When I was growing up, I was embarrassed to be seen with my father. He was badly crippled  , and when we would walk together, his hand on my arm for balance, people would stare, I would be ashamed of the unwanted attention. If ever noticed or bothered, he never let on. It was difficult to walk together--and because of that, we didn't say much as we went along. But as we started out, he always said, "You set the pace. I will try to follow you." Our usual walk was to or from the subway, which was how he got to work. He went to work sick, and even in bad weather. He almost never missed a day, and would make it to the office even if others could not. It was a matter of pride for him. When snow or ice was on the ground, it was impossible for him to walk, even with help... Such times my sister or I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn, N.Y., on a child's sleigh to the subway entrance. Once there, he would try to grasp handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice free. In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building, and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn on his way home. w.w.w.k.s.5.u.c.o.m When I think of it now, I am surprised at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to suffer from shame and disability. And I am also surprised at how he did it--without bitterness or complaint. He never talked about himself as an object of pity, not did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a "good heart", and if he found one, the owner was good enough for him. Now that I am older, I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge people, even though I still don't know exactly what a "good heart" is. But I know the times I don't have one myself. He has been away for many years now, but I think of him often. I wonder if he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks. If he did, I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was, how unworthy I was, how I regretted it. I think of him when I complain about my troubles, when I am envious of another's good fortune, when I don't have a "good heart". How did the father get to work usually?
By subway. By bus. By wheelchair. By bike