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"
"Who is Freddie?"
Who is this lady called Freddie? She is tall with a large frame and round shoulders. She has
brown eyes, and her gray hair curls to the right of her forehead. She has a wide grin which
elevates the left corner of mouth and displays her ragged front teeth. Her long legs enable her to
walk at a fast trot. She is often ill with a headache and dizziness. When she is feeling well she
covers a city block in five minutes. Freddie loves to eat out in restaurants, to skip her diabetic
diet occasionally, and to take car rides to the green countryside.
Freddie is indeed a social being who revels in praise and affection. In her search for
companionship, she readily makes friends with strangers, be they old ladies or little kids. She
will sit down and listen to their woes or gossip and contribute her own version of life
vicissitudes.
Even when she does not understand the conversation, she is helpful and athetic. If Freddie finds
someone with a need she makes an effort to help them. She will often lead a lost senior to his or
her room, or take a newspaper to a house bound friend.
Underlying this concern for others, is a deep yearning to be recognized as a person in her own
right. Freddie knows full well that people regard her as different and not quite equal to them.
She has a deep resentment that she is retarded and is quick to recognize critical remarks and
attitudes. She has been abandoned by family and friends four times in her life and she fears that
any change is a prelude to another abandonment.
Freddie cries easily when frustrated or ill, and reminds her caretaker of promises made to her.
She is not slow to demand the food, clothes and entertainment that she desires. Visits to
restaurants spice up her life and provide a change from the nightly TV fare--half of which she
does not understand. I am convinced that Freddie lives with two brains. Her moods change
quickly from agreeable to anger, and then in a minute back to a happy mood. When angry, she
utters a torrent of earsplitting words. After a moment, she becomes pleasant again and forgets
what she said in anger. She then apologizes profusely for her bad behavior.
Freddie is my legal ward. We have been together for thirty years and I am her whole family. She
is not the run of the mill retardate. Her sterling quality is a very astute social perception.
Freddie is very sensitive to what others think of her. At times this sense has contributed to her
depression, for she can never get away from the feelings that people look down on her as a
handicapped person.
Freddie has taught me much about myself, and about the genesis of prejudice. The greatest
lesson she has given me is to endeavor to suspend judging persons on the basis of differences
which appear to fall outside the normal curve.
Even so sometimes in the middle of the night, I awake and ask myself, "Who is Freddie?''
"Phoning is better than Walking!"
It is September 15, 1963 when Dr. May Wilcox opens the door of her office on her first day at
the state hospital school and sees a small rectangular room with a wooden desk and chair and a
tall bookcase. Sitting in one of two blue easy, but somewhat worn chairs, the new psychologist
murmurs, "Here I am, a psychologist for mentally retarded patients. Well, I'm not writing any
more mechanical b-mod programs. I'm not an interne any more! From now on my programs to
improve behavior will be planned not only for but with my patients!"
There is a knock and a short, pudgy man enters saying, "Welcome Dr. Wilcox, I'm Mr. Tulip, one
of three social workers for the institution. We've been waiting a long time for you. We need
your expertise in planning behavior management programs for our residents."
Dr. Wilcox smiles, "Thank you. Please sit down." Seating herself again in the unoccupied chair,
she says, "I understand that you are Freddie Smith's social worker. Will you tell me about her?"
Mr. Tulip sits down and begins, "Freddie has a very sad history. Her father died of a heart attack
when she was eleven, and she was raised by a neighboring farmer. She worked in his tobacco
farm till she was nineteen, and then was committed to a county hospital because of epilepsy. She
lived there for seven years and then was transferred here eight years ago. Freddie tests in the
mildly retarded range, can read and write, and is very socially aware. She is easily frustrated and
can become very upset and sometimes expresses her depression in angry words. She seems quite
aware of her retardation."
Dr. Wilcox interrupts, "When Freddie is angry, what do you do? Does she become violent?"
Mr. Tulip replies, "In a temper, Freddie is very hard to control. She screams, curses and
generally insults everyone within hear shot. Neither physical restraints nor promise of rewards
stop these tantrums. We control her behavior before she loses control, usually by isolating her in
her room. After an hour or so, she straightens up."
"Did you ever offer Freddie hope that she may be able to live independently?" asks Dr. Wilcox.
"Nooo--The state hasn't thought of that yet," the social worker reflected.---
. . .
