The woman in the front office sent me down the road, telling me to take the third entrance to the cemetery, pointing to a map that directed me to Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
And so I went looking for Bill Porter.
I walked the hill, but found only a wide swath of grass. If Bill was here, he was hiding. It made sense. He'd lived in anonymity until he reluctantly agreed to talk with me back in 1995.
At the time, Bill was 63 and lived in Northeast Portland. I'd learned he was a door-to-door salesman and I figured I'd do a funny feature on the rejections he received while peddling his wares from J.R. Watkins, a company based in Minnesota. Company officials gave me Bill's number, but told me he had cerebral palsy and spoke and walked with great difficulty. When I reached Bill, I could hardly understand him. He put me off, not wanting publicity. He did so three more times. But I showed up at his door unannounced one Saturday in an attempt to sell the salesman. He relented and let me into his life.
Over several months, I dug into his past, as I learned to understand the man. His birth had been difficult, forcing the doctor to use an instrument that crushed a portion of his brain, causing cerebral palsy, a nervous disorder that affected his speech, hands and gait. People thought he was mentally disabled. He was placed in special education classes at Lincoln High School. When he graduated, the state considered him unemployable and suggested he collect disability payments. His mother, a strong-willed woman, was certain he could rise above his limitations. She encouraged and challenged him.
For more than 40 years, he earned a living selling Watkins products on routes that took him through Portland's westside neighborhoods. At night, he'd return to his small house. I remember watching him, hunched over an old manual typewriter. He could use only one finger and one hand to type. The job usually took him hours, and I'd sit next to him, talking with him, watching him peck away at that machine, the sound filling the room.
Until I wrote about him, hardly anyone really knew Bill Porter. If anything, Portlanders recalled him only as the odd man who shuffled along the downtown transit mall, the strange man they spotted trudging through neighborhoods.
When his story first appeared, more than 2,000 people called or wrote the newspaper. As I've said in the past, this was back in the day before Facebook and Twitter. To say the story went viral would have made no sense back then. The article was reprinted by Reader's Digest. ABC's news magazine "20/20" picked up the original story and broadcast its own segment. The network received more than 2,000 calls and letters, at the time the most for any "20/20" story ever broadcast. In 2003, the TNT network made a television movie about Bill called "Door to Door." He told me his dead mother would have been proud of him.
In 2013, at the age of 81, he died in an assisted-living center in Gresham. As per his wishes, he was buried next to his mother at Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Southwest Portland: Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
A couple weeks ago, I heard he was buried in an unmarked grave, a sad ending for the man. I went out to see for myself. When I couldn't find his plot, I was ready to return to the cemetery office for help. But then a pickup truck slowly made its way up the road. The driver, Pat Balfe, an operations manager, pulled over to see if I needed anything. I explained the situation.
"I've been working here 35 years," he told me. "Let's go."
We walked up the hill. Balfe checked a gravestone to his left, then moved to the center of the grass.
"This is it," he said. "You can't see it, but I can make out the outline of the plot. Who are you looking for?"
Bill Porter.
"I remember that burial," he said. "I remember him. He was a Portland icon."
He stared at the grass.
"I can't believe there's no marker here," he said.
***
Bill had no girlfriend, no wife, no brothers and sisters.
But he did have Shelly Brady. They met when she was 17, a high school student who heard a man in the neighborhood was looking for an assistant. She got the job, and they were linked for the rest of his life. She married and had six children who considered Bill their grandfather.
Even though Bill was Watkins' top retail salesman in all of Oregon, Idaho, Washington and California, he lived a frugal life. He supported his mother. But he had financial difficulties, and health problems for years of walking on a body that had betrayed him. When his mother died, he didn't have money for her headstone. And when he died, he had no money left for one in his memory.
After his funeral, Brady collected all of his memorabilia and stored it in her Gresham home. She had the old salesman's raincoats, fedoras, wrist watches and glasses. She even had his old typewriter. None of it had value, and she thought about giving it to a thrift store. But she couldn't part with it and kept it stored.
Earlier this year, she decided that she wanted to get Bill and his mother headstones. But it had to be done in a way that he would have approved.
As easygoing as Bill could be, he was prickly and quick to anger if people felt sorry for him. He refused help and never wanted a handout. If he couldn't pay for something, he refused to take it.
When I was with Bill, I remember that his proudest moments came when he wrote his name on his checks to pay his own bills: medical insurance, a cleaning lady, someone to do his laundry and shopping for him. With his bad hand, it was a laborious process, but writing those checks reminded Bill he was earning his own way.
