I’ve GOT to Write a Book!

An autobiography by Ira Wiggins

“I’ve got to write a book!” How many times have I said it and not made the slightest effort in that direction? “Why didn’t I keep a diary?” That too was never acted upon. But the time has come when it must either be done or forgotten. At 66 years of age I realize that I won’t live forever and I believe that these gems should be preserved, for some are indeed unique. If the book is never published I will still have enjoyed putting these things into writing for my children and grandchildren.

My life, like everyone else’s, has run the entire gamut of emotions: humor, pathos, learning, loving, hoping, forgetting, helping, being helped, learning, rejoycing and all the others. I am inclined to cherish most the humorous incidents that have been so abundant in my life. They are the gems that ssparkle the most brilliantly. After high-school there were years of college (pre-med), fou years of medical school, nine months of internship (shortened from the usual 12 mos. due to World War II), two and a half years as a physician in the army both in the U.S. & overseas (14 Atlantic crossings), 20 years in solo private practice in a small town in southern Michigan, 15 and a half years as a clinic physician in a U.S. hospital in the Panama Canal Zone, followed by retirement to southern Fiorida in 1982. To this was added over 1,400 hours as a private pilot both in the U.S. (I once landed at a nudist colony by mistake), extensive snorkeling (especially in Panama, where I have petted sting rays & fed moray eels by hand), work and play amongst primitive indians and collecting giant insects & poisonous snakes (how does one get a large, live coral snake out of a small-neck gallon glass jug?) There was even one incident of smoking marijuana (in 1937!).

Everything related in this book will be 100% factual unless otherwise noted. As much as possible I will omit the dull, the mundane, routine and everyday stuff, as I am sure you would want me to. There is no need for fiction and there will be none. Fiction is a dream, a toy, a mirage, a vapor -to be manipulated at will. There is a time and a place for fiction but, to me, facts are much more interesting.

This account will be written by me and in my own words, with my own misspellings and gramrmatical errors. The frequent use of “I”, “me” and “my” is unavoidable. My sincere apologies to any of my former English teachers. May the depth of their agony be lessened by their spirit of forgiveness.

I want to exress my thanks to the following:

To GOD - for allowing me to be born of sound mind and body, with curiosity and a certain amount of ambition and willingness to work. The sound mind and body are of little benefit without the other attributes, which I am not at all sure are so much under the control of the individual as is generally presumed. So “Thanks!” up there.

To MY DEAR WIFE - for being herself: warm, loving, forgiving, ever helpful and supportive in all that I do. Her patience with my faults and weaknesses is almost endless. I said “almost”. She is human too - thank God.

To FRIENDS, relatives, acouaintances and to everyone I ever met anyhere most of whom I likeed and respected, a few of whom I loved and to the rare individual whom I disliked for real or imagined reasons. Without them life could not have been complete - nor as rich and varied.
By looking at ths titles of the various chapters, you may want to skip some. For instance, the first (short) chapter titled “Philosophies” may be dull to some and is included only to let you know where I stand on life and the living thereof. “Family Origins” likewise may be too boring for some. On the other hand, don’t miss “Flying Days”, “Doctor’s Days, or “The Panama Adventure.” I am certainly glad that I didn’t miss them.

Philosophies

Perhaps it sounds like a better title with which to end a book than with which to start one, but embarking on this one-way journey of narration I really feel that I should introduce myself so that you may a little better know with whom you are traveling.

Please understand that these philosophies are my philosophies. I share them with you only to let you know where I stand - not to suggest that thev would be desirable for you. I’m not even sure they are desirable for me; it’s just the way I feel.

I believe order prevails over chaos because of a supreme power to which we refer as God. I hesitate to use the term supreme “being” because it implies a person. This supreme power embodies all of the laws of science, nature and the universe: gravity, weather, electricity, humanity - you name it. These laws as set down are irreversible and unchangeable. Interactions of natural forces will occur, but I do not believe that any amount of pleading will change the pull of gravity by one iota. Do you?

I believe that there is more than adequate evidence to show that there was once a person known as Jesus Christ who walked this earth and left a lasting (to say the least!) impression. He was the son of God. Are we not, after all, every one of us the children of God?

One philosophy of life to which I would like to adhere was best put into words by St. Frarcis of Assisi many years ago. It is brief, to the point and is known as “The Serenity Prayer”. It hangs on my wall, done in embroidery by a friend who knew of my fondness for it and it goes like this: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to chancge the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.” Alcoholics Anonymous adopted this as their official prayer; I believe the choice was a good one.

Can one be too far from being a good human being if his actions do no harm to himself or others, either physically, mentally, morally or spiritually? I’ve surely broken every one of those rules during my life but there is nothing wrong with striving toward such an unobtainable goal.

I can not tell you the source of the following quote but I like it: “The mind can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven.”

Life should be fun.

Everything is interesting - even boredom if looked at in the proper perspective. “Try anything once” and “don’t knock it until you’ve tried it” should not be taken 100% literally but certainly are worth some consideration.

Want to lift your spirits up? Here is a great list of suggestions (not the entire list) I recently read under the heading of “Mini-ways to Wellness:”

Start a diary
Walk in the snow
Take the stairs instead of the elevator
Fish
Dance around the living room
Stop and listen to children
Watch a surset
Get up early
Find something good in everyone you meet
Go to a funny movie
Take a brisk waIk
Watch the sun rise
Make a list of your good qualities
Eat by candlelight
Hug a child
Chop wood
Smell a rose
Rub someone’s back
Eat a vegetarian dinner
Have someone rub your back
Set one short-term goal for self-improvement
write a poem
receive a compliment without apology
Dance
Take 10 deep breaths
Take a nap
Meditate
Walk barefoot in the grass
Take a class in a hobby
Fly a kite
Spend a week-end in a different place
Climb a tree
Go back-packing
Go to the zoo
Quit smoking now
Take a bath for as long as you want
Clean out a closet (or garage)
Have a picnic
Visit a shut-in
Take a child for a walk
Donate blood
Go skinny-dipping
Make a list
Wiggle your toes
Hold hands
Go roller skating
Swim
Take a horseback rice
Go for a bike ride
Go sledding
Compliment someone
Jump in a pile of leaves
Pop some corn
Build a fire
Go to a museum
Make a snowman
Walk the beach bare-foot
Get physically exhausted
Buy a present for someone
Go to bed early
Say no
Turn off the TV
Eat a raw, freshly picked vegetable
Read a book
Pick some wild flow6rs
Hold a baby
Pay off a bill
Get to know some little kids
Throw a non-alcoholic party
Take a ride in a glider
Barbeque
Do calisthenics
Think of new items for this list

It ain’t how you look that is important; it’s how you act. As Betty, my wife, will readily confirm, I attach no importance to whether the shirt matches the socks or whether the proper fork is used for the salad. The unkind word or deed disturbs me considerably more - even when I am the guilty party.

To be sure, we all have unresolved philosophical issues - call them “unsolved puzzles of life”, if you wish. I will share with you two of mine that come to mind.

Who has not often wondered about the blatant, frequent injustices of life: the saintly erson who comes to a horrible, premature end; the man who works his fingers to the bone, only to have a natural disaster destroy all of his efforts; the child stricken by an incurable illess; the infant born with ugly or deadly mental or physical defects. Why? Why? The sernons I had heard on the subject didn’t even come close to being acceptable, as far as I was concerned, and I still do not pretend to know the answer, but the best explanation and the most comforting thoughts on the subject that I have encountered are contained in a book titled “When Bad Things Happen to Good People” by Harold Kushner. If this problem bothers you, get the book and read it; you won’t be sorry.

I’m sure I was not alone in agonizing over what to tell my children about sexual activity and, to my mind, this problem still has no clearcut answer. The goal, of course, is to produce a well-adjusted adult. Too often the inclination is to suggest to children, directly or by inuendo, that sex is taboo, dirty, harmful to body and mind, sinful and that even thinking about it should be avoided. Frequently this approach produces frigid females and maladjusted males. Fortunately the children often see through this semi-transparent facade and make their own quite adequate adjustment. On the other hand if we truthfully tell our children that physical sex is one of the most joyful experiences in life there is the risk of promiscuity, venereal disease and unwanted pregnancy. Can a minister saying the few words of the marriage ceremony suddenly change the attitude of the individual from considering sex as sinful, dirty & objectionable to looking on it as desibable, heavenly and joyous? I don’t have the answers. Do you? Certainly the trend toward factual sexual education in the schools is very desirable. Perhaps the simple, straightforward, honest answer is the best. Tell them that sex is joyous and desirable between loving, committed, adult individuals, but outside this sphere it is fraught with grave dangers. What about “live-in” relationships, formerly known as “trial marriages”? Again I don’t have the answer but it is difficult to refute the argument that the appalling divorce statistics warrant some new approach.

So much for philosophy. Glad I got that out of the way. I feel better.

Family Origins

and Childhood Days

Autograph album (excerpts) of Jennie Luce - dad’s mother - 1866 - 1904 (started prior to her marriage)

A word unspoken is mine
If spoken it is in another’s hands
And can never be recalled.

Good behavior reccomends itsellf
And speeds us on the way of our wishes.
Father

To Jane
Dear sister Jane ofttimes I’ve thought
While soldiering for Uncle Sam
I’d give the last red cent I had
To see your face again
T’was far away in the sunny south
While on my sick bed and alone
I often thought of a phrase that’s true
There is no place like home
Dear sister Jane there’s no one knows
The comforts of a home
But those that’s been deprived of one
Especially when sick and alone
But the Lord saw fit to spare our lives
To meet on earth once more
While thousands died in southern climes
During this cruel (civil) war
How thankful we should be to him
For the kindness he has shown
He’s spared our lives to meet again
At this our earthly home
Dear sister Jane take my advice
Live up to the golden rule
That says to you as plain as day
Use everybody well.
Brother John
Chebanse (Illinois) March 25th, 1866

Watch so diligently that you never fall twice into
the same sin as no man lives and sinneth not.
Father

To mamma
Live for those who love you,
For those whose hearts are true,
For the heaven that smiles above you
And the good that you may do.
Is the wish of your dear son.
Berlin Hts., O. Jan. 22, 1904 Luce (my father)

To Jenie & Henry - It cheered my heart to spend your 25 anniversary with you, now in my 83 year.
Mother Berlin (Ohio( Oct. 4, 1894

My Dear Friend Jennie
‘Tis said that absence conquers love
But Oh! believe it not
I have tried, “Alass” its powers to prove
But thou art not forgot
And over the land as I may roam
I will think of thee in thy sweet home.
Bell Vernotti Eagle Cliffs, Illinois

Think of me and my best wishes
when at home (you) are washing dishes
Maria Scofield

Lines to my mother.
I want to be an angel,
Before I mount above,
An angel in my spirit,
An influence of love.
Beneath mv ev’ry footstep,
I want the flowers to spring,
In deeds of loving kindness,
And good for ev’rything.

I want to span my forehead,
A bow or promise bright,
That ev’ry cloud of sorrow,
May kindle into light.
Above the earth but in it,
I want my ways to mend
To keep myself unspotted,
and help to others lend.
Your loving daughter, age 12 years
Linnie
Berlin Hts. (Ohio) Feb. 7th 1892

Don’t forget the Sociable and the Temperance Meetings.
(Unsigned)

Diary of dad’s father, Henry Wiggins, born in 1839 (excerpts). This is a booklet two and a half inches by three inches with a small, untarnished metal hasp. A label on the inside of the front cover reads: “London. Improved patent metallic paper with metallic pencil.” After all these years the paper, somewhat thicker than average, is in excellent condition and the tiny writing surprisingly legible.

Feb. 17, 1858 - sold 1 fat heifer $20.00
Dec. 11, “ - 50kl 3 cattle 78.63
Jan. 17, 1860 - rec’d for 27.5 bu. apples 13.75
Apr. 28, “ - rsc ‘d for horse 30 .00
May 30, “ - rec’d for 6 pigs 6.00
Aug. 25,1858 - rec’d for 5 bu. wheat 5.75
Oct. 2, “ - rec’d for 8 bu. apples 4.00
Dec. 18, “ - pd. for 1 buffalo robe 7.00
Apr. 26, 1856 - pd. for 1 buggy 200.00

Jan. 7, 1859 - Friday - colder. Snow. Addison made a handle to the three tined fork. I fixed the sled for sleighing.
Jan. 8 - Bell, Josie, Addison and I attended the singing school.
Jan. 9 (Sun.) - Bell, Josie, Addison and myself attend6ed (prayer) meeting. Bell & Frank went to the prayer meeting at Mr. Cely’s.
Jan. 10 - I peeled & cut a few pumpkins for drying.
(Throughout the diary are very frequent notes of “went to meeting”, “went to prolonged meeting”, “Frank watched with father”, “I sat up all night”, “went to day meeting”, “went to the Singing School”, “I sat up and watched (wake?)”.
Feb. 7 - went to Puckerbrush, had the axes ground. Cost 20 cts.
Feb. 10 - Addison cut up the hogs. I done the heads. Went to Center, took my boot to get mended.
Feb. 11 - I cut up the fat for lard.
Feb 16 - We oiled the cattle
(A typical frequent note is “Mr. & Mrs. _________ came to visit all evening”, or “_________ stayed till _________”, or “_________ stayed al; night.
Feb. 21 - Killed a coon.
Feb. 22 - Sold my coon-skin, got 75 cts.
Feb. 24 - Put unguentum on the cattle.
March 4 - I boiled a kettle of potatoes for the hogs.
March 15 - Frank & I picked up stone over half of the west lot. Addison subsoiled.
March 18 - Have a great freshet (rain).
March 19 - We sledded together 10 logs for firewood, had Mr. Cely’s stoneboat.
March 21 - Set out 14 locust trees. Washed the buggy.
March 23 - Traded 1 bush. Potatoes and three lb. pork for a half bush. Four qt. measure.
March 24 - went to Florence, got some opium (a legitimate analgesic in those days). Went to center meeting at Hall. Got my premium.
March 25 - Oscar called. Father not so well.
March 26 - We were called down father being worse. I went after M. Cely. Dear father died quarter before three oclock.
March 27 - Many people came here during the day.
March 28 - We attended the funeral of dear father.
March 31 Mr. Cobb was killed by his horses running away.
April 10 - The creek very high in the night.
April 11 - Bought a stack of straw for $3.50
April 18 - Bought a load of hay per ton S6.00
April 21 - Got 28 bu. corn. Paid 40 cts. a bush. Frank and S laid over part of line fence. Rec’d my book and locket. Oscar came spent eve. Played on melodean.
April 23 - Put wires in the horses noses.
April 26 - A gentleman called to sell tombstones.
May 13 - Paid boy 50 cts. (for a day’s work in the field).
June 8 - Sheared sheep. Had Mr. Robinson. Paid him $1.28. Sheared 32 (i.e. 4 cents each). Addison sheared 17 and I and Frank tied up the wool.
June 14 - P.M. - Mother and I went to Norwalk (Ohio) changed my coat and vest. Gave 75 cts toward a coat $2.75 - vest $1.50.
June 18 - Josie and Freddie went to Center. Had their daguereotypes taken.
June 19 - Leature on slavery at Berlinville.
June 23 - Sold the wool 251 3/4 lbs. at 44 cts a lb.
June 28 - The boys pared sheep’s hoofs, put vitrol on them.
June 30 - Mr. Roberts came and paid the legacy.
July 4, 1859 - Josie Addison and I went to Norwalk and spent $1.46. Mr. Fillinghast paid the wool money $110.50.
July 5 - Five persons came and picked currants.
July 6 - Got rem. of legacy. Our buck knocked Mr. Matthews down.
July 20 - I raked hay this a. noon. Got kicked. The creek dried up.
July 29 - Pulled succers out of corn. Drew straw.
Aug. 4 - I made a double whiffle tree.
Aug. 8 - Sawed wood with machine (?).
Aug. 10 - I cradled oats part of day.
Aug. 11 - Charly shot seven blackbirds at one shot.
Aug. 17 - Finished shingling the two barns. Paid $51.00.
Aug. 21 - I went to Mr. Celys. Borrowed 27.5 lbs. flour.
Aug. 23 - Got the horses shod.
Nov. 16 - My miniature taken in locket.
Dec . 5 - Josie’s miniature taken in locket

(The next entries were made in 1885. Frequently noted were weather conditions, “went to town”, “_______came to visit” and field, yard and road work.)

