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Ten Things I Learned from Bill Porter The Inspiring True Story of the Door-To-Door Salesman Who Changed Lives
By Shelly Brady New World Library Copyright © 2004 Shelly Brady
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9781577314592
Chapter One It Doesn't Matter How You Got Here, Only Where You're Going
September 9, 1932, was the happiest day in the lives of Ernest and Irene Porter. The time was 2:20 a.m. and they were the proud parents of a baby boy, William Douglas Porter. In spite of the difficult labor (the doctor had to use forceps to extract baby Bill), Irene would have gladly repeated the experience for what they received that morning: a precious and healthy little boy. The birth certificate on the table was proof of that; on line 29, under the heading "Congenital Crippling Deformities," was typed the word "None."
I picture Irene with baby Bill in her arms during the first few months of his life, when no signs of cerebral palsy were evident. I see her counting ten fingers and ten toes, caressing his soft skin, and gently running her fingers over the handsome features of his face. He seemed perfect in every way.
It didn't take long, though, before she knew something was wrong. She knew it before anyone else. Bill's perfectly shaped left hand was always clenched ever so tightly. Irene also noticed that her infant son's back was arched and stiff. She spent hours massaging his shoulders and back. She gently pried his fingers open, only to see them revert back into a tight little fist.
On her own, Irene researched the stages of child development and discovered that Bill's growth was not proceeding normally. He wasn't strong enough to roll over, sit up, or crawl. He wasn't strong enough to hold the bottle on his own. Irene read every book she could find on child development, which, at the time, were few and far between. One book recommended what's called the "parachute test," whereby a baby is held level and face down, two feet over the bed, and dropped. By six months of age the baby should instinctively protect itself by spreading its arms and legs to ease the fall. Bill just plopped down on the bed without the slightest sign of self-protection.
Irene carefully watched the progress of infants of friends and relatives; she tried to objectively compare them to Bill's development. Shortly before Bill's first birthday, she couldn't deceive herself anymore; Bill was not performing as he should. She couldn't ignore the fact that Bill still clenched his left hand no matter how many times she tried to uncurl it. The hour-long massages weren't working the magic she hoped on Bill's poor posture. There was no denying that Irene and Ernest must seek a professional opinion.
Irene pointed out Bill's physical problems to the family doctor. The doctor immediately recognized the symptoms and diagnosed cerebral palsy. Suddenly, life was a whirlwind of doctors, therapists, and experts. Little was known about cerebral palsy in the 1930s, but most of the specialists suggested that Bill had no hope for a normal life. They predicted he would be mentally retarded and suggested he be placed in an institution. The Porters were appalled at the idea of their precious baby being torn from their lives. Irene knew in her heart that Bill was bright and intelligent. She vowed to do everything in her power to understand and conquer the illness that crippled her son. Helping her son grow up to become the very best he could became her sole mission in life, her passion. No other children would be born in the Porter household; Ernest and Irene needed every bit of time and energy they could muster to ensure that Bill was well taken care of. They devoted their lives to Bill and never looked back.
Over the years, Bill asked his mother many times to repeat the story of his birth. She said, "It was a difficult labor that lasted far too long and everyone was afraid neither you nor I would make it. The doctor needed to use forceps because you were stuck in the birth canal. The very forceps that saved your life also damaged a section of your brain. That's why you have a difficult time using your muscles. None of that matters now; what matters is where you're going, not how you got here."
Bill had no idea of the pain Ernest and Irene felt upon the revelation that their son had cerebral palsy. Family members tell of the sadness they felt. Many tears were shed, and sometimes the questions "Why Bill?" and "Why us?" were asked. There never was a clear answer; they accepted it as part of God's plan. A close friend of the family recalls "The Porters were initially devastated when they learned that Bill had cerebral palsy, but it was only for a brief spell. Bill was their treasure, their gift from God."
