The Good Doctor: Niels Marius Hansen

            Everyone my age, give or take a few years, can recall experiences of bygone days unlike anything in our current culture.  I’ve written about some of these differences in my blog, but with the advent of ObamaCare, I was reminded of how things were in the mid-twentieth century regarding doctors and doctoring.

            Although “Doc” Hansen delivered me, and he no doubt saw me occasionally for checkups during my infancy, my first memory of him was when I was three or four.  I had come down with strep throat, so painful an experience that it has remained with me indelibly through the years.  I remember, miserable with fever, being held by my mother while she read to me, notably Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses with its appealing cover and illustrations.

            I vividly remember visits from Doctor Hansen every evening on his way home from the office when he would sit beside me on the sofa.  It was there that my mother had placed me to await his ministrations and ultimately to paint my throat.  That was the best and only treatment during those pre-antibiotic days.  His matter-of-fact demeanor, coupled with a whiff of something slightly antiseptic, seemed reassuring to me, though I dreaded the gagging treatment.  He told me, without saying so, that I would soon be all right.  And this attitude remained his stock in trade.

            Doctor Hansen’s home and office were in a section of Des Moines called Snusville, an area settled primarily by Scandinavians and named for the term they gave snuff or tobacco.  (See my novel, Snusville, on Kindle or Nook.) Niels Marius Hansen was Danish-born, immigrating to America when he was nineteen years old.  After making a tough living as a farmhand while learning English, he entered Dana College in Blair, Nebraska, where he met his wife and became a committed Christian.  He went on to get his M.D. at Nebraska Medical School in Lincoln, and eventually ended up in Des Moines, where he practiced medicine until his retirement in 1962. 

            A few years after that when I was married and living in Tennessee, I had my last house call from a doctor, a never-again-to-be-repeated occasion.  Prior to that time, and certainly while I was growing up in Iowa, visits from a doctor were expected though rare.  More often, we visited Doc Hansen's office, which was a small brick structure, only a block from our first house and little more than that from our next one.  Because of this proximity it was natural my parents chose him for our family doctor.  Preventive medicine hadn’t been invented then, so it usually took quite dire circumstances to warrant a trip to the doctor or a house call.  I had chronic bronchitis as a child, which meant I got a cold stethoscope on my chest and cough medicine from him periodically.  As a teenager I remember sunbathing on a cloudy day in April and burned my face so badly my eyes nearly swelled shut.  When I saw Doc Hansen, he uttered a tsk, tsk, and shook his head, but he didn’t scold me.  Instead he said I had second-degree burns and gave me a soothing ointment.

            His style was always understated and to the point.  My brother Ken tells me that when he was in junior high, he was in a fight and cracked a bone in his thumb.  Doc Hansen taped it up with a splint and then showed Ken how to hold his fist the next time he fought so he wouldn’t hurt his thumb again.  He didn’t charge him a thing for the taping and the advice.

            I suppose the good doctor had a more leisurely schedule and less paperwork than the doctors of today, for Doctor Hansen had a number of interests, especially the Salvation Army where he regularly volunteered at the Rehabilitation Center.   He also had an eye for real estate investments.  The former interest was an expression of his devout interest in helping “the least of these,” while the latter was a practical need to supplement a modest income from doctoring.  As a matter of fact, my parents bought their second home from Doc Hansen.

            It was early one Sunday morning in that house when I was twelve years old that I was awakened by a terrible commotion.  Something had happened to my mother, late in her pregnancy, and both my father and brother were trying to help her.  I heard shouts to call the doctor, and that’s when I went under the covers.  I thought my mother had died.  But when the ambulance had taken her off, followed by my father in his car, my brother came in to tell me he’d been cleaning up the blood from a hemorrhage, and now we could only hope and pray our mother would be all right.

            An hour or so later, the phone rang, and my father said Doc had performed a caesarian section and it appeared Mother would survive as would a baby brother.  Occasionally, my mother’s sister would compare unfavorably our neighborhood doctor to those with more prestigious addresses—strangely, since she was married to a Dane—but we would all come to Doc's defense, remembering his swift and skillful work that terrible Sunday morning.

