"She definitely knew what she needed and she was not shy about speaking up," said Erick Miller. From seventh grade to the end of 12th grade at Hoover High School in Fresno, he pushed her wheelchair from class to class.
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Penny's case was the most severe, requiring long hospital stays, several surgeries and the implantation of steel rods to keep her spine straight.Īt 6, "she spent three months in this iron lung, looking out at the world from a tilted mirror that was just above her face," Jim Miller said.Ī few years later, after the family had moved to California's San Joaquin Valley, her younger brother Erick said, "she spent a year in a full body cast in our living room."īut she emerged strong enough to attend school alongside Erick, a year younger. In all, three of the seven Miller children would contract polio, posing steep challenges for their parents, a newspaperman and a nurse. She was "incredibly resilient," said Jim Miller, of Fresno.
Their father later told the children that she had received the placebo.īut she retained determination, wit and patience enough to earn a college degree, marry, raise children and work 35 years for Fresno County and Fresno's Community Regional Medical Center, helping connect people with services. Miller, better known in her grown-up years as Penny Foreman of Clovis, was part of the effort that defeated the disease.Īs researchers searched for weapons against the virus in 1954, 6-year-old Penny and her 8-year-old brother Jim joined thousands of boys and girls in an 11-state medical trial, receiving an injection that included either the new vaccine or a placebo.īy April 1955, when Jonas Salk's approved polio vaccine was shipped nationwide, Penny had lost use of her legs, with both arms severely weakened. Lauderdale, Fla., first-grader named Penelope A. The deadliest American epidemic of the 1950s was polio, which killed thousands of children and paralyzed tens of thousands more.Ī Ft. In addition to his wife and daughters, he is survived by his mother, Mary a sister, Lisa and four grandchildren. “He was a very present father,” Natter said.Īyala was hospitalized and diagnosed with COVID-19 shortly after Thanksgiving. He was a high-energy guy and loved diving in to help out.”īeing a huge San Francisco Giants fan – he and Nancy and their two daughters, Erin and Heather, would drive from Modesto to Candlestick Park when they held season tickets – Ayala was thrilled to celebrate the team’s three championships during the past decade, sharing that delight with his family. “If a fundraiser came along, he’d organize it. “If someone needed help with bills, he’d throw a dinner,” Natter said. Possessing a personality as big as his heart, he was known and liked by just about everyone in the small community. Ayala also was active with the Kiwanis Club and Sierra Bible Church in Sonora. During his career, he served as a patrolman and sergeant, retiring as a lieutenant commander in Sonora.Īyala then shifted gears, stepping in to be the executive director of the Tuolumne County Chamber of Commerce for three years when the organization was struggling. Though that choice of vocation was made with an eye toward stability, Ayala soon realized that law enforcement was a good fit for his leadership and problem-solving skills. And he embraced that.”īorn in Burlingame and raised in San Bruno, Ayala married his high school sweetheart Nancy in 1974 in Long Beach and joined the Highway Patrol five years later. He was so charismatic that people just gravitated toward him. “He had the heart and the talent and the personality to meet just about any demand,” said his daughter Erin Natter.
He just shifted his focus to his church and local civic groups around his Sonora home, filling needs, lending his time, getting things done.
Michael Ayala retired from the California Highway Patrol in 2009 after putting in 30 years.
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