by Nolan Crabb
Most blind and visually impaired people who remember Glenn Plunkett will recall the no-holds-barred get-to-the-point advocate who forgot more about Social Security than many people ever learn. I will remember Glenn as the man who saved me from certain death on a Washington, D.C. subway platform.
He was a member of what NBC anchor Tom Brokaw called “the greatest generation.” Those of us who worked closely with him will recall he was among that generation’s great storytellers. He was discharged from the U.S. Army Air Corps in 1947, where he held the rank of major. Many ACB office gatherings and lunch hours were greatly enlivened by his World War II pilot stories. A native of Tupelo, Miss., Glenn always retained a bit of the accent and the no-nonsense quality that characterized any association with him. That southern upbringing also meant that he was easily approachable. His was a refreshing perspective on life, especially in Washington, where being extremely anxious over relatively unimportant things is almost chic. While others fretted and stewed over long-range projects and constantly worried about possible scenarios, Glenn could often leave a meeting and announce to anyone listening, “Ah, who gives a damn. This ain’t gonna matter in three weeks or even three days.” I marveled at how often he was right.
Glenn wasn’t the kind of guy who found contentment in a bottle of pills formulated for the elderly and a rocking chair. While others in his generation retired, Glenn was working tirelessly to improve the lives of blind and visually impaired people. From 1982 to 1995, he worked as a staff member at the American Foundation for the Blind, then transferred to the American Council of the Blind, where he worked on aging, Social Security, and Medicare issues. Glenn maintained his pilot’s license well into the 1990s. After he left employment with ACB, he returned to school for a master’s degree. During that time, he also became well known for his advocacy efforts on behalf of the elderly in his community.
Glenn knew and advised some of the most powerful men and women in Washington regarding Social Security and health care financing. Despite his vast knowledge, Glenn never made those who worked with him feel inferior or intimidated. Quite the opposite was true. His rich, off-beat sense of humor drew people to him.
Glenn knew that I grew up near Salt Lake City, and that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the predominant religion of that area, forbids its members from drinking coffee. Knowing that, he never tired of reminding me that “the best damn cup of coffee I ever drank came from Salt Lake City.” He delighted in the irony of the reminiscence.
Upon returning home from an ACB convention soon after he began working for the Council, he came into my office, sighed a long sigh, and asked with an almost exaggerated frustration, “What’s a guy gotta do to get noticed at one of those conventions?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, nearly every night I was there, I deliberately left my room door unlocked, hopin’ some of those good-lookin’ women would try the handle. Not once did anyone try that door,” he lamented. I felt duty-bound to question what Mrs. Plunkett, to whom he was married for 58 years at the time of his death earlier this year, would have thought of his unlocked door policy. “Ah,” he said with the same exaggerated frustration in his voice. “You would have to bring that up, wouldn’t you.”
I always admired Glenn for his ability to go out of the way to make a difference. He never complained to me about the long daily train rides between his Catonsville, Md., home and our office; he simply did it without fanfare. That simple ability of his to go the extra mile without expecting any rewards had a lifelong impact on me one late Sunday night at the conclusion of a meeting of the Affiliated Leadership League of and for the Blind of America, which met at a hotel near Capitol Hill every spring. I had gone there that Sunday to cover the meetings for “The Braille Forum.”
As that Sunday afternoon gave way to evening, I had begun to feel sick. I knew I was feverish and growing dizzier with every passing hour. What would later be diagnosed as a nasty case of strep throat came on like a tornado. By 10 that night, the meeting broke up. I stood rather shakily and unfolded my cane in an effort to walk from the hotel to the subway station where I would catch a train, then transfer to another one to get home.
I was amazed and frightened that I could be so disoriented. The dizziness, fever and wildly ringing ears made good mobility nearly impossible. Glenn must have noticed I was having some trouble. He approached me as I moved slowly toward the door. “I'm headin’ to the subway. Would you like an arm?”
Filled with immense gratitude, I accepted immediately. We made small talk about the day’s meetings, and I grew weaker and dizzier with every step. When we reached the subway station, Glenn seemed to know I was quite ill, although I hadn’t mentioned it to him. “I’ll just walk with you onto the platform,” he offered. I gladly accepted, knowing well that if I were to attempt the short walk from the subway fare gate to the place where the first train car would pull up, I would surely fall to my death. Of course, this incident occurred in the earliest days following passage of the Americans with Disabilities Act, and there were no detectable warning strips on the D.C. subway system at that time.
He walked with me to the platform and waited with me until the train arrived. Even now, I have no memory of making the transfer to that second train, but I recall leaning against the platform wall at the end of the line where I was to get out. I slowly walked to the escalator, practically holding the wall as I went.
Days later when I had recovered, I privately approached Glenn to thank him for saving my life — something I’m convinced he did. In that characteristic no-nonsense manner of his, he simply said, “You’d have made it OK.” I know better. I’ll always be grateful to Glenn Plunkett, not only for his advocacy work on behalf of all of us, but for that one awful Sunday night in which his willingness to go a bit out of his way and spend a few extra minutes with someone he barely knew made a lifetime’s worth of difference to me.