My Friend Bobby

Sometimes the best friends come from unexpected places

    I first met my friend Bob in 1990 in Hendersonville NC.  He lived next door to his parents, and I quickly learned he was unique in many ways, some more important than others.  I walked the 50 yards or so over to his house one morning to share our mutual affinity for morning coffee. He was up, had the coffee going and his dog Peaches was napping in the corner of the front room. I asked him what he was up to, and he gave, for the first time, what became his standard reply to that question every time I asked for the next 30 years; “About 250, or somewhere in the neighborhood.” It never failed to bring a smile to his face and to mine. He asked what I did, and I told him I was a band director, and that his sister and I had met at the school where we both worked.  He seemed familiar with the place, and interested in the geography and the town, so we talked about small towns for a few minutes. He stopped, and I sensed he wanted the conversation to go in another direction. “You might not know this,” he began, “but some people say I’m special. Not special like in a great birthday present, but like slow in some things. A judge used the R word in front of me when he was talking to Dad, but nobody does that anymore.” This was not really a surprise, and I knew a little about his story from his sister. He had lost oxygen for several minutes during birth, and his fine motor skills and other parts of his brain had failed to develop like they normally would, and from an early age he couldn’t do a lot of things the other kids his age could. The term doctors used was “delayed development” and in those days there were few programs available for kids that were on the high or low end of the academic bell curve. Tying his shoes was a hopeless task, but his parents’ discovery of Velcro changed his life and shoe styles forever.  Pulling a belt through the correct loops was darn near impossible, but suspenders were, as he said, a snap. He enjoyed listening to talk shows on the radio and said he never could figure out how to dial letters (800-CALL KEN) on his phone. Not only were some reasoning skills underdeveloped, but his health was never the best. He was what people used to describe as “a little sickly.” That generally meant prone to infections and other diseases, and especially asthma and heart issues. He struggled in school, as you can imagine, and in those days in the 1950’s and 60’s there were no such things as special ed classes, so he tried to make it through the best he could.  His parents spent countless hours helping with homework and reading and improvement, though gradual, was evident, especially in vocabulary.   It did, however, seem that anything beyond basic math was a struggle too big to overcome. He failed the 1st grade and was held back. The elementary Principal recommended Bobby be placed in an institution and told his parents he would never be able to live a normal life and would need assistance and care they couldn’t possibly provide.  Bob Sr. got pretty angry, as you might imagine, at the suggestion and determined that not only would his son continue in public school, he would personally see to it that Bobby be given the help and attention he needed.  As a result of being retained, he was, from 2nd grade on, taller and larger than his classmates, and often the subject of teasing from other kids.  It confused him and made him angry, but he learned that responding and getting mad only made things worse. Teachers in early grades suggested his parents have him tested for cognitive functions, and the tests confirmed what they already knew.  He would never be able to participate in sports or many classroom activities to the extent other kids might, though his parents spent many hours working with him. He did, after a few years, become a good reader, and his writing, though he had trouble following the lines on the notebook pages, was legible even if it invariably curved downward from left to right.  Throwing and catching a football or baseball was beyond his physical capabilities, and he couldn’t run for more than a few steps without stopping and trying to catch his breath because of his chronic asthma. Social promotion policies kept him going through successive grade levels.