Jan. 6, 1885 - Engaged 40 peach trees of Frank Mason at ten cents each.
Jan. 7 - Hitched up team and took longhorn red heifer to C. Hills bull. Fattening his bull, so on my way back put heifer to Mr. Chapins holstein.
Jan. 14 - Done the churning. Took old jersey cow to C. Tenant’s bull.
Jan. 16 - Took Gena to school in cutter.
Jan. 18 - Good sleighing. Took a bath today.
Jan. 22 - Wife feeling Doorly. Had a chill.
Jan. 23 - Jennie (wife) has cankered sore throat.
Jan. 24 - Got some medicine at drug store for gargle, Sore throat. Jennie kept the bed today. I made medicine for gargle and liniment. Jennie has good appetite.
Jan. 25 - Jennie didn’t sit up any today. The medicines are helping her.
Jan. 26 - Jennie much better. Sat up most of the day.
Jan. 27 - Jennie not feeling so well. Didn’t sit up and her throat very tender. Got some slip(pery) elm and made poultices. Jennie feeling asier.
Jan. 28 - Hitched up soon after sunrise and went to see Mr. Benscoter for help as Jennie has very sore throat. He came and left medicine for the quinsy (abscess under the tonsil). I had sick headache.
Jan. 29 - Jennie feeling very poorly today. Fine sleighing.
Jan. 30 - Drove to Dr. Benscoter’s after chores. He made a visit here for wife. I sat up with Jennie. She had very bad time of it. Throat so inflammed.
Jan. 31 - Jennie is feeling Very poorly today. Josie sat up with Jennie. Kept her busy applying poultice since midnight. Her throat so painful (lOth day of her il’ness).
Feb. 1 - Dr. B. calledd this a.m. Jennie very nervous and tired out as she expresses it. She cannot rest. Afternoon the swelling in her throat broke and soon getting relief, though hard task vomiting or discharging the matter. During p.m. the vomiting of pus at times continued. P.M. Mrs. A. Brundige sat up till midnight. Jennie comfortable.
Feb. 2 - Jennie rested well the latter part of the night. I went to town. Got some oysters for wife.
Feb. 5 - Jennie sat up two hrs. this p.m.
Feb. 6 - Went to town for the mail. Jennie sat up part of day.
Feb. 9 - Jennie writing letters. Can walk around a little.
Feb. 10 - Wife feelincg some more strength. 12 degrees below zero at 5:00 p.m. Warmed the water for cows and horses.
Feb. 11 - 18 degrees below zero 7:00 this morning. Had tedious time doing chores today. Gena didn’t go school. Jennie wrote letters.
Feb. 12 - I had the headache all day. Jennie helped about the house. Done baking and c. (22 days after onset of illness.)
Feb. 14 - Jennie feeling some sore at the throat again this evening. Put on kerosene bandage again.
Feb. 15 - Jennie’s throat is quite badly swollen this morn. Put on coal oil and gave dose epsom salts.
Feb. 18 - Jennie feeling more strength.
Feb. 21 - Jennie pretty smart.
Feb. 22 - Jennie has not been out of the house since her sickness.
Feb. 26 - Took wife and Linnie (daughter) out for a sleigh ride.
Feb. 27 - Doctoring Nellie (horse) for colic.
Feb. 28 - Went to Mr. Butlers and got medicine for Nellie (my mare). This eve. got linseed oil and used for Nellie.
March 1 - Elisha came to doctor my mare who is very sick and worked at her faithful, steaming with hot poultices. I went to bro. Franks and got some smart weed. We worked over her until 2 o’clock at night.
March 2 - Hitched sorrel to cutter and went to Mr. (Elisha) Butler’s as Nellie not so well. Mr. Butler gave narcotic. Put or hot salt poultices.
March 3 - Nellie quite comfortable. This afternoon she lies down and rolls with pain. Ten o’clock eve. put on hot salt bandage. She is easy again.
March 4 - Nellie mare much better.
March 7 - Went to town. Couldn’t get any bran for milch cows.
March 9 - Genia (daughter) came home (from school) at noon. Her face swelling badly with erysipilas. Got medicine of Dr. Benscoter. He called to see her.
March 10 - Genia is doing fairly.
March 11 - Nellie (my mare) bit my finger which pained me badly for a time.
March 18 - Nellie had attack of colic. Mr. Grover called. He helped me drench Nellie.
March 22 - Albert Brundige was burned out last night two o’clock.
April 1 - I went to town. Sold butter to Mrs. Ewell. Mr. Harrison paid me for butter bot last Friday.
April 2 - I drove to Dr. Benscoters and paid him 10 doll. I got of him (borrowed) last Jan.
April 3 - Nellie mare sick with colic.
April 4 - Bad roads.
April 5 (Sun.) - This evening we all went to Sab. S. (school) concert. Our Linnie (daughter) spoke a piece.
April 10 - Took the hams from cellar and hung in box and smoked. Went to town and traded.
April 16 - Oiled the greater part of my double harness.
April 24 - Gena whitewashing kitchen.
April 26 - I am feelirg verv poorly.
April 28 - Took a sweat this eve. to ward off sicl_sness.
May 2 - Jennie is sick abed.
May 7 - Dr. B. came and left medicine. Wife has very severe headache.
May 8 - I were up the greater part of the night with wife to give medicine every hour. She is feeling very weak.
May 10 - Jennie not able to be about the house.
May 13 - Jennie stil sick abed.
May 16 - Jennie sat up part of the day.
May 18 - Dr. B. called to see wife. Thought best not to leave medicine.
May 20 - Jennie not able to sit up.
June 1 - I started out this morn. to hire (borrow) some money. Got $100.00 of Horace Bill.
June 7 - Jennie quite poorly today.
June 11 - Wife and I went to town.
June 22 - Came home via Collins. Engaged my wheat.
June 23 - Loaded wheat this morn. and took to Collins 45 15/60 bu. P.M. toolc off another load 45 50/60 bu.
June 24 - Worked on the road with team. Genia taken 11 o’clock with severe vomiting. Very bilious.
June 25 - Doc came, left med.
June 26 - Doctor came to see Genia this morn. She is very sick. ‘After supper hitched up Nellie then went to Doctors and brought him here. Thinks Gena some better. Left medicine. I took him home.
June 27 - Put (Paris) green on potatoes. Doctor called this morning. Genia very low with inflammation for bowels (diarrhea?). Doctor came again six o’clock. A change for the better in Gena. Very sick day of it.
June 28 - Doctor came this morn. I went to see doctor this eve. He eame back with me. Gena doing fairly. Took doctor back home.
June 29 - Doctor came this morn. Gena holds her own, but very sick. Loaded (cow?) chip dirt.
June 30 - Doctor B. called this morn. Also at night on return from town. Genia just holds her own. In pain at night but doctor soon relieved her.
July 1 - Doctor called this morn. Gena eomfortable.
July 2 - Doctor eame this morn. Gena water had to be drawn (catheterized). Called again at night. Gena poorly.
July 3 - I were called at 3:30 a.m. to get the doctor. Brought him. He soon relieved Genie by drawing away her water. Had restless night. I went town morn and telephoned and sent dispatch to sister Elma to come. Doctor came again this evening.
July 4 - I went for doctor 2 o’clock morn. He soon relieved G. and he came again a.m. and middle p.m. brought him again. She was able to pass her water again towards night. Doing well. I went town and to Bells for smart weed. Doc left medicine at night. I went Ceylon (Ohio) and met sister Elma on train 8 o’clock eve.
July 5 - Genia is doing fairly today. Doctor called this morning. I sat up with Gena latter part ol the night.
July 6 - Doctor called this morn. Went to Ceylon and got Elma’s train . Frank brought Alice here to watch.
July 7 - Doctor called. G. Faust and three of his men came this morn to build my barn. Took Alice home.
July 8 - Doctor called.
July 9 - Doctor called. Genia doing well.
July 1O - Doctor called. Genia doing well.
July 11 - Doctor called for the last time for Genia as she has so far recovered.
July 12 - Genia sat up few minutes today (16 days after onset of illness). Getting ready to retire and soon learned that Genia could not pass water so we applied crushed onions and hot vinegar on her bowels and soon relieved.
July 14 - Drew in 16 cocks clover hay.
July 15 - George and his four men here today. Took their tools away at night.
July 19 (Sun) - None of us attended church.
July 20 - We set up reaper.
July 23 - Bound and shocked wheat.
July 25 - Jennie took me to B. H. (Berlin Heights, Ohio) depot this morn where took train for Cleveland. I found Ella well.
July 27 - Left Cleveland. Found Wife at depot to meet me and soon home. Looked over contents of valise (presents?) then at hoeing potatoes.
July 28 - Pound wheat and weeds. Turned over some that we will handle loose.
July 29 - Had new barn insured $400 and 200 doll. hay and grain.
July 30 - Put up hammock. Didn’t get much sleep, had toothache.
July 31 - Opened wheat shocks. Raked loose wheat. Drew all the wheat and put it in stack. The green head flies are very troublesome to my team.
Aug. 1 - Dug two and a half bu early potatoes. Raked wheat gleanings.
Aug. 3 - Put fence across barnyard and fixed straw shed. Brought over shaveings from barn.
Aug. 4 - Went to town three times for articles for carpenters. The Mensis Reeds came hung barn doors. Sold some apples at the Heights.
Aug. 5 - Made short ladder this morn.

Internship

Because of the war, internships had been shortened from the usual 12 months to 9 months, in order to produce more doctors in a shorter period of time. I wanted to go to a hospital where I could get the most “hands-on” experience with adequate supervision - a rotating internship covering medicine, surgery, gynecology, obstetrics, pediatrics, orthopedics, etc. and yet be paid a reasonable salary in order to avoid further increasing my already substantial debt to my father. With these objectives in mind, I decided on and was accepted at Detroit Receiving Hospital - later called Detroit General Hospital - since razed to make way for newer developments.

“Receiving” was adjacent to one of Detroit’s run-down, low-cost, “colored” districts - high rates of poverty, crime and accidents. This made for a very busy emergency room and admitting service. An ambitious intern could get ell the experience he could stand - in any field he desired. Often the emergency rooms were all full and the hall was crowded with patients standing, sitting and lying down on stretchers awaiting their turns. It was a “charity” hospital and patients who could not pay at other hospitals were brought in from all areas of the city. Most were so glad to be cared for that they cared little that the person attending them was not vet a full fledged physician. Supervision and advice were usually only given to the interns when asked for, but the nurses were quite experienced and clever in seeing that it was asked for when needed.

*****

Betty had decided to become a nurse. It was not entirely a coincidence that, during my internship, she was a student nurse at Grace Hospital - a short street-car ride from Receiving. Whatever matching free time we had we spent together. It was usually literally “free” time too, free of expense that is, for neither of us was very flush with spending money. We did a lot of walking (yes, in the rain too). An occasional movie. Frequent trips to Belle Isle park on a large island in the Detroit river.

*****

Suturing of wounds was one of the more common activities in the emergency room. In painting a house, 90% of the work is in getting ready to paint. In suturing, 90% of the work is in getting ready to suture.

First an adequate history. Type of instrument that produced the wound is important. A stiletto-type of knife might produce injury to an organ deeper than would be guessed from the appearance of the surface wound. A blunt instrument might have ruptured an internal organ underlying the surface wound. An ice-pick, deeply inserted, can cause all kinds of hidden mischief. If the item was glass, could a piece have been broken off and left inside? The possibilities are numerous. Was the instrument contaminated with dirt or manure, lye, acid or chemicals? The inferences are obvious. How long ago did the accident happen? If the wound was more than 12 hours old it was usually left open, to be sutured at a later date, or it was sutured loosely with the insertion of rubber drain(s) - this for the better control of the inevitable infection. Was criminal intent or action involved? It often was. If so, the police must be notified. No matter how incurred (stories were often fabricated), all bullet wounds had to be reported to the authorities. We were also supposed to report all “suspicious” wounds, but were often reluctant to do so because: a. the patient was frequently quite antagonistic to such a procedures and b. we risked rebuff or ridicule by the always busy police officers who were much more experienced and blase in such matters.

As you can see, a detailed history was essential.

Then came an examination to determine the extent of the damage. It was important to determine if there was any significant damage to internal organs, nerves, blood vessels, tendons or joint capsule. Treatment of such complications required more skill than that possessed by an intern.

Anesthesia was usually by local hypodermic infiltration of novocaine or by nerve block - injection of the same substance adjacent to the nerve(s) supplying the injured area.

When the anesthetic had produced insensitivity of the injured area a second assessment was done for hidden damage, exploring the areas which could not previously be investigated because of pain.

Ready to suture? Not yet. Next came a thorough debridement and cleansing of the wound. Debridement is the removal of anything visible that would cause infection or slow the healing process - bits of dirt or foreign matter, shreds or pieces of tissue that are non-viable, etc. Cleansing consisted of washing out the wound to remove non-visible contaminants. Sterile saline solution was most commonly used. Peroxide or antiseptic solutions occasionally.

Apply a good antiseptic to the skin and cut the sterile “drapes” on - after donning, as a minimum, sterile rubber gloves. In some cases the full garb of mask, cap and sterile gown were required.

Now, at last, the suturing can begin - by “layers” if necessary. Almost an anti-climax and usually less time-consuming than the procedures which preceded it. The subsequent application of the bandage was accompanied by the admonition, “Don’t get it wet and come back in 3 days.”

*****

We often spent time in our rooms practicing the rapid tying of square knots (non-slip), slip knots or granny knots, surgeon’s knots (a non-slip first loop) and the one-handed tie, both left and right-handed using a clamp in one hand to hold one end of the suture (we used string) while we looped the free end (deftly, we hoped) around the “standing” end to form a knot. We practiced first while watching what we were doing then, later, with our eyes closed or with our hands behind a newspaper in anticipation of later needing to tie knots deep out of sight in a wound or surgical incision.

*****

The tragic Detroit race-riots occurred during the time of the internship. From our interns’ quarters we heard the frequent wail of sirens and, occasionally, the sound of gun-fire. Looting of the adjacent neighborhood was commonplace and the setting of fires not infrequent. For several days our emergency room work was tripled and attending physicians were called in to help. Police and firemen were patients in a ratio of about 1:10. Emotions ran high. At one point I heard a policeman mutter as he patted his bandage and left, “I’m going out and get me another one.”

The case I remember most vividly was that of a man who had been standing in a crowd watching some riot-connected activity (police action, looting, fire control) when a man behind him suddenly produced an old-fashioned straight razor and, in a lightening-like motion, slashed him on the back, up, down and up again, two of the cuts extending from shoulder blade to below the waist, the third cut somewhat shorter. Two of us sewed him up starting at opposite ends and meeting in the middle. We decided a third man working in the middle would be too crowded. It was a long job. When we finished we hurried to the next case, too busy to bother counting how many stitches we had inserted.

*****

Residents of the neighborhood, grateful for our services, recognized and respected wearers of the white intern uniforms when we walked down the city streets at all hours of the day and night. The hospital doors were never closed. This respect for the white uniform could be a useful thing.
During a lull in the rioting, rumor was that it was “all over”, so I decided to walk into the area and look at the damage. Before I had gotten very far I was rapidly approached by a red-faced policeman.

“For God’s sake get out of here, doc. There’s a sniper up there somewhere. If it weren’t for your white outfit you’d probably be dead by now.”

I hadn’t realized that the street had been completely deserted except for me. He and I hastened around the corner together and I meekly hurried back to the sheltered haven of Receiving Hospital, not to venture forth for several more days.

*****

Removal of numerous types of foreign bodies from the various body orifices was commonplace at Receiving. I personally removed several open safety pins and fish-bones from as many throats, a dead cockroach from a young lady’s ear (she didn’t know it was there), innumerable live insects from ears of frantic patients (who knew they were there), a crushed but jagged tobacco can from a vagina (perversion), the broken neck of a coke bottle from a vagina (???), and I discovered (by x-ray) but referred to a specialist for treatment the case of the lady who had inserted a bobby pin into her urethra and allowed it to slip into the bladder. Well, I had come to Receiving hospital for experience and I was getting it in full measure, and being paid, housed and fed besides.

*****

It was there that I first witnessed the use of penicillin. It was very expensive and was used only in cases of dire need - often too late. The sulfa drugs were the main stay of treatment for infections but in many cases were not effective.

The child was dying of multiple pulmonary abscesses secondary to pneumonia. The bottle of light, golden, intravenous liquid was carried to the moribund patient’s bedside by the nurse, followed by the resident physician, who, in turn, was followed by the intern. The mother had been told that her child was to receive penicillin (to her, a new “miracle” drug) and the hypnotic stare of her joyous face did not leave the bottle as it was secured at head height to the arm of the metal stand beside the bed. Here was salvation; I am sure that my face, too, reflected the hope that we all felt. It was to no avail. In less than 24 hours the child wes dead.

*****

I had never been circumcised. In my medical training I had been told that circumcision was desirable for reasons of good hygiene and to prevent cancer of the penis. What to do.... I would be embarrassed to have it done in an operating room of the hospital. Surely the jokes and “ribbing” would be unbearable. To go to a doctor’s office or to another hospital would be too expensive. I saw no reason why self-surgery in my own room could not be employed and so decided. On a weekend when my room-mate was gone I requested from the surgical nurse (no questions, please) an adult “circumcision tray” (instruments) plus sterile gloves, antiseptic and novocaine. As expected, the most uncomfortable part was the injection of the local anesthetic, but I had always prided myself about not being a “sissy” about pain and crossed that barrier with only a barely audible hissing of air through the teeth. Once the novocaine had taken effect, the rest of the operation was fairly routine until, near the end of the operation, the anesthetic began to “wear off”. It sounds simple enough to say, “Just put in more anesthetic,” but the memory of the pain of injection was fresh in my mind and I decided to grit my teeth and to hurriedly put in the few remaining stitches while some vestige of numbness remained. I was persevering as the last stitch was tied (gently) and mentally resolved not to recommend a similar procedure to anyone else.

*****

Although forbidden to do so by the rules, several of the interns and residents had income-producing part-time jobs on the side. As long as they did not interfere with regular duties, such indiscretions were usually conveniently overlooked by the administration. The small, private hospital near Belle Isle was sometimes referred to as the “Golden Cow” by the residents and interns who worked there in their off-duty hours. There was seldom much business in the emergency room but hospital regulations required that a physician be on the hospital premises at all times. Having no interns or residents of its own, the hospital hired them from other hospitals for this purpose. Room and bed were provided and the average night usually produced only 2 or 3 emergency calls. Thus it was a well-paying, “cushy” job and sometimes the salary was earned while sleeping through the entire 8-hour night shift. During the last couple of months of my internship I worked several times at the “Golden Cow”, substituting for an intern who needed time off.

*****

Those days of internship were busy but happy ones.

Betty and I spent as much time together as we could.

But then came the...

Army Days

As my internship drew to an end I was the recipient of good news and bad news. The good news was that I had attained my dreamed-of goal and was now a full-fledged doctor. The bad news came in the form of a telegram from the adjutant general in Washington, D.C.:

“Jan. 2, 1944-
First Lt. Ira Woodrow Wiggins-
Proceed January 5 Camp Barkley, Texas. Report commanding general Medical Replacement Training Center for temporary duty six weeks, thence to another station.”

This was heart-rending news for Betty and for me. The tears flowed, for we knew we would be separated for an indefinite period of time. Although we had not discussed marriage, we both knew in our hearts that it was inevitable.

My solitary ride on the train from Chicago, Ill. to Camp Barkley, Texas took some 14 hours, as I recall. I rode coach class. It was not only lonely, it was mighty painful. The night before I had started to develop a thrombosed hemorrhoid (a clot in a rectal “pile”) and it was at its peak of discomfort when I boarded the train. With each jolt of the train I felt as though someone was goosing me with a serrated paring knife. I spent a good part of the ride standing up and forever after have had more than the usual amount of sympathy for anyone similarly afflicted. On my physical examination prior to entering medical school, hemorrhoidectoey had been advised but I had the feeling that the examining doctor (a resident) simply wanted some practice, so I declined. Besides, they had never bothered me.

In Camp Barkley, I was assigned to a class of similarly recently inducted doctors. We were outfitted with fatigues, leggings and back-packs as well as dress uniforms. We lived in wooden barracks (a wind-storm once deformed one to a 45 degree angle), slept on iron-frame beds lined up in a double row (“hospital corners and blankets tight enough that I can bounce a quarter on ‘em,” the sergeant admonished), arose in the dark, ran from class-room to drill to field-exercises and were kept too busy to have much time for thoughts of home. Marching and field-exercises were essential. No one escaped going through the “infiltration course”: getting into a trench, then, at the order “go”, belly-crawling under barbed wire and around obstacles, while “land-mines” exploded around us, showering us with dirt, as machine-gun bullets whizzed overhead. The machine-gun muzzles were carefully propped up with a V-shaped board so that the bullets were kept reasonably high. I suspect that, in the case of the doctors, they might be using blanks. We heard rumors of accidents occurring: “This guy saw a snake, jumped up and bang!” “The prop fell out from under the muzzle. Wow!” “This one gunner decided to shoot a little lower over the students.” I never saw any firsthand evidence of them. I suspect they were rumors started to keep life more interesting for the students.

The closest we came to receiving any medical training, other than army paperwork, was the participation in demonstration of the effectiveness of the gas-mask. After being taught to use the gas-mask we donned it and entered a tear-gas filled building. No problem. Then we were required to remove the mask and exit the building by a circuitous route. We were adequately impressed by the effectiveness of the mask as we stumbled from the building, tears streaming from burning eyes, coughing, gagging and running for fresh air. The odor clung to our clothes throughout the next day.

Although I was unaware of it at the time, one of the doctors in this training period with us was to later be the supervisor of the clinic when I worked for the Panama Canal Company in the Republic of Panama. In fact I never remembered meeting him at Camp Barkley; it was only through the comparing of notes while we were in Panama that we came to realize that we had gone through basic military training together.

