It was 83 years ago. He was little, barely 5 lbs that morning mom showed him off to the family. Lowell Wayne Robinson was her tenth child. He was beautiful, like all babies but something was wrong.
Mom said the doctor made a mistake at the delivery upstairs in her bedroom. Most babies were born at home in those days. Doctors and mid-wives showed up to help. The doc might have been young, I don't know. Mom said he used a pair of forceps, a common tool in a difficult birth. Maybe he squeezed too hard but for whatever reason Lowell Wayne Robinson, my little brother, was struggling. He looked okay except for a limp right arm.
The doctor left, advising mom to have help moving Lowell's precious little arm to get some circulation and muscle tone. My younger sister Norma and I stayed many hours with Lowell. We worked his arm up and down, back and forth, ever so gently. We gave him back to mom at feeding time and later kept moving and working his arm.
For months and months we kept at it. We were up in the morning, before school, moving his arm. Talking to him and cuddling him. After school we did the same. I would imagine him getting stronger, learning to talk. I had so much to teach him about run sheep run and kickball and swimming down at Renny's Lake. I would dream about taking him to Peninsula Park pool. He would be my bestest friend and I would protect him.
The days and weeks went by. Lowell barely gained weight, a few pounds maybe but he seemed to stay small. I prayed each night to God to make him well. To make his right arm work so we could throw the ball in the yard.
When Lowell was a bit more than five months old, in the Spring of 1930, he was still little, barely 12 lbs, but God must have needed him for something special. I wept and slept. I dreamed Lowell waved goodbye to me with his right arm. We attended the funeral for Lowell, snuggled into a ribbon bedecked basket. It was a sad day but Lowell knew he was loved.
Jerry Robinson is our publisher and can be reached through Kenr@robinsonnews.com
