The Doctor Made House Calls

Dr. Herold made house calls. His doctor's office was actually in his house, or the parlor portion of his house on the side. It had a seperate entrance from the home entrance. My sister, JoAnn, and her husband Pat (Patrick) had six kids: Patrick, Michael, Cynthia, Jennifer, Barbara and Ronald. And then there was me. Jesse. Patrick was only three years younger than me. And my parents lived about 3 blocks away from my sister and her family. I recall dividing my time between the two homes; sometimes in my sister's house for days, sleeping one place or the other - not always by my own choice but often enough being where I wanted to be at the time. Both houses were in Manchester, on one side of the valley. Mt. Wolf, and equally small town, was on the other side of the valley. The railroad tracks that ran through the valley split the two small villages of houses, which were otherwise more like one, nestled in the rolling hills on the eastern side of the Appalachain Mountains in southeastern Pennsylvania; not far from the Mason Dixon Line that seperated Pennsylvania from Maryland.

I remember spending most of my time at my sister's house. Eating. Playing. Swimming. Going to visit my Aunt Eddie and Uncle Toady's farm with my sister and her family. Or to the drive-in movies in the Summer in the big station wagon with the wooden panels on the sides (remember how you took the speaker off the post and hooked it on your window?). Or to "town," that is: to York - the city. Usually on Saturday mornings to the Farmer's Market; that is downtown (and is still there and open on Saturdays - it is something we still do when I go home to visit). That was technically the grocery store. Although there were two general stores in Manchester: Stough's was the biggest one, a large store in the center of town at the only stop sign (later a stop light), and across the street from the post office, which included not only groceries and a butcher (meat) counter, but household items, fabric, notions, and just about anything else that you would need in the 50s and 60s. (And I might add, the best penny candy selection in the entire world at that time!) Both of the corner stores, and a third "news stand" store that was open on Sundays, are no longer in existence in Manchester. Only the big box grocery store remains, out on the highway as you drive into town from the City of York to the south.

Six kids at home were alot of kids even in the 50s and 60s. And when one kid got sick, it was bound to spread to the rest of the kids. And me as well. Which brings me back to Dr. Herold. A country doctor. A family doctor. A doctor who made house calls. A doctor who had his office in his home. He delivered babies. He had office hours on Saturday. He was always available when someone was sick, or hurt, or being born, or dying. Dr. Herold was the go to guy; the one who knew every child, every parent, every grand parent and family in the valley. The doctor who administered 'gray grip pills' for every possible ailment you could manage to get, suffer from, contract, come down with or just plain have.

And we didn't follow up our visit to his office, even if it was a Saturday, with a trip to the pharmacy. Not when I was younger, although we had a pharmacy by the time I was in high school in the 60s. We just got our gray grip pills from Dr. Herold at his office, after our appointment with the Doctor or when he came to the house for a 'house call.' Often he gave my sister a good supply of 'gray grip pills,' as there were so many of us and so many reasons to need them. They cured all kinds of childhood ills: fevers, stomach aches, pains, headaches, coughs, sneezes, and whatever else we could catch and give to one another. The 'little gray grip pills' were kept on the second shelf in the kitchen, in the cupboard next to the refridgerator, above the plastic water glasses. The glass water glasses were kept on a higher shelf, to keep us kids from using them and probably breaking them. My sister was the keeper and the administrator of those little gray wonders that fixed everything.

I remember clearly the visits to his office. The smells, the leather chairs in the waiting area. His crisp white medical coat, with his dress shirt and tie peaking out at the neckline. His shiney black dress shoes, and his stethoscope around his neck. His pockets were filled with his other tools, to look into your ears, your eyes and down your throat. He always said, "Hmmm.... un-huh. Hmmmmm." At least that is all he said to us kids. He primarily spoke to my sister Joann, or on the occassions when I went to the doctor's with my mother, Dr. Herold spoke to her. And then, always, ALWAYS, there was a lollipop at the end of the visit. The best lollipops ever, that lasted a long time. Along with the little bottle of 'gray grip pills.' Followed by a bit of conversation about the other members of the family and how they were doing. And a warm and friendly good bye. I don't ever remember seeing money change hands, although I am sure it did in some way.

