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Doctor Holland, this
one's for you!
As I was doing my research for Down Memory Lane
last week, I found out that you and your family had moved your
belongings from Gregory and moved into the apartments in Chamberlain's new
hospital that would be opening July I, 1947.
Fifty years of dedicated loyalty to the medical needs of one community. I
expect, at one time or the other, you have treated a member of every family in a
thirty-mile radius. What stories you could tell, but dear doctor ... what
stories we could tell about you! I don't know how many of your patients have
actually just hauled off and hit you, but I can remember the two times I did and
you were such a kindhearted soul.
I believe I was ... we'll go with nine years old. I developed a sore thumb.
Not just your average, everyday sore thumb, this sucker was bright red, swelled
up like a horny toad and thumped every time the old heart beat. Your office was
on the east side of Chamberlain's Main Street, as memory serves. Maybe it was
where Picket Fences is today, I can't remember, can you? We aren't as young as
we used to be and we are so brilliant and wise in our old age only because we
have the good sense to delete all of the old stuff that clutters the mind to
make room for those things we still need to know. I have apparently decided
remembering just which building it was, wasn't really necessary, and have
deleted that data.
Whatever; it really doesn't matter. And the neat thing about making a
statement such as where I was or what something was a hundred years ago, is not
just the fact that half of the readers really don't care, but that other half
who used to know will have to jump-start their memories to remember, too.
In any event, my thumb and I were brought to your office and I was put
into a waiting room (just like they still do today, some things never change.) I
sat there (scared to death of the unknown) and in comes this tall, smiling
gentle doctor who gives me a little pat and asks what my problem is, all the
time assessing the little "red throbbing thumb." Assuring me that "You have a
felon, but 'Old Doc' will fix it". You left the room, only to come back with the
"fixer" in your hand (that looked like an ink pen writing point, or whatever
it's called). I stood behind you as you took my little right arm, slipped it
under your vice-grip elbow that was held firmly to your side and in one fell
swoop, you cut that felon open and just as fast, I let you have it with my free
hand. Thanks for fixing my thumb, Dr. Holland.
You were there for the delivery of our first born and you were also there
10 nights later when he was brought in blue and suffocating. It is because of
Grandma Jo Speck and you that he is still with us today.
You were also there for us the year we came home on vacation and Casey had
one of his toes stomped off by a horse that had been tied up (by one of the
grandchildren) in Grandma Speck's garage. Casey ran in to see the horse that all
of the others had been riding, so he had no fear for the animal. Only, no one
told him horses could scare away flies with their legs, or that horse hooves on
cement floors could chop off little toes. Yes, Casey still has the toe; it's a
little crooked, but by golly it's there.
After we returned to Nevada, he stubbed it several times and
since toe pins are apparently round instead of flat, the toe would turn every
time it was stubbed.
So, 40 years after I hit you that first time for cutting my thumb open, and
you have moved into your office on the west side of Main Street. About 10 years
ago, I let my guard down and let you do it again! When I screamed "that's
enough" and hit you on the back, it brought back a very old memory. Sorry about
hitting you again, I won't do it anymore.
Ya done good, Dr. Holland. I hope you will share some of your fifty years
of stories with us.
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