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Unit 5 Fourteen Steps
Hal Manwaring
1
They say a cat has nine
lives,
1
and I am inclined to
think that possible since I am
now
living my third life and I’m not even a cat. My
first life began on a clear, cold day
in November 1934, when I arrived as the
sixth of eight children of a farming family.
My father died when I was 15, and we
had a hard struggle to make a living. As the
children
grew
up,
they
married,
leaving
only
one
sister
and
myself
to
support
and
care for Mother, who became paralyzed
in her last years and died while still in her
60s. My sister married soon after, and
I followed her example within the year.
2
This
was
when
I
began
to
enjoy
my
first
life.
I
was
very
happy,
in
excellent
health, and quite
a good athlete. My wife and I became the parents
of two lovely girls.
I had a good job
in San Jose and a beautiful home up the peninsula
in San Carlos.
Life was a pleasant
dream. Then the dream ended. I became afflicted
with a slowly
progressive
disease
of
the
motor
nerves,
affecting
first
my
right
arm
and
leg,
and
then my other side. Thus began my
second life …
3
In spite of my disease I still drove to
and from work each day, with the aid of
special
equipment
installed
in
my
car.
And
I
managed
to
keep
my
health
and
optimism, to a degree, because of 14
steps.
4
Crazy? Not at all. Our home was a
split-level affair with 14 steps leading up from
the
garage
to
the
kitchen
door.
Those
steps
were
a
gauge
of
life.
They
were
my
yardstick, my challenge
to continue living. I felt that if the day arrived
when I was
unable
to
lift
one
foot
up
one
step
and
then
drag
the
other
painfully
after
it
—
repeating the process 14 times until,
utterly spent, I would be through
—
I could then
admit
defeat
and
lie down
and
die.
2
So
I
kept
on
working,
kept
on
climbing
those
steps. And time passed. The girls went
to college and were happily married, and my
wife and I were alone in our beautiful
home with the 14 steps.
5
You
might think that here walked a man of courage and
strength. Not so. Here
hobbled a
bitterly disillusioned cripple, a man who held on
to his sanity and his wife
and his home
and his job because of 14 miserable steps leading
up to the back door
from his
garage.
3
As I became older,
I became more disillusioned and frustrated.
6
Then on a dark
night in August, 1971, I began my third life. It
was raining when I
started
home
that
night;
gusty
winds
and
slashing
rain
beat
down
on
the
car
as
I
drove
slowly
down
one
of
the
less-traveled
roads.
4
Suddenly
the
steering
wheel
jerked in my hands and the car swerved
violently to the right. In the same instant I
heard
the
dreaded
bang
of
a
blowout.
I
fought
the
car
to
stop
on
the
rain-slick
shoulder of the road and sat there as
the enormity of the situation swept over
me.
5
It
was
impossible
for
me
to
change
that
tire!
Utterly
impossible!
A
thought
that
a
passing motorist might
stop
was dismissed
at
once.
Why
should
anyone?
I knew
I
wouldn’t! Then I remembered that a
short distance up a little side road was a house.
I
started
the
engine
and
thumped
slowly
along,
keeping
well
over
on
the
shoulder
until
I
came
to
the
dirt
road,
where
I
turned
in
—
thankfully.
Lighted
windows
welcomed me to the house and I pulled
into the driveway and honked the horn.
7
The door opened
and a little girl stood there, peering at me. I
rolled down the
window and called out
that I had a flat tire and needed someone to
change it for me
because
I
had
a
crutch
and
couldn’t
do
it
myself.
She
went
into
the
house
and
a
moment later came out bundled in
raincoat and hat, followed by a man who called a
cheerful greeting.
I
sat
there
comfortable
and dry, and
felt
a
bit sorry
for
the
man
and the little girl working so hard in
the storm. Well, I would pay them for it. The
rain seemed to be slackening a bit now,
and I rolled down the window all the way to
watch. It seemed to me that they were
awfully slow and I was beginning to become
impatient.
I
heard
the
clank
of
metal
from
the
back
of
the
car
and
the
little
girl’s
voice came clearly to me. “Here’s the
jack
-
handle, Grandpa.” She
was answered by
the murmur
o
f the man’s lower voice and the slow
tilting of the car as it was jacked
up.
6
There
followed
a
long
interval
of
noises,
jolts
and
low
conversation
from
the
back of
the car, but finally it was done. I felt the car
bump as the jack was removed,
and I
heard the slam of the truck lid, and then they
were standing at my car window.
8
He was an
old
man,
stooped
and
frail-looking
under
his
slicker.
The
little
girl
was
about eight or ten, I judged, with a merry face
and a wide smile as she looked up
at
me. He said
, “This is a bad night for
car trouble, but you’re all set now.” “Thanks,”
I said. “How much do I owe you?” He
shook his head. “Nothing. Cynthia told me you
were a cripple
—
on crutches. Glad to be of help. I know
you’d do the same for me.
There’s no
charge, friend.” I held out a
five
-
dollar bill. “No! I
like to pay my way.” He
made
no
effort
to
take
it
and
the
little
girl
stepped
closer
to
the
window
and
said
quietly, “Grandpa can’t
see it.”
9
In the next few frozen seconds the
shame and horror of that moment penetrated
and I was sick with an intensity I had
never felt before.
7
A blind
man and a child!
Fumbling, feeling with
cold, wet fingers for bolts and tools in the dark
—
a darkness
that
for him would probably never end until death. I
don’t remember h
ow long I sat
there after they said good night and
left me, but it was long enough for me to search
deep
within
myself
and
find
some
disturbing
traits.
I
realized
that
I
was
filled
to