Superman on my porch

We have a front porch in this new life we’ve launched. The furniture is very, how do you say, yard sale, with a sprinkling of dorm. In fact, the big green chair doesn’t quite cut it as yard sale material. We’ve put it out on the curb repeatedly, with a paper sign that reads, “Free,” but nobody will take it. Three times now, rain has cut the auction short, so back to the porch it goes, deep as a fox hole and soft as a hangnail, seeming to get uglier simply for being forsaken. Shoot, I’ve seen plastic lawn chairs with a broken leg get whisked away from this curb. Broken vases snatched up, and mangy looking stuffed animals, too. But the Green bomb? No takers.

Yesterday, for the first time in a while, I was grateful for it, because Miss J brought over her friend Rosie for a cup of coffee and they insisted on staying out on the porch, partly on account of our welcoming furniture. Miss J sat on the bench, and Rosie let herself slide into the ever-loving folds of Mr. Green. Even if she hadn’t had a hip replaced recently, it was pretty clear from the get-go that Rosie wasn’t going to get out of that chair any time soon. I was still in my pajamas, what with it being Saturday morning, and the kids had just begun their dazed wanderings in fuzzy slippers. So I gave in. Popped some muffins in the oven and called it a party.

All of which, some how, led to Superman coming to my house. He was climbing out his car across the street and we waved him over, so he pulled himself up our front steps and sat in our good chair: a white plastic lawn chair left by the previous owners. Superman asked Rosie about her hip replacement, and she asked, more or less, what in god’s name was in that clear plastic bottle he sipped from and what ailed him. In reverse order he answered, MS, and a whole lot of healthy stuff that’s supposed to cure it.

They shared war stories about getting around without the help of cooperative limbs, Superman making no move to distinguish Rosie’s now almost-healed limbs from his own rapidly deteriorating ones. Why would he? He’s the lucky one. MS has made him slow down, take stock. It’s made him inventive. He’s come up with a contraption to help him continue to play volleyball (it looks like a four legged spider on wheels), he can haul butt in a wheelchair, and he’s just getting started. He advised Rosie to consider getting a wheelchair, not because she needs it, but because having a wheelchair on hand will prevent her from ever thinking she can’t go somewhere simply because her legs are bothering her. In other words, a wheelchair- and make sure it’s a good one - will make you unstoppable.

Hunh? That is not my story of wheelchairs. Wheelchairs breed exhaustion. Once you get into a wheelchair, you never ever get out. They make you dependent. Not so, says Superman. And while you’re reshuffling your ability/disability cards, watch out for this one - when you hop up and open the door for Superman, you aren’t doing him a favor. He needs that handle for balance. Don’t be fooled by the cane. This is Superman. He opens his own doors.

Rosie put two hands on one gnarly armrest and pushed herself out of the green chair when coffee hour was done. Everyone said thank you. Nobody mentioned my pajamas. And as for the green chair? It just earned its keep.