            I heard that after he retired and a widower, he moved to be nearer one of his two daughters in the Northwest, settling on Mercer Island for the remainder of his life.  He died at the age of one hundred, remembered fondly by those he served so well.

Robbie and David: A Story

            Some years ago my husband and I were living on the Texas Gulf coast in a small fishing village located on a series of canals.  It had a diverse population of about two thousand souls--from millionaires with boats so big they had to moor them at the Galveston marina, to college students who traversed the canals with kayaks and canoes.  The only things they had in common was a desire to live on the water and to maintain their much vaunted Texas independence.  Most of us were something in the middle, though, and the general atmosphere was one of friendliness and tolerance.  We had a city government with a mayor and aldermen and a substantial police force, which gave our place the reputation of being the “safest little city in Texas.”  Furthermore, the flat, featureless land that led to the wetlands and from there to the Gulf seemed to give a promise of the ordinary, the expected.   There seemed never to be anything ‘round the bend since there were no bends.

            Within six months of our arriving there, we went as guests of our new friends, Marge and Harry Mason, to the Third Friday Dinner Club, held at the local Community Center.  It was crowded and noisy, not exactly my cup of tea, so ultimately we never joined the group.  That evening, however, as I examined our neighbors at the long table where we were sitting, I noticed a couple at the end, who were distinctive in looks.  He was remarkably handsome, dark-haired, of medium build but strong-looking, as if he worked out.  His name tag said, “David Meador.”  Next to him, wearing a label that announced, “Robbie Meador,” sat an unusual looking woman.  My first impression was that they didn’t quite seem to match up as a couple.  She was as tall as he, sitting down, partly because of her rather out-of-date hairdo, a Gibson Girl, the platinum hair smoothed into a high, immaculate coif.  Her face was very carefully made up and her arched brows gave her a wide-awake look.  Even so, I thought her face had a mask-like quality.  I guessed them both to be in their mid-thirties.  At some point we formally met the couple, and I was struck by David’s animated personality.  He seemed to “carry” them as a couple.  Robbie was nearly mute, though she smiled pleasantly. 

            They stood to go to the buffet line and I could see that Robbie Meador was wearing a pair of off-white silk slacks that matched her tunic.   Her jewelry was impressive, if overdone, many gold chains and diamond earrings.   Asking our hosts about them, I found that Robbie worked, not surprisingly, as a jewelry clerk at a large department store.  David was an English teacher at the community college, about ten miles away, where I had applied to teach part time, also English.  I suspected I might run into him occasionally.  They were a few people in front of us, but I couldn’t help but notice how David carried on conversations with those around him while Robbie stood like a stump–or should I say, a kind of mannequin. 

            I thought no more about the Meadors until a couple of weeks later when I was at the college after completing my classes for the day and returning to my car.  It was a warm day, but the usual breeze made it quite pleasant to walk the grounds, well kept and blooming with plumeria and hibiscus.  Beside the many kinds of palm trees, the scrub oaks and water maples provided much needed shade.  I decided to stretch my legs and take the long way around to my car, going behind the Science building at the far edge of the campus. 

            Following the walk, I came upon a grouping of benches at a small fountain and although he didn’t see me at first, I saw David Meador with his arm around the back of a bench where he and a young woman sat.  I recognized her as another adjunct teacher.  We had been in the same earlier orientation and she had remarked this was her second term of teaching part time.

            David’s face was turned toward the teacher, whose name I couldn’t recall, though I remembered her petite beauty.  She looked to be in her late twenties with a sweet face and short brown hair worn in casual waves.  He seemed to be in an intimate conversation, teasing and animated, so I walked on without acknowledging him, slightly embarrassed, as if I had gone out of my way to spy on him.  But he had seen me and called out a hello.  I waved and smiled and continued on my way.  Thereafter while at the college, I looked particularly to see if David and the little adjunct were seen together again.  Once, I saw him with his arms braced against a wall, enclosing her, if you will, while they spoke.  But he broke away suddenly, and she turned away, looking unhappy.  I still didn’t know her name.

