of the workshop, has suggested that I hire you as an intern counselor for a three-month trial. Your difficult speech and facial grimaces are going to give you problems with clients and the general public. I don’t know whether they will accept you as a counselor." Betty reacts in a emphatic tone, "Mr. Eaton, I worked hard during college and graduate school to get a master’s degree in counseling. I passed my counseling practicum with an A-. Now, I am seeking an internship with your workshop. Please give me a chance. It is so important to my whole future!" Mr. Eaton replies slowly, "If I could follow my own judgement, I would not hire you even as an intern. However, Dr. McCormick is willing to take a chance on you. I hope you won’t disappoint us… Now I will take you into the workshop to meet John and Bill who are the supervisors of your section. In addition to carrying a caseload from eight to twelve, you will oversee the day to day production of their clients, and you will guide John and Bill in the everyday direction of their people. Then we’ll look at your office." Mr. Eaton then led Betty into a busy room crowded with young people sitting at tables and packing umbrellas in long boxes. For a few minutes, they stood on the edge of the busy scene and watched the activity. Then Mr. Eaton introduced her to John and Bill as the new counselor who would supervise their workshop. Next, he motioned her to follow him down a long hall to a small room. He opened the door and said, "Ms. Knight, here is your office. You have room for a desk and two chairs, and a file cabinet. It is very adequate for individual counseling. I’m going to leave you now, but I will expect you on Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp." Betty sits down at the desk and wonders, ‘Is this the office where I’m going to change the lives of clients? I have waited so long for this day, and I hope I don’t screw up my chances to become a counselor. I know I have to speak very clearly to satisfy Mr. Eaton. I don’t think he is comfortable around handicapped people—at least not professional handicapped people!’ * * * A week passed quickly. Betty was very busy watching workshop activities and getting acquainted with John and Bill, who were experts in handling workshop problems. She learned about the production process, and the kind of contracts which came from local merchants, e.g., filling up envelopes with ads, packing toys, cutting paper into typewriter sized sheets, and building wooden boxes. She quickly came to admire the two young supervisors and greatly enjoyed her days in the workshop. The next Monday morning, Mr. Eaton walked in her office and placed five folders on her desk. "These are your first clients, Ms. Knight," he said. "Read their records before they come so you can begin to formulate job training programs for them. Your success in placing them in suitable jobs depends upon your understanding of their abilities and motivations. Remember the chief end of our workshop is to train disabled people and to place them in jobs that they can handle. Your success as a counselor depends upon the number of clients who keep the job in which you placed them. I hope you can overcome your speech defect enough to fulfill this function. Remember, I will be very demanding of you, and will not make any allowances for your mistakes." It was tough going for Betty for the first month. Her first client was Frances Thomson, a twenty-year-old girl with a paralyzed arm. Frances had never worked outside her home. She had a hard time learning to be on time, to work continuously, and to be considerate of co-workers. During counseling sessions, she had trouble taking Betty’s suggestions; and often broke into tears when Betty pointed out her rudeness to her supervisors and co-workers, and her frequent tardiness for work. Betty realized that the girl was having hard times with her mother—who dictated all details of daily life for Frances. Betty encouraged Frances to make her own decisions about buying clothes, cutting her hair, and selecting her choice of movies. Two months passed and Frances still was not ready for a job. Her work in the shop was not consistent. She showed that she could work when she wanted to, but she often stopped to chat with her friends. Although she could manipulate small objects such as pins and nails quite well with her one good hand, Frances often refused to work. Betty now recalls the day Mr. Eaton came to her and demanded, "When are you going to place Frances? Her training time is almost up. What are you doing about it? Remember, you must place clients in jobs if you stay here!" Betty shifted her musings to an event in her own life, I remember when I first walked across a fifteen-foot hallway by myself. I spent two years at the rehab center learning to walk. I was then seventeen and eager to walk. I thought that if could walk I would go to college and get a job. Ever since I was a little girl, my secret ambition has been to be a counselor, so that I could help people and support myself. In the last three months I have started to buy a