Let's do it--and soon.
I shall anxiously await your composite solution for the
situation.
Fraternally, but apprehensively, Yours,
BEWARE DOCTORS AND WATCH THE COWS
To Heather Anderson, a granddaughter.
July 18, 1953
My dear Heather Bloom:
What is our Heather doing in a hospital? They are not places for
young ladies. Hospitals are traps for old people with sore backs
and failing minds and memories whom doctors inveigle into these
medical spider's webs for reasons best known to themselves.
Some folks, mostly older women, glory in their hospital records.
Each trip is carefully recorded and verified with unimpeachable
evidence, and is to the owner the same as a home run is to Stan
Musial.
There was a time when a young fellow, about your age now, cut his
finger with a knife. What happened? Mother took a look. She
washed the layers of dirt off with good old common cold well or
cistern water, soused the finger in turpentine, then wrapped it
in a clean, boiled white cotton rag, tied it round and round with
Clark's white No. 70 thread, told him to keep it as clean as his
conscience would permit--and in 48 hours it was well. Now what
happens? The neighborhood is alerted, the ambulance called with
orders to ring the gong vigorously enroute, doting grandparents
are deluged with telegrams and telephone calls, the cigarette-
finger stained family doctor is called and frantically urged to
meet the ambulance at the back door of the hospital.
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