So Brady decided that Bill, in a sense, would pay for the gravestones himself. She called around and learned two stones would cost about $2,500 for engraving and placement.
She started a GoFundMe account. https://www.gofundme.com/24vppyc
To raise money, she planned to sell all of Bill's memorabilia. Word slowly got out, with people buying his things or simply making a donation. Before long, she'd raised $1,000. After the gravestones are paid for, Brady said, any additional money will be donated to United Cerebral Palsy in Bill's name. Last week, Watkins officials sent $1,000 and took memorabilia that will be on display in the company's museum.
Brady has enough money to get started. She expects the gravestones to be in place later this summer.
The Bill Porter I met years ago would have been humbled by the attention, that some of the tools of his trade will be on display in a museum. He could never figure out why his life story seemed to matter to strangers.
But it did.
Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
Rest in peace.
--Tom Hallman Jr.
[email protected]; 503 221-8224∼In the end, his body just didn't have the strength to fight.
Portland icon Bill Porter, whose inspirational story of battling cerebral palsy, was told in the movie "Door to Door" starring William Macy, died Wednesday after a short illness.
"It wasn't the disease that he fought that killed him," his long-ime friend, Shelly Brady, tells KATU. It was a regular infection.
Brady says that he was admitted to Legacy Mt. Hood Medical Center on Monday and died early Wednesday morning.
"It was very quick," she says. "And then he was gone. He led a long, inspiring life.
"He will be missed. He meant so much to so many."
Porter was told early in life that he would never be able to work. He chose to ignore those pronouncements and became a door-to-door salesman.
He would walk almost seven miles every day peddling wares for JR Watkins Company. They originally rejected his application, hiring him only after he agreed to take what was considered the least profitable route.
He found success whichever route he took, becoming an inspiration not just to others with cerebral palsy but to people from all walks of life.
His story was told by the Oregonian, Reader's Digest, People Magazine, in the television movie and several times on KATU.
KATU.com
http://cerebralpalsy.org/inspiration/inspirational-movies-2/door-to-door/∼Bill was a salesman for Watkins, going door to door. Bill was born with cerebral palsy, but he didn't let that stop him. He will be missed.
Bill made a movie "Door To Door" about his life.
And so I went looking for Bill Porter.
I walked the hill, but found only a wide swath of grass. If Bill was here, he was hiding. It made sense. He'd lived in anonymity until he reluctantly agreed to talk with me back in 1995.
At the time, Bill was 63 and lived in Northeast Portland. I'd learned he was a door-to-door salesman and I figured I'd do a funny feature on the rejections he received while peddling his wares from J.R. Watkins, a company based in Minnesota. Company officials gave me Bill's number, but told me he had cerebral palsy and spoke and walked with great difficulty. When I reached Bill, I could hardly understand him. He put me off, not wanting publicity. He did so three more times. But I showed up at his door unannounced one Saturday in an attempt to sell the salesman. He relented and let me into his life.
Over several months, I dug into his past, as I learned to understand the man. His birth had been difficult, forcing the doctor to use an instrument that crushed a portion of his brain, causing cerebral palsy, a nervous disorder that affected his speech, hands and gait. People thought he was mentally disabled. He was placed in special education classes at Lincoln High School. When he graduated, the state considered him unemployable and suggested he collect disability payments. His mother, a strong-willed woman, was certain he could rise above his limitations. She encouraged and challenged him.
For more than 40 years, he earned a living selling Watkins products on routes that took him through Portland's westside neighborhoods. At night, he'd return to his small house. I remember watching him, hunched over an old manual typewriter. He could use only one finger and one hand to type. The job usually took him hours, and I'd sit next to him, talking with him, watching him peck away at that machine, the sound filling the room.
Until I wrote about him, hardly anyone really knew Bill Porter. If anything, Portlanders recalled him only as the odd man who shuffled along the downtown transit mall, the strange man they spotted trudging through neighborhoods.
When his story first appeared, more than 2,000 people called or wrote the newspaper. As I've said in the past, this was back in the day before Facebook and Twitter. To say the story went viral would have made no sense back then. The article was reprinted by Reader's Digest. ABC's news magazine "20/20" picked up the original story and broadcast its own segment. The network received more than 2,000 calls and letters, at the time the most for any "20/20" story ever broadcast. In 2003, the TNT network made a television movie about Bill called "Door to Door." He told me his dead mother would have been proud of him.
