Little Linda Big Smile Big Heart

At my wife’s hometown memorial service that I arranged for those who couldn’t travel 500 miles in the winter, a woman that I didn’t know showed up. She had just seen the obituary announcing the service, but had a previous commitment and couldn’t stay, so she had written a letter.

I read the letter to the assembled friends and family, choking back tears only so I could get through it. One year later, I read it out loud again at a “grandchild reunion” I set up in the park Linda played in as a child. I warned them I might cry, not because the letter itself was sad, but because it reminded me what a wonderful person we had lost.

The seven-year-old that looks a lot like Linda did at that age said, “tears of joy?” I replied “yes,” but didn’t include “and sorrow for what might have been.” I gave copies of the letter and her memorial program to all her grandchildren, the seven-year-old making sure her mother tucked her folder away carefully as it was starting to rain.

Linda's grade-school friend wrote:

I moved to Highland Park when I was in first grade. That was when I first met the little girl with long blond hair who had only one arm - her name was Linda. It was the middle of the school year and I was shy, but here came Linda with her big bright smile and I had a new friend. We went all the way through high school together, but it was the early years that I remember most because that is when Linda made one of the biggest impressions on me that carried through for the rest of my life.

When you’re young your parents teach you not to stare at someone who might be different than you. I think most people with disabilities, especially children, tend to be shy and try to avoid being noticed. When I first met Linda, I did notice of course, that she was different than me, but I didn’t care because she was so much fun to play with. She was always laughing and being silly just like the rest of us at that age. After a while I just kind of forgot that Linda was different than me. We played on the playground and when it came time to play a game that required holding hands, Linda stuck out her short little arm and I held on just like it was her hand.

In those days, prosthetics were fairly new. One day Linda said she was going to go someplace and get a new arm. She was excited and so were her friends. When she came to school that first day we weren’t really sure what we would see or how we should act. Linda was beaming and made it so easy for us. She showed us how it worked and everything she was learning to do with her new arm. Now when we played we held her hook. Years later, as technology improved, she got a new arm that had a hand with fingers that moved. Again she went through the demonstration for everyone to show us what she could do.

What Linda did for me as a young child was to teach me that some people are going to be different from me, but they are still people. They deserve to be treated just like anyone else and they all have something to contribute to the world. I don’t think Linda even realized how wise and brave beyond her years she was. I don’t think it even occurred to her that she was one of the different people. But because of Linda’s zest for life, her smile, her laugh out loud attitude and that kind of unwritten law that everything must be fun, I learned to be more tolerant and patient and to have a little empathy and maybe even be a little protective, if need be, for someone who might be a little different than me.

I never told Linda how special I thought she was or how she taught me such a valuable lesson of life and I am truly sorry for that. There is a little one-armed angel up in heaven now whose smile will forever send beams of sunshine filled with love to all who knew and loved her. I consider it a privilege to have had her in my life, if even for a while.

Pete says, “ditto.” (Ghost, the movie)