For Abbie Spellman

I got a letter from Joan in Camarilla, California, telling me they are holding the special charity races they did every year to honor Abbie Spellman. These races raised a lot of money for the charities that Abbie supported and were attended by all the groups she had so lovingly given her time to. Even though Abbie is no longer with us, her memory is so strong, she was so loved, they want to hold them again. Joan said to make my check out to a favorite charity. Her postscript said, "Do you have any stories you'd like to share for a reflection book on Abbie?"
I have dozens of stories. Here's one of my favorites.
Abbie had come into town to visit with me for a few days. We had a wonderful time, busy during the day, giggling in bed until the wee hours. Finally, the day arrived for her to go home.
"I'll take the bus," she said.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I do it all the time. Peter will pick me up."
So I drove her to the bus station in downtown Los Angeles. I had learned how to get her wheelchair into the trunk of my tiny car, but getting it out was always a struggle. A group of street people laughed as they watched me fight with the chair. I got it out, got Abbie into it, rescued my dignity, and we went across the street to the station.
The bus station was being redecorated and instead of an elevator, there was what looked like a wide black rubber assembly line rolling slowly upwards. I worked and worked to get the wheelchair to go up, but the wheels just went round and round while we stayed in place. Finally, a drunk staggered up, reeking of whatever had given him his high. "Need some help?" he asked.
I was repulsed, but not Abbie. She laughed and said yes. He grabbed the handles of the chair, turned it around and walked backwards onto the rolling black thing. Smooth as anything, they rode up with me humbly following. At the top, the man took Abbie's hand and kissed it, then staggered off.
I bought her ticket and took her to the waiting area. The bus for Camarilla arrived and a burly driver got off. We were first in line. He took one look at Abbie then turned to me. "Are you going with her?"
I shook my head no.
"She can't go," he said. "She needs a care-taker with her."
I was stunned. I couldn't take her. I had business appointments I could not change on such short notice. I pleaded with him. He was adamant. He would not let her on his bus. He and I faced off, arguing. Then Abbie reached up and touched his arm. "Sir," she said quietly. "If I can get on the bus by myself, will you take me?"
He thought for a moment, then agreed. We stood silently while Abbie lowered herself out of her chair and began the struggle to board the steps of the bus. Every muscle in my body wanted to reach out to help her, but I knew I couldn't. I glanced at the bus driver and saw a look of compassion on his face. I knew he felt as I did. It took a while, but she did it. When she reached the top step, she turned, raised her hand, thumb up, and smiled. The driver clambered into the bus, picked her up, and put her in a seat by a window. I folded her chair and we put it in the luggage compartment. As the bus left, I'm sure Abbie waved, but I couldn't see her through my tears.