Glad We Had a Doctor Nearby                                                                               January 3, 2020

 

Old guys don’t just tell tales. They also share about their rheumatism and arthritis (weather forecasters), as well as other physical problems. Sometimes as old guys get together it is an organ recital.

 

Old Guy 1 was very upset after seeing the doctor. 

 

OG2 asked him, “Why are you so upset?”

 

“Because the doctor said I’d have to take one these pills every day for the rest of my life.” OG1 reported.

 

“That’s not too bad. I don’t see why that upset you.”

 

“He only gave me a 30 day supply.” OG1 lamented. 

 

At Peach Orchard we lived next door to the doctor’s office. It was a small white building that looked nothing like today’s doctors’ offices. There was no receptionist, no bright move-all-around light, no computer screen hiding a bookkeeper. There was no doctor most of the day because he had to make “house calls”. With any serious sickness we didn’t say, “We’d better get you to the doctor.” Rather, “Someone go get the doctor!”

 

I knew Dr. Shoals (I hope I have his name right), not because he was our neighbor, but because Jerry and I were two active boys, so we had to visit him often.

 

For our few vaccinations, he didn’t bother about listening on his stethoscope, he just got right to business. He did try to make it easy on us kids by explaining everything and smiling at us. We knew he liked us and hated to hurt us.

 

There were a couple of times when we rushed to his office with a real emergency.

 

It was a beautiful spring day. The April showers had given way to May flowers. We had seen a robin red breast so we could run around the yard barefoot and in our short pants.

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The heavy rains had revealed a serious leak in the roof. In Arkansas we usually said, “You can’t repair a leak when it is raining and why repair it when it is not raining?” 

 

My dad thought this warm day would be a good time to make the repair. 

 

With my fascination for tools, I stopped playing with Jerry in the backyard and I watched Pop gather the equipment needed, put the ladder against the building and climb up, carrying as much with him as he could. Of course, it was more than he could take in one trip so he stopped halfway up and stretched to put his hammer and some shingles onto the roof. Then Mom handed him a crow bar which he placed next to the hammer. She continued to  pass everything needed and Pop climbed onto the roof. At that point, I started up the ladder after him. 

 

“Bob, get off that ladder.” she commanded, fearing that it was too dangerous for an eight year old boy. 

 

“I’ll be careful.” I pleaded. 

 

With a dismissal wave of her hand, she walked back to hanging clothes on the clothes line. I accepted that as permission and climbed to the top of the ladder.

 

 “Stay there.” Pop said. “Stay on the ladder.Don’t get onto the roof.”

 

So I watched as he removed some wind twisted and torn shingles, then replaced them with newer ones that didn’t match color or shape. 

 

I enjoyed the view from the top of the ladder. I could take in almost the entire backyard with Jerry busy playing with a stick and a ball. I could see the well worn path and the toilet with a crescent moon on the door. I could look at the top of the doctor’s office with the stove pipe from the wood burner sticking through the roof. I could watch the street as tractors and cars went by.

 

Occasionally a team of horses would pull a wagon with the driver sitting on the spring seat with reins in hand and a whip by the side.

 

Finally Pop came over to me and the ladder. “Climb down. I’m going to throw my tools down  So stand over to the side.”

 

As he prepared to toss the first, he realized he couldn’t see Jerry and he didn’t want to hit him. So, he called, “Jerry! Jerry!”

 

“Here I am.” he answered from the other side of the house. 

 

So, having located Jerry, and seeing me standing there, he knew it was safe. He threw the crow bar to the ground. Next he tossed the hammer. 

 

Jerry, wanting to please his father, came charging around the edge of the house while the hammer was in the air.

 

“Here I….” was all Jerry managed before the hammer hit him in the center of his  head, claws first.

 

Horrified he watched Jerry crimble to the ground. Terrified that he may have just killed his youngest son, he flew down the ladder yelling, “R. A.! R. A.!” to Mom.

 

He picked Jerry up and started running around to the back door with me running behind him.  Mom met them in the backyard, looked at the blood and asked, “What happened?!”

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While he tried to explain Jerry began to cry. 

 

Mom examined the bloody claw marks and said, “We’d better get him to Dr. Shoals!”

 

We all reversed direction and ran to the doctor’s office. 

 

To our great relief, the doctor was in. He cleaned up the wound, examining carefully to see if the skull had been broken.

 

Determining that it wasn’t, and that it didn’t need stitches, he dabbed a generous amount of some reddish liquid all around, invoking new cries from Jerry. He completed the task with a large bandage that covered most of Jerry’s little head.

 

“Just watch him carefully over the next 24 hours. I think he will be okay.”

 

He was, much to the relief of my parents. The only result is two little white scars on top of his head and an older brother who often told him that getting hit in the head with a hammer had affected his thinking. That’s what brothers are for, you know.

 

Psalm 23:5 You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.