Near the end of the six weeks we were given a paper to fill out on which we were to indicate our choice of specialties in which we would like to be further trained for the next six weeks. Because I thought it might provide some rest, I checked “radiology” (x-ray) and, to my surprise, was sent forthwith to Torney General Hospital in Palm Springs, Calif., where I was assigned to the radiology service to study under a certified radiologist. My guess had been correct. It proved to be my easiest tour of duty for the duration of my service in the army. There was plenty of time to explore the surrounding area and to hike in the near-by foothills.

But the weather at times was torrid and our barracks had no air conditioning. I can remember on more than one occasion going to bed nude with a large, wet towel spread over me, using the cooling effect of evaporation to make sleep possible.

With room, board and clothing being provided, even on the small salary of an army first lieutenant I was able to save money and, during me two and a half years of army service, started to gradually repay my father. Even so, when I left the service there was still a substantial amount remaining to be repaid.

*****

On 3 April 1944 I left Palm Springs bound for two days of “processing” at Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation near Newport News, Virginia. Travel time of three days was provided as well as a ten day “delay en route”- time for a pleasure-pain meeting of several days with Betty. The pain, of course, was in the leaving. She was still pursuing her studies at the Grace Hospital School of Nursing in Detroit.

Following the processing I was assigned 18 April to 10 June as radiology assistant physician at Camp Patrick Henry Station Hospital in Virginia.

After that things started happening rather rapidly and there was “never a dull moment” for the remainder of my two and a half years in the army.

On 10 June 1944 I was assigned as the Commanding Officer of the 537th MHSP (Medical Hospital Ship Platoon), a position I was to retain for the next nine months. The MHSP was a tiny independent unit consisting of only 15 men - two officers and 13 enlisted men. The medical officer was the commanding officer of this small group; the dental officer was the adjutant. Of the 13 medically trained corpsmen one was the company clerk, supplied with a typewriter and all of the forms of a larger unit, the most persistent of which was the “Daily Report”. The function of this unit was to go overseas and to bring back wounded. For me this added up to 14 Atlantic crossings, never twice on the same ship. For my constant companion on every crossing I had mal de mer, for I was unduly subject to motion sickness. I had access to all of the drugs in the pharmacy and tried them all without benefit: sedatives, stimulants, antihistamines, atropine-like drugs, etc. I also eagerly accepted advice from one and all: eat frequently; don’t eat at all; walk the deck; eat dry crackers; take sips of bourbon; keep cold by dressing lightly; lie down, etc. The only procedure that gave a semblance of relief was getting flat on my back, which I tried to do whenever conditions allowed.

On one trip, in the midst of making “ward rounds”, I literally ran out of the ward to get in the supine position in my room - this, to prevent vomiting. When I sheepishly returned later the nurse informed me that me actions had been a great moral-booster for the patients.

“Glad to do whatever I can,” I muttered.
It was not until after the war that the motion-preventive medications came on the market. For me they were the perfect answer.

*****

11 June 1944 - by train from Came Patrick Henry to “staging area E” of the Port of Embarkation at Charleston, So. Carolina. Tension and excitement were in the air for we knew we were at the jumping-off point for a trip overseas, perhaps to a battle zone. Some of our coresmen had been in battle and experienced the loss of comrades. They were understandably a bit inclined to chide their two green officers.

15 June 1944 - left U.S. shores with other MHSP’s aboard the hospital ship “John L, Clem”. For a long 15 days we sailed eastward with no duties aboard ship, for we carried only the crew plus medical, dental and nursing personnel and coresmen. We spent long hours looking for other ships, discussing the latest rumors, watching flying fish & dolphins and, at night, wondering at the marvelous fluorescence in the bow wave.

These activities soon grew monotonous, so when the pharmacist, a dentist and another medical officer suggested we start a “running game” of contract bridge I eagerly grasped the opportunity. I had learned the basics of the game since being in the army. After supper each evening we would retire to the pharmacy (for privacy), play for about three hours, take a half-hour break for sandwiches then play for another two or three hours. With that type of dedication we couldn’t help but learn a lot about the game. On a couple of occasions we tried playing for money, a tenth or a twentieth of a cent a point. Even at those low stakes, we found that animosities developed and friendships were strained, so we reverted to playing just for the fun of the game.

Near the end of the journey we passed through the straights of Gibraltar, with the Rock of Gibraltar on our left and the shores of north Africa barely visible or our starboard side.

30 June - we arrived at our destination, Naples, Italy, specifically the staging area at Bagnoli, the location of the 225th Station Hospital. The first two days there were boring and uncomfortable, sleeping wrapped in a blanket on a cement floor, eating from our mess kits which we then rinsed in a 50 gallon drum of soapy water followed by a rinse in a similar drum of clear hot water. Well, it was clear for the first few who used it. We spent a month of raging inactivity in the Naples area, the only memorable events being visits to Mt. Vesuvius and the ruins at Pompeii.

20 July to 22 July 1544 we were aboard the U. S. Hospital Ship “Chateau Thiery” en route to Oran, North Africa, there to be attached first to the x-ray division of the 7th Station Hospital, then to the surgical division of the 69th Station Hospital. “Housing” consisted of clusters of tents pitched in a large, open field - four men to a tent, as I recall. Mosquito netting was mandatory. On the one occasion I declined to use it I was awakened by a foraging rat as it scampered across the sheet on my thigh. Toilet facilities consisted of an open trench bridged by a building fitted with board seats with appropriate holes. Lime was added to the trench daily. Routine instructions to all newcomers was the admonition to clear the underside of the rim of the seat with any suitable object prior to being seated - a precaution against the black widow spiders which were said to be inclined to lurk there and to attack sensitive parts of the human anatomy. In all fairness, I never actually saw a case of black widow spider bite.

There was adequate medical staff permanently stationed in this area, so we transients actually had little to do other than to observe in the army hospital there. To keep us busy the local commander decided to institute a regimen of morning calesthenics. When I say morning, I mean before daylight. The entire encampment would line up with military precision in an open field. After roll-call those fortunate enough to be in the rear could silently fade away in the darkness and return to the “sack”.

Our encampment was in the vicinity of the local mortuary for the city of Oran. The stench of decay emanating from this edifice was somewhat subtle at our distance from it, but to anyone having occasion to walk nearby, it was overpowering.

When walking about in public the local women wore the traditional white flowing dress, head covering and veil. On the rare occasion when one would lower the veil and smile (a brazen, open invitation, to be sure) it appeared that she was considerably more attractive with the veil in place. Despite the encouragement of prophylaxis the venereal disease rate amongst our troops was of concern. “Quickie” contacts took place in alley-ways and in hall-ways of buildings.

*****

The beaches at Oran on the Mediterranean were delightful this time of year. They were public and were utilized by both civilian and military. I had read of fishermen immobilizing small, edible octopi by giving them a quick bite on the head. It was at one of these beaches that I first saw another clever method used. One of the swimmers caught an octopus the body of which was about fist-size - a table delicacy for most of the local people. A shapely young lady eagerly accepted the vigorously struggling morsel and, with a deft twist of the wrist, seemed to turn it inside out, whereupon it immediately went limp and was easy to handle.

*****

Alcoholic beverages were difficult to obtain in the Oran area. A mixture occasionally used for social occasions was canned orange juice to which had been added an appropriate amount of laboratory ethyl alcohol. It was an effective, if not tasty, substitute for the commercial product.

*****

My first and only air-raid experience was rather unspectacular and deflating. In the middle of the night the sirens began their piercing wail and I immediately jumped from my cot and strapped on my metal helmet and began to dress. This according to official directions. I could see the fingers of searchlights in the distance groping in the blackness of the sky. From another cot came a sleepy grumble from one of the more experienced troops, “Hey, doc, you don’t need to do that. These things are always false alarms.”

In the dark I realized that I was the only one who had reacted. Hesitantly I removed the helmet and climbed back into bed. Sure enough, in a few minutes the din ceased and all was quiet. In the morning we learned that an enemy observation plane had flown nearby. Of course I was the object of a few subtle barbs and good-humored ribbing for being a little “green” and jumpy. In case of a real attack, I was assured, you would have time to put on your helmet after the first bomb fell. Assuming, of course, that the first one didn’t land in your lap.

*****
During our stay here all outgoing letters prior to being mailed were to be censored and signed by the commanding officer or someone designated by him. One of the corpsmen in our unit was a corporal who was chronically rebellious of authority and regulations. When I discovered, in the outgoing mall, one of his letters to which he had signed my name it was the last straw. I reduced him to private, the second time this had occurred to him during his tour of duty in the army. I have often wondered whether what I did was right. Perhaps I’d have been more lenient had I not been far from home, lonely, frustrated and grumpy. Was it just for purposes of “apple-polishing” that two of the men assured me in confidence that they agreed with my actions?

*****

1 Sept. 1944 our Medical Hospital Ship Platoon (537th MHSP) boarded the hospital ship “John J. Meany” and four days later docked at Palermo, Sicily for 24 hours, just long enough for a quick look around the bomb-damaged town. The local urchins were very friendly.

“Wanna go see my sister, Joe?”

Many would walk chummily hand in hand with any g.i. passing down the street. Our men learned to proffer the hand without the wrist-watch on it, for some of the children were very adept at quickly snatching a watch and running like the wind. They were also anxious to beg, steal or even buy American cigarettes which they could readily sell at inflated prices. It was illegal for our soldiers to sell cigarettes but the temptation was too much for many of them and the practice was common.

*****

From Palermo we returned to Naples where, on 10 Sept. 1944, we boarded the U.S.S. “General G. O. Squier”. 102 patients - “litter cases” - were brought aboard for transport under our care back to the U.S. These were non-ambulatory wounded, many in casts and a few in traction - some with dressings that required changing daily. All were in stable condition and actually required little care other than close observation to detect the onset of any complications (wound infection, pneumonia, etc.). I had expected the majority of the wounds to be the result of enemy action. Actually well over 50% resulted from activities not associated with combat - jeep and auto accidents especially. Simple military maneuvers produced some of the casualties, as did fights associated with drinking.

We sailed from Naples on 13 Sept. and on 24 Sept. discharged our patients at the Port of New York. It had taken us over three months to perform the first mission of our primary function - to bring back wounded from overseas. Not exactly a model of efficiency. Perhaps they were working the “bugs” out of a new system.

*****

From the Port of New York our unit was sent to Camp Kiemer near New Brunswick, New Jersey - there to languish in inactivity. It had been almost six months since I had seen Betty, and letters, no matter how frequent or how ardent, are a very poor substitute for the real thing. We obviously were not needed and new orders were not in the immediate offing so I scurried down to the camp master sergeant’s office and requested an immediate three-day pass to attend to urgent business beck in Michigan. There was a marked lack of any activity in the sergeant’s office and he apparently intended to keep it that way.

“Sorry, Sir, but we aren’t giving out any passes at the present time.”

The words “stupid, lazy, arrogant, un-American” rushed through my mind in a flash, but I well realized that such words spoken would get me absolutely nowhere. Instead, I found it easy to let my face assume a drawn look and to smile a wan half-smile as I began a rhythmic slight jerking of my head from side to side in a tic-like motion.

“Oh, that’s, —-that’s, —that’s —O.K.” I stammered in a barely audible voice. “I’ll, I’ll,.......I’ll be all right, ———— I, I guess.”

I dropped my eyes to the floor and hung my head down as I increased the rate of twitching. I was thinking to myself, “This stupid, lazy jerk is going to get me out of his hair the easiest way he can and I think I know how that will be.” Sure enough, he suddenly came to life, propelled himself out of his swivel chair and with a hurried, “Just a minute I have to talk to the Lieutenant” he disappeared into the back room. In a few minutes he was back with a signed pass for the poor wretch, who shuffled slowly from the room with downcast head and a muttered, “T-t-thanks.” Nearly bursting with joy and inward laughter I took pains to walk slowly and appear dejected until I was well out of sight, - just in case he had not been entirely convinced and was still watching.

*****

A blissful three-day reunion with Betty.

*****

I reported back to duty on 3 Oct, 1944 and on 7 Oct. our MHSP unit took a train for the Port of Embarkation at Charleston, S.C., at which point we boarded the U.S. Army Hospital Ship “Dogwood”, From 11 Oct, to 2t Oct. we were en route to Liverpool, England - over two weeks at sea with nausea when the weather was rough and playing bridge when seas were calm. On such out-bound voyages we carried no patients. In England we were billeted with the 317th Station Hospital at Ramsden Heath, near Oxford. As in Oran, the hospital was already adequately staffed so our work was essentially nil and there was adequate time for sight-seeing. I eventually wearied of visiting the many cathedrals, each with its own several-hundred-year-long history.

While stationed here, on 2 Nov. 1944 I received official notification of my promotion to rank of Captain and proudly wrote the news to Betty and to my parents in Kankakee, Ill. The additional income was welcome.

*****

On 13 Nov. we boarded the “S. S. Argentine” in the Port at Liverpool and the next day sailed with 22 trauma cases and 24 mental cases. The latter were all well controlled - most by medication - only one, as I recall, with restraints. We were 12 days en route to the port of New York where we again transported the patients to the local army hospital.

After being billeted for 21 weeks at Camp Shanks near Orangeburg, New York we traveled to Charleston Port of Embarkation to prepare for another trip overseas to bring back wounded.

22 Dec. we sailed on the U.S. Army hospital Ship “St. Mihiel” and arrived 3 Jan. 1945 at the port of Avonsmouth, England. We had all seen better holiday seasons than that one; Christmas day was pretty glum. Our unit took a train to Whitchurch, then a bus to the 157th General hospital near Birkenhead. On 8 Jan. we took a train to Swansen, England and the following day boarded the S.S. “Marine Panther” at Milford Haven, sailing on 11 Jan. for (again) the port of New York with 32 surgical litter cases and 23 “closed ward” mental cases, the latter requiring confinement, close attention and no freedom of movement about the ship. There were no unusual incidents and I was pleased to note that the efficiency in “turn-around” time was improving with each trip.

We arrived in New York on 21 Jan. After a short three days in Camp Shanks we sailed on 24 Jan. aboard the well-known “Queen Mary”, which had been converted to a troop transport. Instead of being luxurious and gay, it was austere and efficient. The “Queen” was carrying replacement troops overseas. We were assured that the swimming pools were still there but they had been floored over in order that the space might be put to more practical use. Officers’ quarters aboard ship were quite adequate but, on my one visit to the enlisted men’s quarters deeper in the bowels of the vessel, I found them noisy (from the ship’s engines), smelly (hot oil and sweat) and overcrowded to the extreme. Well, I guess it wasn’t billed as a pleasure cruise.

The Queen Mary would have been a great prize for an enemy submarine. Because of a devious course, the trip took seven days as compared to the “Queen’s” usual time of three days. Two days from our destination we began a zig-zag course to frustrate enemy subs. That night it was announced that enemy subs were believed to be in the area and we were again briefed in emergency and life-boat procedures and instructed that everyone aboard was to sleep that night fully clothed in order to save time should enemy attack occur.

Three other officers occupied the stateroom with me. We laid for a while with our clothes on, found them uncomfortable, finally said, “eh, what the hell!” and undressed to put on our usual sleeping attire, but keeping our clothes handy. We had bunk-type beds. As the ship made a violent turn in its zig-zag motion it tilted and we were thrown against the bulkhead. A few minutes later, as it turned in the other direction, we had to struggle to keep from being thrown over the edge of the bed and to the deck. This went on all night long, I found that I could get a bit of sleep by putting my back to the bulk head, bending my knees and putting the pillow against my chest and abdomen. Under the circumstances a hammock would have been ideal.

On 1 Feb. 1945 we arrived at Greenock, Scotland and proceeded by train to the 162nd General Hospital at Nocton, England.

*****

Again we had a reasonably quick turn-around, boarding the “Ile de France” at Greenock, Scotland on 14 Feb. and sailing on 16 Feb. with l00 litter cases. This trip to New York took ten days but on about the fifth day out I found my role being switched from that of physician to that of patient. All the symptoms of flu appeared: fever, headache, malaise, aching, slight cough. As the fever rose higher on the third day of the illness I was admitted to the hospital ward aboard ship under the care of a Canadian medical officer. The diagnosis was “fever of undetermined origin”. There I was given an oral dose of paraldehyde every four hours. Now paraldehyde is a foul tasting, foul smelling liquid which is not only nasty to take but which remains or the breath for some time after each dose. American doctors use it for hysteria, malingering, for convulsions or delirium tremors and as a sedative.

After several doses I asked the Canadian medical corpsman on the ward why I was being given paraldehyde and he responded, “Why, for the fever, of course. We use it routinely for that in Canada.” At my request he had the order changed to aspirin.

The following day my cough increased and I noticed some bloody tinge to the sputum I was producing. What a relief. I now knew the diagnosis: pneumonia. The ward physician still could hear no rales in my chest but agreed with the diagnosis and immediately started giving me penicillin.

“Turn over, sir. This is going to hurt you more than it will me. Ho, ho!”

There was an x-ray unit aboard ship but it was to be used only in case of dire emergency, so no x-ray was taken. I was told that enemy subs might be able to “hone in” on signals produced by an x-ray machine.

*****

25 Feb. 1945 we again docked at the port of New York but, instead of overseeing the unloading and transportation of patients I found myself being carried down the gangway in a litter, loaded aboard an army ambulance and transported to the Station Hospital at Fort Hamilton near Brooklyn, New York. Along the way I felt the gaze of many curious faces and knew they were thinking, “I wonder what happened to him.” In a way I felt a bit like a fraud, being transported along with many who had been injured in battle. On the other hand, I was starting to feel a bit better and it wasn’t a bad feeling to have my every need looked after without having to lift a finger.

At Fort Hamilton I was put in a private room. An x-ray was immediately taken and confirmed the diagnosis of pneumonia. Antibiotics were continued and sputum tests were taken three times a day, which I thought a bit unusual. I later learned that tuberculosis was suspected but disproved. Thus the frequent sputum tests and the private room.
On my arrival the Red Cross had sent telegrams to my parents and to Betty saying only that I had been admitted as a patient in the hospital after arrival from overseas. This caused them considerable alarm until they received my following letter explaining the details.

I was appreciative of the tender loving care lavished on me in the hospital but was nonetheless delighted when I was released for a ten day leave on 19 March. I headed posthaste to my parents’ place in Kankakee, Ill., where betty joined us for a few days.

*****

On my recovery I was assigned to the medical service at Camp Shanks Station Hospital in New York - near Nyack, New York - and left for duty there on 29 March. How great it was to once again be in the atmosphere of a stable, well-run, clean, orderly, academically-oriented hospital and to be working with solid floors under my feet - with relief from the devils of nausea and dizziness which had so persistently accompanied the unstable decking of ships. It was a satisfaction to be able to take care of patients from the onset of their illnesses through improvement and recovery, rather than to just be administering custodial type of medical care.

*****

Since our last reunion in Kankakee it was daily becoming more painful to be separated from Betty, who was now in her last year of nurses’ training at Grace Hospital in Detroit. She came to see me at Camp Shanks on June 10th and we decided to “tie the knot” despite the nursing school’s rule forbidding marriage before the last six months of school. What the school didn’t know wouldn’t hurt us.