Ernest quit his steady job as a salesman, a frightening prospect for anyone during the Great Depression, let alone someone with a child with a disability. He searched for work that would help him better understand and treat his son's disability. He found work with the Berry School in San Francisco, an educational institution for handicapped children. He worked in the physical therapy department and young Bill would often accompany his father to work. Bill fondly remembers trying on the "duck shoes," long boards roped to the feet of children who needed assistance in straightening their walk. Throughout the next decade, Ernest and Irene Porter worked at various locations of the Berry School - San Francisco, Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Chicago - wherever their services were needed.
Irene worked as a cook for the school. Her salary made up for the pay cut Ernest took when he left sales work. Ernest and Irene assisted Bill with exercises that greatly improved his muscle coordination. They also assisted Bill every evening with speech therapy. Bill learned quickly; his ability and will to communicate increased in leaps and bounds. Bill quickly proved naysayers wrong; his mental capabilities were normal. They were all on a long arduous journey, one that would determine whether Bill would stay with them or enter an institution.
No one except Bill really knew how he felt about his disability, if he felt inferior because he was different from the other children. Bill says he doesn't remember thinking negatively about his condition. He is blessed with inheriting a philosophy from his parents that believes in focusing on the future, not dwelling on the past. The past is something the Porter family learned from, not doted over. To Bill, his cerebral palsy is yesterday's news, something that isn't worth rehashing, and he doesn't want anyone else focusing on it either.
Several years after Bill and I first met, I finally got the courage to ask him about his condition. Although he set me straight about his cerebral palsy, his comments were short and to the point and the subject was not brought up again for another decade.
"I was just wondering," I asked awkwardly, "I mean, some of your customers, well, I wondered what you have. I mean is it MS or cerebral palsy or what?"
Bill matter-of-factly answered, "I have cerebral palsy."
I am rarely at a loss for words, but I continued to stumble forward. "What does that mean? How did you get it? Will it get worse?"
Bill replied, "I was born with cerebral palsy. My mother told me a doctor's instrument - forceps - damaged a section of my brain at birth. My condition will never get any worse, nor will it get any better. What you see is what you get. It's not a big deal. It's part of my past and it doesn't bother me. It doesn't stop me from accomplishing whatever I set my mind to ... which happens, at this moment, to be doing well with the Watkins collection and doing even better in two weeks."
After doing some research on my own, I learned that cerebral palsy is frequently caused by a lack of oxygen to the brain, most often occurring during childbirth. Fortunately, accidents like the one that happened to Bill during childbirth are becoming rarer because of modern medical technology. Organizations such as United Cerebral Palsy have funded research into its causes and prevention. Pre- and post-natal care have greatly lowered the incidence of CP. I have often wondered if the forceps didn't damage his brain but instead saved his life since Bill might have been stuck in the birth canal, unable to breathe. Then I remember that it's senseless to ponder about Bill's CP; I must put it in the past, as Bill has.
As hard as I try, I just can't put myself in Bill's shoes. I can't comprehend how he maintains his optimism, how he enthusiastically gets out of bed on the coldest, dreariest mornings imaginable and prepares to hit the pavement. He has done this daily with vigor for more than thirty years. Every morning Bill's alarm rings at 4:45 a.m. so he has time to get ready to catch the 7:20 a.m. bus to downtown Portland. Bill needs this much time to look his best; he doesn't like to dress in a rush. He believes that appearance is essential in sales, especially in door-to-door sales where customers invite you into their homes.
And so the wee hours of Bill's mornings are filled with the painstaking process of dressing. His left hand doesn't help much with the putting on of socks, trousers, white shirt, blazer, and, finally, wing tip shoes. He always leaves the cuffs unbuttoned and his shoelaces loose. Occasionally, he has managed to accomplish these tasks alone, but usually they take too much time. Better, he has decided, to acknowledged his needs and ask friends at a downtown hotel for a little help.
In the past after Bill's best efforts, Irene would tighten his shoelaces, button his cuffs and collar, and clip his tie on. She would cook him a warm breakfast and pack him a lunch. That allowed more time for Bill to organize his paperwork and read the newspaper. For decades, Bill and Irene followed the same routine until she became ill with Alzheimer's. With much trepidation, Bill followed the doctor's advice and placed her in adult foster care and eventually in a nursing home. That's when Bill had to start relying on others to help him. Not being the most adept cook in the world, he learned to enjoy a breakfast of cold cereal and toast. He paid a neighbor to pack him a lunch.
