I Love Mr. Henry

 

loveMr. Henry was the one admitted as a patient, but the nurses took care of Miss Alice, too.  Mr. Henry had to have been in his late forties when he married simple-minded little Miss Alice, a girl of fourteen.  Nowadays, that would have been a case for the courts, but when it happened back in the sixties, there was no one to speak for Miss Alice.  They’d been married more than thirty years when I knew them and appeared to dote on each other.  Miss Alice never voluntarily left his side, except to go down to the courtyard to bum cigarettes from patients and staff smoking in the long ago days when hospitals had smoking areas.  Sometimes she even talked folks out of a little money.  After a successful run, she’d bring a couple back up to him to smoke in the room.  Miss Alice ended almost every conversation with, “I love Mr. Henry

Knowing Miss Alice didn’t have money to eat in the cafeteria, the staff always slipped her the “extra tray.”  She also knew her way around the kitchen and dipped into the popsicles, ice cream, juice, and milk for herself and Mr. Henry.  Over the three or four years I cared for Mr. Henry, I saw him get sicker and sicker.  Though he loved Miss Alice, he was a horny old-goat.  Staff had to dance to keep from being patted and pinched, but he was savvy enough not to do it in front of Miss Alice.  She told us she’d whipped a couple of women over Mr. Henry.  I, for one, didn’t want to get patted and “whipped.”  One day, he had a seizure.  We initiated resuscitation and worked to get him back.  The first sign of success was when he squeezed a nurse’s breast while she was trying to get his blood pressure.  We felt pretty sure he was back to normal, then.

Even though he was an unapologetic, old lecher, we were fond of Mr. Henry, probably because we loved Miss Alice. One day, I heard Mr. Henry had died. I’ve wondered so many times how Miss Alice fared after his death.

She loved Mr. Henry.

 

Favorite Food

Crisp, golden brown, fried chicken! There was nothing so delicious as Mother’s fried chicken. Fortunately for her family, Mother loved chicken and the price was right. Sometimes she could get it for Twenty-five cents a pound, so we got lots of fried chicken. Paired with mashed potatoes , gravy, and biscuits, it was a mouth watering meal. With five kids around the table, that chicken disappeared in a heartbeat. The added treat was the scrambles left on the platter. Thanks Mother!

Bumps in the Road Part 7

Roscoe married Lizzie Perkins from a prominent family in Virginia. She had obtained a teacher’s certificate and was hired at a school. Sadly, her father, a schoolboard member, interfered, put a stop to that. He didn’t want the neighbors to think he couldn’t support his daughter. At twenty-two, she married Roscoe and moved to Texas. He was an excellent farmer. Though many went hungry during The Great Depression, his family never went hungry. Fortunately, they lived in East Texas, not The Dustbowl. He and Lizzie never owned a farm, just rented.

Kathleen was born into a quiet, well-respected family. Roscoe Holdaway was one of twelve children born to John Holdaway and Elvira Perkins Holdaway. John was a Texas Ranger who was conscripted, along with his entire company, into the Confederate Army.

Kathleen was the third of their children, born to them late in life, sheltered but not spoiled, an excellent student and a regular at church. After completing the ten grades at Cuthand School, her parents rented a house in Clarksville, Texas so Kathleen could graduate. She lived with her sister Annie who had just been discharged from Women’s Army Corp her senior year. Annie worked at the phone company. The girls boarded at the local hotel. It was the best time of Kathleen’s life. While attending high school, she worked at a nearby cafe for two dollars and a meal every shift.

Turkey in the Bra

Most nurses have to work half the holidays.  It’s a fact of life.  That means, you’re also working with a lot less help on those days, not always the best situation.  Patients need the same care as any other day. Since Bud and I were both nurses, we just planned our celebrations around the holiday, not a bad idea, anyway, since our many siblings had other family to visit.   One Thanksgiving, I was the only nurse working in the hemodialysis unit, assisted by a technician.  I made sure my patients knew when they were scheduled, so their family could have an uninterrupted visit, hoping not to cut a family visit short.  It’s a bad idea for a patient to eat a heavy meal before a dialysis treatment, so I always encouraged them to have no more than a light snack, to avoid a vomiting episode.  Patients who eat a large meal are very likely to throw up during their treatment.

The patient I had scheduled for one o’clock just couldn’t resist the delectable Thanksgiving Dinner his family had brought from home.  He had turkey, dressing, green beans, and pecan pie.  After a preliminary conversation and pretreatment assessment, I asked if he’d had a snack before coming.  “Oh yeah, I had a little bite of turkey.”

I got his treatment started and all was well for a few minutes, then the truth came out about his hearty lunch, literally.  He started heaving.  The whole menu was presented, dessert first, since it was on top.  Pecan pie is not appealing the second time around.  Turkey and dressing came up next, followed up by green beans.  He filled his own lap and the blanket covering him, with plenty to spare.  As I cleaned him up and got him into a fresh gown, he served up seconds.  This time it was turkey,  green beans with a few bits of egg.  Fortunately for him, I caught most of it in a towel.  The rest splattered me. He felt much better with his stomach empty and went right to sleep.