In 2013, at the age of 81, he died in an assisted-living center in Gresham. As per his wishes, he was buried next to his mother at Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Southwest Portland: Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
A couple weeks ago, I heard he was buried in an unmarked grave, a sad ending for the man. I went out to see for myself. When I couldn't find his plot, I was ready to return to the cemetery office for help. But then a pickup truck slowly made its way up the road. The driver, Pat Balfe, an operations manager, pulled over to see if I needed anything. I explained the situation.
"I've been working here 35 years," he told me. "Let's go."
We walked up the hill. Balfe checked a gravestone to his left, then moved to the center of the grass.
"This is it," he said. "You can't see it, but I can make out the outline of the plot. Who are you looking for?"
Bill Porter.
"I remember that burial," he said. "I remember him. He was a Portland icon."
He stared at the grass.
"I can't believe there's no marker here," he said.
***
Bill had no girlfriend, no wife, no brothers and sisters.
But he did have Shelly Brady. They met when she was 17, a high school student who heard a man in the neighborhood was looking for an assistant. She got the job, and they were linked for the rest of his life. She married and had six children who considered Bill their grandfather.
Even though Bill was Watkins' top retail salesman in all of Oregon, Idaho, Washington and California, he lived a frugal life. He supported his mother. But he had financial difficulties, and health problems for years of walking on a body that had betrayed him. When his mother died, he didn't have money for her headstone. And when he died, he had no money left for one in his memory.
After his funeral, Brady collected all of his memorabilia and stored it in her Gresham home. She had the old salesman's raincoats, fedoras, wrist watches and glasses. She even had his old typewriter. None of it had value, and she thought about giving it to a thrift store. But she couldn't part with it and kept it stored.
Earlier this year, she decided that she wanted to get Bill and his mother headstones. But it had to be done in a way that he would have approved.
As easygoing as Bill could be, he was prickly and quick to anger if people felt sorry for him. He refused help and never wanted a handout. If he couldn't pay for something, he refused to take it.
When I was with Bill, I remember that his proudest moments came when he wrote his name on his checks to pay his own bills: medical insurance, a cleaning lady, someone to do his laundry and shopping for him. With his bad hand, it was a laborious process, but writing those checks reminded Bill he was earning his own way.
So Brady decided that Bill, in a sense, would pay for the gravestones himself. She called around and learned two stones would cost about $2,500 for engraving and placement.
She started a GoFundMe account. https://www.gofundme.com/24vppyc
To raise money, she planned to sell all of Bill's memorabilia. Word slowly got out, with people buying his things or simply making a donation. Before long, she'd raised $1,000. After the gravestones are paid for, Brady said, any additional money will be donated to United Cerebral Palsy in Bill's name. Last week, Watkins officials sent $1,000 and took memorabilia that will be on display in the company's museum.
Brady has enough money to get started. She expects the gravestones to be in place later this summer.
The Bill Porter I met years ago would have been humbled by the attention, that some of the tools of his trade will be on display in a museum. He could never figure out why his life story seemed to matter to strangers.
But it did.
Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
Rest in peace.
--Tom Hallman Jr.
[email protected]; 503 221-8224∼In the end, his body just didn't have the strength to fight.
Portland icon Bill Porter, whose inspirational story of battling cerebral palsy, was told in the movie "Door to Door" starring William Macy, died Wednesday after a short illness.
"It wasn't the disease that he fought that killed him," his long-ime friend, Shelly Brady, tells KATU. It was a regular infection.
Brady says that he was admitted to Legacy Mt. Hood Medical Center on Monday and died early Wednesday morning.
"It was very quick," she says. "And then he was gone. He led a long, inspiring life.
"He will be missed. He meant so much to so many."
Porter was told early in life that he would never be able to work. He chose to ignore those pronouncements and became a door-to-door salesman.
He would walk almost seven miles every day peddling wares for JR Watkins Company. They originally rejected his application, hiring him only after he agreed to take what was considered the least profitable route.
He found success whichever route he took, becoming an inspiration not just to others with cerebral palsy but to people from all walks of life.
His story was told by the Oregonian, Reader's Digest, People Magazine, in the television movie and several times on KATU.
KATU.com
http://cerebralpalsy.org/inspiration/inspirational-movies-2/door-to-door/∼Bill was a salesman for Watkins, going door to door. Bill was born with cerebral palsy, but he didn't let that stop him. He will be missed.
Bill made a movie "Door To Door" about his life.