            Robbie, on the other hand, seemed to move openly in my world, both of us attending the evening garden club, and a morning exercise class.  We both worked, along with many others, on the community Fall Cleanup.  On that occasion, she even gave me a ride home from the dumpster where I had deposited some sacks of roadside junk.  The day was again very hot, and she was kind enough to offer me a lift to my home down the long canal.  She, herself, lived on another canal two streets away.  Again, I was struck by her careful makeup and clothing even on a work project.  She wore jeans, but they were beaded at the cuff and she had ropes of coral around her neck.  She really was an amazing looking woman.  I thought at the time about her husband and his apparent dallying with the adjunct.

            Time went on in the fishing village until the end of the semester and the garden club Christmas Party.  Spouses, mainly the guys, since few men attended the club, were invited, and we all went out for dinner at a nice restaurant first, then back to the clubhouse to exchange Christmas ornaments (a tradition) and play some games.  I happened to be in the restroom at the same time as Robbie, and when I commented on how enjoyable the evening was, she agreed but as was her style, said very little else

            David was on hand at the party, looking his usual striking self in black trousers and a white Mexican wedding shirt.  He, like Robbie, was also wearing some gold around his neck, but hers was even more magnificent than usual.  Her dress was pale beige and sparkled with stones.  It exactly matched her hair, and the knot at her crown, on this occasion, was pierced by a rhinestone-studded hair ornament.  Although David couldn’t be called attentive, I could detect no tension in their relationship, and decided I had read into David’s encounters at the college more than was warranted.  Robbie, as I surreptitiously looked her over, seemed to be a little too solemn for the occasion, her carefully made-up eyes a little puffy.  From tears?  I wondered.

            I left off teaching spring semester as we had some traveling to do, which would take me away from home for several weeks at a time.  While at home, however, I continued my activities with my friends, occasionally seeing Robbie and sometimes her and David together at functions or meetings.  Then one late afternoon in March, I got a phone call from my friend Marge, who sounded very excited.   I took the phone outside on the deck and sat down to enjoy a long chat.

            “Do I have something to tell you,” she repeated, almost gasping.  “Harry was on his way home when he saw two police cars and an ambulance in front of the Meadors’s  home.  He stopped to see what was going on, and being an alderman the police let him in.”  She paused dramatically.

            “And . . .” I coaxed.

            “Oh, it’s terrible.  He saw a body with a sheet thrown over it.  Robbie was dead and had just been cut down from the rope still dangling from a beam.”

            At that moment, a group of seagulls discovered a neighbor across the canal cleaning fish on his dock and swooped in, setting up their raucous, hyena-like cries.  The sound of the laughing gulls was not only noisy but seemed irreverent, considering the news I was trying to absorb.  I moved indoors.  “Robbie is dead?  How did it happen?”

             David, apparently, had called the police to break into the house after getting a phone call from Robbie threatening suicide.  The police chief told Harry that David had moved out and was living in an apartment in another town.  He’d left Robbie for someone else, which triggered the event.  But even more shocking to the little group at the scene, and later to those who heard the news second hand, was the unmistakable fact that Robbie was a man.

            “A man turned into a woman–a sex change, you mean?” I asked, incredulous.

            “No.  I mean a man, no more, no less.”

            News of this spread quickly through the community, and the reactions were mixed.  My husband believed he knew it all along.  Friends and neighbors of the couple expressed shock and disbelief, sorrow, and some even anger, feeling it unfair they’d been duped into accepting Robert (for that was his name) as a woman, and I must admit I felt a flash of resentment myself.  After all, hadn’t he used the ladies rest room as if he had every right to be there?  And with women present.  The whole subterfuge seemed ridiculously sneaky and unnecessary.  Why couldn’t Robbie have either come out of the closet openly or gone for the sex change?  How difficult for me to accept that for Robbie life without David was hopeless.  Did she–he, rather, believe he was trapped into loneliness forever, never to find someone who would accept the pretense?  I didn’t know and couldn’t guess, and it all seemed terribly sad and a waste.