I was unable to get leave so, on June 14th, 1945, with local military friends for best man and best lady, we were married in a small chapel on the post at Camp Shanks. I was in my military dress uniform and she was in a simple suit-dress with a small corsage. The lack of a friend-and relative-filled church detracted not one whit from our ecstasy. As we walked from the church to the local bus station we were nonchalant, not especially wanting to be spotted as 15 minute newlyweds. We knew something had betrayed us when we passed an enlisted man and, after passing us, he began softly whistling “Here Comes the Bride”. As we turned to look at him he gave us a sly grin and a wink.

*****

My superior officer, Col. Bater, had given me the day off to get married but, for some reason known only to him, had firmly declined to give me the following day. We checked into a small hotel in Nyack, New York where I had a bouquet of a dozen white roses waiting.

The following morning I arose shortly after dawn in order to catch the early bus back to camp and a day’s work. As I was leaving the hotel I met a co-worker who had apparently also stayed the night and was returning to the hospital. I noticed that he was discretely avoiding the subject of why I had spent the night at the hotel. I finally revealed to him that I had just been married. His reason I never learned.

After working in the status of a new husband for eight days, I was finally granted a ten-day leave by Col. Bater, at the end of which time Betty returned to nursing school and I to Camp Shanks.

On 15 Sept. 1945 I was assigned as the commanding officer of a new MHSP - the 982nd at Fort Hamilton, New York. My five nd a half month stint at Camp Shanks had been most enjoyable but I was once again to be part of a small traveling unit with one medical officer (me), one dental officer and 13 enlisted corpsmen. The day I received the assignment I shook off the mild wave of nausea that settled over me - just thinking about the undulations of a ship’s deck. To my surprise, and for reasons unknown to me, those orders were cancelled and on 1 Oct. I received orders assigning me as part of the medical staff of the U.S. Army Hospital Ship “Frances Y. Slanger”. I expected the work to be more interesting and medically stimulating, but there would still be those damnable weaving, unstable decks to contend with.

Our first trip was to Cherbourg, France, caring for 135 German POWs en route. On the return trip we carried 140 ambulatory g.i.s who required little or no care. The following trip again took us to Cherbourg carrying no passengers or patients - only the staff of the ship. We kept the deck of bridge cards warm. The return trip was with 140 ambulatory cases.

During these trips, with time on my hands, I half-jokingly sent in official papers requesting transfer to shore duty because of chronic seasickness. Someone “up there” must have believed me, for on 7 Dec. I was permanently assigned as chief of the Medical Service at the Station Hospital, Camp Shanks, New York.

*****

The contagion ward was my prime responsibility and it was an enlightening experience. In addition to the serious communicable diseases such as meningitis we had occasion to see many complications of measles (pneumonia, ear infections, encephalitis), mumps (pancreatitis, orchitis, meningitis) and chickenpox (cellulitis, pneumonia). I recall seeing one soldier with chickenpox whose entire mucous membranes (mouth and rectum) were covered with the lesions. He was most uncomfortable.

By and large most patients and their relatives took the medical care pretty much for granted, but I did frequently get a “Thanks, doc!” The parents of one young man who recovered completely from a rather severe case of meningococcal meningitis sent me as a gift a rather large book entitled “The history of World War II”. Inside they had written a note of thanks.

*****

Betty finished her training in Feb. 1946. In March she came to Englewood, N.J. where I had rented a cozy apartment for the two of us. It was easy commuting distance to Camp Shanks. She worked at the local hospital in Englewood. We were determined to never again allow such prolonged periods of separation, a determination which was to often play a part in our future decisions.

On the basis of time served I was entitled to be separated from the service in June of 1946. I could hardly wait. The military salary I had been receiving allowed me to gradually repay some of my debt to my father but I was anxious to start private practice and start eliminating my debts at a faster rate. So, despite an offer of promotion to major, I happily skipped off to Ft. Dix, N.J. 30 June to 3 July to be “separated”. The last day of my “terminal leave” was 21 Aug. 1946, thus ending my two and a half year forced association with the military. I had seen a lot of country - and a lot of ocean. I had acquired new medical experiences. It was far from a total loss but I yearned to be a civilian again. Saluting or being saluted was never my cup of tea. Thus I declined to join the reserves. Nor was I tempted to join the VFW or the American Legion in subsequent years. I had served my time and wanted only to make the military experience a part of ancient history.

Flying Days

If I were told that I must eliminate all hobbies and diversions except for one, it would be a difficult choice between snorkeling and flying. As a child my most pleasant dreams were of flying an airplane; I eagerly devoured books and stories about flying. Before ever being inside an airplane I knew by heart that to take off one had to: a, open the throttle wide, b. push the stick forward to raise the tail (tricycle gear was not yet in use), c. gain speed and, d. pull gently back on the stick to leave the ground. To think that I would actually ever accomplish such a thing, however, was entirely unbelievable. I did not expect to ever possess the financial means or the fortitude of character to perform such deeds.

In March of 1958 I had been in busy general practice as a family doctor in a small town for almost 12 years. We had two active, healthy children and some money in the bank. One evening I abruptly made the announcement, “Betty, I’m going to take a flying lesson.

“You’re what!!”

“I’m going to take a flying lesson. Maybe just one I don’t know. Maybe I won’t like it. If it looks even a little dangerous I’m not interested, but I’d like to try it once.”
“Well, O.K. if you think you should.”

Lauren Hammond had retired to a small farm just outside of Jonesville, Michigan. He was a flight instructor and loved flying to the extent of using a considerable portion of his valuable farm land as crossed, sod landing strips. He was well aware that the use of the land as landing strips produced only a small fraction of the income that could have been attained if the soil had been used for the production of crops. But love of flying and rational thinking are seldom compatible. Lauren was mild-mannered, soft spoken and a man of few words - but the words were usually well worth noting.

I had never been inside a small aircraft and knew little about them other than what I had read. When I called Lauren to make an appointment, I asked, “Do I wear anything special - like tennis shoes?”

At the other end of the telephone line I could hear his soft chuckle. “No. Just wear whatever you usually wear, doc.”

It was with great anticipation and a certain amount of trepidation that I showed up for my first lesson at his farm-airport (according to my log book) on March 30, 1958. We first walked around the aircraft as he explained the various parts to me and told me what to look for to be sure that the airplane was safe to fly.

The plane was a two-passenger Cessna 120, registration #N1979V, with an 85 horse-power Continental engine. It had “conventional gear”, i.e. tail-wheel rather than a nose-wheel, making it much more subject to ground-loop or, as the book says, “instability of directional control”.

That it had had many hours of hard use was obvious: scratches, scrapes, small dents, nicks in the propeller, mottled oil and gas discoloration of the fabrick. There was no radio, no flaps, no starter. Starting was done by “hand-propping”, in which Lauren turned the propeller while I sat inside to manipulate the switches, throttle and brakes according to his instructions. The procedure, I later learned, can be done by one person if the airplane is securely tied down and the wheels chocked to prevent a runaway. After fighting the gale from the propeller to enter the aircraft and buckling himself into the right-hand seat, Lauren gently suggested, “If you’ll reduce the throttle to idle when a passenger enters, it will be easier for them.” That was only the first of several hundred mistakes he was to correct in the course of our association.

“We’ll be up for about 30 minutes,” he informed me.

“I’d just as soon take a full hour as long as I’m here.”

“Well, I find that usually, for the first lesson, half an hour is enough, but we’ll see.”

As usual he proved to be right, for at the end of that time my senses were reeling under the impact of all the new sensations, instructions and admonitions - many of which were entirely opposite from the rules on the ground: the higher you are the safer you are; use only one hand on the control column (wheel); going slowly is dangerous; going fast is safe; when making a steep turn, do not lean to one side as in a car; when landing, keep the airplane from landing as long as you can (sounds absurd).

Having two runways, there were four possible directions for taking off, depending on the direction of the wind. Since the land was valuable, Lauren had not wasted any by making unduly long runways. In one direction the only obstacle to be cleared was a low fence. In the second direction there were telephone wires a short distance from the end of the runway. In the third direction were electric wires and in the fourth direction, a few hundred feet from the end of the runway, loomed the neighboring farmer’s silo. This latter demanded a change of direction immediately after take-off. The amount of runway an aircraft requires for take-off and the rate at which it climbs are determined by several variable factors: weight of passengers, amount of fuel in the tanks, air temperature, wind speed and direction and elevation of the airport above sea-level. Lauren was intimately familiar with all of these factors as well as with his aircraft.

When we were a few hundred feet in the air Lauren reduced the throttle, headed into the wind (a fact I was ignorant of) and adjusted the trim tab for level flight. I looked out my window on the left side. We were going slower and slower, as I became painfully aware by looking at the ground below. Lauren said nothing, the only time I recall that he failed to explain beforehand what we were about to do and what would happen. I wondered if he really knew what he was doing.

“Won’t we fall?” I asked.

“Rate of travel over the ground isn’t important; air-speed is what keeps you in the air. Later I’ll show you what happens when we go too slow. The airplane doesn’t fall.”

He had effectively demonstrated to me well-controlled slow flight.

I then took the controls as he advanced the throttle, and thereafter the only time he ever touched them was to briefly demonstrate a maneuver to me or to take over on landing when things got out of control. He once said to me, my job is to ride along and keep you from killing yourself until you learn how to fly.”

When I returned from that first lesson, Betty asked, “Well, how did it go?”

“It’s not dangerous. - And I like it.”

She knew I was hooked.

Due to my medical practice the lessons were not as frequent as I would have liked but I always returned from them happy and rejuvenated.

True to his word, Lauren soon showed me what happened when an airplane flew too slowly. This was called “practicing stalls” - an ominous sounding name. I had visions of the engine quitting, but the “stall” does not refer to the engine. It is the wing which stalls when air is not passing over it readily enough, i.e. not enough “lift” is generated to keep the airplane at the same altitude. At this point the plane does not fall or “pancake” as I had imagined. Rather the nose drops down, causing air-speed to build up and air to flow more rapidly over the wings. It is dangerous only if it occurs too close to the ground (for obvious reasons) or if one wing-tip is allowed to dip too low, causing the plane to enter a “spin” toward the ground with insufficient altitude to recover from the spin. In other words, stalls are not dangerous as long as there is sufficient altitude.

Each time we went up we practiced forced landings. I came to expect my instructor, at odd times, to reach over, pull the throttle closed and calmly say, “You’ve just had engine failure. Pick a spot and land.” my choices were often ill-advised but improved under his tutoring. When we got within about 200 feet of the surface he’d say, “0kay, take off,” and up we’d go for more practice. Once on such an approach he remained silent and I fidgeted as the ground loomed alarmingly close. It wasn’t that good a place to land. Finally he smiled and softly drawled, “You’re not really going to land, are you?” “No, I guess not,” as I pushed the throttle full in and cleared the trees by what to me at the time seemed a narrow margin.

Landings were the final and most difficult hurdle. Taking off is easy; an airplane wants to fly; it doesn’t want to land. It was very difficult not to induce those wheels to touch the ground as soon as possible once the runway was below them, despite Lauren’s oft-repeated, absurd-to-me instructions to, “Hold it off! Don’t let it land. Keep that wheel all the way back!” After we’d bounced to a landing he’d reach over, pull the wheel back another inch and say, “You didn’t have it all the way back.” One day he told me, “You’ll make better landings today.” To my surprise, I did.

He explained, “I let the grass grow, so the surface was about 10 inches below where it looked to you.”

One of the best compliments I ever got from him came shortly before I was ready to solo. “About the time you students get to where you give me a pretty decent, smooth ride I have to get out and I don’t get to ride with you any more. Pity.”

The first page of my log book covered March 30 to May 14, 1958. It shows 11 separate flights with “dual instruction” on each one, totaling 7:30 (7 hrs. & 30 mins.).

The first entry on the second page shows 20 mins. of dual instruction and 1 hour of solo flight. The day was calm and clear, so, after 20 mins. of instruction and three acceptable landings (not to my complete surprise), he said, “Let me out here. You’re readY to take it up alone.” Every pilot has vivid impressions of his first solo. I remember how quickly the plane got off the ground and how fast it climbed without Lauren’s added weight. I remember how easily I could see out of the right window with no one sitting in that seat. I remember bursting into song as I was higher than usual above the telephone wires at the end of the runway. I can really fly! I recall how, on landing, it was more difficult to get the plane to settle to the ground, due to the lesser weight.

Thereafter I recorded frequent solo flights of one to one and a half hours. By Aug. 10th I had acquired 10:25 (10 hrs. & 25 mins.) of dual instruction, including instruction in cross-country flying - use of compass, watch and air-speed indicator to determine position on the map at any particular time. My solo time had reached 21:50.

On Aug. 16th I took my first solo cross-country flight: to Toledo, Ohio, then Brian, Ohio and back to Jonesville. The only thing that went smoothly was the navigation. The air was quite turbulent and I had always been subject to motion sickness. At one point I was sure I was going to vomit in the cockpit. I had no “sick-bag”. I was not sure I could vomit and fly the airplane at the same time. I had not yet been convinced that a plane would not crash as soon as the controls were released. On the ground, my stomach and the air both settled down and I was able to take off again and to proceed to the next stop with minimal discomfort.

I took and passed the written examination which is required before one can take the “flight test” and be issued a private pilot’s license, without which one cannot be accompanied by any other person other than an instructor.

Lauren assured me that I was ready to take the flight test. On Dec. 14, 1958 I flew nervously to Jackson, Mich. and bounced mightily (three times!) as I landed on the long cement runway. “The grass should have been taller,” I muttered. Then, “Oh, Lord, I hope the guy who’s examining me didn’t see that.” He dourly informed me that he had.

The examiner was a lanky, sour-faced (he was probably remembering my landing) individual who informed me that he was having one of his frequent bouts of migraine headache and “would just as soon get this over with.”

First there was a brief oral quiz. He was satisfied.

Then, “No radio in the plane, eh?”

“No, sir.”

“O.K. We’ll simulate. You sit on the other side of the table and I’ll sit here. You’re the approaching pilot and I’m the control tower operator. Make contact and get permission to land.”

I gave an embarrassed and inept performance. All I knew about radio was what little I had read. All he said was, “Let’s get in the airplane,” but I could hear him thinking, “God, I hope this guy knows more about flying than he does about radio.” I was mentally prepared to be flunked.

During the flight test we performed only a small portion of the maneuvers I had been prepared to demonstrate.

“Head back to the airport,” he instructed. “Remember I never pass a student if I have to help him with a landing.” That sounded reasonable to me and, with great concentration, I made only a hint of a bounce on touching down.

As we climbed silently from the plane, he could sense my anxiety.

“Relax. I’m going to give you your license, but I want to tell you three things: First, this license is a license to continue learning - and don’t you forget it. Second, when you take up passengers don’t fly like you’ve been of necessity flying in your training period - steep turns, stalls, abrupt maneuvers. Do everything gently, for the comfort of your passengers. Third, tell Lauren he should give his students more instruction in the use of radio.”

I burst into off-key song as I flew home. I’m a pilot! I can take people up! It was a thrill surpassed only by getting my M.D. degree, getting married and by the birth of our two children. In the next few days I proudly took members of our family, one by one for it was only a two-place plane, up for rides. The children gloried in it. Betty went only because she knew she was expected to. She did not then, and never has, enjoyed flying for the sake of flying. Moreover, she was not about to be left behind if the destination was someplace of interest. In other words she flew with considerable misgivings: “I just don’t see what holds the thing in the air!” and, as she looked out the window, “Those wheels sure do look funny just hanging there and not resting on anything.” Some years later she did consent to taking a few flying lessons, “so I can get this thing on the ground if anything happens to you.” Then, to make sure I knew where she stood, “I’d never take it out of the ‘barn’ on my own!”

In the spring of 1959 I joined the near-by Hillsdale Flying Club and had access to a Cessna 140 - still two-place, but with flaps, radio and a starter - and to a Cessna 170-B - 145 horse-power with 4 seats. At last I could take my entire family with me. Over the next few months I flew to most of the airports in that area of southern Michigan and then began flying, on occasion, into nearby areas of adjacent states. It was an easy way to visit my parents in Kankakee, Ill. (about 60 riles south of Chicago) without a long and fatiguing drive. Mother could never be induced to fly with me but dad rode happily along with a constant grin on his face, gazing at the scenery below. Neither of them had ever been up in a small airplane.

I must pause to explain here that the true flying stories which I will relate represent the unusual and do not in any way represent the average time spent in the air. Flying is hour after hour of perfect delight interrupted by an occasional “memorable incident”. I apologize in advance for what you will recognize as poor judgement, lack of skill, illegal procedures and sheer stupidity as factors in most of these incidents. Forgive me.

The Hillsdale Flying Club acquired a third aircraft - a Piper tripacer four-place, with 135 h.p. It was in this aircraft that our family was flying one crisp, hazy, winter day en route to Grant, Mich. to visit Betty’s family. We had been in the air about 20 minutes when I noticed that the engine was running slightly “rough”. Betty was a “nervous passenger” and I was relieved to see that she apparently had not detected it. The roughness got slightly worse. Could it be carburetor ice, of which I had heard and read but with which I had not had any first-hand experience? I cautiously pulled out on the button labeled “carburetor heat” and the engine at once sputtered loudly in protest. I hurriedly pushed it in as Betty looked questioningly at me. I certainly didn’t want to alarm her further so I kept the carburetor hat full in (off) as we flew along. The roughness of the engine increased as I began to realize there was a gradual loss of power and an increasing vibration in the entire airplane. Looking back, I could see that the horizontal portion of the tail was visibly vibrating. By now Betty and I were both alarmed. I recalled putting in a quart of oil just before take-off. If I had left the cap off the filler neck, could this have caused our problems? Right then an airport appeared in full view and we hastened to land with the little power that remained. As the wheels touched down, the struggling engine became completely silent and we rolled to a stop about half-way down the runway. We gave a sigh of relief then, on impulse, I pressed the starter button and was amazed as the engine sprung to life. “What the hell!” I thought. There was a mechanic on duty at the airport and I explained to him what had happened.

“Sounds like carburetor ice,” he said, “temperature and humidity conditions are about right for it.”

“But why was I able to start the engine again after I landed?”

“Simple. Once the cool, moist air stopped flowing through the carburetor, the remaining engine heat melted the ice. Presto, you’re in business again. I suggest you take it up alone for a flight around the pattern, being liberal with carb heat and see if it doesn’t respond normally”. Of course he was right. And that’s how I really learned about carburetor ice. The reason it had sputtered loudly when I pulled out carb heat was because the applied heat was melting the ice on the butterfly valve of the carburetor and the resultant drops of water were being drawn into the combustion chambers and caused sputtering. Had I left the carb heat on despite the sputtering, full, smooth engine power would have been quickly restored. When I could have prevented further carb ice accumulation by leaving the carb heat part way on. Lauren had instructed me in the use of carb heat by intermittently pulling the button full out. On this trip I had neglected it.

*****

I knew that flying to Florida would be a great way to break up the long winter, but Betty was not so easily convinced. She found excuses; she procrastinated; she changed the subject. Finally I took a deep breath and said, “Honey, I’ve made a decision. I’m going to fly to florida for a two week vacation. I’ll sure be lonesome if you and the kids don’t go along.”