The woman in the front office sent me down the road, telling me to take the third entrance to the cemetery, pointing to a map that directed me to Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
And so I went looking for Bill Porter.
I walked the hill, but found only a wide swath of grass. If Bill was here, he was hiding. It made sense. He'd lived in anonymity until he reluctantly agreed to talk with me back in 1995.
At the time, Bill was 63 and lived in Northeast Portland. I'd learned he was a door-to-door salesman and I figured I'd do a funny feature on the rejections he received while peddling his wares from J.R. Watkins, a company based in Minnesota. Company officials gave me Bill's number, but told me he had cerebral palsy and spoke and walked with great difficulty. When I reached Bill, I could hardly understand him. He put me off, not wanting publicity. He did so three more times. But I showed up at his door unannounced one Saturday in an attempt to sell the salesman. He relented and let me into his life.
Over several months, I dug into his past, as I learned to understand the man. His birth had been difficult, forcing the doctor to use an instrument that crushed a portion of his brain, causing cerebral palsy, a nervous disorder that affected his speech, hands and gait. People thought he was mentally disabled. He was placed in special education classes at Lincoln High School. When he graduated, the state considered him unemployable and suggested he collect disability payments. His mother, a strong-willed woman, was certain he could rise above his limitations. She encouraged and challenged him.
For more than 40 years, he earned a living selling Watkins products on routes that took him through Portland's westside neighborhoods. At night, he'd return to his small house. I remember watching him, hunched over an old manual typewriter. He could use only one finger and one hand to type. The job usually took him hours, and I'd sit next to him, talking with him, watching him peck away at that machine, the sound filling the room.
Until I wrote about him, hardly anyone really knew Bill Porter. If anything, Portlanders recalled him only as the odd man who shuffled along the downtown transit mall, the strange man they spotted trudging through neighborhoods.
When his story first appeared, more than 2,000 people called or wrote the newspaper. As I've said in the past, this was back in the day before Facebook and Twitter. To say the story went viral would have made no sense back then. The article was reprinted by Reader's Digest. ABC's news magazine "20/20" picked up the original story and broadcast its own segment. The network received more than 2,000 calls and letters, at the time the most for any "20/20" story ever broadcast. In 2003, the TNT network made a television movie about Bill called "Door to Door." He told me his dead mother would have been proud of him.
In 2013, at the age of 81, he died in an assisted-living center in Gresham. As per his wishes, he was buried next to his mother at Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Southwest Portland: Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
A couple weeks ago, I heard he was buried in an unmarked grave, a sad ending for the man. I went out to see for myself. When I couldn't find his plot, I was ready to return to the cemetery office for help. But then a pickup truck slowly made its way up the road. The driver, Pat Balfe, an operations manager, pulled over to see if I needed anything. I explained the situation.
"I've been working here 35 years," he told me. "Let's go."
We walked up the hill. Balfe checked a gravestone to his left, then moved to the center of the grass.
"This is it," he said. "You can't see it, but I can make out the outline of the plot. Who are you looking for?"
Bill Porter.
"I remember that burial," he said. "I remember him. He was a Portland icon."
He stared at the grass.
"I can't believe there's no marker here," he said.
***
Bill had no girlfriend, no wife, no brothers and sisters.
But he did have Shelly Brady. They met when she was 17, a high school student who heard a man in the neighborhood was looking for an assistant. She got the job, and they were linked for the rest of his life. She married and had six children who considered Bill their grandfather.
Even though Bill was Watkins' top retail salesman in all of Oregon, Idaho, Washington and California, he lived a frugal life. He supported his mother. But he had financial difficulties, and health problems for years of walking on a body that had betrayed him. When his mother died, he didn't have money for her headstone. And when he died, he had no money left for one in his memory.
After his funeral, Brady collected all of his memorabilia and stored it in her Gresham home. She had the old salesman's raincoats, fedoras, wrist watches and glasses. She even had his old typewriter. None of it had value, and she thought about giving it to a thrift store. But she couldn't part with it and kept it stored.
Earlier this year, she decided that she wanted to get Bill and his mother headstones. But it had to be done in a way that he would have approved.
As easygoing as Bill could be, he was prickly and quick to anger if people felt sorry for him. He refused help and never wanted a handout. If he couldn't pay for something, he refused to take it.
When I was with Bill, I remember that his proudest moments came when he wrote his name on his checks to pay his own bills: medical insurance, a cleaning lady, someone to do his laundry and shopping for him. With his bad hand, it was a laborious process, but writing those checks reminded Bill he was earning his own way.
