May 18, 2021 at 6:48 p.m.
Bo knew how to make us smile
Back in the Saddle
Bo knew how to make us smile
Every once in awhile in the news business, you get to do a story that makes you smile forever.
The community lost Steve Gibson at age 68 a couple of weeks back, and I lost another friend.
But his story, as told in this piece from November 2012, bears repeating.
Sure, it’s a re-run. But it’s worth another read.
Here it is:
Tell Steve Gibson that he makes people happy, and he’s likely just to wave his hand and say, “That’s what I’m here for.”
He may be right.
But there was a time no one expected him to be here at all, certainly not as an adult who has just celebrated a 60th birthday.
His older brother, Rick, recalls a time when their parents — Don and Delores Gibson of Portland — came home after a somber visit with the doctors. They’d been told that Steve would never live to start school.
“They diagnosed him with a hole in his heart,” said Rick.
Don and Delores were excited to become the parents of twins; they ran in the family.
But one twin, Stanley, was strong and healthy. The other, Steve, born three minutes later, was smaller and weaker.
And though the family didn’t know it immediately, Steve’s mental development had been affected, probably because of a deficiency of oxygen at a critical time.
Still, when the Gibsons brought their twin sons home from the hospital in October of 1952, their real concern was making sure both boys grew up healthy and happy.
The family was living in Bellefountain at the time. Don worked at Portland Forge and would later serve as a Jay County Sheriff’s Reserve. The Gibsons had two children already, Rick and his sister Vicky. They would later have a daughter, Donna, who died two years ago, and a son, Doug, who now works for a U.S. company in Qatar.
But when the twins came home, it was just mom, dad, Rick, Vicky, and the newly-arrived infants, one of them much weaker and smaller than the other.
At first, the focus was simply on Steve’s physical health. There were multiple trips to Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis, but eventually the hole in his heart mended.
New problems surfaced when he started attending Noble School.
“Everybody just thought he was a little slow,” recalled twin brother Stan, now fire chief in Coos Bay, Ore.
“We just thought he was slow,” agreed Rick. “We just kind of learned to deal with it.”
When Steve started bringing home report cards in the first grade with F’s on them, his father treated him the way he treated all his kids who misbehaved. He warmed his bottom.
“He was never favored,” said Rick.
Then, in second grade, said Stan, “They did some testing and found out about the mental retardation. We probably didn’t realize it.”
In the middle of that year, Steve was moved from Noble to a small building west of what is now East Jay Middle School. Over the years, it would transform itself into what is now Jay-Randolph Developmental Center.
But back then, it had a simpler name: The Pink Alley School.
Many of downtown Portland’s alleys have platted names. That one happens to be Pink Alley, and that’s where a group of dedicated volunteers, including Fannie Gillespie and Florence Coldren, did their best to provide educational opportunities for kids who didn’t fit into the usual one-size-fits-all nature of public schools in the 1950s.
“He went down to Pink Alley (school) and really loved it,” said Rick.
“I liked everything,” said Steve, recalling those early classmates like Bob Gillespie, Judy Moore, and Marilyn Coldren.
He flourished in that new environment, and he’s been flourishing ever since.
“It was amazing as we were growing up,” said Stan. “He belonged to the community. The entire community helped raise him.”
It helped to have a strong family.
While protective of Stan with the outside world, his parents treated him just like the rest of their children. If he got in trouble, discipline followed.
Neither Rick nor Stan could ever recall an instance when their smaller, slower brother was bullied. If he had been, there were plenty of other kids to come to his defense.
He started tagging along with older brother Rick and picked up a nickname that stays with him to this day.
“I was playing (Junior League baseball) for the Elks,” said Rick. And for some reason another player started calling Rick, Bobo.
When his little brother showed up, that was quickly shortened to its current form: Bo.
Steve has been Bo ever since.
Growing up in a sports-oriented family, young Bo wanted to compete. But the delays in his physical development made that complicated.
When Bo wanted to play Junior League baseball, he wasn’t physically able to compete with kids in the same age range.
