A Wheelchair For A Walker

  In elementary school, because of my brittle bones and the need to sit out some days during physical education, during the twenty minutes my classmates were playing dodge ball or other rough sports, I attended special physical education. I'll admit that this was not my favorite class. Despite my physical limitations I was quick witted, hyper and admittedly eager to impress. 

  The kids in my class had a variety of conditions: a boy with down-syndorome, another with cerebral palsy and a little girl with Spina-bifida. The girl had a walker that she used to get around school.

"Why don't you use a wheelchair?" I asked her one day. "It would be a lot faster to move with."

"Yeah, I'll probably have to get a wheelchair someday," she confessed, "but I want to walk for as long as I can. My doctor says if you don't use your leg muscles, they will shrink and you won't be able to walk anymore."

"Is that true?" I asked our teacher.

"In a way," he responded. 

"I want to do my leg exercises today," I said to him.

"Alright," he replied. 

  I spent the rest of the day thinking about how much time I spent in my wheelchair. I began to worry that the school was trying to take away my ability to walk by making me stay in it all day. Later at home I voiced this fear to my parents. 

"Well, I was against getting you a wheelchair, but they wouldn't let you attend school without it, because the teachers are afraid we'd take them to court if you got hurt," my dad explained. 

"What if I got a walker?" I asked my dad. "There is a girl in my class who has a walker that she uses and she has a crooked back." (This was before I developed scoliosis)

"You have one," my dad reminded me.

  I'd forgotten about the little aluminum walker that came with my first wheelchair. My parents must have left it in the storage shed since I never used it. They brought it out that evening and showed me how to use it. 

"The only problem is your backpack," my dad said as he adjusted the straps. I slipped my arms through them and my parents laughed.

"It's as big as you are kiddo," he chuckled. 

  Not only was it too big, but filled with my school supplies, the bag was too heavy. I felt frustrated as I tried to figure out a way to carry my backpack. I sat in front of my walker when I noticed the front handle bars. They reminded me of the push handle bars on my wheelchair so I took my backpack off of my shoulders and slid the straps onto my walker. 

  It was a perfect fit. 

"Can I take this to school tomorrow instead of my wheelchair?" I asked my parents. 

"Yes," they agreed. 

  The next morning I pushed my walker out to the bus. 

"Where is your wheelchair?" The driver asked. 

"I'm going to take this from now on!" I proclaimed. 

"Okay, but let me carry that walker up for you," she said, and I let her. 

  It was a steep climb up the bus steps. I'd seen other kids climb up easily, but I didn't understand how. I had to hold on to the rail with one hand and use the other to pull myself up each step. I took a seat in the middle and the bus driver wedged the walker between the seats. It was a monumental moment for me, sitting in the wide seats. Without the restrictive belts that normally held my wheelchair down, I felt like I'd achieved freedom. I hummed happily to myself as we made the drive to school.

  With the backpack secured to the front, I pushed my walker into the elementary building, being mindful of each step I took. My parents cautioned me before I left not to behave recklessly. I entered my second grade class feeling proud. I was now on level with my peers, because I could walk. A few of my friends came up to me. 

"What happened to your chair?" she asked.

"I don't need it anymore," I proclaimed. "I can walk now." I said looking up. 

  For the first time it dawned on me how much shorter I was than kids my age. I barely came up to their elbows.

"What's that?" another asked.

"It's a walker," I answered dismissively. 

"Can you walk without it?" he asked.

"No, she can't, don't be rude," the other friend snapped at him.

"I can so!" I protested.

"Then why do you have it?" she queried.

"Because of my backpack," I said, omitting that the school wouldn't let me walk without it.  

  This seemed to satisfy my friend's curiosities. The rest of the morning went okay - I walked to and from my cubby hole, leaving my walker at my desk. It remained forgotten during science lab, story time and art. I was extremely tired from walking around the classroom all morning, but my dream of being treated like every other student had finally come true, However, when recess came that dream was crushed. 

