Sometime in the early 1960s, our parents bought a 2-door Ford Ranch Wagon, very much like the one on the photograph, except ours didn’t have a white roof.
Part of their ministry at church was to pick up people who
had no way to get to the service. At various times they picked up a mentally
disabled woman, Helen Opal; Elin, an elderly woman; Italia, a young teenager
who was physically disabled and confined to a wheelchair; Betty, a middle-aged woman; and Hiroko and
her 3 children. And as a side note, Hiroko had survived the atomic bombing of Hiroshima but her face was marred by damage sustained during the blast.
But the one who sticks in my mind the most is a boy named Ronnie Murphy. My brother says we picked up his mother too, but I don’t remember her.
The problem with the 2-door Ranch Wagon was that to get in or out of the back seat, whoever was in the front seat had to get out of the car so the seat could be tipped forward. One time when we were bringing Ronnie back home, my mom got out and said “let me help you,” and he replied “I don’t need any help,” and he pushed the seat forward himself.
And because we were sort ornery—and I am guessing one of the my brothers came up with this—this incident morphed into a “sing-song” ditty “Ronnie Murphy helps himself.”
We are now at the 2-year anniversary of the accident that has left Richard partially disabled. He has made tremendous progress in some areas, but we suspect other deficits are permanent.
Several months ago, he figured out how to get his sweatpants on and off by himself. I still have to put the compression stocking and his regular socks on, but he can now take off his socks and the compression stocking, so I don’t have to help him undress.
Standing back and watching him struggle is sometimes very hard. I have told him the story about Ronny Murphy, so on occasion when I ask, “Do you need any help?” He’ll say: “Richard helps himself.”
Sometimes a person needs to struggle to achieve a goal, and in this case, it has paid off.
