A fixture of my northwest Iowa hometown died recently. Robert “Bobby” Hutchinson was 77 years old and had lived his entire life in Sac City.

I was surprised when I found him on my hometown funeral home's website, which I check periodically to see who might have passed that I would know. (I am in that age group now.)

What surprised me the most, though, was that he was only 11 years older than me and, frankly, I figured he had died long ago.

His obituary noted that he was one of a set of triplets born to Joe and Eva Hutchinson in 1940, and also one of 14 siblings in the family. I knew the family was large, but not that large. How Joe, a short, wiry plumber and handyman, managed to feed all those kids growing up I'll never know. They must have been spread out close to 20 years.

Everyone knew Bobby when I was growing up because he rode his bicycle everywhere, as did all of us town kids. He had a fairly severe speech impediment and somehow was just not quite right. We all assumed he was born with some sort of mental disability, something not quite as severe as Down's Syndrome.

A short, stocky man, Bobby Huck, as he called himself, never knew a stranger. Everyone was his friend, except of course those short-sighted people who made fun of him. He was aware enough to know who to stay away from.

He worked several different jobs and was always willing to help people out. Like I said, he was stout. My dad, a bricklayer and cement mason, befriended him and always patiently stopped to visit with him a few minutes when Bobby happened by a job site.

Whenever I would run into Bobby, he would ask me, “How's 'enard?” My dad's name was Leonard.

Some people wouldn't talk to him because they couldn't understand him, but I could. I never had a problem understanding Bobby. You just had to listen carefully.

His obituary also explained something else: Bobby didn't have a birth defect. He fell down a flight of stairs when he was 2 years old and suffered a head injury that led to his disability. Remember, this was the 1940s, and the practice of medicine was much cruder than it is today.

The write-up also notes Bobby attended public school, but it doesn't say how far he got and doesn't mention any diploma. I would guess he didn't make it past second or third grade. I don't think he could read or write, except maybe to scribble his name on an official document.

In the 1940s, there was no such thing as special education in the public schools. In fact, left-handed students often got their wrist slapped with a ruler if they tried to learn to write cursive with their left hand. (By the 1950s, I was able to escape that punishment, thank goodness; I can't do anything right-handed.)

Today, along with modern medicine and technology, Bobby would be mainstreamed in his local public school, and be offered every opportunity to succeed, perhaps even with a one-on-one tutor aiding his instruction. Bobby likely would have walked the boards smiling and waving at his high school graduation.

How different would his life have been had that opportunity been there for him?

The inclusivity of public education in America is something to keep in mind these days as pressure builds to cut taxes and cap teacher salaries and alternatives to public education keep popping up, including charter schools and private schools. Public schools have to try to educate the Bobbys of this world while those other schools don't, arguing they either don't have the resources or the facilities to accommodate them. That's convenient.

As far as I know, Bobby never found love or even a life companion, yet he was a friend to everyone and always had a sunny disposition. According to his obituary, he did enjoy a full life, with hobbies that included bowling, needlecraft, embroidery and assembling model cars. He also made cakes that he entered in the county fair and won ribbons. He worked at a local construction company and egg plant in town and delivered fresh popcorn to downtown businesses every Friday.

So Bobby was dealt a hand from a deck missing a few cards, but he embraced life all the same and managed to live a fairly long one, probably in part due to all that bike riding over the years.

He also outlived 11 of his siblings, three of whom died in infancy.

Just about every town has a version of Bobby Huck with a different variety of infirmity, and their very existence and support from friends and family provide life lessons for us all.

Randy Miller is a retired city editor for The Hawk Eye. Readers can reach him at rmilleronmain@gmail.com.