Monday afternoon on the same day
Smiling shyly and revealing her broken teeth, Freddie bends over the kitchen table, cutting green
beans over a shiny pot, Freddie chatters breathlessly. "Dr. Wilcox, will you always be my special
friend? I haven't had a special friend since my daddy died in the hospital when I was eleven."
Then without waiting for Dr. Wilcox to reply, Freddie abruptly changes the subject. She pulls
back her front black lock--which tends to curl--and asks, "Dr. Wilcox, my hair, it needs cutting.
Shall I go see Mr. Jojo, the school barber, to get it cut?"
Dr. Wilcox--"Freddie, Mr. Jojo can't cut your hair any more because you are no longer a resident
of the hospital school, you have to go town to get your hair cut. There's a beauty shop ten blocks
away on the same street as the hospital school. You can go there, but you must telephone for an
appointment."
Freddie--"Will you telephone for me? I'm afraid to telephone. I don't know how!"
Dr. Wilcox--"Have you never used the telephone? Well, there's no better time to learn than
now. Do you read numbers?"
Freddie--"Yes, but I can't telephone!"
Dr. Wilcox--"Hmm--I was talking with Mr. Tulip this morning, and he told me that you get
angry very quickly and say nasty words when you are frustrated. I think you can learn to control
your emotions, and perhaps someday live on your own. Are you willing to learn to be
independent?"
Freddie--"Yes, but will you stay with me and not go away like my daddy did?"
Dr. Wilcox--"OK, that's a deal. I'll wait for you to decide how to get your hair done. You can
either use the phone to get an appointment or walk the ten blocks to the beauty shop."
Freddie--tearfully, "But Dr. Wilcox, I don't know how to use a phone! I'm afraid" Freddie
screams and waves her arms. "I don't like you, Dr. Wilcox! I don't want to"
Dr Wilcox--"Freddie, stop the temper show NOW! I am going to teach you to use the
telephone. Don't be afraid. You can learn!"
Freddie gasps and looks bewilderedly at Dr. Wilcox.
Dr.Wllcox explains, "Right now you showed me that you can control your anger. Because you
were able to make that decision when you need another appointment for a haircut, it will be
easier for you to decide whether to phone or to walk down to the shop--especially when you
know how to use the phone."
Dr. Wilcox leaves the room.. . .
When Dr. Wilcox comes home at 4:00 that afternoon, there is no one home. Soon Freddie opens
the front door and exclaims, "Dr. Wilcox, I did it! I walked all the way down, the whole ten
blocks. I met a big dog who barked at me, but when I talked to him he wagged his tail and
followed me. I almost fell over a crack in the sidewalk, but caught myself. I did not get lost, and
found the beauty shop right away. I'm proud of myself!"
Dr. Wilcox--"I'm proud of you too. But did you get your appointment?"
Freddie--"Yes, for tomorrow, one thirty in the afternoon"
Dr Wilcox--"Are you going to walk to the beauty shop again tomorrow?"
Freddie--"Yes, but you know what? If you will teach me how to telephone, next time I'll call to
get my haircut by phone! It'll be easier that way!"
"The Mistress of the Briarpatch"
In my early teens, I knew a very independent lady who lived alone in the Pocono Mountains in
Pennsylvania. Her name was Miss Frances Thomson, a retired librarian from Mount Vernon, N.
Y.
Miss Thomson lived alone and jealously guarded her
independence. She insisted upon drawing her water from a nearby well, carrying it in buckets to
the house, cooking her own meals, planting a small garden, and raking leaves in the fall. Miss
Thomson was so independent, she never asked favors of anybody. It was impossible for my
father to repair a faucet or to shop for her without recompense.
When Miss Thomson retired, she decided to build a home in the mountains. She bought an acre
or so of land from my grandmother and built a two-story white frame house about a mile from
The Antlers--my grandmother's summer hotel. The house was hidden from the road and was
surrounded by a forest of birch, pine, and oak trees. She called it the "Briar Patch" in honor of
Peter Rabbit.
A dirt path led up a slight hill to the front door of her house. The green front door welcomed
guests to her living room. To the right of the living room was the dining room and a small
kitchen. On the left, the window looked out to a large blue mountain. Upstairs there were three
bedrooms and a bath. The oval living room was dark with walnut wood, and was encircled by
book shelves from floor to ceiling. Here reposed about three hundred of Miss Thomson's
classics. The exterior of the house needed paint, but was in good order inside.
