Uneducated and barely able to speak English, he was terribly poor, and the family was on public assistance much of the time.
Their apartment was a dark, cramped, depressing place behind the candy store.
They had no luxuries. No car. Sometimes, to make money, Morrie and his younger brother, David, would wash porch steps together for a nickel.
After their mother’s death, the two boys were sent off to a small hotel in the Connecticut woods
where several families shared a large cabin and a communal kitchen.
The fresh air might be good for the children, the relatives thought.
Morrie and David had never seen so much greenery, and they ran and played in the fields.
One night after dinner, they went for a walk and it began to rain. Rather than come inside, they splashed around for hours.
The next morning, when they awoke, Morrie hopped out of bed.
“Come on,” he said to his brother. “Get up.” “I can’t.”
“What do you mean?” David’s face was panicked. “I can’t... move.”
He had polio. Of course, the rain did not cause this. But a child Morrie’s age could not understand that.
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