I always had extra scrubs in my locker for just such an occasion. While the technician watched the patient, I ducked into the staff bathroom.  I peeled the disgusting clothes off, trying to avoid getting the mess on myself.  I scrubbed myself, but didn’t have a fresh bra.  I swabbed the drenched one the best I could with a washcloth, and put on fresh scrubs over my bra.   I knew I smelled sour, but there was nothing else to be done.

We finished his treatment, uneventfully.  Hours later I got home.  The kids told me I stunk.  The dog agreed.  He couldn’t leave me alone, burning to investigate the intriguing aroma. I couldn’t wait to shower. When I peeled off my bra, turkey and green beans tumbled out.  They’d left an imprint.  Bud was repulsed.  The dog was entranced, gobbling them right up.

Kathleen Carries On Part 4 or Locked in a Museum Garden

Kathleen , Surprised

Mother was showing her septuagenarian visitors around town when they made a late afternoon stop at the museum garden. One of her visitors had a bad foot and was on a cane, so she thought a gentle stroll would be just what they needed while they killed time waiting to go to Cracker Barrel, the designated old folks watering hole.

Mother led them from one unique corner in the garden after another. She is an enthusiastic host, if nothing else. Eventually, Cracker Barrel’s siren song wooed them. They made for the tall wrought-iron gates, only to find them locked. They’d overstayed visitor’s hours and were incarcerated.

There was nothing to do but call 911. The ladder truck showed up to hoist the seventy-somethings over the fence. It took some maneuvering but the firemen eventually even liberated the lady with the cane and the bum foot. A good time was had by all! The firemen had a good laugh at their expense. They’d certainly worked up a good appetite by the time they finally got to Cracker Barrel.

Louisiana Blonde Joke

Bible BloneThe couple started discussing pronunciation as they were approaching Natchitoches, Louisiana in their travels.  The wife asked a blonde girl in the restaurant, “Can you tell me the name of this place and please pronounce it slowly for me?  I’m not from around here.

“Sure, it’s Burger King.  Burrr……Gerrr…….King!”

Dreaming

I dreamed about Aunt Ola Bea again last night.

Aunt Ola Bea, the woman holding the baby. I am the messy girl standing next to her.

I dream about her at least once a month, particularly if I am stressed. She was my dad’s youngest sister. We saw his family a lot. He was the fourth of seven fertile children resulting in a mob of forty wild grandchildren for my poor beleaguered Grandma Mettie who most often had to live with one of her children. She greeted us warily but was clearly relieved when we rushed away to play with the cousins. She must have had PTSD from rotating between their parents. Once in a while she’d somehow save up enough to rent a duplex from her friend, Mrs. Reavis, but soon enough someone would have a domestic situation and need her help with rent. Perhaps she’d not be able to make her rent and move back in with one of her kids. Amazingly, they competed for her.

At any rate, the family got together as much as possible on weekends and holidays, as often as not, at Aunt Ola Bea’s, Mawmaw’s youngest daughter and favorite. Aunt Ola Bea was irritable and overworked, likely because she had six children in ten years. Their family always had a baby and a little baby. The baby was usually handed off Sissy, the eldest girl, probably close to four when she was handed her first charge. I remember her balancing a chubby knee baby on her tiny hip who probably weighed nearly as much as she did while Aunt Ola Bea smoked and nursed the squalling, new baby. One time, she was horrified to drop ashes on the bald head of the new baby. I think she quit smoking while nursing after that. Every year or so, a new, new baby came along, and the old new baby became Sissy’s charge and the big baby was promoted to droopy-diapered toddler, to follow Sissy around.

Aunt Ola Bea barked sharply at her kids when they got out of line. Some of the wild ones got a lot of barking. Though she never cut loose on me, I feared I would be reamed out next. Though I steered clear as much as I could, I was delighted if she spoke kindly to me in a quiet moment. I really wanted her to like me. I think that’s why I dream of her in times of stress. I fear the worst and hope for the best.

Mawmaw. I never saw her look this lighthearted

My Son and His Dog Watson

This is my son John and his lap Akita Watson.

Kathleen Carries On Part 3 or The Wedding Crasher

One beautiful June afternoon, Mother found herself at loose ends. A bit miffed that everyone else had plans that didn’t include her she decided to take the high road and visit The American Rose Center. She strolled around for a while, thinking how cute she must look in her floppy garden hat with its silk roses, neat denim shorts and socks dyed to match her shirt.  She thought she must be about the cutest thing  around with no one there to see her.

Happily, she noticed a quaint little chapel with welcoming doors thrown wide open.  Lush roses bloomed on either side of the doors.  “Oh ! They’re having some kind of program.  How nice.”. She took a seat on the left front pew, hoping there would be good music.  After a while, the speaker wandered to the front.  In rapid succession, Well-dressed people started taking their seats.  As proud as she’d been of her outfit earlier, she started to feel a bit underdressed in her shorts and sneakers.  It finally occurred to her when the mother of the bride was escorted down the aisle by an usher.  The lady gave Mother a hard look as she was seated behind the interloper.  Mother scurried toward the back of the chapel as the organist began the Wedding March.  She tried to be invisible in the corner till the bridal party took their places at the altar

Mother said they were the most unfriendly family she’d ever seen!