Pause. “In the little plane?”

“Yup.”

Pause, “Well, I’d rather go in a big plane, but if you’re going I’m not about to stay home.”

I still chuckle to recall the early-morning scene in the bathroom as we were getting ready to leave, As she sprinkled cologne liberally on her body she muttered, “At least I’ll smell good when we crash,” She still didn’t understand fully what “holds that little thing up in the air.”

*****

It was on this trip that we visited the track at Hialeah, the first time we had ever been to a race-track. It was an exciting day. Both of us had somewhat of an aversion to betting but I felt that we should not leave the track without having placed a bet. I noticed on the card a horse named “Labia”, an anatomical name with which I was not entirely unfamiliar. The odds were 15 to 1. Who could resist putting $2.00 on labia, - excuse me, I mean “Labia”. Of course I played the entire $2.00 to win. She (I assume it was a she) came in second. Ah, well, ‘tis better to have-loved (translate “wagered”) and lost than never to have loved (translate “wagered”) at all. Some 33 years later I still ha e the ticket to prove the story.

*****

By March of 1961 I had accumulated 127 hours of “pilot-in-command” time in addition to 15 hours of dual instruction and 1:20 of “hood-time” - practice flying “blind” with reference only to instruments. It was that month that Betty and I decided to fly for a nine-day vacation to Pascagoula, Miss. We invited our good friends, Burdette and Alyce Kizer, to go along and share expenses. Burdette was a “good flyer”. Alyce had never been up in a small plane. My suggestion that I take her up for a short hop prior to the trip to see how she liked it was voted down as unnecessary - a decision we were all to regret. Alyce was practically frozen with fear the entire trip - a long one. She was especially frightened of climbing to a higher altitude; she wasn’t convinced there was safety in height and I was apprehensive of continually flying at low altitude. (It’s an old joke about the concerned grandma telling her pilot grandson, “Now be careful, John. Fly low & slow,”) No matter how slowly and cautiously I would attempt to ascend, I was invariably admonished from the back seat with a sharp, “Ira, you’re climbing!” It was not a relaxing ride.

Before we landed in Pascagoula, Alyce assured us that she would be taking the train when it came time to return home. There were no loud objections. Burdette simply said, “Oh, Alyce,” suspecting she would change her mind, and she did.

*****

It was with this same Burdette that I was riding a few years later he at the controls of his own Cessna - when he turned to me after a long lull in the conversation, and said, “Ira, when you were a kid, what would you have said if someone had told you we’d be doing what we’re doing now when we grew up?” I knew what he meant: flying airplanes; he a successful businessman & I a doctor.

Without a moment’s hesitation I responded, “I’d have told them they were out of their minds”. I knew his heart was full of gratitude, as was mine, for what life had dealt us.

*****

In April 1962 Betty and I flew for vacation to Gulfeort, Miss. Most trips are not without their learning experiences and this one Was no exception. From previous experience we had learned that long hours in the air often resulted in uncomfortably full bladders and had decided to remedy this situation. A couple of coffee cans with tight lids were easy to use and could be discretely emptied when we stopped for gas. However, on one particularly long leg of the journey both cans reached their capacity and we felt the need for further relief. I decided we could empty one can by slowing down to a bit above stall speed, opening the window and, with a tight grasp on the can, thrust it out the rear part of the window opening and empty it in the slip-stream. Simple? Not so. As soon as the can reached the window opening the slip-stream emptied it in a blast of spray into the cabin. I leave the rest, including the subsequent clean-up job, to your imagination. As I said, a learning experience.

*****

We had heard about the illegal moonshine whiskey in Mississippi and decided, as a lark, to see if we could buy some. We were successful in making two purchases. One was from the bartender at the hotel where we were staying. The other was from a waitress in the restaurant of the same hotel; her husband was the assistant deputy sheriff. Both purchases were in Ball mason jars with a screw top and rubber ring. One was clear as water; the other was tan colored and had a faint odor of tobacco. We were told that tobacco was often used as a coloring agent. We weren’t about to sample the products for we had no desire to imbibe unknown quantities of wood alcohol, lead or (chewed?) tobacco juice. We did, however, want to take the samples home as conversation pieces to show our friends. We packed them carefully in our luggage to prevent breakage.

One part of the trip home involved ascending to an altitude of 8500 feet in order to avoid a cloud layer. It was while approaching this altitude that we heard a muffled “pop” from the vicinity of the luggage in the back seat and were soon enveloped in the unpleasant stench of moonshine whiskey Another mess. Another lesson, The increasing altitude had caused the air bubble in one of the jars to expand and burst the container. My cautiously opening the windows a bit we were able to more quickly ventilate the cabin. We laughingly pointed out that if we were to crash, the odor would quickly convince any right-minded investigator that it was an open-and-shut case of drunken flying.

*****

March 16 - 30, 1963 Betty and I again flew to Florida, this time in a 230 h.p. Cessna 182 which had been acquired by the flying club. The entire trip involved 23 hrs. and 50 mins. of flying time. On the way south we stopped at Hamilton, Ohio, Charleston, W. Va., Atlanta, Ga., Orlando, Fla., Tavernier, Fla. and Key West. On the return trip we stopped at Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., Vero Beach, Fla., Silver Springs, Fla., Bryson City, So. Carolina and “Sunken Lunken” airport (because it was so often inundated with water) at Cincinnati, Ohio.

The landing at Bryson City was of interest. The top of a big hill (or small mountain) had been leveled off to make a single runway. One end of the runway ended abruptly at a canyon at the bottom of which was a river. The other end terminated just as abruptly in a near vertical slope, below which was a highway leading to the airport. It appeared to have all the charm and excitement of landing on an aircraft carrier. Landing too short would be no less hazardous than landing too long and running off the far end. However the strip was of adequate length providing the approach and landing were made properly. On my first attempt, not wanting to be too low (ouch!) on the approach end of the runway, I over-compensated and came in much too high and fast. Had I landed we certainly would have used more runway than was available (ouch again!). I applied full throttle to “go around” and try again, noting as we flew by the hangar and gas pump that we had three or four interested observers. Would I embarrass myself again on the second attempt? At this point I remembered reading in a flying magazine that, if necessary, a small plane could be made to stop in a shorter space by holding both doors full open after touching down - due to the increased wind resistance. I explained this to Betty and we agreed to try it to see how it worked, even if it wasn’t necessary. The second approach and landing were “on the money”. Once on the ground, I said to Betty, “Okay, let’s open both doors and hold them open.” The wind-resistance was obvious and the slowing of the plane definitely augmented.

“Say, that does work,” I remarked. When we had stopped I made a U-turn on the runway and taxied back toward the gas pump. Half way there I spied a straw hat on the runway.

“Someone lost their hat,” Betty said, “let’s pick it up.” Not until she picked it up did we realize that it was my hat which had blown from the back seat when we opened the doors. This activity had not gone unnoticed by those at the gas pump. As one of them silently filled our gas tanks I explained the door-opening experiment.

“So that was it,” he chuckled, “We thought you were getting ready to jump out in case your plane went over the end of the runway!”

*****

Logbook entry of June 5, 1963: “landed at Zoro airport”.

This was not a pre-planned landing. Betty and I and the two children, ages 13 and 15, were flying from Jonesville, Mich. to visit my parents in Kankakee, Ill. Dad had agreed to meet us at the Kankakee airport at a prearranged time. As we were passing over a portion of the northern tip of Indiana it became apparent that the weather ahead was rapidly worsening. Approaching nearer it was obvious that we could not safely proceed, so I radioed the FSS (aviation weather facility) near Chicago, Ill.

“That’s a line of thunderstorms passing rapidly through, the man said. “If you will just set down at the nearest airport and wait an hour or two it will be out of your way and you can proceed.”

Betty invariably kept track of where we were. At once she volunteered, “We just passed over an air-strip in a patch of woods but it is awfully small and there doesn’t seem to be a town or anything nearby.”

Then came one of the most prophetic statements I have ever made: “Oh well, sometimes these small airstrips are the most interesting.”

We made an approach to the grass strip, noting the wind direction from the wind-sock, but the runway was quite short and I found that I was too high and too fast as I approached it. I applied power and went around for another try, this time with success. As I taxied back to the single, rather dilapidated hangar a man approached from a path in the woods. It was a hot day and not unusual that he was clad only in overalls, with no shirt or shoes.

As I alighted from the plane he scowled and said, “Did you know you landed at a nudist colony?”

“Hot damn!” I exploded as I laughed and slapped my thigh, for I knew he had to be joking.
He didn’t smile.

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”, I asked.

“No, sir, I’m not kidding.”

My profuse apologies gushed forth, for I could understand how such groups were very sensitive to snoopers, curiosity seekers and low-flying aircraft. After I had explained to him our situation and had requested the use of a phone to call my father in Kankakee to let him know of the delay, he grudgingly led me down the path to the door of a trailer where “the lady who runs this place” lived. She was likewise stern of countenance, middle aged, of average appearance and wearing a shortie beach robe which only revealed signs of nudity when she bent over. Again I explained our predicament and she hesitantly and skeptically allowed me to use the telephone. “But you’ll have to pay first,” she admonished.

After the phone conversation she realized that the situation was not contrived and her accusing look turned to one of almost friendliness. When I told her that I was a doctor from Jonesville, Mich. - and my wife a nurse the change in her demeanor was complete. She inquired if our family had ever practiced nudism.

“Only in our home,” I answered.

“Is your family in the plane with you?”

‘’Yes, my wife and 2 children.”

“You’re all perfectly free to come in and use the rest-room facilities if you’d like.”

I hope that my face didn’t brighten too perceptibly. Up to this point I had seen little to indicate we were in a nudist camp and, once here, I’d sure like to take a quick look around.

“Yes, thanks. Very nice of you. We’d like that.”

I hurried back to where Betty and the children were waiting in the plane.
“Hey, c’mon. They said we could use the rest-rooms. It’ll give us a chance to take a quick look around.”

“Oh, no! You’re not getting me in that place,” Betty blurted out.

“Aw, mom!” from the kids.

After a moments thought, I said, “Okay, let me put it this way: I’m going in. Anyone that wants to can come with me.”

The kids eagerly jumped out and Betty, naturally, followed.

A bell had been rung and all campers were inside their trailers (many with out-of-state licenses) as we strolled to the spacious, clean toilet facility building. Over the door was a sign “For little boys — and little girls, too.” Inside were the usual basins, showers and toilet stalls with no doors. The walls of the stalls were clean and completely free of the graffiti so common in most other public toilet facilities.

“Interesting,” I remarked.

Nancy and Tom were wide-eyed. “Where is everybody?” one of them asked.

“I guess they all go in their trailers when strangers are around.”

As we were leaving, the “lady who runs the place” (I never did learn her name), dressed as before, met us and, very friendly now, led us into the office to explain their facilities. Most campers were complete families with children; this was usually their summer vacation; “singles” were not encouraged to join; many were from out-of-state, some from as far away as Colorado; most were not known as nudists in their home-towns; nudism is considered a good form of physical conditioning and mental hygiene; the administration has the right to forbid the use of alcohol in specific cases; applicants must have character references, preferably from their physician and minister. Zoro nudist camp, she proudly informed us, had the largest outdoor swimming pool in the U.S. We had already seen the volley-ball courts - vacated because of our presence. The pool we were to see only from the air as we left; on our landing we had been so intent on looking at the air-strip that we had not seen it.

“Would you like to have an application blank to take with you?” she queried.

“Yes, I believe we would,” I eagerly replied. How else would I ever be able to prove to my skeptical friends that I had actually landed at and visited in a nudist colony?

Betty and I left with the distinct impression that, at least in the case of this particular camp, nudism has much higher ideals and goals than usually attributed to it by the sensationalism of the press. In subsequently relating this story to acquaintances, a few then told us they were or had been practicing nudists and further convinced us of the sincerity of the concept. I can believe their statement that daily exposure to nudity tends to diminish sexual urge rather than to stimulate it.

*****

Please realize that between these interesting incidents there were many hours of plain, simple (but never dull), enjoyable flying. It wasn’t entirely the time-saving aspect, for many times the trip could be made in as short a period of time in a car - if one takes into account having to drive to the airport, open the hangar, pull the plane out, gas it up, preflight it, stow luggage, check weather, file a flight plan and get everyone comfortably and safely aboard. To say nothing of the occasional aborting of a trip because of weather or mechanical malfunction. But the fun of flying was well worth the occasional inconvenience.

*****

Sept. 24 - 28, 1963: to Burlington, Vt, with the Kizers to see the fall colors from the air.

Breathtaking.

This trip I did not mind Alyce’s admonitions to stay at a low altitude. The scenery was fantastic - a view completely different from that seen from the cars on the highway below.
“Oh, look over here!”

“Yes, and just look at that hill over there.”

“It’s so beautiful I can’t stand it.”

*****

From Hillsdale, Mich. it was a pleasant flight to Meig’s lake shore airport in Chicago, - except for one occasion on which the ceilings gradually lowered so much that we found we could almost look in the windows of houses as we went by. Betty threatened to pick a pumpkin from the field if I flew any lower. We landed and waited until the next day to complete the trip. If one were ambitious one could walk to the Chicago “loop” from Meig’s; and with even less effort could visit the nearby Adler planetarium and Shedd aquarium. It was a short trip by street-car to the Field museum of Natural History and only a bit longer to the Museum of Science & Industry, both of which held many wonders both for our children and for us.

*****

Flying on a clear night can be exhilarating. The stars stand out like tiny diamonds. Towns can be seen by their lights further away than they can be identified in the daylight hours. The same holds for an airport with its rotating beacon. Other aircraft, with their distinctive navigation lights and rotating beacon, can also be more easily spotted.

When the weather is marginal, night flying can be less than relaxing. On one occasion, in a snow-storm at night, we were unable to determine our exact position - okay, say “lost” if you prefer. Fortunately, a small airport appeared directly in our path and we hastened to land. As I recall, it was Defiance, Ohio. It is most embarrassing for any pilot to have to enter an airport office and ask, “Would you mind telling me what airport this is?” A most humbling experience.

In any event, the snow-storm soon passed over and we were able to safely continue on our way.

*****

We were returning to Hillsdale airport one clear winter night with a weather report of “all clear”. Burdette Kizer, at that time a student pilot, was in the right-hand seat and I was flying. One by one the stars began to die and then to disappear. Finally they were all gone and we were in a barrel of ink. I was not at all proficient in flying “on instruments”. On an impulse I turned on the landing lights and could then see why the stars had disappeared. We were in a heavy snow-storm. I radioed the airport from which we had left, told them their forecast could stand some revising (“But there’s no snow reported in your area,” he protested) and turned my attention to the job of keeping the plane right side up and headed in the right direction and at the proper altitude.

It was very foolish of me not to reverse course and go back to where we had come from, a thing which I would surely do today, but I was inexperienced and frightened and had “get-home-itis”, - a combination that often leads to imprudent actions, with disaster lurking in the background.

By this time all lights on the ground had disappeared. I was having trouble heading in a constant direction. Finally I saw the faint glimmer of a star directly ahead so, in order to maintain a constant direction, I used it as an aiming point. The engine began gradually revving faster and I was aware of the wind whistling louder outside. With shock it dawned on me that the “star” I had been using as an aiming point was actually a light on the ground! As I rapidly corrected the situation I mentally vowed to take more training in instrument flight. Our destination of Hillsdale had no radio homing device (omni) but the town ten miles away did have one. I was too busy controlling the plane at this point to risk manipulating the radios.

“Burdette, tune in Litchfield omni on the radio.”

Hesitantly, “I don’t think I can, Ira.” He had not yet had experience with omnis.

Between us we managed to tune it properly and were heading for Litchfield when suddenly we glimpsed below us the faint, snow-dimmed glow of city lights. We were already at low altitude but descended further in our desperation to see where we were. The snow still enclosed us in a mantle of obscuring whiteness.

Burdette lived in Hillsdale and knew it intimately.

“There’s the neon sign of Leutheuser Buick!” he suddenly blurted, “Turn right!” From that point he knew the exact direction to the airport and unerringly led us to its welcome lights. We both knew that my actions had been foolish, inept, stupid, illegal and potentially lethal. On a more positive side I can truthfully say they were never repeated.

There is an old saying: “There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots.” Another truism is: “Mechanical failure rarely kills - weather often does.”

*****

What does one do when flying on a beautiful clear night when all of a sudden all electrical components go off - radios, navigation lights, panel (dash-board) lights, the works?

Simple.

Turn the master switch back on.

I had inadvertently pushed it to the off position while manipulating the carburetor heat button. Fortunately turning the master switch off does not affect engine function.

*****

Jan. 27, 1965: a bitter cold winter cay to fly the Piper tripacer to Ann Arbor, Mich. to eagerly pick up Betty who was being released from the University hospital after having completed medical tests. As I approached, the unicom radio informed me that the runway was covered with glare ice and traction was “nil”. Betty was expecting me. The runway was long. I decided that by handling the airplane like a boat it could be done. Sliding toward one side of the runway could be corrected with a blast of the propeller to change the heading and then to change the course of the aircraft. If unable to stop by the end of the runway, the plane could be swung 180 degrees by the same propeller blast, the continued application of power bringing it to a stop and then to proceed back down the runway. The worst that could happen would be the demolishing of a runway light or too. It worked without incident, but the experience of sliding down the runway at an angle was indeed a new one.

*****

July 25 - Aug. 13, 1965: vacation trip to Marathon, Fla. En route we smelled the distinctive odor of kerosene in the cabin. Did you know that the fluid in the common magnetic compass is kerosene? The glass had cracked and it was seeping slowly out.

On this same trip we landed at Williston, Fla., a very large but essentially deserted former military airport. There we examined the still visible markings on the runway where Jimmy Doolittle and crew had practiced aircraft carrier take-offs with loaded bombers in preparation for the bombing of Tokyo. There was no need to practice carrier landings, for they would not have enough gas to return to the carrier, landing instead at friendly land bases.

*****

The last entry in my first log-book was Feb. 13, 1966. I had accumulated 505 hours as pilot-in-command, 19 hours of dual instruction, 27 hours of night flight and 7 hours of simulated instrument flight (hood time).

*****

The longest flying trip we ever took was in the 230 hour Cessna 182, -Feb. 16 to March 1, 1966. It started with a beautiful, star-filled night flight to St. Louis, Mo., where we stayed overnight with the family of Rev. Stuart, a minister friend formerly of Jonesville. Then on to Austin, Texas to visit a physician friend for two days, then to the famous Carlsbad Cavern in New Mexico. Landing at Fullerton airport in Calif. we were able to visit Disneyland before starting the return trip. Landing at Death Valley airport, it was an unusual experience to watch the altimeter unwind gradually to below the zero mark of sea-level as we approached the runway. We looked around for about an hour before deciding to move on to our next destination, Las Vegas, Nevada, with its tinsel, glitter and “human zoo”. We had never seen anything like its slot machines going 24 hours a day; people dressed in everything from tuxedos to overalls or pajamas; cheap food; occasional free booze; huge sums of money being frantically poured into the expressionless maws of the slot machines. We stayed for 4 days and left wondering at it all.