             We didn’t attend the funeral, since we were not intimates of the couple, and we also didn’t want to face David, who was acting the part of chief mourner.  He’d moved back into the house, but soon we heard he’d put it up for sale.  Within a few months he’d moved out of the area and, I understood, would be teaching elsewhere.  I later heard at the college he and the adjunct had gotten married and were living north of Houston.  As far as I could tell, the names of David and Robbie were never mentioned again among the residents of the fishing village.

Back to School, 1940s Style

           I come from a middle-class family, in a middle-size city, in the middle of the country, (Des Moines, Iowa), and started my schooling in the middle of the last century.  To those from similar circumstances who can remember that far back, no matter where they’re from, my experiences will not be unusual, but to younger generations, my account will seem as scenes from another planet.

            I well remember kindergarten.  World War  II still had a couple of years to go, and my mother was doing her bit by working as an inspector at the Ordinance plant, which before the war had been engaged in making John Deere farm machinery and now produced cartridges.  She’d chosen the graveyard shift so she could be home and rested when her children returned from school in the afternoon. 

            The problem came in the morning when my father left for the office and my brother and sister took off for high school.  I would then trot over to the neighbors’ house where kindly Mrs. Grigsby would feed me breakfast until my mother arrived.  Those breakfasts, almost all of them deliciously fried, were unlike any I’d ever gotten from my plain-cooking mother’s hand, which were invariably lumpy cream of wheat or the much hated oatmeal, a piece of toast, and sometimes a boiled egg.  My favorite at Mrs. Grigsby’s was fried sliced mush with syrup.  She also had a concoction she called  "winchels" which others may know as “toad in a hole.” This featured an egg inserted in a slice of bread and the whole thing fried in butter.  How horrified my mother would have been at all that grease!  

            The walk to school was about six blocks along U.S. 69, the main route between Kansas City and Minneapolis, and then a left turn to go another three blocks to the school.  I would meet up with a friend around the corner from my house, who was at her grandmother’s in the morning since her mother, too, did war work.  It didn’t seem to matter to anyone what the season was or what weather we had to trudge through, and in fact, I can’t remember us ever being driven to that school, not a unique situation then.

            The first day of kindergarten, my mother took me into the classroom and then left.  I was early.  No teacher was in the room to greet us few children who had arrived, so I began to explore.  I noticed a very large blackboard at the front of the room, which seemed to call for something on its pristine surface.  I took out a pencil from my pencil box and went to the board where I wrote in cursive, “Jeanne Ann.”  I was proud of the fact I could write many words as well as my name in long hand, taught to me by my siblings.

            The teacher’s reaction when she saw my handiwork was not one of equal delight.  She found the culprit easily and spanked me soundly, telling me blackboards were for chalk, not pencils.  I believe I may have scratched the board a little, for a faint outline of my name persisted throughout the following school year and might have been a permanent feature until the board was scrapped.  Anyway, the spanking didn’t scar my little psyche or ruin my school days, for I always had success and good times until the day I graduated from high school.

I'm on some steps at my uncle's farm, not my house.

            Two years later, well into the spring semester, my parents moved to a larger house, several blocks farther from school, which put me in a different district.  Still, I was expected to finish the school year at my old school, so at the age of seven, I would sit on the front steps after everyone had gone to work and school, waiting for my mother to arrive home from the Ordinance plant.  She told me later how the sight of me sitting there always brought a lump to her throat.

            After Mother had checked me over, I was sent on my way to my old school, now more than a mile away with me walking that same busy highway.  At one point, my girlfriend’s grandmother would be waiting for me and help me cross over, so I could walk with Linda to the intersection and then cross back under the supervision of a crossing guard.  How many children today would be allowed such a walk?  As I earlier said, this really was a different world, certainly safer, although indulging children, clearly, was not the order of the day.  This attitude and ambiance would last for another fifteen or so years until illegal drugs and wanderers along the highways would be instrumental in changing our country’s mores and values, and psychologists would get into the business of raising children. Was it a better time?  We'll have to judge that for ourselves from the evidence.

