Tag: elementary school

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Trading Distraction

Distraction. That which divides the attention, diverts or draws away the mind; prevents concentration.

 

 Jerry Lout! What are you looking at out there? You come right up here.

 Elementary school.

I limp through my life distracted. Not all the time.

But more of the time than desired. Ask Ann, my wife.

Occasionally my distractions serve a handy purpose. Even therapeutic. A quiet brook in a peaceful setting brings respite to a stressful day. Still, helpful distractions seem rare.

My inattention might have pinned a teenage chum under a tractor tire. I absent-mindedly left a fence-gate lying in my horse’s pathway. Thankfully we cheated disaster. Still, distraction took me there.

You come right up here, Jerry!

 My nine-year-old daydreaming mind had transported me outside our Fourth Grade classroom. The playground scene beyond the window had won me over. I surveyed a world beyond the smell of chalk dust and the warble of Mrs. B’s voice.

Whether the punishment fit the crime, Mrs. B’s hard paddle stung. And I quivered – from embarrassment as much as pain. My classmates hadn’t often seen me blush or shed tears. A ringside seat today for both – at the front of the room.

As with most kids, distractions peppered my growing-up years. Sidelined once by teenage infatuation I entered a covert alliance with a girl. And nearly train-wrecked my bond with my parents.

Motor vehicles and distractions don’t do well together.

‘Reckon we ought to move his motor-bike outa the street?

 My head throbbed. I lay face-down. Struggled to make sense of the man’s folksy question.

 I had been trying out the used motorcycle dad recently helped me buy.

Turning onto Sixth Street from Wood Drive I concentrated on my lame foot.

The bike’s gears didn’t respond well to the efforts of my left heel. Normally the gear is shifted by the shoe toe. But polio left me with no upward lift. So I improvised. I sent my foot over and beyond the gear and lifted the lever with the back of my heel. The tactic hampered the shift. Brought Distraction.

I looked up and a car crossed before me from a side road. It was a safe distance ahead but its image spooked me. I seized the front brake. It locked and I tumbled headlong. I wore no helmet.

My white and black Honda lay on its side. I was transported by strangers and lain face-down in a grassy area at the street’s edge. After some moments I stirred. I lifted my head slightly and surveyed several pairs of shoes. The shoes faced me in a rough semicircle. It was then I heard the man’s matter-of-fact voice.

Gradually someone helped me up.

Thank you. I could at least speak.

 Another kind person steered me to a clinic just steps away.

The doctor studied a place on my forehead.

That’s a real goose egg you have, young man.

He shined a light in each eye, shared a cautionary remark and sent me on my way. Days afterward I pondered some questions. Significant ones for me.

What Good Samaritan saw me to the clinic?

Who covered the doctor’s visit (did anyone)?

Who retrieved my bike?

What mercy-givers hauled me out of harm’s way and onto the grass?

What unseen force, presence, or hand kept the goose egg from cracking?

 Thanksgiving wells up. Not to impersonal lucky stars.

Rather to one who – in faithfulness – attends to the inattentive. Delivers the distracted. And counsels. With wisdom.

Next time I rode, the helmet went on. And I traded distraction for vigilance. For awhile.

 

*Medical Interlude update. The hospital released my dear wife three days ago. She mends at home. Is better each day. Thank you, readers. Who’ve expressed care, offered prayers, well-wishes. We limp forward – my wife and me – in the company of really special people. Grateful.

©2015 Jerry Lout

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The Matter of Sister Opaline

When the Sun-glint from her brace caught my eye that Summer day I wondered. About Opaline and her story.

When yet a toddler her body was attacked by the same disabling illness that redirected my own world. For Opaline, however, the impact was evident; dramatically so. Not for months, but years.

In short-order polio wrenched strength and mobility from her lower limbs. Rigid braces received her feet and legs, more or less imprisoning them there.  And – like a prisoner whose parole date is postponed  –  the waiting lengthened. Then lengthened further.

The shiny hip-to-heel fixtures lent support through one elementary school year. Then another, and yet another.

Every morning she rose and called up the ritual – maneuvering each foot into a special shoe. She fitted the cold steel and leather padding about her dormant limbs. At nightfall young Opaline reversed the process. Detaching the braces, she leaned further forward. Then she manually lifted her legs onto the bed.

Lying motionless Opaline sometimes wondered. What would normal movement be like? Running? Dancing?

But this girl was unusual. She carried something within. Resolve. And a zest for living. Ironically, like a distance runner, Opaline entered the Marathon of Life.