"You have to sit at the picnic tables," my teacher told me. 

"Why?" I asked. "I'm not in a wheelchair anymore."

"You still have brittle bones," my teacher reminded me. 

  It was then that I realized my wheelchair wasn't to blame for my banishment from the playground. Now I understood what my parents told me. The teacher was afraid of me breaking my bones.

"I know you are scared of me breaking my bones, but I'm not scared. I do stuff all the time at home - I climb trees, build forts and play outside with my brother and sister, but I am not scared," I said boldly. 

"Exactly," my teacher replied, turning to watch my classmates. 

  I was dumbstruck by her words. 

  When I got home from school, exhausted from pushing my walker with the heavy backpack, I told my mom what the teacher said. 

"Why is it bad to not be scared?" I asked. 

"It's not," my mom assured me. "She doesn't think you know anything about having brittle bones, which is stupid because you know better than anyone. Heck, you learned to spell it when you were four--" 

"O-S-T-E-O-G-E-N-E-S-I-S I-M-P-E-R-F-E-C-T-A!" I spelled triumphantly."

"Smart aleck!" she hugged me and we laughed. 

"So are you gonna take your walker again tomorrow?" my mom asked.

"I think it's better to take my wheelchair, because I can't keep up with my friends, using the walker, and the other kids are really tall," I admitted. "I don't like it."

"That's never gonna change," my mom said.

"I know, but at least in my wheelchair I can run over them if they're mean!"

I'm Wheeling In The Rain

  Sometimes it's hard to maneuver my wheelchair and hold on to things, but it can be especially tough when the elements are working against me.

  I was getting ready for work one morning. The sky was dark with rain clouds, though the forecast promised it wouldn't start raining until the afternoon.

"Do you have an extra umbrella?" I asked my parents. 

"Here," my dad said, handing me one from their closet. 

"Thanks," I put it in my backpack on the back of my wheelchair and headed out the door. 

  I didn't like driving in the rain and was really grateful it hadn't begun, but I'd left a few minutes early just in case. I arrived a half hour before my shift. I considered going into work, but since it didn't rain I used the extra time to stop at my favorite cafe for coffee and a blueberry muffin.

  Big mistake.

  As I sat at my usual spot by the window awaiting my order, it began to rain. The waitress arrived with a fresh pot of coffee and a hot blueberry muffin, which she placed in front of me.

"I hope you brought an umbrella," she said, as she poured the coffee.

"Oh yes, in my back pack," I assured her.

  I reached inside my bag, beside the umbrella and pulled out a book. It was the perfect morning. I wished I could spend the rest of the day with my nose in a book, nibbling my blueberry muffin and sipping coffee to the steady rhythm of pouring rain.

  After finishing my first cup of coffee, I looked at my watch. I had five minutes. It would take me that long to get there. The rain let up, but there was still a light drizzle. I debated waiting a bit longer, but decided not to. I got into my van barely dampened and drove down the street to work.

  When I pulled into the parking lot, I was shocked to find there was nowhere to park. My job was at a call center and although we shared a building with two other businesses, we rarely had an issue with parking. I drove around to the other parking lot and saw the issue -- Road Work.

"Where do they expect me to park?" I fumed at no one.

  I drove around the block and finally found a spot across the street.

"Well, at least it quit raining," I said out loud.

  I should have kept my mouth shut.

  A loud boom of thunder, then the rain came down in sheets. I sat frozen in disbelief for a moment. Then I looked at my watch. I was already ten minutes late. I would surely be reprimanded. I was not a tardy person, but the policies were strict - first time offense put you on automatic probation. I would have gone home, called in, but I was never good about making excuses. I just wasn't raised that way. So I got my umbrella out and exited my van.

  Getting my wheelchair out of the van was easy. All I had to do was push a few buttons and the automatic door would open, a claw would swing the wheelchair out, lower it and that was it. All I had to do was unstrap it. Thanks to the gust of wind that accompanied the rain, the wheelchair was blown violently against the van.

"Oh come on!" I shouted in frustration.