Going over the rocky mountains was a new experience. Choosing the lowest, conveniently available route we still had to ascend to 11,500 feet altitude for 20 minutes in order to clear the ridges. Oxygen is advised over 10,000 feet but we knew that for that short period of time we would feel no ill effects and we detected none. A friend of ours tells of the time he was flying at 15,000 feet using an oxygen mask but allowing his wife to use the map and to navigate without the use of oxygen. After a bit she looked up, smiled, said, “Oh, what the hell! Who cares?” and threw the map into the back seat. Oxygen lack, in most individuals, causes a reaction identical to that which occurs when that same person has had a bit too much to drink. He gets tipsy. If, when under the influence, he gets happy, then oxygen lack makes him happy; if belligerent, then oxygen lack makes him belligerent.

En route back to the airport at Hillsdale, Mich. we had a scheduled landing to refuel at Quincy, Ill. Ceilings were low, visibility was poor and aircraft were landing only IFR or by “special VFR” permission from the control tower. As we approached they instructed us to circle below the low clouds outside of the control zone until they contacted me with further instructions. I circled one direction until nausea developed then changed directions. I often wonder what the people on the ground thought was going on. I again contacted the tower but was told that they couldn’t let me land until the plane “somewhere up there on instruments” was on the ground. When permission was given some 30 minutes later we lost no time in landing.

The last leg of the trip was accompanied by a spirit-lifting tail-end that boosted our ground speed to 198 m.p.h. We had been gone for two weeks and two days and had seen and done more things than we had ever imagined we could in such a short period of time. Betty was almost convinced that flying was a good way to go.

*****

Aug. 18, 1966: 1 hour 15 minutes flying time noted in the log book. Hillsdale, Mich. to Detroit Metro airport and return. Under the remarks column was “Took Ginger to be flown air-freight to Panama.” Ginger was our beloved mongrel dog and we had made the decision to leave the demanding practice and long winters of Jonesville, Mich. to work for the Panama Canal Company in a warm climate and with a 40-hour work week.

*****

On the next line the entry was Oct. 9, 1966 - France Field, Canal Zone - 15 minutes flight time in a 100 h.p. cessna 150. Remarks: “checked out by Bob Williford.” I had joined the Canal Zone Flying Club which possessed a single two-place aircraft, 20 members and a $9,000.00 debt. By 1970 the same club had an additional four-place aircraft, 50 members and the same $9,000.00 debt. It was an active, enthusiastic, growing concern. By 1975 a third aircraft had been added with no increase in debt and the membership rose to 100 members. Something then occurred which I had not foreseen. The organization became unwieldy and impersonal and began to suffer from unrest, personality conflicts, discontent and a let-George-do-it attitude. Maintenance became more of a problem, carelessness developed and accidents followed. Our experience with insurance was disheartening. The expected amount was never paid in full and payment was so slow in coming that an aircraft might be out of service and producing no revenue for four to six months, as insistent letters were repeatedly sent off to the company.

One of the accidents happened to a tall, likeable instructor, Sgt. Jim Tumlin. He had promised to take his friend, Bill, for a ride but the battery in the Cessna 172 was too weak to start the engine. Bill’s Knowledge of aircraft extended only to the fact that he had jumped from them many times as a paratrooper. Jim did not chock the wheels. He put Bill in the co-pilot’s seat and instructed him how to manipulate the brakes, master switch, magneto switch and throttle while he, Jim, turned the propeller to start the engine. Among other things he told Bill that if the engine was going too fast he could reduce the speed by pulling out (or back) on the throttle. The engine started. It was going too fast. Bill pushed in on the throttle. It went faster. He pushed it all the way in, thought “the engine is running away!” and could no longer keep the plane from moving toward the cement hangars by frantic pressure on the brakes. He lunged and did what he was more qualified for: “bailed out” the door. As Jim ducked aside, the pilotless plane sped for the near-by hangars, went dead center between them and stopped with a crunch as each wing tip impacted on a cement wall.

Other accidents occurred. One student stalled on a too-steep take-off; the plane was demolished and the student injured. One member landed at a remote, unfamiliar, crude air-strip, struck soft ground at the approach end and turned over - no injuries. Another student crashed on landing while her pilot husband on the ground (not an instructor) was giving her instructions by radio as to how she should maneuver for the landing - no serious injuries.

*****

Flying is an excellent way to get around in the country of Panama due to its lack of roads but profusion of primitive air-strips. During our fifteen and a half year stay there we spent many exciting, happy hours flying to various parts of the country, exploring, snorkeling, hunting artifacts and antique bottles, making friends and helping with medical missionary work. We also flew to Colombia, Ecuador, Costa Rica, El Salvador, Nicaragua and even to Guataeala. Many of the airstrips in Panama are crude and would be quite unacceptable by U.S. standards. The sand and coral strip at Ailigandi paralleled the beach and was less wide than the span of the aircraft’s wings. At times small drainage ditches were dug up to the edge of the run-way, presenting a definite hazard for any plane which might stray from the straight and narrow. Rarely one did. The short grass strip at Nombre de Dios started at the shoreline and pointed inland directly at a 25 foot hill not over 40 feet from the far end. This made it a “one-way runway”, of which there were several in Panama. Regardless of wind direction, take-offs and landings were usually both made toward the ocean. If an approach were made toward the mainland and an “abort” after touch-down became necessary, clearing the hill could become a problem. On occasion it was necessary to buzz the airstrip to clear it of livestock prior to landing. In later years when a road was added to the area the airstrip was incorporated as part of the road but was still used by aircraft - with caution.

*****

Porvenir is an island in the San Blas archipelago off the northern coast of Panama. Its 1300 foot runway extended the length of the island from shore to shore. A favorite expression was: “It’s better to land 300 feet too far down the runway than to land three feet too short.” Despite this knowledge, it was with chagrin that one day, on landing there, I broke the rule and struck one of the wheels on a large log which had washed up on the end of the runway, rupturing the hydraulic line to the brake on that side. Fortunately the cross wind was not severe and we were able to maneuver safely.

*****

Nargana was another San Blas island with an airstrip. This one started at the reed hut of a native indian family, made a slight dog-leg as it followed the shore and ended at the far shore. The runway consisted of a set of tire tracks through the sand and grass. One day I flew two friends there for some snorkeling and made a hard landing just past the hut with the left wheel in a soft, sandy spot. The plane squatted on its landing gear, sprang back to normal height and sped at 50 m.p.h. to a suddenly changed heading which angled toward the shoreline a few feet away. No amount of right brake or right rudder would change our course. Forward progress ceased as the left wheel came to rest in about six inches of water near the shore. The right wheel remained dry, I was perspiring. This particular airstrip has since been closed and another built on a neighboring island.

*****

The country of Panama is only 40 miles wide in the area crossed by the Panama canal. It was always a thrill to be able to climb to three or four thousand feet altitude and to see the Atlantic ocean out of one window and the Pacific out the other.

*****
Nov. 29, 1969 - Cessna 170-B. Flight to Porvenir. Remarks: “Took Patricia Graham.” Her younger blonde, tanned husband (Robin) was the teenage sailor who, under the auspices of the National Geographic, was making a solo sailing voyage around the world. He met Patty while he was on the voyage and they married but she could not accompany him if the voyage were to continue as a solo trip. Therefore she contrived to meet him at most of his stopping points. His next predicted landfall had been “Porvenir, Panama - Nov. 29.” He arrived at this small island in his sailboat, the “Dove”, three hours after I left Betty there. Before resuming the voyage he spent several weeks in Panama, for there was no special time limit on his endeavor. We visited with them in our home in Coco Solo in the Canal Zone and found him to be shy and reluctant to talk of his adventures. They spent some time visiting the indians of the San Blas island group and took us for a sail in those same islands in his amazingly well-organized “Dove” with self-furling jib and automatic steering device. He was to later author stories in three different issues of National Geographic and a book, “The Dove”, about his voyage. They also made forays into the jungle on the mainland of Panama. On one occasion, Patty, knowing my propensity for collecting unusual insects, brought to me a small “electric caterpillar” (a type of stinging caterpillar with a green, saddle-like marking on its back) which had stung her on the rear when she squatted in the jungle. It is now encased in plastic, a part of my collection.

As we were eating dinner with them one evening I interrupted the conversation with, “By the way, Patty, you owe me a dollar.”

“Really?” she said, with a knowing look and a smile.

“Yes, really.”

She handed me a dollar bill as Robin remained silent.

“What’s that all about?” Betty asked.

“Never mind,” I replied.

Later I explained to her how Patty had asked me about her recent bouts of mild nausea and I had ventured the opinion to her that she was probably pregnant. She thought otherwise and bet me a dollar she wasn’t. I had received the results of the urine test that day.

In the subsequent story in the National Geographic I came as close to getting my name in that famous publication as I ever will. To quote the article: “While in Panama a doctor informed Patty that she was pregnant.”

*****

Ted Paine was a close personal friend for the fifteen and a half years we were in Panama. He enjoyed flying with me just for the sake of flying and would return with exaggerated tales of our exploits. As we were approaching for a landing at the small, short airstrip of Nombre de Dios one day I didn’t like the way the landing was progressing (too fast, too much turbulence and gusts) so pushed in the throttle and climbed to go around for another and, hopefully, better controlled attempt. As we were climbing I turned to Ted to impart a bit of serious wisdom, “You can always tell a good pilot; he doesn’t try to save a bad landing.” He thought it was the funniest thing he had ever heard and still, to my embarrassment, loves to tell the story to anyone who will listen.

*****

It was Ted who christened the place where we landed in Las Tables, Panama as “Wiggins’ Airport”. Ted and I were in the front seats and our wives rode in back flying to the tiny village of Las Tablas, where we intended to spend two days celebrating the carnival festivities. We had never been there but had been told the location of the airport by someone who had flown there a year or more previously. From the air we searched for the airport but could not find it. Then we spotted a newly graded strip leading outward from the edge of town. There were no fences, telephone poles, ditches or structures of any kind adjacent to it. We could find no wind sock, but that was not unusual. Apparently they had abandoned the old airport and made a new runway close to town. Noting the direction of blowing smoke, we chose to land in the direction heading away from town. The dirt runway was a bit rough. At the end of the strip we turned around to taxi back to the end closest to town. As we approached the end a crowd of laughing, animated, waving natives came toward us. Our landing seemed to be an unusually festive event. As I shut off the engine and alighted from the airplane the crowd dispersed around us with laughter and gay chattering. Then, as doubt descended on me, the glimmer of truth began to appear. I approached one of the men and, hoping my fears were unfounded, hesitantly asked, “No was aeropuerto?” (“Isn’t this an airport?”)

He laughed and shook his head, “No, was nueve calle!” (“No, it is a new street!”)

“Aye, carambe!” I exclaimed, as I clasped my hand over my face. The assembled group roared with laughter.

Seeing my acute embarrassment and concern, he hastened to reassure me, “Esta bien. Esta bien. No was nada malo.” (“It’s okay. It’s nothing bad.”)

A guardia (local police) who had arrived smiled broadly and agreed.

I explained the situation to my passengers. They had already suspected the truth. My suggestion was that, since we were already here and had the blessings of the guardia, we might as well tie the plane down and walk in to town to find a place to stay. Betty, in her usual common-sense way, added her thought.

“If we thought this was an air-strip, think how sure a pilot would be of it if he flew over and saw a plane parked here.”

That logic left no room for argument.

All the passengers alighted. While they picked up the luggage I acquired directions to the real airport and hastened into the air. The “airport” looked much less like one than did the place where we had landed. It was a piece of pasture-land mostly clear of trees and with faint markings in the short, dry grass to indicate where planes had landed. No planes were in evidence. The “hangar” was a dilapidated, barn-like structure with many boards missing on the roof and on the sides. Inside was what remained of an old, wrecked aircraft. The wind-sock was represented by a rusty iron ring from which hung a few shreds of sun-bleached fabric of doubtful color.

As I taxied up to the barn (oops! I mean hangar) a small, brown, wrinkled individual appeared and, with a toothless smile, indicated that I might park anywhere I wished. I judged that local air traffic was not exactly overwhelming. After tying the plane down (in Panama we learned to always carry tie-downs) I started walking toward town in the burning sun and was soon given a lift by a passing car. Everyone is even more friendly at carnival time.

... And that was how “Wiggins’ Airport” was born.

*****

Carnival was fun, to say the least. During such times of celebration in these tiny villages, new friends are made quickly and strangers are often taken in like long lost relatives. A local family was playing guitars and singing (Spanish) songs on the porch of their adobe house as we walked by. We paused to listen and exchanged smiles. They invited us to join them, informing us that the man of the house had recently killed a deer and insisted that we return in the evening and join them for venison dinner. The parents, Se–or & Se–ora Roberto Gonzales, were simple folk with little education but were sacrificing to see that their children were well educated. They remained our friends throughout our stay in Panama.

On one of our subsequent trips to Las Tablas, their teen-age daughter was scheduled to go to Panama City by bus, an arduous, hot, dirty four-hour trip, to start her schooling as a dietitian there. Since we had two empty back seats in the plane and it would require only a slight deviation from our course we offered to take her there. At her parents’ smiling insistence, she agreed. She had never been off the ground higher than she could jump and I little realized the secret terror she held of flying. For the entire 45 minute flight, despite my every precaution to maneuver gently, she gripped the arm rests on either side of the cabin as though her life depended on it. I am sure she was convinced it did. She looked out of the window only at Betty’s urging and then immediately returned her gaze to her lap or the floor.

My first need to use the radio was on approach to Paitilla airport in Panama City. I should have explained to her what I was about to do. When I started to talk into the microphone she exclaimed, “Dios! Vamos a estrellarnos!” (“My God! We’re going to crash!”) She was not convinced by my wife’s protestations that everything was fine. Of course the partial language barrier added to the problem.

As she hurried from the plane she murmured, “Nunca mas!” (“Never again!”) I echoed under my breath, “Nunca mas!” and vowed that any time I ever took a “first-timer” for a plane ride it would be for a short hop before attempting a longer trip. The last time I saw this otherwise very charming young lady she had graduated as a registered dietitian and had never again been up in an airplane. She subsequently married a young Panamanian physician.

*****

April 7, 1971 - Changuinola, Rep. of Panama. There were two airports on a large banana plantation run by United Fruit Co. One was five miles distance from the other. I was landing at the one with a small control tower and received a “cleared to land”. The runway was rougher than I had remembered from a previous visit there. As I taxied toward the tower I was informed that this airport was closed. The runway was being repaired. They assumed I was landing at the other air-strip because “everyone knows this one is under repair.” “But it’s okay,” he hastened to add, “You can stay as long as you want and take off when you’re ready.” Such an unconcerned, friendly attitude is the rule.

*****

Jan. 5, 1973 - As we rolled down the runway for a daybreak take-off from France Field on the Atlantic end of the Canal Zone the left window popped open and I braked to a stop. Broken latch was repaired on the spot by Betty and me in about 30 minutes. We continued the trip to Guatemala City with one stop at San Jose, Costa Rica, our Cessna 182 being favored the entire trip by a steady tail-wind. We were checking into our hotel in Guatemala City by 3:00 p.m.

We spent five days enjoying the country-side adjacent to Guatemala City, then started for Tikal in northern Guatemala to view the fabulous Mayan ruins there. Our destination was Flores, near Tikal. As we neared Flores a solid layer of clouds forced beneath us and it appeared that we might have to abandon the trip and return to Guatemala City. However, a hole appeared in the clouds and we spiraled down through it to find that we were over dense jungle with no road or habitation in sight. Because of the cloud layer we could not go high enough to see any great distance. Fortunately Flores had a radio station which we could home in on with our ADF (automatic direction finds) and in a long three minutes the town and airstrip came into view.

Our visit to Tikal lived up to all our expectations.

In Flores we were staying a block from the air-strip in one of a series of cottages surrounded by a cement-block wall, with a gate which was kept locked at night as a precaution against thieves and prowlers. The last night we were there, at about 2:00 a.m., a howling thunderstorm struck - lightning, thunder, heavy rain and wind gusts which shook the cottage. I was deeply concerned about the safety of the airplane which I had tied down with ropes secure to stakes driven in the ground. Over Betty’s protests (“Do you really think you have to?”) I put on the oldest clothes I had, climbed the wall and walked the block to find the airplane rocking in the gusts. After further securing the ropes and stakes I trudged through the downpour and again climbed the wall, realizing what scant protection it really was against prowlers. It also occurred to me to wonder what eight happen if someone saw me breaching the wall in the darkness and mistook me for a prowler. I quickly dismissed the thought as I hurried to remove my dripping clothing, dry off and snuggle close to Betty hearing the wind and rain now with complete contentment instead of concern.

The next day the weather was marginal but reported to be better in Guatemala City where we were headed. On taxiing from the tie-down area I found the left brake was useless. No repair facilities of any kind. We decided to go. As we were rolling for a take-off a young man ran out onto the runway and waved us to a stop. He was an American, a local Peace Corps worker, he hastened to explain and there had been a shooting in town. One man, in a fit of jealous rage, had shot another in the chest and the local doctor had declared that the victim would quickly die unless he was flown at once to a specialist in Guatemala City. I pondered the situation: one good brake; marginal weather which might require flying at altitudes ranging up to 10,000 feet or higher without oxygen or pressurization; no medical or first-aid equipment of any kind; a patient with a chest wound who might very well die en route. I could see myself landing in Guatemala City with a man dead of a bullet wound and a story which I had no way of verifying. With due apologies and explanations to the Peace Corps worker I firmly declined and was met with an outraged outburst. He would report me to the American Medical Assn., the Federal Aviation Administration and anyone else he could think of. I could understand his anger but he, apparently, had no understanding of my position. Taking that type of patient to altitude in an unpressurized aircraft might well cause his death. I have often wondered whether my decision was the proper one but never learned of the patient’s fate.

On our return trip to the Canal Zone we were met with fierce headwinds, resulting in a ground speed average of only 100 mph and necessitating an unscheduled stop at Managua, Nicaragua for fuel. Managua was still seriously affected from a devastating earthquake which had occurred one month previously. We had seen the wide-spread damage when we flew over Managua on our way up to Guatemela. After fueling and clearing immigration and customs (just for a gas stop - or so we thought) we went to the airport office to file the required flight plan and to check the weather. We were informed that the strong winds were producing extreme turbulence in the mountainous areas alone our intended route and that we “could not” go on until the next morning. Being in a foreign country it is seldom wise to argue with an official. We asked for his recommendation of a place to stay and were informed that there were no hotel rooms available anywhere in town or the surrounding area due to so many being damaged by the “terremoto”. Perhaps, he suggested, they would let us sleep in the small office building of the local flying club. We asked. They would.

Resigned to staying overnight, we left our plane tied down outside the flying club office, hired a taxi and took a brief tour of Managua to view the damage. Most of the streets had been made passable but the devastation was still awe-inspiring. Hotels, office buildings (including the American Embassy) and homes were badly damaged. It was obvious that the adobe homes of the less affluent people were least able to withstand the tremors. Tent cities were still such in evidence, - these to house the multitude of homeless. One large tent city was just outside the main entrance to the airport. The airport terminal building itself was damaged only to the extent of a crack in the ceiling and one wall of the main waiting room.

