It was 1950, and I was a sixth grader in a K-8 suburban school outside of Chicago. Classes were changing with the usual noise that voices and feet create as students made their way down the hall and up or down staircases. I was moving at a fast pace towards the large double-wide stairway leading to the upper levels, when I noticed a new sound added to those already surrounding me.

Hearing cleats on shoes hitting the floor, metal creaking, and heavy footsteps, I raised my head to investigate. Coming through a wooden floored room, that connected the older part of the building to the new, was a girl who had been a polio victim several years earlier. She wore full leg braces and heavy orthopedic shoes that had tap cleats on the toes. Rochelle was a year older than I. My mind's eye can picture her as clearly now as on that particular day.

She had short black hair cut in a wavy bob with a big red hair bow perched on the top. Her skin was fairest ivory, and her eyes were of such a deep blue, they looked almost black. She had a small upturned nose and a wide mouth that was smiling more often than not.

As Rochelle moved faster and faster, like a snowball going downhill, her feet got tangled up, and she fell face down at the top of the stairway landing. A wave of humanity flowed towards her, arms outstretched to help, until one word from the prostrate girl stopped them. "No!" she said, as she lay face down on the hard floor. I stood alone, watching from my vantage point at the bottom of the stairway, frozen in place, holding my breath. I watched as Rochelle slowly raised her head. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she gazed straight at me.

This amazing girl pushed herself up to a kneeling position, and with a Herculean effort, made it to her feet. This was not the first time her crippled, twisted legs had betrayed her. She held her head high, accepted the dropped book a boy cautiously held out to her, and made her way up the stairway to the second floor, triumph flashing in those dark eyes. The noise level and student movement returned to normal around us.

The whole episode took no more than a couple of minutes, but, that day, I learned about dignity and strength of character. I found out the real meaning of determination and persistence. Rochelle probably still wears those braces today or may even be in a wheelchair, but I feel certain her spirit is unchanged, that she is still teaching life's little lessons to a great many others--in her own quiet way.


"One of Life's Lessons" was previously published in an Internet e-zine on http://www.2theheart.com