So Brady decided that Bill, in a sense, would pay for the gravestones himself. She called around and learned two stones would cost about $2,500 for engraving and placement.
She started a GoFundMe account. https://www.gofundme.com/24vppyc
To raise money, she planned to sell all of Bill's memorabilia. Word slowly got out, with people buying his things or simply making a donation. Before long, she'd raised $1,000. After the gravestones are paid for, Brady said, any additional money will be donated to United Cerebral Palsy in Bill's name. Last week, Watkins officials sent $1,000 and took memorabilia that will be on display in the company's museum.
Brady has enough money to get started. She expects the gravestones to be in place later this summer.
The Bill Porter I met years ago would have been humbled by the attention, that some of the tools of his trade will be on display in a museum. He could never figure out why his life story seemed to matter to strangers.
But it did.
Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
Rest in peace.
--Tom Hallman Jr.
[email protected]; 503 221-8224∼In the end, his body just didn't have the strength to fight.
Portland icon Bill Porter, whose inspirational story of battling cerebral palsy, was told in the movie "Door to Door" starring William Macy, died Wednesday after a short illness.
"It wasn't the disease that he fought that killed him," his long-ime friend, Shelly Brady, tells KATU. It was a regular infection.
Brady says that he was admitted to Legacy Mt. Hood Medical Center on Monday and died early Wednesday morning.
"It was very quick," she says. "And then he was gone. He led a long, inspiring life.
"He will be missed. He meant so much to so many."
Porter was told early in life that he would never be able to work. He chose to ignore those pronouncements and became a door-to-door salesman.
He would walk almost seven miles every day peddling wares for JR Watkins Company. They originally rejected his application, hiring him only after he agreed to take what was considered the least profitable route.
He found success whichever route he took, becoming an inspiration not just to others with cerebral palsy but to people from all walks of life.
His story was told by the Oregonian, Reader's Digest, People Magazine, in the television movie and several times on KATU.
KATU.com
http://cerebralpalsy.org/inspiration/inspirational-movies-2/door-to-door/∼Bill was a salesman for Watkins, going door to door. Bill was born with cerebral palsy, but he didn't let that stop him. He will be missed.
Bill made a movie "Door To Door" about his life.
And so I went looking for Bill Porter.
I walked the hill, but found only a wide swath of grass. If Bill was here, he was hiding. It made sense. He'd lived in anonymity until he reluctantly agreed to talk with me back in 1995.
At the time, Bill was 63 and lived in Northeast Portland. I'd learned he was a door-to-door salesman and I figured I'd do a funny feature on the rejections he received while peddling his wares from J.R. Watkins, a company based in Minnesota. Company officials gave me Bill's number, but told me he had cerebral palsy and spoke and walked with great difficulty. When I reached Bill, I could hardly understand him. He put me off, not wanting publicity. He did so three more times. But I showed up at his door unannounced one Saturday in an attempt to sell the salesman. He relented and let me into his life.
Over several months, I dug into his past, as I learned to understand the man. His birth had been difficult, forcing the doctor to use an instrument that crushed a portion of his brain, causing cerebral palsy, a nervous disorder that affected his speech, hands and gait. People thought he was mentally disabled. He was placed in special education classes at Lincoln High School. When he graduated, the state considered him unemployable and suggested he collect disability payments. His mother, a strong-willed woman, was certain he could rise above his limitations. She encouraged and challenged him.
For more than 40 years, he earned a living selling Watkins products on routes that took him through Portland's westside neighborhoods. At night, he'd return to his small house. I remember watching him, hunched over an old manual typewriter. He could use only one finger and one hand to type. The job usually took him hours, and I'd sit next to him, talking with him, watching him peck away at that machine, the sound filling the room.
Until I wrote about him, hardly anyone really knew Bill Porter. If anything, Portlanders recalled him only as the odd man who shuffled along the downtown transit mall, the strange man they spotted trudging through neighborhoods.
When his story first appeared, more than 2,000 people called or wrote the newspaper. As I've said in the past, this was back in the day before Facebook and Twitter. To say the story went viral would have made no sense back then. The article was reprinted by Reader's Digest. ABC's news magazine "20/20" picked up the original story and broadcast its own segment. The network received more than 2,000 calls and letters, at the time the most for any "20/20" story ever broadcast. In 2003, the TNT network made a television movie about Bill called "Door to Door." He told me his dead mother would have been proud of him.
