ANNAPOLIS, Md. (Tribune News Service) — By all accounts, July 20, 1974, was shaping up to be an ordinary day for Annapolis resident Robert Henson. That was until the Army veteran and mechanic at Capitol Motors, then in his mid-30s, was walking down West Street near his shop.

He heard children yelling and saw plumes of smoke rising from a burning car. Without hesitation, he headed for the flames and pulled out sisters Michelle and Dana Moreland, 4 and 2 years old, respectively, at the time.

Though awards and accolades were to follow, to this day, Henson doesn’t consider himself a hero.

“I don’t think that, actually, I did anything that any other red-blooded American wouldn’t have done in the same circumstances,” Henson, now 85, said in an interview.

He said he considered it more of an instance of kismet than heroism. While he grabbed the kids from the burning car, an off-duty firefighter, Nelson Phipps, extinguished the flames. Capital photographer Tom Darden happened to be passing by and snapped some shots. A copy of the newspaper article describing Henson’s actions still hangs in his house next to an award he received for the deed.

Fifty years later, Henson is the one who needs help. He resides in a small home near Truxtun Park and takes care of his 43-year-old daughter, Robin Henson, who has cerebral palsy. Both are wheelchair-bound and live on Social Security. Neither has the money to renovate their home to be more accessible.

City, county and state officials and nonprofits got wind of Henson’s story in the fall and have been doing what they can to get the home renovated, but the high cost of construction and bureaucratic red tape are presenting challenges.

Assisting those in need is second nature for Henson, who spent six years in the Army just before the Vietnam War. But asking for help is more of a challenge for him.

When his wife, Ernestine, who worked as a cafeteria manager for Anne Arundel County Public Schools, died in 2021, he didn’t ask for help. Nor did he seek aid when he had a heart attack in 2020, or three years later when he broke his leg and foot after tripping and falling unconscious on the sidewalk in front of his home. He’s relied on his “trusty rusty” wheelchair ever since. But now he worries.

“If something happens to me, what happens to her?” Henson said of his daughter.

Though Robin Henson has an aide provided by the county’s Department of Aging and Disabilities, the two fear she would be sent to an assisted living facility in the event of her father’s death. That’s an unacceptable fate for the younger Henson.

“I don’t want to leave,” she said, welling up with tears at the thought. “I grew up here.”

While the home may be no bigger than a one-bedroom apartment, it’s Robin Henson’s whole world. She’s lived there since she was 10 years old and spends most days with her father in their twin recliners watching football, old game shows and westerns. Despite having limited motor skills, she is a master crafter and likes to crochet gifts for friends and family from the comfort of the house, which features displays of her works.

The elder Henson fears the home’s rickety, makeshift front porch ramp and shoebox bathroom and kitchen will not be adequate to meet the needs of his daughter, whose mobility is even more restricted than her father’s.

Father and daughter have applied for county, state and federal assistance, but it’s been an uphill battle to get the money. Questionnaires they fill out include inquiries the pair finds offensive, like when was the last time they showered. Medical professionals sometimes tell them they can’t provide Robin Henson the care she needs in such modest accommodations.

A few years after Robin Henson was born in 1980, her father asked the state about financial assistance. While he spent most of his career as a truck driver, he was doing odd jobs at the time and drowning in the expenses of caring for a disabled child.

“They wrote me back from the state, handwritten letter, saying take the money that you making and split it between you, your daughter and your wife. That was it. No assistance,” Henson said.

Finally, in 2003 they qualified for Social Security benefits.

The Department of Aging and Disability connected the two with Greg Cantori, owner and founder of Little Deeds, a Pasadena-based redevelopment company that renovates the homes of elderly and disabled people to better suit their changing needs.

Installing a new ramp, Cantori estimated, would cost $5,000 Renovating the kitchen and bathroom would be around $45,000. It might cost up to $170,000 to remodel the entire house. Tearing down the home and rebuilding would be the easier solution, but the Hensons were adamant about maintaining their home. Cantori said that people he works with “almost always” want to stay in their homes.

“They don’t want to lose this,” Cantori said. “This is their last bit of independence, their last bit of control.”

While his initial plans include new floors, cabinets, appliances, varying height counters, grab bars, a roll-in shower and an accessible toilet and sink, with a house in this condition more costs could accrue, Cantori said.

Cantori told Annapolis Alderman Brooks Schandelmeier of the situation in October. Schandelmeier, along with Annapolis area Del. Dana Jones, secured some funding from the state’s Department of Housing and Community Development. The two said he may be eligible for up to $75,000. Whether that is a loan or a grant is yet to be determined.

The Anne Arundel County Veterans Commission soon got involved and created a GoFundMe, which, as of Friday, has raised $4,220, less than than the cost of a new ramp.

“I think the biggest challenge with so many of these stories is it’s all a coordination issue,” said Brooks Tucker, of the county’s veterans commission.

All entities do what they can for a resident in need but regulatory hurdles and siloed government offices can cause delays. In the meantime, a local veteran needs help and a local contractor is ready and willing to do the work.

As Henson recalled his past and all he did to protect his family — working nearly his entire life, sacrificing a high school diploma so his family could afford his sisters’ education and serving in the military — a laminated copy of the news article recounting his heroism in 1974 hangs on the wall behind him.

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