Roy Acuff and the Navy Veterans

Years ago, in one of my several job incarnations, I was a tour guide for Opryland Hotel’s Special Events, along with eight or ten other housewives.   We were contract employees, each of us working only about four to six times a month at a flat fee of $50 per trip.  For that, we were expected to know something about Nashville history, tell funny stories mainly about country music stars, and adapt ourselves to all circumstances so that conventioneers would be entertained and feel welcomed.  We guides had to wear clothes of our own choosing as long as they were a black skirt, white blouse, and bright green jacket, which happened to be the colors of Opryland Hotel. The tour busses and drivers were provided by the hotel with few exceptions.  We might be asked to take a group just to Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage, a trip lasting about three or four hours, or maybe it would be a day-long trip to Lynchburg to visit Jack Daniels distillery with lunch at Miss Daisy’s Tearoom.

 

While keeping up a light patter on a hand-held mike as the bus careened along highways and by-ways, we hung on for dear life with the other hand to a pole at the front of the bus.  The trick was to keep one’s balance and composure, no matter what.  I never had any problems or complaints from the groups and was asked alternately if I was an historian or a comedienne.   In many ways, it was a demanding job, but great fun.

One of the most memorable trips was a country music tour for a reunion group of World War Two veterans, navy men from the same ship.  These men would have been in their mid- to late sixties, polite and interested guests of the hotel.  The first stop was to check out the new Grand Ole Opry, with a guide furnished by the facility.  As we pulled into the parking area, I peered out the front window of the bus, looking to see where the front door was since this was my first trip to the GOO.  Then I saw a familiar-looking individual walking toward the entrance, grizzled but with a brisk, upright stride.  It was undoubtedly Roy Acuff.  I immediately had an idea that would be a real treat for the fifty-some individuals in the bus, all of whom were acknowledged country music fans.

I asked the driver to let me out, that I would return in a few minutes.  To the group, I explained I was going in to set up the tour.  Then I ran pell mell inside, hoping to catch Mr. Acuff before he disappeared into the complex.  Luckily, he had stopped to chat with the receptionist.  When he turned around, I introduced myself and told him about the group I was conducting. 

"I know they would be thrilled to have you greet them," I said in my most winning manner.  But it took no persuading for him to immediately agree.

"Meet me on the stage in about twenty minutes, and I'll be glad to say hello."

I thanked him and after arranging with the receptionist for a guide, I returned to the bus, saying nothing, however, about my encounter with Roy Acuff.  After all, he was a busy man and might not show up.  I didn't want to set up for these men any expectations that might not be realized.

Soon, I had them all assembled in the lobby and was able to turn them over to an Opry guide, who began to move us through the different areas, including a peek into the dressing rooms of the stars.  I had tipped her off that we were to be on the stage at a specified time, which she said would work out well for her tour as well.

When we arrived on stage the guide left the group to my charge.  We admired the stage itself, the vastness of the auditorium, and the wonderful accouterments throughout.  I told them about a visit I had made to a Johnny Cash show at the old Ryman Auditorium years earlier.  We were all laughing at the huge contrast in sites when I spotted Mr. Acuff entering stage right.  I called the group to attention and said, "Here's someone whom you might like to meet that knows all about this place."  Like a mistress of ceremonies, I extended my arm toward the celebrity.

With that, the group exploded into applause.  I knew this would be one of the highlights of their trip to Nashville.  Not many people got to see a genuine legend of the Opry close up, let alone have one's hand shaken by him.  For that was exactly what Mr. Acuff was doing.  Then standing in front of the men, he said, "I should be the one applauding you.  Those of us who didn't serve as you brave fellows did will be forever grateful for your service and sacrifice.  We'll never forget you and your part to save the world from a terrible dictator.  I give you my humble thanks."