While Stan played B-league baseball with other kids in the 10 to 12 bracket, Bo was too small. And when he physically matured enough to be able to compete, he was out of the age bracket.
According to the rules, he shouldn’t have been allowed to play.
But something happened. The board of directors of Portland Junior League met and, thanks to the leadership of Frank Inman and others, decided to make an exception.
Bo could play. Chronological age was set aside, so that developmental age could take its place.
“That’s just exceptional for the community,” said twin brother Stan. “It just shows how much the community cared for him.”
And once Bo started playing sports, he never seemed to stop.
He kept playing in local softball leagues longer than he should have, hitting the outfield fence in pursuit of a fly ball more than once.
He was an active participant in Special Olympics and proved to be a great shot on the basketball floor.
Today, at 60, his athletic endeavors are behind him.
But he’s still working, and he’s still deeply engaged in the community that helped raise him.
“This man knows everyone,” said Diane Smith at JRDS, where Bo is a client, working a regular schedule. “I don’t think he knows a stranger. He’s accepted everywhere.”
“He’s probably the most likeable guy in Portland in so many ways,” said Dave Hull at Ponderosa, where Bo worked until a fall at home required surgery on both legs. “He’s like everybody’s best friend.”
Bo’s nephew agrees.
“Bo has been able to live that happy-go-lucky lifestyle,” said Josh Gibson, who is Rick’s son. “He’s always looked on the positive side of things, and he wants very little. He just loves everybody.”
Now living with Dennis Mikel, the husband of his late sister Donna, Bo has a regular Saturday walk, checking in on people he cares about. There are at least 15 stops.
“He’s got a lot of favorite people,” said Rick.
His twin brother Stan has reflected more than once that while he has lived a rewarding life himself, Steve’s has been even richer.
On paper, that may not make sense.
After all, Stan was a firefighter for nine years with the Union City Fire Department, worked for the Indiana State Fire Marshal for five years, served eight years with Perry Township Fire Department in Indianapolis, and has been chief at Coos Bay since 1997.
It has been an impressive career.
But the way Stan does the math, factoring in the community’s love and affection, it’s no contest. His brother is the winner.
“I’m lucky too,” said Bo.
The community lost Steve Gibson at age 68 a couple of weeks back, and I lost another friend.
But his story, as told in this piece from November 2012, bears repeating.
Sure, it’s a re-run. But it’s worth another read.
Here it is:
Tell Steve Gibson that he makes people happy, and he’s likely just to wave his hand and say, “That’s what I’m here for.”
He may be right.
But there was a time no one expected him to be here at all, certainly not as an adult who has just celebrated a 60th birthday.
His older brother, Rick, recalls a time when their parents — Don and Delores Gibson of Portland — came home after a somber visit with the doctors. They’d been told that Steve would never live to start school.
“They diagnosed him with a hole in his heart,” said Rick.
Don and Delores were excited to become the parents of twins; they ran in the family.
But one twin, Stanley, was strong and healthy. The other, Steve, born three minutes later, was smaller and weaker.
And though the family didn’t know it immediately, Steve’s mental development had been affected, probably because of a deficiency of oxygen at a critical time.
Still, when the Gibsons brought their twin sons home from the hospital in October of 1952, their real concern was making sure both boys grew up healthy and happy.
The family was living in Bellefountain at the time. Don worked at Portland Forge and would later serve as a Jay County Sheriff’s Reserve. The Gibsons had two children already, Rick and his sister Vicky. They would later have a daughter, Donna, who died two years ago, and a son, Doug, who now works for a U.S. company in Qatar.
But when the twins came home, it was just mom, dad, Rick, Vicky, and the newly-arrived infants, one of them much weaker and smaller than the other.
At first, the focus was simply on Steve’s physical health. There were multiple trips to Riley Hospital for Children in Indianapolis, but eventually the hole in his heart mended.
New problems surfaced when he started attending Noble School.
“Everybody just thought he was a little slow,” recalled twin brother Stan, now fire chief in Coos Bay, Ore.
“We just thought he was slow,” agreed Rick. “We just kind of learned to deal with it.”