  I crawled over the backseat and leaned out to steady the wheelchair as it lowered to the ground. As soon as it was down I climbed back up front to turn off the van and retrieve the umbrella.

  The lift and back door worked weather the van was on or off thanks to the back up battery, so once I climbed out of the back door and into the chair, I opened the umbrella and moved away from the van to close it up with the remote. I put the remote and keys in my purse, adjusted my wheelchair settings and waited at the curb for my chance to cross the street.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind attempted to sweep the umbrella out of my grasp. I struggled with it as the signal to cross began flashing. I steered the wheelchair gear forward with my right hand, while the left was fighting a losing battle. I made it across the street and I thought I'd finally be able to beat the wind, but the rain fell harder and in combination with another gust of wind, turned my umbrella inside out!

"Fine!" I shouted, "Take it!" and I threw the broken umbrella on the sidewalk.

  The rain continued its steady downpour as I rolled down the sidewalk, up the ramp and into the office building. I entered the room where our cubicles were, some of my coworkers eyeing me with sadness, amusement or shock. I wheeled up to my supervisor and she covered her mouth. She was probably concerned about showing the appropriate response. I probably looked pathetic - a tiny girl in a wheelchair, drenched, shivering, on the verge of tears.

"I know I'm late, but can I go to the bathroom to dry off?" I asked in a low voice.

"Yes," she said, "and don't worry about being late -- are you okay?" she said, concerned.

"The wind broke my umbrella," I answered.

"Okay, go get dried off," she said.

  Later, when I came back to my desk there was a tall black umbrella leaning against it with a note that said:

This one is wind proof.

  And it was.

Wheelchair Pajama Party

  When I was younger people who didn't know me often told me how lucky I was to be in a wheelchair, because no one would scold me or deny me anything out of fear of offending me. I wished. But one time I decided to test that theory.

"Why aren't you ready for school? Doesn't your bus get here in a few minutes?" my sister asked as we sat at the table eating breakfast.

"I'm going to school in my pajamas," I told her.

"Why?" she inquired.

"Why not? It's not like they're going to say anything -- I'm in a wheelchair."

  I was wearing my Winnie the Pooh T-shirt, green polkadot fleece pants and Pooh Bear slippers. I draped my fleece blanket around my shoulders. My short blonde hair was swiftly brushed, but I still looked like I'd just rolled out of bed.

"I thought you didn't like to play that card," my sister accused.

"Yeah, well today is finals and I want to be comfortable," I confessed.

  I've always had test anxiety and I am pretty sure it has to do with the exit test we had to take in public school. I decided this time I was going to feel as relaxed as possible and that meant wearing my fleece pants and Winnie the Pooh slippers.

"You're gonna get in trouble," my sister warned.

  Our parents weren't home to reprimand me, having left for work a half hour ago. I was about to mention this to my sister when the interrupting 'beep, beep' signaled my bus' arrival.

"We'll see," I said, as I headed out the door.

"You're looking comfy today," the bus driver noted as I drove up onto the wheelchair lift.

"Test day," I said.

"You must have been up late studying," she assumed.

"Didn't have time to get ready," I joked. "Actually, I just wanted to be comfortable. Test stress me out."

"You got this, girl, you're a smart lady," my bus driver assured me.

  I was glad I'd brought my fleece blanket with me. I wrapped it around me and bunched up the back of it under my head for a pillow. I managed to sleep through two pick ups and the five minute ride to school.

  When we arrived, I entered the school feeling a little timid about my bold decision. What if my sister was right and I did get in trouble. My parents would be furious if they had to leave work just because I blatantly broke the dress code and thus failed my classes. I made my way to the cafeteria to meet a couple of friends before our first class.

"Are you attending a slumber party?"

  It was the assistant principal! Well, I couldn't take my decision back now.

"Yep, after the test I'm going home and going to sleep!" I said cheerfully.

  Surprisingly, she just laughed. "I wish I had my PJ's on!" she sighed. "I need some sleep. Good luck on your test." The assistant principal left the cafeteria with her coffee.

