Kenny

When I was at my sickest in Brazil, and my legs didn't work to the point I sometimes couldn't get off the toilet by myself, I remembered a rancher whom I knew from my infancy to adulthood.

Kenny and his brother had a ranch about six miles from ours. He suffered polio as a child, and didn't have the use of his legs. He used crutches his entire life,

Even on crutches, Kenny mowed hay in the summer, a job that often involved him struggling on and off the tractor scores of times during the course of a day. He also fed cattle by hand when every pound of hay that went to the herd had to be lifted twice – once to load and once to get it off the trailer and onto the feedground.

There wasn't much that Kenny didn't do, and that was in the day that every task on a ranch involved a lot of physical effort. I remember passing him when he was repairing fence along the county road. He had put his crutches aside and was laying on the ground, splicing wire. Kenny rode horses, which must have been extremely difficult, as a rider's legs are the most important part of the body.

He had his own methods with many things. His nephews told me that when Kenny took a bath, he filled the tub, tossed in a handful or two of laundry soap, then pulled himself over the side of the tub to soak.

Once or twice a year, Kenny would take a tractor into the meadows and poach a whitetail deer. He had built a small platform for the three-point hitch, and when the deer was down, he got off the tractor, field dressed, then wrestled it onto the platform to go back to the ranch.

Kenny enjoyed company. It wasn't rare that he drove the six miles of gravel road to Helmville to enjoy a few drinks at the bar and catch up on the news in the valley.

Winters were hard on him. Ice was impossible for him to navigate, so he was confined to the house, at times for weeks.

What impressed me most about the man is the equanimity with which he faced the physical difficulties presented to him. No one ever heard a complaint from Kenny.

In those days ranching offered heavy work, almost entirely. The loaders and cabbed tractors hadn't made their appearance yet, so Kenny lived decades in a profession that taxed strong people with good legs.

It was during the two weeks when my legs were worthless that I grew to appreciate the hurdles which accompany even the smallest task when a person can't stand on his own. Carrying a pan of water for coffee or just shaving present a multitude of barriers. Everything requires more effort.

But Kenny faced both the hardships of ranching and the barriers of being crippled without losing any of his spirit. I never heard him talk in a way that hinted a need for sympathy, nor did he show any frustration with his life.

I should have paid attention when there was time. Too late, now.