We returned to the flying club office shortly after sundown to find four workmen playing cards there. They had been expecting us and indicated to us the two folding army cots in the adjacent room where we were to sleep. They seemed friendly enough but most of the Spanish they were speaking forth was unintelligible to us. We uneasily watched the game for a bit, then decided to have a night-cap from the half-full bottle of bourbon in our bag. The men were happy to join us. Finally we left the bottle with the men and told them we would retire. One of the men explained to us that when they left they would turn the lights out and lock the door so that no one could get in and thus we would be completely safe. We partially disrobed and climbed wearily into the cots, wondering if we had been wise in leaving the whiskey with the increasingly boisterous workmen. We did not sleep until after they had left and we heard them lock the front door. All was quiet. The room was lighted dimly by the light from a lamp on a pole outside the building. We slept.

About 2:00 a.m. I came suddenly awake and froze in fright when I saw the silhouette of a man in the room. How had he gotten in? No matter; we were about to be robbed. Hopefully nothing worse.There was no one within shouting distance. I lay quietly, resigned to submitting peaceably. He hesitated only a second then walked to the front door, walked out and locked it behind him. Betty had been awake too; we concluded that he had simply looked in on us to be sure we were all right. All right? We had damn near died of heart failure.

The early morning flight the next morning back to France Field was uneventful.

By this time my log book showed over 1,000 hours as pilot-in-command, with 43 hours of night flight and 19.4 hours of “hood time”.

*****

At least on one occasion that “hood time” practice proved useful. I was en route alone the short 40 miles from France Field, near the Atlantic end of the canal, to Paitilla (downtown Panama City) airport on the Pacific side. There was a line of clouds in my intended path but, in filing my flight plan, I had been assured that Panama City weather was clear and would remain so. Within 15 miles of my destination I encountered the low, scattered clouds which soon thickened to become broken with interesting cloud “canyons” and passageways to follow at an ever diminishing altitude. When flying in marginal weather it is a good idea to have at least two “outs” or alternate plans. The best one is usually a 180 degree turn - to go back where you came from. This day I had no passengers and was feeling adventuresome, so I continued until the inevitable happened: the clouds had closed in behind me and some were obscuring the tops of hills. I couldn’t go lower and by now I was in an oblong area completely surrounded by clouds. Directly below me was a reasonably straight dirt road with no apparent power lines or telephone poles. I flew up and down over the road until the “campesinos” (country folk) walking along it must have wondered what I was up to. I was vainly hoping the clouds might have mercy and part just enough for me to scoot out and head back home. No such luck. I had visions of landing on the road and having the plane confiscated by the local guardia while I languished in jail. The guardia near the Canal Zone are sometimes less tolerant of Gringo shenanigans than the guardia in the more remote areas of Panama. I made a decision, took a deep breath (the last one for the next few minutes) and “inadvertently” climbed into the clouds and kept climbing as I contacted Panama radio to give them my location and predicament, asking for a “DF steer” to Paitilla airport.

“Are you instrument rated?” was their first question.

“Negative,” I confessed, “but I don’t anticipate any problem.” - doing my best to sound confident.

The controller asked me to make an “identifying turn” and immediately made the comforting announcement “radar contact”. In less than five minutes (it seemed like 50), by following his directions as to heading and altitude, I suddenly popped like a cork from a bottle into dazzling sunlight and was happy to so inform the controller, who wished me a pleasant journey. Panama Radio, at that time, was being staffed and run by U. S. personnel of the FAA. For the next few weeks I anxiously awaited the inevitable letter from the FAA with its reams of forms to be filled out, asking for an official explanation of how I came to be involved in flying illegally - IFR without an IFR rating. The forms never came. The FAA does have compassion.

*****

March 23, 1976 - Flying a Cessna 170-B, a four-place tail-dragger, we made an early morning take-off from France Field with our two close Canal Zone friends Carl and Bartha Peterson. He was a physician working for the Panama Canal Co. and a long-time friend from Hillsdale, Mich. We were on the start of an adventure which Carl had instigated and planned.

Our first stop was at the tiny, primitive airport of entry-exit on the banana plantation at Changuinola, Panama. There we obtained gas from 50 gallon drums, hand pumped and strained through a well-worm chamois cloth. This latter procedure was to filter out dirt and water. My local guardia was cheerful and friendly as he checked our passports and wished us a pleasant journey. He would see us on our way back.

Our next stop, a short 30 minutes away, was Limon on the Atlantic coast of Costa Rica. With a rather cursory examination of our luggage we were quickly cleared through customs at the airport. Immigration was another matter. We were informed that we must hire a taxi and go in to the office in the center of town for this chore. There was no taxi at the airport but they would call one for us. A 15 minute wait, a 15 minute ride into “el centro” and there to wait in a tiny office building marked “immigrecion” until an official showed up. He leafed leisurely through our passports, pronounced, “You don’t need anything in your passports. Adios.” -and we were on our way. Back at the airport an official heard our story, exclaimed, “The man is an ignoramus!”, made a note in our passports with his ball-point and waved us on our way. The stop in Limon had taken two hours.

Our final destination was Barro Coloredo, Costa Rica on the Atlantic coast adjacent to the mouth of the San Juan river which separates Costa Rica from Nicaragua. There our guide met us and showed us to our quarters. It was through him that Carl Peterson had made arrangements for a trip up the San Juan river by motorized dug-out to Lake Nicaragua - bird-watching, antique bottle hunting, perhaps to sight one of Lake Nicaragua’s famous “fresh-water sharks”, and general sight-seeing. This was to be a “roughing it” trip with no fancy accommodations or equipment.

We spent the next day exploring the local area and hearing how, at one time before the Panama Canal was built, the San Juan river was chosen by the U.S. as the preferred route for a canal between the Atlantic and the Pacific. As the choice was about to be made, Nicaragua thoughtlessly published a new stamp proudly showing an active volcano. This effectively subdued the proponents for the “Nicaragua route” and attention was shifted to Panama. Preliminary work had already begun on the intended deep-water port at San Juan del Norte and we were shown some of the abandoned machinery now rusting in the adjacent swamps.

It was a likely spot for antique bottles. Some of the local boys showed Carl a spot where many had been found, indicating that it had been pretty well pieced over. Within 10 minutes we heard a whoop from Carl. He had located and dug out a nice bottle for his collection - a square bottle with a blob seal. The rest of us came up empty handed.

It was in the bottle-hunting area that Betty, while wearing thongs, stepped on a large thorn which penetrated into her heel. The thorn came out readily but the next day the area was painful and fiery red, obviously infected. None of us had brought any antibiotics, nor were any available in the small town. Finally our guide located 8 throat lozenges, each of which contained a minute amount of tetracycline. The total amount of tetracycline was equivalent to less than half that contained in a single capsule of tetracycline as given orally for infections but it was our only hope. We had betty swallow them all as a single dose. Within 24 hours the infection was remarkably better - whether due to the medication or good luck we will never know.

While in the bottle-hunting area Carl and I, soaked with perspiration in the tropical heat, decided to have a refreshing dip in the near-by shallow stream and stripped down to our undershorts and gratefully (if not gracefully) threw ourselves face-down in the cool, clear stream. We had hardly time to heave a sigh of ecstacy when we started being bitten hard enough to make us exclaim, “What the hell!” and stand upright. Our guide laughed and explained that it was only the “sardinas” showing their territorial rights. Each time we’d relax and lie still they’d nip us - not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make us wonder if they had. And sometimes on most tender parts of the anatomy. The finny little creatures were audacious minnows only about two inches long.

115 miles upstream from the mouth of the San Juan river lies Lake Nicaragua. That was our destination as we started out shortly after dawn the next day in a large dug-out cayuco with another local guide - by motor, of course. The guide had thoughtfully provided cushions for the long ride on the hard, wooden seats. The weather was beautiful, but the hot tropical sun was relentless. Several times I took off my shirt, dipped it in the river, wrung it out and put it back on. AHHHhhhhhhh!!! The tropical scenery was breath-taking and there were birds of all kinds in profusion. As we passed the boats of fishermen we saw several in the process of catching large tarpon.

Approaching the first set of rapids, our guide steered to a small dock on shore and bargained with a local man, who was familiar with the ever-shifting channel, to take us through.

Oddly enough, the entire river and control of its traffic belong to Nicaragua, due to a trade with Costa Rica some years ago for a piece of land at the river mouth that Costa Rica wanted. Thus we had to stop at three different places along the way to have “zarpes” checked and pay a small fee to a Nicaraguan official. At each stop pleasantries had to be exchanged and social amenities observed, consuming one half to three fourths of an hour each time. It did give us a chance to stretch our cramped legs.

Late in the afternoon we arrived at the tiny village of El Castillo, so named because of the ruins of an old castle there. We were about halfway to Lake Nicaragua and ready for a night’s rest. The only hotel in town had vacancies. A double room in the crude wood-slab building was $1.25 per night. It was a tiny room, only slightly larger than the home-made cot which was the only piece of furniture gracing the room. The cot was made from crossed two-by-fours between which canvas was stretched - army-cot style. A thin blanket lay folded in the middle. Spiders and cockroaches kept us company. On the rail of the back porch was a tin washbowl and a pitcher of water for ablutions. Out back was a wooden “two-holer” strategically located over a creek. The creek was dried up. Ah well, we were getting the adventure we had bargained for. We had brought a few sleeping pills for just such occasions and were thankful for them as we drifted off into dreamless sleep. It had been a long day.

The river at El Castillo held the second set of rapids. Our guide again arranged for a local man to steer the boat through the treacherous waters but this time we remained ashore and he picked us up on the upstream side of the rapids. Passing through a third rapids en route we arrived at the town of San Carlos on the shores of Lake Nicaragua by early afternoon. In this somewhat more modern town we managed a fairly decent (by Central American standards) hotel with a shower and good food.

We saw much evidence of shark remains on the beaches and shores of the San Juan river and were occasionally able to get a fleeting glimpse of one swimming by. In San Carlos we met some young American men who were working for the Smithsonian Institute. From them we learned that the famous “freshwater sharks” of Lake Nicaragua are not a different and unique species at all. It had long since been conclusively proven by tagging (the program was still going on) that the lake sharks are simply the common Atlantic bull sharks which migrate up and down the San Juan river. They can live very well in the freshwater lake but can not reproduce there. It is thought that they may spend some time becoming gradually acclimated in the brackish water at the south of the river. All of this had been printed in scientific journals but somehow the word hadn’t gotten around very well. Perhaps Nicaragua feels that a unique shark species is some additional drawing card for tourism and thus is not inclined to advertise the truth of the matter. Incidentally this shark in Lake Nicaragua is not as vicious as has been rumored. There has been only one recorded fatal attack and that was in shallow water.

After a few days in the San Carlos area we decided to make the trip back downstream in one day, so arose for a daybreak start.We were fortunate to have with us on this trip a boat captain who had formerly plied this river for a living and he knew the rapids by heart. He was glad to trade his services for a ride back to Barro Colorado. This expedited the trip considerably. We made a stop at El Castillo for gas and the usual three stops for ‘’zarpes” from Nicaraguan officials. It was downhill all the way but after the first two hours it started to rain intermittently and then steadily. At times we had trouble seeing the shores through the downpour. We had raincoats and plastic seats for protection. I had my billfold and my handkerchief in separate small plastic bags in my pocket. All was cozy and at one point I huddled down comfortably and decided just to be sullen for a while. Shortly I realized that a stream of rain-water had been sneaking silently down the folds of my raincoat and was rapidly making a very soggy 2pin my lap. Not much could be done at that point so I remained silent, motionless and glum. Darkness was settling by the time we arrived at Barro Colorado. The shower (warm eater was neither necessary nor available), warm meal and clean bed were indeed welcome.

The morning of our departure we took off bright and early, hoping to have less trouble than before clearing customs and the “imeigracion” official in Limon. Carl and I took the taxi to town, leaving the women at the airport. Our hopes were shattered. This time the official decided we did need a stamp in our passports but “the man with the stamp is out in a boat.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Perhaps about noon. Come back then.”

We were getting the shaft. If he was wanting a bribe we did not catch on. We left without showing our fury and stopped at the hotel next door to ponder the situation while we sipped a refreshing drink. At this time of year afternoon thunderstorms were common in Panama and we wanted to get home before they set in.

I turned to Carl with a suggestion. “Let’s see if we can bluff our way out of the country. The weather usually turns bad in the afternoon and if we wait we will have to stay overnight. The worst that can happen is: a. They can refuse to let us take off from this airport, or b. when we land in Changuinola, Panama (30 minutes away) they can refuse us entry and we will have to fly back to Limon for the proper clearance.”

“Sounds good to me. Let’s go! But better not tell Betty and Martha until we are in the air. They might veto the idea or their faces might give us away.”
At the airport the guardia greeted us with a smile and said, “Todo esta bien, Capitan?” (“Everything okay, captain?”) no request to see our papers.

‘Muy bien, gracias.”

The tower gave us permission to take off. Once in the air I immediately changed frequencies. If they were going to try to call me back I didn’t want to hear about it.

So far so good. We had cleared the first hurdle.

On landing in Changuinola, Panama we were greeted by the same congenial guardia who had been so friendly on our stop the en route to Limon. He was frustrated and flustered at not being able to find the exit stamp from Costa Rica in our Passports.

“Oh, well, it’s there somewhere,” he said as he smiled and waved us on our way.

An hour later the man came to sell us gas from a five-gallon drum again and we hastened to get airborne. From there the weather turned a little rainy and it appeared we might have to land and wait for better flying condition, but we were able to contact a pilot in the air who informed us that the weather at France Field was completely clear. With this knowledge we felt safe in continuing and half an hour later we landed at our destination in bright sunshine.

End of “small flying adventure”.

*****

Sept. 3, 1977 - Flew the Cessna 170-B to Ailigandi, a small strip on the mainland adjacent to the island of Ailigendi where a mission hospital is located. Took 60 dozen eggs for the hospital. Strived to make the landing as smooth as possible. Joked with Betty about “death by smothering with scrambled eggs.”

Sept. 5 - En route back to France Field the ceilings lowered to an unacceptable height and we were forced to land on a primitive strip on the mainland adjacent to the small native village of Nombre de Dios (name of God). Due to our low altitude I was unable to make radio contact to cancel our flight plan. This concerned me as I did not want the U.S. Air Force out looking for us. The small native village had no telephone service. We had become acquainted with a few people there so walked about to look for a likely home in which to spend the night. As we walked in the village I became aware of the sound of a jet aircraft far above the clouds and out of sight but obviously heading north, probably for Miami. Idea! I ran as fast as I could but by the time I arrived breathless at my plane I could no longer hear the jet. On a chance, I tuned to the Panama departure frequency and broadcasts “Commercial jet heading north from the north coast of Panama, this is Cessna N74800. How do you read?”

“Loud and clear, Cessna N74800. Go ahead.”

“Cessna N74800 was on flight plan from Ailigandi to France Field, Canal Zone. Forced down by weather. Landed at Nombre de Dios and will spend the night. Unable to contact Panama Radio to cancel flight plan. Please transmit this message to them.”

The pilot, professional that he is, repeated my message word for word and confirmed that he had transmitted the message to Panama Radio. We slept well that night in the house of the Jorge Gondola family, a native negro family with whom we had previously become acquainted. We had suspected but did not confirm until morning that they had given up their own bed for us to sleep in.

*****

Sept. 17, 1977 - Flying along the Atlantic coast of Panama in the vicinity of Fort Sherman (a U.S. military post) we observed what appeared to be a huge splash of water in the sea far out from shore. “Fort Sherman must be having artillery practice,” I observed to Betty. As we watched, the column of water did not fall back into the sea. It was then that we realized we were witnessing a water-spout - one of three that we had occasion to see during our one year stay in Panama.

*****

April 28, 1978 - one of the incidents of which I am less than proud. We were flying an STOL Maule (N325X) in which I had had little experience - five hours total time. In the back seat were Bob & Evelen Thomas, long-time friends from Jonesville, Mich. - he a minister. We were taking them to visit the Kuna indians of the San Blas islands. In landing on the narrow, short air-strip at Porvenier the direct cross-wind was in excess of my capability with the aircraft, which had a lower tolerance of cross-wind than the aircraft I had usually flown. As a consequence I was unable to maintain directional control. Despite my best efforts, we headed obliquely for the shore, rolled over a small embankment and did not stop until both main wheels were in the surf, the broken tail wheel resting on dry sand. Most embarrassing, but fortunately no injuries.

*****

March 13. 1981 - Betty and I flew a Cessna 172 to the big annual fair at David, Panama. I was part owner of HP865 - Panamanian registration at that time being required of all aircraft based in Panama. Upon preparing to leave, the pre-flight examination showed one wing-tie to be shattered. Questioning the local workmen I found that a huge, four-engine U.S. Hercules C-130 had brought a military orchestra in to the fair and, in taxiing, had produced enough prop-wash to cause the small Cessna to tip sideways and strike one wing-tip on the cement parking ramp. No tie-down rings had ben provided - only chocks. From the tower operator on duty I obtained all pertinent information about the registration number of the Hercules, name of pilot, time of arrival and departure, names of witnesses, etc., for I felt this represented improper and careless taxi procedure - in other words, negligence, for which reimbursement was indicated. I decided to “fight City Hall” and see if I could collect damages from the U.S. government. Secure application of duct tape to the wing tip made it airworthy for the trip back to France Field. I submitted a bill and explanation to the U.S. Air Force in the Canal zone. To be sure, the usual amount of red tape was involved but, in the end, to my pleasant surprise, they paid the bill in full. The U.S. government is not an unapproachable, unassailable Rock of Gibraltar after all.

*****

I retired as a civilian employee of the U.S. Dept. of Defense in the Canal Zone of Panama effective 13 April 1982. We stayed for one month longer to enjoy the tropical pleasures of Panama, our last flight in Panama being to spend a week snorkeling and relaxing at our favorite island, Nlalunega, a stone’s throw from Porvenir.

In addition to its tropical climate we were led to retire in Naples, Fla. by the presence of an active airport with omni, flying club, avionics shop, Cessna dealer, aircraft rental and Civil air Patrol. I had accumulated over 1,400 hours of flying time and had no intention of retiring from flying. The C.A.P. proved to be my “cup of tea” with the opportunity not only to fly but to associate with other pilots. One of our duties and joys was the occasional flying on “sundown patrol” along the gulf coast looking for boats in distress. In addition there was the occasional emergency call to fly out to search for a downed aircraft or to locate the ELT (emergence locator transmitter) signal from a supposedly downed aircraft. I say “supposedly” because some 97% of these were false alarms, due to the inadvertent triggering of the ELT, but it was important to find them and get them turned off, for on occasion they might be hiding the weaker signal from an actual downed aircraft.

The two licenses which I have, over the years, cherished the most are my license to practice medicine and my pilot’s license. They former will, I expect, soon expire due to disuse. The latter I hope to keep active for many happy years yet.