And I remember well, that gray grip pills cured everything. So there was no need to worry. You would be well soon. When ever you were feeling sick, or feverish, or just plain 'under the weather,' you would get a blanket on the counch in the living room, a glass (plastic) of ice water (or sometimes some warm Plitt's ginergale), and a little gray grip pill. If you were really under the weather, this special treatment could go on for as many days as needed. The lights were dimed so you could rest comfortably, and everyone else had to be quiet until you felt better. They seem to fix everything that ailed you. Some things real and some imagined (no doubt). They worked every time. Every single time. Oh, how I long for a those little 'gray grip pills' to fix what ails me. And the warm comfort of my sister, attending to me because I was feeling poorly. Actually, there are many times in my life since then, I could have use a little gray grip pill to fix what ailed me. Or possibly, a pair of ruby red slippers might have worked as well.

Becoming Thelma Louise

I think I am becoming my mother. Thelma Louise. Honest, that is (was) her name. And she was both of them to some degree, the women in the movie Thelma & Louise, played by Susan Sarandon (Louise) and Geena Davis (Thelma). Many of you may only remember Brad Pitt as J.D. in the movie, in his first significant role in a major Hollywood film. Or maybe you recall the ending scene in the movie, when they drove their light blue 1966 Thunderbird convertible off the cliff to escape their troubled, caged lives, and floated downward (fade to black). I love that part of the movie. Probably the best all-time chick flick ever. Honestly, my mother was a bit of both of them: both confident and not; logical but not. She was a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction. At least, that is how I saw her and how I remember her in my life.

I really beleive I am becoming my mother, at least part of me is in some degree or form. Just little things, habits, ways of doing things and even sometimes a perspective or two. In addition to the approximatly nine months we spent in a very close relationship, we only influenced one another for another 17 years and 8 or nine months (give or take a month). I admit that during that first nine months I had little or no control over my life and the situation, and was completely dependent and relatively obedient to my mothers wishes for the most part. I actually had little contact with my father during those nine months. I no doubt only responded to such things as diet, space concerns and energy levels. My rants and raves were limited.

In the outside world, I am told, I quickly learned to exercise my control of my world and all situations, even prior to finding the words to define my thoughts, wants and needs. Being a relatively cute baby (of course!) and adorable small child of "older" parents, I apparently learned quickly to exercise my control of situations with stellar results. My sister JoAnn, can certainly confirm this to be true. I pretty much got what I wanted and did anything I wanted all through my childhood and throughout my school years; sometimes with only the stomp of the foot, a frowny face, or shedding a few tears. As time progressed through those next 17 years, I honned my skills and apparently I became quite an expert at getting what I wanted when I wanted it. I thought that was the way life was for everyone. My world was very small.

And then I was gone. More than a thousand miles away, with no cell phones, or email, or text messaging or video conferencing to tie us together. All that passed was an occasional phone call (when I had a phone or access to one), mostly when I needed something like money. Or an occassional letter or card with a ranting or two between us - my mother and I. My mother's anger at me was always evident, whether it was a phone call or a letter. Thelma could convey an angry and disappointed voice loud and clear on the phone as well as in her letters and cards. And the feelings were mutual - my anger and disappointment was directed back at her. I only ever initiated the contact when I wanted something. I grew up that way - in the shadow of all that anger and frustration and disappointment. I thought that was the way it was for everyone. It is all that I knew. Once I left, I quickly learned that wasn't so: Life didn't hand you WHAT your wanted, WHEN you wanted it.

It was Thelma Louise who taught me to rant. She ranted, and sometimes raved. I am pretty sure that is true - although it was not referred to ranting at that time in my life. Thelma Louise's rants and ranting more resembled the concepts associated with criticisim, admonishment, accusation and condemnation. At least in the later years of our cohabitation, after I began to exercise my own form of ranting, i.e., that I found my voice, or better said that I connected my voice to my thoughts and began to form opinions of my own. So as this thing called the aging process advances - and it is advancing quickly - I have learned to become congnizant to minimize the negatives of life, aging and the things that life constantly hurls at you. I am really just talking about life's everyday challenges, and how we address them as individuals: what we let 'roll off our back, what bothers us, what we beleive in and not, and what we take up as a cause or purpose or belief. And what we teach our children.

Full Moon Rise 9.4.2009

The moon rise over Lake Superior tonight couldn't have been more beautiful. A perfect full moon ascend into the night sky! After a full day of good hard work outside in the sun with friends both old and new, fabulous food and full-energy, balls out rock-a-billy live music by the Twistin' Taranchalas. I couldn't dream up a better scenerio of a 'perfect storm' day. And it is only the begining of what should be one of the best weekends to end the not-so-very-warm Summer of 2009. Even with the weather as cool and wet as it was, this was a fun-filled, busy, exicting and surprising Summer. With paths crossing with many long lost and nearly forgotten old friends, as well as some chance encounters with new and interesting souls along the trail. I am more than gratful for the never ending stream of surpises in my life - with each day bringing something new and interesting!