Miss Thomson lived alone in the "Briar Patch" with her trees, birds, rabbits and squirrels for
thirty years. Every robin's nest and rabbit's hole near the house gave her great delight. She
welcomed every squirrel and chipmunk and invited them to live in the old hollow trees near her
house. Her love of nature was so great that she always got up in time to see the sunrise. "This is
the best time to talk to God," she would often exclaim.
When encountered on her daily walks, Miss Thomson presented an unforgettable image. Her
thin red hair hung down to her waist and was only partially confined by a broad brimmed straw
hat. She carried a long tree branch for a walking stick. Her piercing blue eyes, tall lanky figure,
and high pitched voice have left a lasting impression on me. Long after I left the mountains, a
southern drawl always evoked strong memories of her. A meeting with Miss Thomson on her
daily walk was indeed a meeting with as fascinating a character as I found in her many volumes.
This independent woman was a family friend throughout my childhood. My father became
acquainted with her when he was in the fifth grade of the public school in Mt. Vernon, N. Y.
Dad suddenly decided that school was too boring, quit school and got a job in the library as Miss
Thomson's assistant. During the time he worked for her, she introduced him to classical
literature. Twelve year-old William enjoyed Miss Thomson's books so much that he decided to
go back to school. My dad always attributed his educational career to Miss Thomson's
enthusiasm for the classics.
I met Miss Thomson ten years after she had retired to the Poconos. Every so often, Grandpa took
Dave (my eight year-old brother) and me in my wheelchair over to the "Briar Patch." Before we
even reached the door, Miss Thomson would lean out her door inviting us in by saying, "Come in
and have some milk and cookies!" This hospitable lady loved company and bid us to sit down in
black velvet covered high-back chairs. We often chatted for an hour or so about classical
literature, current goings-on in the daily newspapers, and the doings of her country neighbors.
Miss Thomson had very high ideals and could not understand why there was so much crime in
the nearby town.
It was she who whetted my appetite for good books. We could never say goodbye without
borrowing a book. She insisted that I read Moby Dick by Herman Melville by saying, "This
book will teach you about whaling." Miss Thomson always had a good reason for everything!
Grandpa caught her spirit by saying, "She's eccentric but graciously so!"
Soon after this visit, my family sold the Antlers and moved on to other ventures. Occasionally I
would ride up to the mountains with Mother and Dad (and later just with
Mother) to visit Miss Thompson. She remained the very independent Mistress of the Briarpatch until the very end.
When she turned 85 or so, and could no longer see clearly enough to read, my mother persuaded
her to enter a nursing home and to get new glasses. Alas, the new "specs" did not enable her to
read and Miss Thomson died within two days after leaving her home in the woods.
I have never forgotten the afternoons Grandpa and I spend with this wonderful lady. Miss
Thomson's knowledge and love of books made a great impression on me. Mother often told me
that Miss Thomson inspired two generations of Webbs to appreciate the classics. She has
certainly led me to become a bookworm.
This grand lady, whom I knew as Miss Thomson, wished to be free and independent. She
assumed total responsibility for her self and her home. She braved many years of hard work and
loneliness in order to remain her own woman. Even though she was very happy to teach young
children about the classics, she was most content to live alone among the squirrels and rabbits to
commune with God in her own way.
"Coming In On a Wave"
When I was twelve years old, I learned a great lesson--to know your own capacities and to ask
for help when you need it. At that time, my family was living in Hawaii, where my father was
stationed as an officer in the U.S. Army. We lived on an army post, quite close to a white sandy
beach.
Dad often took my two younger brothers and me to the beach of a small cove on the island of
Oahu. Dad said its sand stretches for seven feet from a gently sloping bank just behind the high-water mark of incoming waves. Above that was a growth of green seaweed which covered huge
sand dunes.
Ten-year-old Tom and seven-year-old Bruce played tag with waves as I sat on the sand by my
wheelchair and watched them. I was the oldest of us three children, but I could not walk because
I was hurt when I was born. My mother was a school teacher and was teaching me at home.
Under her guidance, I read many books and was entranced by Louisa Alcott's stories about Little
Women. I greatly admired Jo, the heroin, and yearned to be as independent as she was. My
inability to walk and talk normally was a great impairment to my meeting children of my own
age. Although my brothers often played with me, I was frequently very lonely. Most of the time
I depended upon imaginary companions for entertainment.
This particular day, Dad gave me a job to do--I was to sit in one spot and make sure that the
other kids did not go too far out in the water. In turn, the boys were supposed to watch me to see
that I did not crawl into the water.