  It worked! I found my friends sitting at our usual spot by the large windows.

"You guys are not gonna believe this..." I proceeded to tell them about my idea to wear pajamas and my encounter with the assistant principal.

"She didn't get mad or send me to the office for violating dress code. Maybe using wheelchair perks every now and then wouldn't be so bad..." It was then I noticed my friends were on the verge of laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked confused.

"Of course you didn't get in trouble, don't you remember what the principal said over the announcements yesterday?"

"I was out yesterday because of a doctor appointment," I said.

"Oh," my friend said, "well today is pajama day for finals."

  It was then I finally noticed all of my friends were in Pajama pants and T-shirts. One had brought a teddy bear while another, like me, had a fleece blanket in her lap.

"So much for wheelchair perks," I sighed.

"Not true. Today we all get wheelchair perks!" my friends cheered.

Wheelchair Bound

  When I was in Kindergarden, my teacher had a difficult time getting me to remain in my wheelchair all day. I was allowed to sit in the chairs at the desk, but I would take advantage of getting out of my wheelchair to run around the classroom.

"You know better than to leave your wheelchair in the hallway," my teacher scolded, after I finally admitted to once again pushing it out of the classroom in the hopes that she'd forget about it.

"I'm sorry, I won't do it again," I said, feigning shame. The next day, I hid my wheelchair in the coat closet.

  My teacher shook her head,

"You've given me no choice. I'm going to have a talk with your parents this time."

  That got my attention.

  After school she talked to my mom, who talked to my dad, who surprisingly did not talk to me. It seemed that after a few days I'd escaped punishment, because my parents had taken my side.

  Justice.

  Little did I know that my parents had ordered a clip on tray for my wheelchair so that I would no longer have an excuse to give the teacher so much frustration.

"No, I won't use it!" I protested when my parents presented the plastic table top.

"Young lady, don't give me lip," my mom warned. "You have to stay in your wheelchair at school, and since you won't listen, this is the alternative."

"But I'll be good, I'll listen," I begged and pouted. "Please don't make me use that stupid tray, it bothers!"

  I sat in my wheelchair while my parents adjusted the tray to fit me comfortably, but no matter what they did I protested that it bothered me - that I wouldn't be able to get out of my wheelchair anymore.

  The next day at school was frustrating. I tried to slip out of my wheelchair, but my dad, knowing my Houdini-esque abilities, had made sure there wasn't any wiggle room for me to do so. I endured the rest of the day in my rolling prison - only released with the help of the teacher so that I could use the restroom. I didn't know how to remove the tray and I had pinched my fingers trying.

  Later at home, my brother sat in my wheelchair.

"Can I put the tray on?" he asked, "I want to color and I don't want to sit at the kitchen table."

"Yeah, but it's hard to put on, dad might have to help you," I said.

  My brother picked up the tray and after a couple of adjustments, snapped it in place.

"Wow, can you take it off?" I asked him.

"Yeah," he said, easily unhooking the clips and removing the tray.

"Show me how to do that!" I begged.

"Okay," my brother said, and proceeded to teach me how to undo the clips.

  It was a little harder for me, because of my weak hands so I had to use two hands on each clip, undoing one at a time. After I had mastered taking the tray off, I gave my brother a big hug.

"Thank you!" I said, excitedly, while he clipped himself back into my wheelchair to color.

  The next day at school, I was in a much better mood. The teacher handed out our Alphabet workbooks. I thought about getting out of my wheelchair and sitting at my desk, just to show her that I could, but then I realized that my tray was wider than the desk and I would have more room for my workbook. So I sat in my wheelchair and did my work.

  When art time came, I discovered once again the benefits of using the tray. The same followed for lunch. Suddenly, I was happy to have the tray. I now had my own space to eat, read, draw and I didn't have to share my crayons, a major bonus for me.

"You seem to be in a better mood today," my teacher noted.