RRR 1:9

I Read Obituaries

I admit it. I read obituaries. I am a habitual about reading obituaries. There, I said it. I admitted it publically. Go ahead, judge me. Or not, and read on.

Obituaries provide comentary as well as archival information. They are in essence, the last testament of a life. They are not only a person's record of living and dying but can be a tribute, a celebration of life, one's essence of being, living and dying. Often times, an obituary is also a geneology, and tells the story of one's life. A short history of record, birth, living, one's accomplishments and finally, dying; the passing of a human being and the spirit of their life. A once living, breathing person who was a child, young adult, man, woman, brother, sister, cousin, aunt(y), uncle, mother, father, grand-mother, grand-father, neighbor, friend, rival (enemy), mate, co-worker, teacher, student, acquaintance, stranger in someone's (your) life. Often mutiple things on this list, and other "somethings" as well, that I may have missed.

I don't just read the obituaries of people I know, but of the last record of ordinary, everyday people that I've never even met. And famous people, too. Famous people and well-known, people on the local and regional level, as well as national and international arenas. People from just down the street, the next town or state, from around the world who may be well-known people or just the garden variety of every day unknown people. Weird, huh? But then again not - I think. Obituaries are history, a human being's story of their path in life: a "freeze dried" summary for print, for public record. History at its most personal level. No one should go un-noticed or unrecorded. No one. And for some, the only public recognition for most of us, the only public acclaim for living is the obituary. And they should be read - their last chance to be noticed, appreciated or recognized. The last record of existance on earth.

I read the obits in the local paper(s) where I live, and when I am out of town or traveling, I read my local obituaries on-line. I sometimes puruse the regional papers, just out of plain curiosity. My favorite, obviously for some who understand this habit, are the obituaries in the New York Times newspaper. The Rolls Royce of obituary aclaim. I have been know to pursue the obits in the York Daily Record (my hometown paper), Chicago Tribune and the Seattle Times, as well and frequently I might add. For example, from NYT Obituaries, on March 4, 2009:














Update 5:20 p.m. Horton Foote, who chronicled America’s wistful odyssey through the 20th century in plays and films mostly set in a small town in Texas and left a literary legacy as one of the country’s foremost storytellers, died in Hartford, Conn., on Wednesday. He was 92, said his daughter, Hallie Foote. (Who knew? How else would ordinary people know?)

The Society of Professional Obituary Writers (SPOW), is the professional organization created for folks who "write about the dead for a living." Most members are journalists, who work for news organizations. From their website: "We want those who write articles about the recently deceased to regard obituaries as once-in-a-lifetime stories that should be researched, reported and penned with as much care and attention as any other newsroom assignment." They are a fledgling organization in development, by self admission, with membership, development activities, an on-line forum, and an annual conference (April 2010). And awards, inlcuding the Lifetime Achievement Award (2008) to Jim Nicholson from the Philadelphia Daily News. There are a few examples of his obits provided. The Best Celebrity Obituary (Long) in 2007, was awarded to Sandra Martin from the Globe and Mail, for her obit on The Honest Ed Story - Mr. Toronto dies at 92. There is also the Best Average Joe Obituary (Long), awarded to Tom Hawthorne in 2007, also from the Globe and Mail, for his story on "the tattoed king of the midway," and the Best Celebrity Obituary (Long) awarded to co-winners Tim Bullamore and Sandram Martin of the Daily Telegraph of London in 2007, for their obit on Natalia Karp. Not one but two professional obituary writers to produce an award-winning, final narrative for a celebrity. So that's how it is at the top of stardom! I could go on with the awards presented at the annual SPOW conference, but . . . I won't. I may add the Globe and Mail, a Canadian paper, to my list of favorites on my browser.

The hardest part is reading an obituary of someone you knew and loved. Someone who was a part of your life, in whatever way, big or small. Those or the ones I have saved, for more than 40 years. I clip them neatly, and keep them in the pages of a book - The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran. Family, friends, people who touched my life in one way or another over the span of time. A record. A record of the path I have travelled. Strange? Probably. Unhealthy? Maybe. Just one way of holding on to where you have travelled, what has influenced your life and where you are going. Holding a memory that speaks to your heart and your mind. Remembering.

RRR: 1:8