My brothers became tired of keeping a constant watch on me and began to build a sandcastle near
the water's edge. I looked out at the foaming waves, sparkling at the sun and saw three or four
heads of other children bobbing up and down and then sliding in on the waves. Swimming
looked so easy and so much fun! I wished I could do what other kids did--run, jump, and
play--but Dad told me not to try to crawl into the water. But the desire to have fun like other
kids overpowered his warning and the almost certain fact that he would disapprove. I thought I
could easily come in on the waves.
I looked over my shoulder at Dad, who was sitting on the green seaweed at above the sandy
beach. He had his back against a coconut tree reading the morning paper. Quietly, I got on my
knees and eased towards the foaming water. Dad did not see me crawling into the rippling tide.
The green swell was stronger than I thought it would be. For a time, I managed to keep my
balance on my knees, but when I turned around and faced the beach in hopes of riding in on the
next wave, a big billow hit me from behind and nearly knocked me over. Then a huge breaker
hit and laid me flat with my head towards the sea. The water ebbed and flowed seaward, carrying
me deeper into the ocean. I was on my stomach with my face in the water and I sputtered and
choked. Water filled my nose and mouth as I tried to move towards the shore. Caught in the
backwash of the surf, I struggled for breath. I thought, "Will Dad ever come?"
Dad's warning sounded in my mind, "Don't try to come in on the waves without me. They are
too strong for you and will toss you to and fro." Why didn't I listen to him? Why doesn't he
come? Am I going to drown because I disobeyed?
At last, I felt a couple of strong hands grabbed my shoulders and lifted me up on my feet. Dad
said in a matter-of-fact tone, "Are you trying to drink up the whole ocean?"
Dad picked me up and carried me on to the beach, where he put me down on the sand. After he
pounded my shoulder blades for some moments, he eyed my brothers who gathered anxiously
around me. He said, "Let's hold one of our family council meetings about Ruthie and the waves
right now. Sit down here and talk about what happened."
Dad began the discussion by asking Tom and Bruce whether I made a bad decision in trying to
ride in on the wave. Tom answered, "The waves were too big and knocked Ruthie over. She
should have come in on a smaller wave."
Bruce chimed in, "Ruthie was trying to ride in on her stomach, but because she can't kick her
legs, she can't swim."
Dad looked at Tom, "Why do you think Ruthie wanted to come in on a wave?"
Tom answered, "Maybe she saw the other kids do it and wanted to do the same thing they did."
I joined in, "Yeah, that is why I wanted to come in on a wave. I want to do what the other kids
do!"
Dad asked, "How did Ruth get so far out before I saw her?"
I murmured, "The waves pushed me out. I couldn't get back."
Dad agreed, "Yes, Ruthie, I know you tried really hard to get back to the beach, but the waves
took you in the wrong direction. There are times when trying hard does not accomplish what we
want. There are some things that your brothers can do but you can't. On the other hand, there are
things that you can do but your brothers can't. Ruthie, you can read autobiographies, but you
cannot come in on a wave. Tom, you are a good baseball player, but no so great an artist. Bruce,
you draw great pictures of dogs, but you don't play baseball."
"Each of you enjoys using a special hobby or talent, but you each need help to do some things.
Ruthie relies on Mother to get books for her from the library, Tom has to wait for me to get him
to baseball practice. Bruce when you need more paint, Mother buys it for you. You see, we all
need help to use our special talents."
"Today Ruthie tried hard to do what other kids were doing and found that she could not
accomplish the task. What do you think she could have done?"
"Call Dad to help her come in on the wave," suggested Tom.
"No," said Bruce, "Dad couldn't hear her. Dad told Ruth not to go out on the breakers and Ruth
disobeyed. Out there, the waves were so noisy, Dad could not hear Ruth call him."
"Yes," said Dad. "It was a good thing that I looked for Ruthie when I did. Do either of you
remember that I told you to watch Ruthie? Did either of you see that Ruthie was in trouble?"
"No," chorused my brothers. "We were busy building a sand castle."
"Well," said Dad slowly, "We almost lost Ruthie because none of us--not even me--kept their
promise to watch her."
Tom crept over to me, "Ruthie, I'm sorry I forgot to watch you. Next time I will remember you."
"Me too," added Bruce.
I hugged Dad as I exclaimed, "I won't ever try to come in on a wave without you, Dad!"
Thank You! Invitation:
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My main interests are: writing short stories, discussing psychology,
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