In 2013, at the age of 81, he died in an assisted-living center in Gresham. As per his wishes, he was buried next to his mother at Mount Calvary Catholic Cemetery in Southwest Portland: Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
A couple weeks ago, I heard he was buried in an unmarked grave, a sad ending for the man. I went out to see for myself. When I couldn't find his plot, I was ready to return to the cemetery office for help. But then a pickup truck slowly made its way up the road. The driver, Pat Balfe, an operations manager, pulled over to see if I needed anything. I explained the situation.
"I've been working here 35 years," he told me. "Let's go."
We walked up the hill. Balfe checked a gravestone to his left, then moved to the center of the grass.
"This is it," he said. "You can't see it, but I can make out the outline of the plot. Who are you looking for?"
Bill Porter.
"I remember that burial," he said. "I remember him. He was a Portland icon."
He stared at the grass.
"I can't believe there's no marker here," he said.
***
Bill had no girlfriend, no wife, no brothers and sisters.
But he did have Shelly Brady. They met when she was 17, a high school student who heard a man in the neighborhood was looking for an assistant. She got the job, and they were linked for the rest of his life. She married and had six children who considered Bill their grandfather.
Even though Bill was Watkins' top retail salesman in all of Oregon, Idaho, Washington and California, he lived a frugal life. He supported his mother. But he had financial difficulties, and health problems for years of walking on a body that had betrayed him. When his mother died, he didn't have money for her headstone. And when he died, he had no money left for one in his memory.
After his funeral, Brady collected all of his memorabilia and stored it in her Gresham home. She had the old salesman's raincoats, fedoras, wrist watches and glasses. She even had his old typewriter. None of it had value, and she thought about giving it to a thrift store. But she couldn't part with it and kept it stored.
Earlier this year, she decided that she wanted to get Bill and his mother headstones. But it had to be done in a way that he would have approved.
As easygoing as Bill could be, he was prickly and quick to anger if people felt sorry for him. He refused help and never wanted a handout. If he couldn't pay for something, he refused to take it.
When I was with Bill, I remember that his proudest moments came when he wrote his name on his checks to pay his own bills: medical insurance, a cleaning lady, someone to do his laundry and shopping for him. With his bad hand, it was a laborious process, but writing those checks reminded Bill he was earning his own way.
So Brady decided that Bill, in a sense, would pay for the gravestones himself. She called around and learned two stones would cost about $2,500 for engraving and placement.
She started a GoFundMe account. https://www.gofundme.com/24vppyc
To raise money, she planned to sell all of Bill's memorabilia. Word slowly got out, with people buying his things or simply making a donation. Before long, she'd raised $1,000. After the gravestones are paid for, Brady said, any additional money will be donated to United Cerebral Palsy in Bill's name. Last week, Watkins officials sent $1,000 and took memorabilia that will be on display in the company's museum.
Brady has enough money to get started. She expects the gravestones to be in place later this summer.
The Bill Porter I met years ago would have been humbled by the attention, that some of the tools of his trade will be on display in a museum. He could never figure out why his life story seemed to matter to strangers.
But it did.
Section W, Lot 3260, grave No. 6.
Rest in peace.
--Tom Hallman Jr.
[email protected]; 503 221-8224∼In the end, his body just didn't have the strength to fight.
Portland icon Bill Porter, whose inspirational story of battling cerebral palsy, was told in the movie "Door to Door" starring William Macy, died Wednesday after a short illness.
"It wasn't the disease that he fought that killed him," his long-ime friend, Shelly Brady, tells KATU. It was a regular infection.
Brady says that he was admitted to Legacy Mt. Hood Medical Center on Monday and died early Wednesday morning.
"It was very quick," she says. "And then he was gone. He led a long, inspiring life.
"He will be missed. He meant so much to so many."
Porter was told early in life that he would never be able to work. He chose to ignore those pronouncements and became a door-to-door salesman.
He would walk almost seven miles every day peddling wares for JR Watkins Company. They originally rejected his application, hiring him only after he agreed to take what was considered the least profitable route.
He found success whichever route he took, becoming an inspiration not just to others with cerebral palsy but to people from all walks of life.
His story was told by the Oregonian, Reader's Digest, People Magazine, in the television movie and several times on KATU.
KATU.com
http://cerebralpalsy.org/inspiration/inspirational-movies-2/door-to-door/∼Bill was a salesman for Watkins, going door to door. Bill was born with cerebral palsy, but he didn't let that stop him. He will be missed.
Bill made a movie "Door To Door" about his life.
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