Nothing, it seemed, could sideline her. The theme song of her journey could be, “Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.” She matured, completed high school, then college. Friends in our church community regarded her warmly. Smiles typically greeted her when she approached. Neither the crutches nor the braces mattered to anyone. She was Sister Opaline.

Sister Opaline, Sunday School  teacher .

Sister Opaline,  Vacation Bible School director.

Sister Opaline – High School teacher (her “handicap-fitted” car carrying her to waiting students in another town a distance away).

Sister Opaline, Christmas Play director. . .

Delightful Opaline.

She owned her personal imperfections. Opaline looked to encourage others – especially the younger others. Parading either gossip or whining into Sister Opaline’s presence proved mostly futile. Her knack for winsomely shifting subjects was magic. She mined for the best in people. Her naiveté about human nature was flagrant (though no-one accused her of being naïve).

Crutches. (2)

Wherever she seated herself, Opaline’s crutches lay at the floor or leaned at a wall nearby. Her underarm muscles suffered from bearing much of her body weight over the years. Still, her face easily sprang into smile.  The smile seemed visually fragrant like a rose coaxing a passerby to inhale.

Sister Opaline  – Spouse. In a marriage with challenges and hardships of its own.

Our church minister and the common people who worshipped together strove to trust the Bible and its message of God’s big love. And of his available power to bring healings, even miracle-healings. As a nine-year-old, with the aid of crutches, I walked from a hospital. This was weeks after being gravely ill – and after a doctor predicted I would not walk again. And after prayer. By all accounts, through simple trust in a loving healer, continued believing prayer played its role in my astonishing recovery. Was this triumphant faith? To the church family there seemed no doubt. God touched me. Radically so.

And yet there was the matter of Sister Opaline. Would she soon have her miracle?

At a particular church service one Sunday evening I watched keenly, hopefully.

The gangly movements of my Angel-lady comrade entered the center aisle. And moved toward the altar.  She was a little over five feet tall.  Her smartly-groomed auburn hair fell an inch or two above her shoulders. Beneath the shoulders, the ever-present crutches. They bore her along, steadying the balance of a lady hardly a hundred pounds in weight.

Opaline positioned herself in the prayer line.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

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Falling

My brother Tim and I fought. Not excessively but – as with many close siblings – enough.

By my second year in elementary school I learned more than counting and reciting the alphabet. To my communication skills I added profanity. Never mind my ignorance of definitions, my enlarged vocabulary was picked up mostly on school playgrounds.

I practiced cursing on my brother at least once. Angry with Tim over nothing noteworthy I unleashed a stream of language at a far higher volume than was wise. My mother overheard the rants and seized an educational opportunity. About two things. (1) Resourcefulness. The wire-handle end of her fly swatter-turned-switch. (2) Awareness. Of a zero-tolerance policy for profanity in our home. From that day if I wasn’t fully cured I was clearly more discreet.

Mother was also compassionate. Back of our house the ground sloped gently downward, to a simple red barn where we boys often played. Beyond this was a pasture. I had recently turned nine. From a window mother saw my struggle.

I ambled from the barn toward the house. In mid-step my leg gave way. I fell. Lifting myself up I walked a short distance, then went down again. By the third or fourth tumble my mom was hurrying my way. She helped me to the house. My dad responded to her call and we were soon en route to the local doctor’s office.

Learning of my earlier polio bout the physician assumed this was not likely the same affliction. By now both legs entirely failed to work. I was admitted, limbs weakened and stiffening, into our local hospital. My condition worsened. Another physician was called in. He ran tests and soon conveyed his findings.

Poliomyelitis.

Hillcrest Hospital occupies a spot near downtown Tulsa on historic Route 66. The virus spread rapidly across the country. Hillcrest administrators concisely labelled one of its wings the polio ward. The patients – mostly children – were confined to beds positioned at varied elevated angles. Specific treatment of the patient seemed to dictate the bed’s positioning. A freer flow of air was critical for those with strained breathing muscles.

Through an open doorway I glimpsed a daunting, one-occupant contraption (a word my dad used for any curious object). It reminded me at first of a greatly-enlarged tin can lying sideways. Several patients lay each in their own iron lung – their exposed head wresting on a pillow atop a small extended platform.  In most cases the iron lung was critical for staying alive.

We entered a multi-patient room. With the help of my mom, a nurse settled me into a designated bed. A sudden cramp assaulted my limbs. I grimaced. After a time the pain lessened.

I relaxed a little. And guessed I would be here awhile.

Note: In ‘Comments’ I’d love to hear from anyone who’s experienced polio or perhaps a family member? Be free to share a little insight/experience if you wish.

©2015 Jerry Lout