"I am," I said, "My brother showed me how to take the tray off, but you don't have to worry, I like it now."

"Well I am certainly glad," the teacher said. "You're a smart girl. I know that nothing can hold you back, even that tray."

Rock 'N' Roll Wheelchair

  My first rock 'n' roll show was the coolest ever, because of my wheelchair.

  When I was a teenager, I didn't go to parties or concerts a lot like most of my friends. I liked being a homebody for the most part, but one night I was really bored so I started calling around and seeing what my friends were doing. Most of them were already busy, but one of them called me back,

"Hey, I was thinking about seeing The Buzzcocks play tonight, downtown. Do you want to go?" he asked.

"Sure," I agreed. I'd heard a few of their songs and thought they were pretty good.

  Later, my friend picked me up and he and I went to the local warehouse. We'd arrived early to get a good spot, but when we went inside, the room was hardly crowded.

"I'm surprised the turn out was so weak," I said to my friend, "I thought this band was really popular."

"Oh, it's still early," he assured me. "Places like this can fill up fast."

  We watched the opening band play. One of the members brought out a guitar that was so small, I could have held it. I was mesmerized watching him play, until he smashed the instrument in front of me. I could hardly believe it. I was so angry, I thought I might explode - I wished he'd given me the guitar if he really didn't want it.

"Are you okay?" My friend asked, seeing my expression.

"That was a punk ass thing to do," I said motioning to the splintered wood and strings littered across the stage.

"Yeah it was," he agreed, understanding my anger.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back," I said.

"Okay, I'm gonna get a beer," my friend gestured toward the bar at the back.

  I went to the bathroom and splashed some water on my face to calm down. I wished I were old enough for a beer. I wasn't about to ask my friend to buy me one, though I doubt he would have - my dad wouldn't have let me hang out with him alone if he thought he would, and I didn't want to break my dad's trust.

  I wheeled back out and was shocked to see the venue was suddenly packed. Eventually, I found my friend at the back, by the bar.

"I told you this place could fill up," he said, sipping his beer. "I'm sorry, I should have gone back to the front and reserved our place."

"It's okay, maybe we can push our way back up," I suggested. But it was no use.

"When the show starts, I will let you sit on my shoulders," my friend offered.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Come on," he said and bent down so I could climb on.

  My brother let me sit on his shoulders numerous times, but I'd never trusted anyone else not to drop me. Still, I did want to see the band play - plus it didn't smell very pleasant the more crowded the room got. I stood up on my wheelchair and started to climb, when suddenly we were approached by the bouncer.

"You don't need to do that," he said to me. "Come on, we'll find you a place where you can see the band play."

  A place where we could see the band play. I imagined we were about to be escorted back to our earlier places in the front. Instead, the bouncer led us out of the side door, around to a ramp in the back, through a room behind the stage, up another ramp and then right up on stage!

"How is this for a view?" The bouncer grinned at me. We were positioned behind the left speaker, just in the shadows. Still, we could see the whole band.

  The Buzzcocks began to play and my friend and I were on cloud nine. It was so loud, I was sure I would be deaf, but I didn't care! I was amazed at their performance. Pete Shelley - the lead singer, who at the time was in his fifties - seemed to have the crazy energy of someone in his thirties. Every once in a while one of the members would look at us; smile, nod, wink or acknowledge our presence with some small gesture. After the show my friend and I got to meet the band who, despite their wild stage presence, were kindly spoken gentlemen.

"It was so wonderful to meet you my dear," Pete said, taking my hand with both of his as we said goodbye.

  His british accent made me feel as though I were being bid farewell by an elder knight.

  As my friend and I left in a daze my friend finally broke,

"Wow, that was so amazing!" he said.

"Yeah it was, thanks for bringing me!" I beamed.

"Thank you," he said. "It's because of you that we got to sit on stage. Do you always get to do stuff like that?"

"Not always," I answered.

"You should," he said.

"I'd feel guilty. I always say I want to be treated normal, but if I got special treatment all the time just because of my wheelchair, it would be kind of hypocritical," I reasoned.