Irene was a perfectionist when it came to housekeeping. When she was gone, Bill maintained her high standards: the bath towels were neatly folded and hung on the towel bar just so, the shrubbery was trimmed regularly, and the lawn edged, not just mowed.
After getting help with his buttons, laces, and tie from the hotel bellhops, he was ready to catch the 8:30 bus to the West Hills, one of the better neighborhoods of Portland. Bill earned this prime territory by outselling other representatives of Watkins products.
It is now 9:00 a.m., more than four hours since Bill arose, and he finally steps off the bus to begin his workday. Door after door he approaches, knocks or rings, and waits for an answer.
He doesn't skip any houses on he presumption that no car in the driveway means nobody is home. Who knows? The car might be in the shop. Undaunted by no answer at most of the doors, Bill continues on, body slightly bent forward, right hand clutching a briefcase, left hand clenched in a fist behind him. His hat is squarely on his head, rain or shine. Often he wears a trench coat with a removable liner that is taken out in the spring and summer.
An eye checks out Bill through a peephole. He knows they are home, but they still don't answer. Other times, without even opening the door, he hears "No thank you." "I'm not interested." "I gave to charity last month." "We don't want any." "Go away." No after no after no, Bill treks on until at last someone is cordial and invites him in. Amazingly, the rejections don't bother him. They are all erased by a single order. Like a mantra, Bill repeats over and over to himself, "The next customer will say yes, the next customer will say yes." Eventually, Bill believes, they all will say "yes." He just has to be patient.
There have been a few very low points in Bill's life. A number of years ago, he was having a tough time making financial ends meet and became easy prey for a mortgage company soliciting his business over the phone. He signed up for an extremely expensive interest refinance package that nearly cost him his house. Because of the huge monthly payments, he had to cancel his medical insurance. Shortly thereafter, he had to have major back surgery. Between the medical bills and high house payments, Bill was almost forced into bankruptcy. It is only very recently, with the increased sales that occurred after the 20/20 show aired, that Bill has been able to pay off some of the loans and keep abreast of his medical expenses.
Bill made another financial blunder when he accepted an inflated estimate for work on his house. The company installed two basement windows and charged him $2,000. Fortunately, I happened to see the invoice on his table and questioned Bill about it.
"Did you get two or three estimates?" I asked.
"No, they seemed honest," was the reply.
I have come to believe an old saying: Sales people are the easiest people to sell to. I called the construction company and spoke to the owner, who acknowledged a billing error. He lowered the cost to a more reasonable $800. Now I try to scrutinize the bills on Bill's table before he pays them since he is incapable of adopting a suspicious attitude toward others. He always tells the truth to his clients: when they can expect delivery, what the total cost will be, and how the "satisfaction guaranteed" policy works. Since Bill never tells a lie, he assumes that others have the same regard for honesty that he does. When Bill and I were first trying to establish ourselves as inspirational speakers we were very naive. Early on we got an inquiry from a company on the East Coast. They didn't want us to go to the trouble of traveling-or so they said-and would gladly send a crackerjack team of journalists out to interview us in Portland. More than likely, they didn't want to go to the expense of flying us to their convention and putting us up in a hotel. I also knew the videotape wouldn't be as powerful as a live on-stage performance, but I didn't know how to convince them of the fact.
Well, before I knew it, the whole crew was at Bill's house. They interviewed and videotaped him without any monetary compensation. The video was then shown at their yearly convention to entertain and inspire the employees. I kept checking the mailbox, expecting some sort of compensation or at least a thank you note, but nothing arrived. To make matters worse, I misplaced the name of the company and wasn't able to let them know how I felt about what they had done.
For months, I was burned up that a company would take advantage of our innocence. They knew speakers at business conventions are to be compensated, whether it is a live presentation or a videotaped one. I wasted a lot of time and energy fuming over this obvious wrongdoing.
Continues...
Excerpted from Ten Things I Learned from Bill Porter by Shelly Brady Copyright © 2004 by Shelly Brady. Excerpted by permission.
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