I know I've spent a lot of time talking about Horace Pearson on this blog, but here's something a little different.
For November, I am participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), and I chose to try my hand at historical fiction. I have taken what I know about Pulaski County, Horace's family, and Horace's accident, and I have attempted to weave them into a story. For this week's theme (This Ancestor Stayed Home), I am including an excerpt from a chapter I have titled "Learning to Live." It is my attempt to imagine Horace's life immediately following the amputation of his legs. As I envision it, Horace wasn't willing to spend the rest of his life 'staying home,' so he found a way to get around. (If I actually ever get this book published, you can just consider this a sneak peek.)
One day, a couple months after Horace’s accident, he fell out of bed as he was leaning over to pick up a glass of water from the bedside table. Amazingly, the loud thump did not alert anyone in the household as to his predicament, and he wasn’t about to call for help. He calmly surveyed his surroundings, but nothing revealed itself as particularly helpful to his situation. Still, he refused to call out for assistance. Carefully yet determinedly, he righted himself and swung what was left of his legs in front of him. To be honest, that wasn’t too difficult. He had lost the legs below the hips and was now used to scooting around on his behind. Undignified, to be sure, but he had a more pressing problem. How did he get himself back into the bed? He couldn’t climb with his legs, but could he use his arms instead?
He turned and grasped the bedframe with both hands and took a deep breath. Grunting with exertion, he hoisted himself upright at the edge of the bed. So far, so good, but now what? He could see over it, but how did he get back into it? The answer presented itself in the form of the headboard. If he could grab hold of it, he could pull himself back up onto the bed. In spite of the early spring cold, sweat was pouring from the little boy’s forehead. He reached out, firmly grasped the railing of the headboard and pulled himself hand-over-hand until he fell onto the bed. Just as he achieved his goal, the door to the room opened.
“Horace! What are you doing? What happened?!”
“I just fell out of bed, Mom,” Horace explained in exasperation.
“How did you get back up?” Emma Kate asked in amazement.
“With my arms,” Horace stated, as if that was all the explanation that was necessary.
Emma Kate wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t know if she was more angry at him for not asking for help, or if she was more thrilled at the possibility of his actual physical independence. Horace studied her face, waiting for her reaction. To say that his mother’s response to his injury and convalescence had been an emotional rollercoaster would not have been an exaggeration. Finally, she reached for a cloth and wiped the sweat of exertion from his forehead. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been determined to do things your own way. What can I do to help you?”
And that’s how it started. As far as Horace was concerned, all he needed to do was find a way to boost his arm strength, and he would be that much closer to being able to function without help. He started slowly. He would lie on his back and press pieces of cast iron toward the ceiling. Then, still holding the cast iron, he would spread his arms and slowly fold them back toward his chest. Next, he would sit up, hold the weights in front of him, and bend his arms toward his face. He knew he needed to strengthen all of it.
After months of this sort of training, Horace decided to try something. He didn’t tell anyone about his plan, but one day he took advantage of an empty house, lowered himself to the floor, lifted what was left of his lower torso off the floor, and walked - with his hands - into the kitchen. He hoisted himself onto a short stool by the fire and waited. After a few minutes, Nettie and Cora came in from collecting eggs. Nettie dropped her basket of eggs on the floor and raced toward her brother. “Orris!” she screamed.
At the sound of her daughter’s exclamation, Emma Kate came running from the garden, anticipating the worst. She stopped short in the doorway when she saw Nettie hanging from Horace’s neck in obvious delight. Horace grinned at her over his little sister’s shoulder. “I did it my way, Mom. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.”
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Over the next several months, Emma Kate and her children worked to find a less demanding method of mobility for Horace. Walking on his hands sufficed for short distances, but it was cumbersome, and splinters were almost a certainty. When Ben and Eric went to school, they enlisted the assistance of their classmates; neighbors offered suggestions and donations, and finally, the Pearson siblings created a prototype.
Ben and Eric cut a plank of wood while Cora sewed a seat cushion. Nettie helped her to stuff it. A neighbor had given the family an old set of unusable roller skates. The straps had long since deteriorated, but the wheels were salvageable. Ben attached them to the square piece of wood he and Eric had measured and cut, and Cora and Nettie attached the newly sown cushion to the platform. That evening, when George returned from work, he discovered Horace wheeling across the kitchen floor, laughing uproariously as he chased his brothers and sisters.
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