"But you're short. Even if you weren't in a wheelchair, you would have had to move where you could see - that's normal," he countered.

"True," I agreed. "But wow, I wasn't expecting them to let us sit on stage!"

"I know, that was awesome!" My friend and I continued geeking out over our amazing night.

 ~*~

  Being in a wheelchair has taught me many things, but most importantly it has given me a deep appreciation for the kindness of people. I am grateful for every chance I am given to sit where I can enjoy a movie, concert or show; for every person who offers to hold a door or let me cut in line; for anyone who helps me reach things up high. If you're one of these people - from my heart, Thank You.

My Wheelchair Is Not A Lemon

  One hot summer day, my sister and I decided to set up a lemonade stand.

"I'm going to make the lemonade, because you make it too sweet," my sister insisted.

"Fine, I get to bake the cookies," I said.

"Will you leave a few in there a little longer?" she asked. My sister had a taste for slightly burnt cookies.

"No, these are for the customers," I frowned. "Unless you don't want to make money."

"Okay. What are we going to use for the stand?" she asked.

  There was a foldable card table in the utility room. I suggested that. We also got some paper and markers to make signs: Lemonade - 50 cents & Cookies 25 cents. We loaded our supplies in a box, set it in my wheelchair and toted everything outside.

  My sister and I set to work making our table presentable. I set a little shoe box, with a change jar beside it, on my wheelchair. This served as our cash register. My sister walked down to the corner of our street and posted a 'Lemonade For Sale' sign, complete with an arrow facing our house, on the stop sign.

"Lemonade! Cookies! Quench your thirst and have a snack!" my sister and I shouted to passersby.

  People walking their dogs, riding their bikes and even some drivers stopped and purchased our treats. Soon we had to restock on lemonade and I even let my sister handle the next batch of cookies. It was no surprise that some of them wound up burnt. I couldn't be too upset though, we sold most of our stock.

  As we were getting ready to set up our final batch of cookies and lemonade, one of my sister's friends came walking up. She looked really upset.

"You knew I was having a lemonade stand today!" she accused my sister.

  My sister's friend lived at the other end of our street and often she and my sister found themselves in competition. When my sister asked me to help her with the lemonade stand I'd agreed because it was something she and I enjoyed doing together. Now I could see that there was more to this than she'd let on.

"I can't believe you played the 'handicapped sister card!'" I said to my sister. I tried to sound disappointed, but she was young and I probably would have done the same at her age.

"You should give me your money," her friend insisted, to which my sister got defensive. Being the mediator between my siblings I stepped in.

"We're not giving up this money, because half of it's mine," I said, "However, I have an idea - let's combine our lemonade stands and we'll split the money three ways," I resolved.

"Okay," they agreed.

  My sister helped her friend bring everything from her stand over to ours. Her friend made pink lemonade and cookies with M&M's. Much to my sister's delight, many of the cookies were burnt. Together, we sold most of our stock. After three hours we were tired of sitting outside and decided to call it an afternoon. We took the stand down. My sister put the remaining lemonade in our refrigerator.

  The three of us sat outside together, counting our earnings. Aside from the sales, we'd been given tips. Our total collection came out to thirty-three dollars. We each took eleven.

"Let's do this again next weekend," my sister's friend said enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I bet we could really earn money if you sat in your wheelchair next time," my sister said.

  There are very few times I feel I've taught my siblings anything of value. This was one moment I hope made a lasting impression.

"I bet we could," I said, "but would that be right?" I asked my sister. She started to say something and then saw the look on my face.

"No?" she guessed.

"No." I confirmed.

Happy Hallo-Wheels

  Wheelchairs (especially electric) are helpful when collecting large amounts of candy.

  Halloween was my favorite event when I was a kid. It combined the two things I loved; playing dress up and eating chocolate. For awhile we didn't live in a neighborhood that was good for trick-or-treating. My parents weren't big on it anyway, so there were a few years when all we had was the local fall festivals at church (lots of costume restrictions and very little candy).