home, get a dog, and have even joined the local counselor’s association! I have made many friends in this city and feel very much at home. The greatest of my achievements happened when I was seven years old. At that time we lived besides a gently sloping hill which presented a terribly tempting opportunity to crawl. Crawling had been strictly forbidden by my physical therapist because she was afraid that my legs would become permanently bent if I continued to crawl. My mother threatened to tie me in my chair if she caught me on my knees. Even the threat of being tied in my chair, I often sneaked on my knees to the brim of the hill. One day I leaned too far over the edge of this mini precipice and down I went, rolling over and over, till I reached the bottom. There was no one nearby to help me. I realized that it was up to me to get up the hill. I tried to climb up the slippery grass. I put my left knee forward, then my right. At first, my left knee slid back while I pulled the right one up. I repeated these knee movements one, two, three, four, five times—but I always slid back. I got tired and barely moved my left knee. It stayed put! I then inched my right knee up and it stayed put too. In this way, I moved slowly up the hill, inch by inch. It took a long, long time to reach the top. When I finally made it I lay on the grass, looking up at the white clouds in the blue sky. Then it hit me. I did it! I climbed the hill all by myself! I laughed out loud—and because I climbed the hill once, I could do it again. I could have my own rolling-down-the-hill game. Now I had my own secret rolling-off place. I could roll down and crawl up the hill whenever Mother wasn’t looking. What fun!’ All my life I have struggled to overcome the physical handicaps of my cerebral palsy. It’s been uphill all the way. I remember my therapist at the rehab center, standing on the opposite end of the hall, coaxing me to keep stepping. The hall seemed so wide and the ceiling so high that I panicked whenever I looked around. I kept my head up, forced my right ankle to remain upright and almost ran into her arms. We both cried with joy. That was a great triumph!’ Here Betty pauses and thinks, ‘Mr. Eaton says he wanted to talk me this morning. Am I going to be fired? Is this is another hill to climb? I was very little when I climbed that grassy hill on my knees, my knees got bloody, but I finally got to the top. I’m not sure if I can get to the top of this hill! Well, here goes! Whatever is will be!’ Betty opens the door and approaches the secretary’s desk, which is stacked with papers. "Sit down Ms. Knight, Mr. Eaton is busy with a parent now, but will be with you soon," the dark-haired secretary instructed. Betty selects an easy chair and continues thinking to herself, ‘I remember meeting Tom Cooper when his father first wheeled him into my office. He appeared to be a very handicapped young man. His legs were thrashing up and down, his head was moving from side to side, and his left arm was restrained to the tray table on his big wheelchair, while his right arm waved back and forth. He had such a wide grin, I was compelled me to accept him as a client. His first words to me were very clear ‘‘Can you get me a full-time job? I have a high school diploma and I am good at proofreading." "Have you ever had a job?’’ I asked. He answered, "Yes, I’ve got a job over the telephone after calling five printers of advertisements. I am earning five dollars for each ad I write." He then asked me if I could find him a job that would pay for his room and board at his group home. I agreed to work with him if he would work with me. "It won’t be easy to find a job for you, but I will try." Tom and I spent four months exploring ways to compensate for his physical handicap. Tests revealed his normal intelligence and his keen interest in sports by recognize names and exploits of many baseball players in the national leagues. He used a small typewriter by hitting the keys with the second finger of his right hand. Tom followed all my job-hunting tips. After four months, I found a publisher of a local city paper who was willing to try him first as a volunteer proofreader. If he could write catchy ads to meet deadlines by the of three months, he promised Tom a full-time paid position on the paper with a salary, large enough to pay his room and board. Tom was excited and thrilled and I was too! "Miss Knight, thank you!" He exclaimed, "Now I can really be independent!" I will never forget him. He was the first client I placed in a full-time job. His success encouraged me to try very hard to be a good counselor and to keep this job.’ Betty takes a deep breath and wonders, ‘Now what will happen to me? I know Mr. Eaton is not satisfied with me. Because I cannot always get my breath to say the endings of words, he thinks that I am not capable of counseling very disturbed clients, and can only handle physically handicapped people who will accept me. He says there are not enough disabled clients in the workshop to pay for my salary. I don’t want to lose my job. I have worked hard here during my internship. I have even stayed over time to write reports and to plan treatment programs. On the other hand, in spite of my poor speech, he has remarked many times that my work is good. I like this job and want to keep it, but I know my poor speech is sometimes very hard to understand—especially when I am tired and don’t feel well. At least, my clients appreciate me. The other day, Jeanette came to ms and told me about her new job as library assistant. This young lady was very hard to place, because when she walks, she turns her head from side to side. Her success indeed was a great reward for me.’ Mr. Eaton opens his door and strides briskly into the waiting room. "Come in, Ms Knight and sit down. I want to go over your three months’ evaluation with you and tell you what we think of your work." He hands Betty a paper with five statements rating attendance, promptness, conscientiousness, relations with co-workers, and willingness to take directions. "Let’s go down this and discuss each rating mark," he tells Betty. "The first statement gives you an excellent rating on your attendance and promptness. Statement two indicates that you get along well with your clients and co-workers. Statement three proclaims that you cooperate well with me, and take suggestions on improving your counseling. And finally, this evaluation indicates you are industrious and willing to learn from books. I am very satisfied with these aspects of your work." Betty smiles and nods her head in gratitude. "Thank you Mr. Eaton, I am trying hard to learn to be a good counselor. I know I have much to learn—"
Mr. Eaton interrupts, "Ms. Knight, I know you have tried very hard to be an effective counselor, but I’m afraid that there have been too many complaints from your clients and some parents, that they cannot understand you. I think they cannot respond to your questions or your explanations. They also say you take too long to find jobs for clients—Frances illustrates this point—and the workshop supervisors report that you don’t visit their programs very often and that you don’t give them much direction." Betty protests, "But Mr. Eaton, I have placed ten clients in jobs ranging from dishwasher operator, waitress, librarian, file clerk, and receptionist. In the three months that I have been here, not one of them has returned because they were incapable of doing their work. Frances is a difficult person to place because of her mother’s domination for so many years but she is slowly becoming a dependable worker in the shop. I hope to eventually place her as helper hanging up clothes in the Good Will factory. I have spent most of my time with my clients, but I have supervised the instructors in the workshop at least once a week to suggest ways to improve their dealing with clients. I have kept good records—" Mr. Eaton interrupts again, "I am sorry. You are a conscientious person and you do keep good notes. Three months ago I hired you on a trial basis, and hoped that you would work out with physically handicapped clients. I don’t think you can work with emotionally disturbed people or adolescents. Unfortunately, our workshop has a reputation to maintain in this city, and I have to pay attention to complaints about your speech. So, I’m afraid I have to let you go—" There is a knock at the door; Albert, a smiling black young man with a bad limp, enters and stands in front of his former counselor, saying fervently, "Ms. Knight, I want to thank you for getting me my job. I like it so much. I never would have gotten that job without the training and help you gave me. I can now pay my rent and buy my food. I can even buy a new suit when I need it!" Ms. Knight, you never called me a nigger and you never said I could not clean floors or wash windows. You said I could get a job in spite of my bad leg. You told me if I worked hard, was friendly with my co-workers, and was always polite to my boss, I would surely get a job. That came true. You did find a job for me, and because I learned to sweep and mop so well in the workshop, I have been promoted to night manager of housekeeping at the Royal Inn Hotel!" Albert then approaches Betty, shakes her hand and says thank you. Then he walks out the door without looking at Mr. Eaton. When Albert leaves, the supervisor is silent for a long time. He takes a deep breath and says slowly, "I guess Albert has returned the favor you gave him. He has given you another chance to keep your counseling position for the next six months. I will evaluate your progress then and if you have improved in your speech and workshop supervision, I’ll recommend to Dr McCormick that we extend your internship for six months. In the meantime, spend more time in the workshop so that you know each client’s work. You should give your section chiefs daily guidance and support—and be sure that they and the clients understand every word you say." After shaking Mr. Eaton’s hand, Betty leaves. She is trembling with relief, she thinks to herself, ‘Wow, I have climbed another hill!’ |
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