When Steve started bringing home report cards in the first grade with F’s on them, his father treated him the way he treated all his kids who misbehaved. He warmed his bottom.
“He was never favored,” said Rick.
Then, in second grade, said Stan, “They did some testing and found out about the mental retardation. We probably didn’t realize it.”
In the middle of that year, Steve was moved from Noble to a small building west of what is now East Jay Middle School. Over the years, it would transform itself into what is now Jay-Randolph Developmental Center.
But back then, it had a simpler name: The Pink Alley School.
Many of downtown Portland’s alleys have platted names. That one happens to be Pink Alley, and that’s where a group of dedicated volunteers, including Fannie Gillespie and Florence Coldren, did their best to provide educational opportunities for kids who didn’t fit into the usual one-size-fits-all nature of public schools in the 1950s.
“He went down to Pink Alley (school) and really loved it,” said Rick.
“I liked everything,” said Steve, recalling those early classmates like Bob Gillespie, Judy Moore, and Marilyn Coldren.
He flourished in that new environment, and he’s been flourishing ever since.
“It was amazing as we were growing up,” said Stan. “He belonged to the community. The entire community helped raise him.”
It helped to have a strong family.
While protective of Stan with the outside world, his parents treated him just like the rest of their children. If he got in trouble, discipline followed.
Neither Rick nor Stan could ever recall an instance when their smaller, slower brother was bullied. If he had been, there were plenty of other kids to come to his defense.
He started tagging along with older brother Rick and picked up a nickname that stays with him to this day.
“I was playing (Junior League baseball) for the Elks,” said Rick. And for some reason another player started calling Rick, Bobo.
When his little brother showed up, that was quickly shortened to its current form: Bo.
Steve has been Bo ever since.
Growing up in a sports-oriented family, young Bo wanted to compete. But the delays in his physical development made that complicated.
When Bo wanted to play Junior League baseball, he wasn’t physically able to compete with kids in the same age range.
While Stan played B-league baseball with other kids in the 10 to 12 bracket, Bo was too small. And when he physically matured enough to be able to compete, he was out of the age bracket.
According to the rules, he shouldn’t have been allowed to play.
But something happened. The board of directors of Portland Junior League met and, thanks to the leadership of Frank Inman and others, decided to make an exception.
Bo could play. Chronological age was set aside, so that developmental age could take its place.
“That’s just exceptional for the community,” said twin brother Stan. “It just shows how much the community cared for him.”
And once Bo started playing sports, he never seemed to stop.
He kept playing in local softball leagues longer than he should have, hitting the outfield fence in pursuit of a fly ball more than once.
He was an active participant in Special Olympics and proved to be a great shot on the basketball floor.
Today, at 60, his athletic endeavors are behind him.
But he’s still working, and he’s still deeply engaged in the community that helped raise him.
“This man knows everyone,” said Diane Smith at JRDS, where Bo is a client, working a regular schedule. “I don’t think he knows a stranger. He’s accepted everywhere.”
“He’s probably the most likeable guy in Portland in so many ways,” said Dave Hull at Ponderosa, where Bo worked until a fall at home required surgery on both legs. “He’s like everybody’s best friend.”
Bo’s nephew agrees.
“Bo has been able to live that happy-go-lucky lifestyle,” said Josh Gibson, who is Rick’s son. “He’s always looked on the positive side of things, and he wants very little. He just loves everybody.”
Now living with Dennis Mikel, the husband of his late sister Donna, Bo has a regular Saturday walk, checking in on people he cares about. There are at least 15 stops.
“He’s got a lot of favorite people,” said Rick.
His twin brother Stan has reflected more than once that while he has lived a rewarding life himself, Steve’s has been even richer.
On paper, that may not make sense.
After all, Stan was a firefighter for nine years with the Union City Fire Department, worked for the Indiana State Fire Marshal for five years, served eight years with Perry Township Fire Department in Indianapolis, and has been chief at Coos Bay since 1997.
It has been an impressive career.
But the way Stan does the math, factoring in the community’s love and affection, it’s no contest. His brother is the winner.
“I’m lucky too,” said Bo.
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