  Finally, when I was 14 we moved into a neighborhood full of kids. When Halloween came around, my siblings and I were eager to don our costumes and collect candy.

"You kids are too old for us to take you trick or treating," Our parents told us, when we brought up the evening plans.

"But we haven't been in a long time!" My little sister whined. She was only ten, still a child. I could see how supremely unfair this was to her. I was struck with an idea.

"I'm fourteen now, old enough to watch them on the weekends when you guys go to work. Can't I take them trick-or-treating tonight?" I offered. "I have my electric Wheelchair, so it will be fine."

  My parents considered this.

"Okay, but you kids need to be back by nine and don't leave the neighborhood." This was directed mostly at my thirteen year old brother, who was unafraid of walking anywhere on his own.

"Thanks sis!" my siblings said to me.

  That night my sister and I put on our costumes. I was a ninja and my sister was a princess. As for my brother, he went rebel. We left the house at 7pm, as the daylight was fading.

"Would you be okay if I went with my friends?" My brother asked. "I promise I'll be back by curfew."

"They told us to stick together." I hesitated. I wanted to obey the rules, but my younger siblings had the tendency to squabble a lot and just watching my sister would be easier.

"I'll get you guys some extra candy," he offered. It was then that I noticed he was holding a giant garbage bag. Another one was sticking out from his overstuffed pocket.

"Do you really think you're going to get that much candy?" I laughed.

"Duh," he said.

  I looked down at my small bucket.

"Forget this," I said. "Go back inside and get the pillowcases off of our beds," I directed at my sister. She took the buckets inside and came back out with four pillowcases.

"There's no way you girls are going to fill those," my brother taunted. "You won't even leave the neighborhood."

"Wanna make a wager?" I offered.

"Winner gets to go through loser's candy and claim their favorites - money and toys included," my brother said.

"Deal," we all agreed.

  So we split up, my brother off with his friends and my sister and I with ours. My sister stood on the back of my wheelchair. I held the candy bags in my lap. We traversed through three streets before the weight of the candy started to become tiresome.

"It's a good thing you have your wheelchair, or this would be really hard to do," my sister said as I drove us to the door of another house.

"One of the pros of having my wheelchair," I agreed.

  We collected more candy, but soon my arms began to ache.

"I wanna take this home, but it's close to curfew. I don't want to be told we can't go back out," I told my sister. It was 8:30.

  We decided to take the chance. When we arrived home, the living room was dark, except for one lamp. Our parents had gone to bed fully expecting that we would follow the rules. My sister and I dropped the bags of candy off in the bedroom. It was still fifteen minutes till curfew.

"Can we go back out for ten minutes?" My sister asked.

"Okay, but let's stay close. Our neighbors might have some extra candy."

  We took one pillow case and we back out. We managed to fill it a quarter of the way up when I saw my brother and one of his friends carrying two large garbage bags nearly full of candy.

"Where did you get all of that?" I asked in shock.

"I have my secrets," my brother grinned. He saw the single pillowcase in my hand.

"Slow night?" he asked.

"No, we have lots more in our room. Mom and dad are asleep by the way."

"Cool, can I go back out?"

"No, we have to go in," I said. "And your friend can take that other bag of candy, I've got a feeling dad is going to be pretty upset about this."

  Turns out, I was right. The next morning my dad nearly blew a fuse when he saw the garbage bag and pillowcases full of candy.

"You three are officially too old for trick-or-treating," he said after collecting the candy from our rooms.

  He poured some of it into a candy dish, he then placed the dish atop the refrigerator (not as an attempt to keep it out of reach, but to symbolically tell us that we were not to touch it without asking). The rest of our prized collection went promptly into the garbage.

  Little did he know that the previous night I'd warned my siblings this might happen. We worked together all night to secure our favorite pieces of candy. The wager of who collected the most no longer an issue, we were united with salvaging what I correctly assumed would be our final Halloween trick-or-treating together.