Silent boy from the farm becomes a man of the world
Paul Marshall helped give a voice to those who couldn’t talk
In another life, he might have grown up to be a farmer.
One of his fondest memories was sitting on dad’s lap when they wheeled wagons full of grain into the barn.
But Paul Marshall was born different, and had to choose another path. Instead of plowing the fields around Binbrook, he wandered the world and made sure thousands of people like him knew that they mattered.
Here’s a clip from one of his appearances in Peru:
“I was born on a cold wintry day in February. It was 15 minutes before I got oxygen at birth. Just trying to hold out for a warmer day! The lack of oxygen affected my fine motor movements and left me a nonspeaking individual.
“The doctors told my parents I would never walk or do anything with my life … Don’t get too focused putting limitations on a life that needs to be developed and cultivated differently.”
They called Paul to Peru three times. He did presentations in South Africa twice. There were others in Holland, Ireland, Israel, Brazil.
But it ended back in Binbrook. On the Sunday before last, they packed the Agricultural Hall to say goodbye to a fearless, funny man. Paul was 53 and ready to go.
He was the youngest son of Rosemary and Doug Marshall, and raised on a 180-acre spread on Trinity Church Road. It had been in the family since 1881.
Rosemary gave birth to Malcolm in 1958. In 1960, Steve. And in 1963, Paul.
The contractions had come hard and fast. Dr. Donald Bell rushed Rosemary to the Henderson. She knew there were problems, but nobody said just what.
A few months later, a community nurse came to the house. She said, “He has cerebral palsy, does he?”
It was the first time Paul’s parents had heard that.
But there was a farm to run, and Paul was part of it. They were family, and together they would make it work. Paul often went with his parents to the market at Centre Mall and polished apples to a showroom shine. On the farm, he found all kinds of ways to help out at the helm of the John Deere.
But there was frustration in his life, because communication was so hard. Rosemary saw it building and she worried.
That changed when, at age 12, Paul was introduced to a symbol language called Blissymbolics. He mentioned this discovery in a column he wrote while a member of the Spectator’s Community Editorial Board:
“In Hamilton, it was a dedicated teacher, Barbara Rush, who became the pioneer. Everybody involved knew they had found a vital key that could unlock trapped minds.”
Paul’s Spec pieces were an eyeopener to some. People who sat in the same church week after week suddenly understood that while the man one pew over couldn’t speak, he sure could think.
Communication became everything for Paul. Computers with voice outputs made that easier yet, and he did Internet duties for a Bliss centre in Bala. People there respected his brainpower.
Not always so, on the street. Paul would take the GO bus to Toronto to help at a mission downtown. On the day after his father’s funeral years ago, he jerkily made his way along Yonge when a belligerent panhandler knocked him down. People walked right by, thinking it was just two drunks having it out.
Paul brushed himself off, got on with life. But in recent times, he had to use a wheelchair. And for the past year or so, there’s been pain, sometimes excruciating.
Paul prayed to be set free. And he put some lines together. An excerpt:
“I know the great feeling of turning over a field in the spring. I know the great feeling of being a spark that influences positive change. Yes, my life has been hugely blessed …
“My life will have a sunset. Until then, let my disability count, and may others gain by knowing the real me.”