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.