For a moment there was complete silence, grounded by the emotion we all felt; then the men cheered and clapped, while the entertainer again went around and shook hands.  That minor event has stayed with me through the years and forever colored my opinion of Roy Acuff, whose modesty and appreciative words seemed to have been a real measure of his character.

           

VSCC 2013 Poetry Award

Recently I attended the Arts Festival at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin, Tennessee, where I was presented with the certificate shown and a cash award for one of my poems, "On the Hunt."  This poem along with two others of mine were published in the 2013 edition of the literary journal, Number One, which has been publishing fiction and poetry of writers from around the country since 1972.  Before retiring from the college, where I served as Director of the Writing Center and taught English, I also was for ten years managing editor of Number One.  While in that capacity, I introduced the practice of "blind readings" so the submissions editors would not be influenced one way or another by seeing the names of writers familiar to them.  This innovation has been deemed the most fair way to determine who is accepted for publication.  As I mentioned, I had in addition to the award-winning poem, another two poems published in the current edition, all of which I have included below.

On the Hunt                                       

It usually takes a while to get there,
Those places deliciously remote from city centers
In barns or old houses or cement block buildings.
We go prepared, armed to the teeth,
You with jeweler’s loupe and measuring tape,
A price guide in my hand.

Inside, you always go to the left,
I turn to the right and go my own way,
Refusing to follow you with the sharper eye.
I thrill at the thought of discovery,
Moriage or Staffordshire dogs
At a bargain price.

But all I see are things I gave to charities
Or sold at garage sales years ago.
Down one aisle I find my mother’s kitchen,
Her Jewel Tea mixing bowls no one liked,
A smiling pig cookie jar now worth hundreds
Sitting on the same green Formica table.

I pass people sober and intent on spotting
The rare, the ancient, the beautiful.
Others may only want to capture memories
Or fill some vacant place on a shelf.
Hunters and gatherers,
We seek another way to define ourselves.


Words and Meaning                                 

I have been contemplating
A phrase I came upon,
“Walk with light,”
Which at first suggests
The avowal of religions,
Helping us to see a road through life
That we may tread with joy,
Our senses open to the beautiful,
A heart relieved of burdens;
I see a stony path made smoother
By enlightenment of soul.

Or is the phrase more worldly:
Pressing us to keep our minds
Brim full of knowledge and lore,
Like a pot of stewing ideas,
Or to be a fount of information
From which others can set store.
We should not settle, it says,
For the dark and hopeless way
Of vague understanding
Or blind ignorance.

Then again, “walk with light”
May only be a helpful plea
To watch the traffic signal
Before we take the plunge
Into a busy street.


Big Wheels 
                                  
It was while driving along
Through Arkansas that we began
To feel oppressed, as if we didn’t belong,
Sandwiched between two semis,
With trucks rolling by on both sides.
Not from just the big rigs
That roam the interstates at will,
But also bullying pickups and duallys.
We seemed outclassed, outsmarted,
In a word, small.

We drove farther south and west,
Trucks keeping up their threats,
Riding our bumper, honking, passing.
We stayed away from gas stations
With blaring signs of, “Truckers Welcome!”
We shopped a long while for a motel
Where the hulking beasts weren’t parked
And set off next morning at the crack of dawn
Hoping to steal a march on them.
But wise to the trick, they soon came along.

If Arkansas is a terminal for trucks,
Texas seems to be a truck haven.
They live there, maybe breed there.
And worst of all, they seem fighting mad.
One day while waiting at a stop light
We were rear-ended by a small truck.
From the window of an eatery we watched in horror
As an SUV backed into our car like it wasn’t there
Often they pass us with no room to spare
Then forced by a red light to stop, pant, and paw.

We haven’t relented yet,
Unwilling to join in the mania.
Or maybe the truck that suits us
Hasn’t yet been made.
But I must admit I’ve been eyeing
Certain big wheels that take over the road
And I’ve wondered, really wondered
What it would be like to get behind the wheel
Of a gravel truck so I could yell,
“Just eat my dust, you all!”