Father's Week - Part III

Every neighborhood has a cool Mom. In our neighborhood, it was Mrs. Donnenwirth. When our Mom said we couldn't go swimming at the Donnenwirth's for the fifth straight day, Mrs. Donnenwirth would call up our Mom and explain how we had fallen in. She'd give me, her son Robbie (aka Little Robbie), and my brother $1.05 for three ice cream cones at Friendly's, and another $5 to buy her a carton of cigarettes. When you're 8 years old, they figure the cigarettes are for your friend's Mom. She took me to my first rock concert (ELO, I think I was 12) and to Shea Stadium the day Pete Rose broke Ty Cobb's record for the most hits.



Mrs. Donnenwirth was a diminuitive woman, maybe 5 feet tall, but she was one tough customer. In many ways Mrs. Donnenwirth was both mother and father to Robbie. But this is a story about Father's Day, after all, and Mrs. Donnenwirth wasn't a single mother. In fact, Mr. Donnenwirth was there every step of the way. He taught me to bowl. He came to every one of Robbie's little league and soccer games. He was there for every breakfast and every cookout, and he was never late coming home for dinner.



Robert Donnenwith, Sr. ("Bob" to Mrs. Donnenwirth) was as tall as Mrs. Donnenwirth was short. He was so tall that he looked tall even sitting down, and he had to duck his head while riding in his van, lest he bump the ceiling. I'd guess he was 6' 4", but I'm just guessing. I never saw him standing up because he was paralyzed from the neck down, and he was confined to a wheelchair since before I was born. He could move his arms a bit but not his hands, which were permanently frozen in an unnatural and useless position. He could feed himself with a special fork strapped to one of his hands. He could drink through a straw, although usually his son or wife had to hold the cup where he could reach it. Mr. Donnewirth smoked too. Even as a young kid, I thought that was pretty funny--a guy in a wheelchair, smoking. It wasn't like it was going to stunt his growth or die of lung cancer.



I probably spent half my waking hours between ages 4 and 10 at the Donnenwirths' house. I can only imagine the effort it must have taken Mrs. Donnenwirth to carry on her daily life. Chasing around an impish son while being fulltime caretaker to her husband. Mr. Donnenwirth had been a test pilot in the Air Force. His plane crashed, and he was left paralyzed. His wife was pregnant at the time.



I can only imagine what life was like for Mr. Donnenwirth. His family lived in a modest ranch house, with ramps and an elevator, and a converted handicapped van parked in the driveway, presumably all paid for by some well-earned government pension. Whereas many fathers would give anything to spend all day every day with their children, to watch them grow, to compete, to succeed, what father would be willing to do so at this price? I imagine he would have traded it gladly for a 45-minute commute to a dreary office, and a chance to play catch with his son on the weekends.



I said that Mr. Donnenwirth taught me to bowl, and I meant it. He'd sit in his wheelchair behind the scorer's table and tell me how to correct my stance, how to align my wrist, how to follow through. When I was growing up, most Dads hit their kids to discipline them. Robbie knew that Mr. Donnenwirth couldn't hit him, couldn't even feed himself without someone's help. I don't know what kind of parent I could be if I were immobilized. I imagine I'd feel helpless and angry, as I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Donnenwirth often felt. But for me, their house was always a refuge, even if I couldn't stand their dog. And I will always recall with admiration the struggles they faced and endured.



Mr. Donnenwirth died while I was living in California. The life expectancy of a man in his situation isn't long, and he'd been in the wheelchair nearly 30 years. I heard of his death when I moved back to New Jersey. I visited Mrs. Donnenwirth, still looking youthful in her mid fifties and still living around the corner from my parents. When I rang the bell, my wife and kids in tow, she answered the door and didn't miss a beat. "Well whadya know? It's Needlenose!" (her longtime nickname for me). Mrs. Donnenwirth always told it like it was.

Who were the coolest parents in your neighborhood.