Doctor’s Days and Nights

When I left the army I had paid off only a small amount of my debt to my father. Betty suggested that we take time off for the honeymoon which we had never had but I was not convinced. I was eager to start working in private practice, pay off my debts, buy a home and raise a family. We had decided that six or eight children would be about right, a number we were to reduce to four after the first baby and to further reduce to two after the second one.

Declining to work as an employee or an associate, I preferred to be on my own and, through medical journals, had lined up several possibilities. One was a practice in the suburbs of Chicago, Betty and I looked at it and agreed that it was in an area that was too crowded, dirty, bustling and big-cityish. We both preferred life in a small town.

The second place on our list was a small town, population 1,600, in southern Michigan, only about 35 miles north of the Indiana-Ohio border. It was on the highway between Chicago and Detroit., formerly the old indian Sauk trail. As we drove in from the north in my father’s car we were impressed by the well-kept appearance of the farm homes and by the prosperous appearance of the fields and orchards. We were already half sold. The practice for sale was that of a recently deceased, older and well-loved physician. Office space was on the second floor over the bank building on main street. It consisted of a waiting room, a consultation-examining room and a drug room which did double duty as a dressing room for patients. On hot days I was to use a large block of ice in a pan with a fan behind it as a crude form of air-conditioning. The few hot days we had in southern Michigan did not warrant the expense of a regular air-conditioner, - at least not with my state of financial affairs.

The town looked to us like our idea of a good place to raise a family and to start our life’s work.

The widow, Mrs. Fisk, let us know that she felt some responsibility for the type of physician she chose to bring to Jonesville. She intimated that the other physician in town, Dr. Luther Day, might not be entirely happy to see us come. When we met him we found the exact opposite to be true. He was overworked and was most eager to have another physician to share the responsibilities. He was cooperative to the extent that he even gave me the names of some of the most notorious “deadbeats” on his list. To me that was entirely “above and beyond the call of duty”. His many acts of helpfulness and generosity to “the new doc in town” I will always remember.

Mrs. Fisk was agreeable and on July 18, 1946 I gave her a check for $1,500.00 ($300.00 for drugs in stock and $1200.00 for equipment and medical records). The office space was owned and maintained by the bank. Rent was $25.00 per month (1946). Now there are certain disadvantages to having a doctor’s office on the second floor with no elevator. For one thing, some disabled persons are unable to navigate the stairs. On the other hand I found the location not without its advantages.

“How many times did you have to stop today coming up my stairs, Mr. Gillis?”

“Y’know, doc, when I first came here I had to stop at least four times to rest coming up the stairs, but since I’ve been taking that heart medicine I only have to stop once, and I’m not breathing as hard when I get to the top.”

“That’s good, Mr. Gillis. We’ll continue the same dosage.”
Due to painting, cleaning and rearranging, the office was not scheduled to be opened until Aug, 12. Betty had agreed to be my nurse-receptionist for the initial months of my practice. Fortunately her memory for names was as phenomenal as mine was atrocious. On innumerable occasions she softly let me know a patient’s name to save me embarrassment.

Eleven days before the office was open a local widow lady called and asked me to see her in her home. I gladly complied. The diagnosis was arthritis and the charge was $3.00. Three days later, as I was leaving town for a few days just prior to opening the office, I dropped by her home to see if she was improving. No charge, of course. She was most impressed by this act of concern and told all the neighbors what a caring doctor I was. Well, she was my first patient in private practice and I wasn’t about to let anything happen to her.

On Monday Aug. 12, 1946, the first day the office was open, ten patients came in. The charges ranged from $1.00 (advice only) to $3.00, including medications. At 7:00 p.m. I was called to see a lady in her home 7 miles away ($6.00). Every patient paid cash and the total income for the day was $30.00. In the next few days there were Pre-marital blood tests ($1.00 each), suturing of an avulsion of the scalp ($10.00) and daily home calls ($3.00 plus mileage).

The second Monday the office was open I saw only four patients, with a cash income of $8.00 and one $3.00 charge for a dressing. My busiest day of that month was Sat. Aug. 31 on which I saw nine patients in the office, made seven home calls and an emergency call to the local asphalt plant where a man had been run over by a coal car. He was being pronounced dead by Dr. Day as I arrived. Frantic by-standers had called both of us to the scene. Total income for the day was $51.00 cash and $7.00 in charges.

The following day (Sunday) I made four home calls and sutured a lacerated arm in the office. Medical practice in a small town, I found, was to be a 24-hour-a-day, seven days a week job. A few years later, during a flu epidemic, I made 15 home calls one Sunday before instructing Betty to refuse further calls. The reason? I had the flu myself and was running a fever higher than most of the patients I was seeing.

*****

One of the patients I had inherited from Dr. Fisk was a pleasant elderly lady who informed me she just wanted to come in once a month “to talk like I always did with Dr. Fisk.” She was happy to pay for an office call each time. The blood pressure check and examination of the heart and lungs were incidental and unimportant to her.

*****

During this post-war period there was a long waiting period for new cars. I was driving a car borrowed from dad and paying him $70.00 a month for its use but was anxious to return it to him. When I approached a local auto dealer in Jonesville he offered to put me in a priority position on the list if I would make it worth his while with an extra $500.00. The hospital was located in Hillsdale, five miles away. When I went to the Chevrolet dealer there and explained my situation he graciously put me in a priority position and I was soon driving a new car. The price was $1,249.00. During my subsequent 20 years in Jonesville the only cars I bought were Chevrolets.

*****

I had been in Jonesville a couple of weeks and had never met Mrs. Fisk’s elderly mother who lived alone across the street from her. I rang the door bell, black bag in hand and, I assume, with a bright, eager countenance. After the sound of shuffling steps the door was half opened by a rather tall, thin, slightly stooped lady with the furrowed face of age but with a clear, unfaltering voice.

“Yes, what do you want?” No wasted words for her.

“I’m Doctor Wiggins. You asked for me to come.”

“Oh, my goodness, I wasn’t expecting a boy. Come right in.”

She meant no offense and I tried to take it in my stride but that wasn’t the greatest confidence-builder I had ever encountered. After that we got along fine and she seemed to treat me with at least a little bit of respect. However, she usually did manage to let me know what she thought the diagnosis was and I had a tendency to listen to her suggestions as to what she felt the appropriate treatment might be. After all it might be some time before I became as familiar with her condition as she already was. It was about then that I entertained serious thoughts of growing a beard or mustache but got no encouragement from Betty. I endured the frequent “My, you look young for a doctor,” and, as years passed, it became less and less frequent until one day I realized no one was saying that to me anymore.

*****

In my first year of practice it was not unusual for me to take a blood specimen from a patient in his home and return to the office to do the blood count myself - as in a case of abdominal pain where I suspected appendicitis. On one occasion I even did a diagnostic spinal tap on a farmer in his home. Having found him with fever, headache and stiff neck, it was necessary to consider the dreaded meningitis. So I returned to the office, got the sterile spinal tap set, returned, did the spinal tap, then back to the office to examine the specimen under the microscope. There were an abnormal number of lymphocytes but no “polys”, so the serious type of meningitis was pretty well ruled out. I phoned him to give him the good news and then learned by questioning that his daughter had recently recovered from mumps. That was the diagnosis: mumps meningitis. It often occurs without any swelling of the mumps glands and usually runs a quite benign course. He completely recovered in a few days, the only medication being aspirin.

After the first year in practice I became too busy to do my own laboratory work and subsequently referred such cases to the hospital lab. Too bad, in a way, for I had saved the patients considerable bother and money. Presently, doing a spinal tap in the home without elaborate sterile precautions and proper assistance would, no doubt, be severely frowned upon - or even the basis for a malpractice suit.

*****

The advent of multiple, effective, broad-spectrum antibiotics had not yet arrived during my first few years of practice. We had penicillin and the sulfas but tetracycline was only on the horizon; the -mycin drugs and their multiple, subsequent, highly effective derivatives were yet to be - with their initial introductory price of $1.00 per capsule. At such a price some of my patients declined the medication. Chronic pelvic inflammatory disease (P.I.D. for short) was thus difficult to treat. One treatment used was weekly injections into the hip (intramuscular) of two to five cc. of sterile milk. The milk used was the regular, household, pasteurized and homogenized cows milk which was delivered to homes in glass bottles with round cardboard stoppers. (Remember how in sub-zero weather the milk would freeze, pushing up the top to sit at an angle on a cylinder of frozen milk?) It was boiled, allowed to cool and the appropriate amount drawn into a syringe with a long needle. This foreign protein caused the patient to have a foreign reaction lasting two - four days. It was often reasonably successful in accomplishing relief of chronic pelvic discomfort due to P.I.D.

*****

Our town was served by two telephone systems: Bell and the Independent System. There was no “cross-over” service, so we had two telephones on the receptionist’s desk, in the examining room, in our bedroom and in the living room. When the phone rang in the middle of the night I, often as rot, grabbed the wrong one. I learned to sleepily ask Betty, “Which phone was that?” The Independent system was on its way out but had its advantages. “Mert” knew everyone and everything. If I would ask her to ring a certain number she might say, “Oh, they’re over at McGriff’s this afternoon. I’ll ring there for you.” Or, “There is no one home there. I just saw them walk by the office here, but it looked like they were headed toward home, so you might try them in a few minutes.” Small town charm? You bet!

*****

Betty laughingly told me of the call she had from a young man wanting to know if the doctor was an “army doctor”.

“He used to be, but is now in private civilian practice,” was her answer.

That was all he wanted to know. He had no use for anyone who had ever been a doctor in the army. He made no appointment.

*****

One evening I received a phoned request to make a home call on a farmer’s wife near Jonesville. The name rang a bell. Dr. Day had told me this man was in the habit of non-payment of medical bills but would often offer a $100.00 bill to be changed when a doctor made a home-call. I went prepared. After examining and prescribing for his wife I said, “That will be $5.00, Mr. Simpson (not his real name)”.

He went to the other room and returned. “This seems to be the smallest bill I have. I don’t suppose you can change it.”

“Sure I can. No problem. Here is your $95.00 change.”

I don’t remember ever being called again to care for the man or his family.

*****

Dr. Fisk’s medical records were hand-written, brief and often in code, I rapidly became expert in deciphering his writing. 0ne item, however, stumped me for several weeks, A commonly used medication noted in his records was “c.c. tabs. - ii q.i.d.” This translated to “2 c.c. tablets four times daily.” But what on earth were “c.c.” tablets. They were given, I noted, to patients with fever, colds, flu and respiratory illnesses. In the drug room was a large bottle labeled “acetylsalicylic acid tabs., brown” and another labeled “acetylsalicylic acid tabs., pink” - brown aspirin and pink aspirin. I knew his code for the latter was “asa. p.” It dawned on me that c.c. might stand for “chocolate colored”. Showing the pills to a patient who had been taking “c.c.” confirmed it. The pink ones were used for arthritis and rheumatism: the brown ones were used for fever and flu and colds. Many of his patients swore by them and would accept no substitute. I had frequent requests for “those brown cold tablets” or “the pink arthritis tablets”. At the end of 20 years of Practice in Jonesville I still carried both types in stock and they continued to give relief. At one point I was employing a practical nurse as nurse-receptionist and was amazed one day when she came to me with a cold and asked, “Dr. Wiggins, which is it I should take for my cold, the pink or the brown aspirin?” I solemnly answered, “0h, the brown ones.” No patient ever asked what they contained and I never volunteered. The closest anyone ever came was a lady who came in for the brown tablets any time she had a cold. On one such visit she said, “I don’t know what those tablets are, maybe only aspirin, but just taking plain aspirin at home never does near as much good.” Faith, perhaps.

*****

During October of my first year the electric bill for my office was $2.88. I bought a small electric heater to supplement the forced air heat provided by the bank and in November the electric bill rose to a dizzying $8.14. Filling my car with gas cost $2.00 - $3.00, depending on how empty the tank was.

During the four and a half months of my practice in 1946 I delivered only two babies. Expectant mothers prefer an older doctor.

In 1950 the number rose to 32 deliveries and increased each year until it exceeded 100 per year. I found delivering babies to be an uplifting and joyous experience. The new parents are immensely relieved to have an end to the long period of waiting and equally relieved to have a normal baby. All in all it was a very satisfying part of the practice of medicine, despite the disruption of office hours and the middle-of-the-night calls to the hospital labor and delivery rooms. The fact of being up all night supporting a woman in labor and delivering the baby did not excuse me from arising at the usual time the next morning for office hours and hospital ward-rounds.

*****

I was the family physician for an industrious and pleasant farm family near Jonesville. They had two children when I moved to Jonesville and I delivered the next three. The wife was a bucolic, easy-going but hard-working woman of very stocky build. She invariably came for her first Pre-natal visit to me sometime during the 8th month of her pregnancy. When I asked her the usual, “And what can I do for you, Mrs. ———?”, she would chuckle with satisfaction and say, “You mean you can’t tell, doctor?” She always corseted herself so severely during her pregnancies that her condition was in no way apparent. She was overweight and usually gained no weight at all during her pregnancies. Her neighbors and friends never had an inkling she was expecting until the husband announced that she was in the hospital having a baby. I never saw any ill effects on mother or baby resulting from this ill-advised, severe constriction of the abdomen.

*****

One afternoon, in the middle of office hours, I was called to make an emergency visit to a near-by farmhouse. The very obese, single, 19-year old daughter was having severe abdominal cramps and the parents feared appendicitis. Examination revealed a full-term pregnancy with the patient in very active labor. Parents and daughter all expressed complete amazement at the diagnosis, but when I delivered the baby in the hospital that evening they seemed convinced. My amusement, Or course, had to be discretely concealed.

*****

Parents of another unmarried teenage daughter, when told the girl was pregnant, said they could in no way understand how this could have happened. On the girl’s second pre-natal visit the mother explained to me that they had finally realized the daughter’s condition had been caused by “that scratching on the back screen door.” The daughter agreed. I hare always regretted not having pushed for a further explanation.

*****

On the other extreme was the lady who visited the office to have her pregnancy cared for. She was very obese, had missed six menstrual periods, had gone through a period of morning nausea and was now feeling daily fetal movement. All very routine. The exam was normal in all respects. The protuberant women was firm and about the size of a six months pregnancy. I was unable to hear any fetal heart tones, but this is not unusual, especially in an obese individual. At subsequent visits I was still unable to detect movement or heart tones, but was reassured by her statement that the baby was “very active”. When she was eight months “pregnant” it finally dawned on me: false pregnancy (pseudocyesis). I had never previously seen a case. Diplomacy seemed in order. She was astounded and disbelieving and I had to produce x-ray evidence in order to convince her. In general practice there is, for sure, “never a dull moment”. I would try not to get caught napping again.

*****

“When will the baby be born, doctor?” I dreaded the question, whether it was asked months before the due date, on the due date, after the due date or while the patient was in labor.

“When the apple is ripe it will fall,” was never truly a very satisfying answer to the expectant parents, however true. I learned by experience to give a date much later than I actually figured, for nothing is more disheartening to the distended mother-to-be than to pass the date and daily be bombarded by friends and neighbors with, “Haven’t you gone in yet?” Made her feel like a slackard or traitor to the cause.

Even when the patient was in active labor, “How much longer will it be?” was seldom easy to answer with any amount of accuracy. My greatest miscalculation was with the patient in the labor room of the hospital whom I informed would not have her baby for another two or three hours. Ten minutes later I was visiting another patient on the floor below when the maternity nurse called on the phone to tell me that my patient had strained mightily and, with one great labor pain, had precipitously expelled a screaming, healthy, normal baby into the bed. I think I omitted sending a bill in that case. Of course it was much more common to spend hour upon hour in the delivery room fully scrubbed, gowned, masked and gloved waiting patiently for a stubborn kid to show its red, wrinkled, mucous-streaked and outraged face to the light of day.

After one such delivery, as I was sewing up the episiotomy under local anesthesia, the mother asked, “By the way, doctor, what do you recommend as the best means of conception?” Oh, how I yearned to reply, “Why, the same old-fashioned way, of course.” But I wasn’t sure she was in the mood for that type of humor, so, after a sly grin at the bemused nurse (she had to know I was grinning under my surgical mask), I gently explained to her some of the available choices for contraception. At that point I was sure she was more interested in means of contraception than in means of conception. I relayed the story to the editor of the Journal of the American Medical Association and it was published under their joke column “Tonics & Sedatives” - the only time I ever had anything of mine published in a medical journal.

*****

Delivering babies can be exciting.

Mrs. K had been under my regular care during her third pregnancy. At 2:00 a.m. her husband made a frantic phone call to me.

“Come out right away, doctor. My wife is on the toilet, in labor and won’t get up. I’m afraid she is going to have the baby in the toilet!”

(Oh, well, no one had ever promised me that life would be easy.)

“Look, you must pick her up bodily, put her in your car and head for the hospital. I’ll start for the hospital and meet you there.”

“I can’t, doctor. The car battery is dead and there is no one to stay here with the kids.”

“~!@#$%&* &’(*)+=!”, I thought.

“I’ll be right out,” I said.

They lived on the edge of town and I was there in record time to find the situation exactly as he had described it. The cervix was completely dilated and she was going to have a baby in a hurry. He and I carried her quickly out and laid her in the back seat of my car. It was summer and she was bare except for the thin nightie. She and I took off at a high rate of speed, headed for the hospital in Jonesdale five miles away. Visualizing the prospective mess in the back seat of my car I repeatedly admonished her, “Don’t push! Breath hard! Pant! Hold your legs together!” Fortunately no one was on the main street of Hillsdale in those early morning hours as I sped down it, ignoring stop lights and leaning on the horn. Her bare feet, I noted, were pressed against the rear window. What a sight if anyone should be looking out their window. The hospital personnel heard us coming and, as we pulled up to the back door next to the emergency room, three attendants met us with a stretcher-cart. We all went directly to the delivery room and, without waiting, were presented with a lovely baby girl. Oh, sure, it had the usual wrinkled, florid, mucous-streaked face, but then aren’t all normal babies lovely miracles?

*****

The phone awakened me from a deep sleep. With my one open eye I looked toward the alarm clock: 1:00 a.m. The voice was that of a widow lady living in a small village six miles away,

“Could you please come out to see me, doctor?”

“What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. ————-?”

“I just can’t sleep, doctor.”

“Is there anything special keeping you awake? Pain or discomfort of any kind?”

“No, nothing like that. I just can’t seem to get to sleep.”

I had been awakened and made a home call earlier that night and choked back the desire to retort, “Good Lord, woman, I’m having the same trouble!” She had already tried a warm bath and drinking warn milk without benefit. Perhaps there was something of importance she wasn’t telling me. I went.

There was nothing of significance. All she needed was a mild sedative. This deserves a higher than average fee, I thought, at least something to discourage the frequent repetition of such requests. She must have read my mind, for about that time she sweetly informed me that all of her medical bills were to be sent to the County Welfare Dept. No wonder she did not hesitate to call me in the middle of the night. I suspect she got more sleep the remainder of the night than I did.

I did occasionally decline a home call at night with what I hoped was appropriate advice and “call me back if the situation worsens or if you are still having a problem in the morning.” All too often, however, I found that I would then lie awake waiting for the phone to ring and worrying whether the patient really should have been seen. Suppose they were having early symptoms of appendicitis - stroke - heart-attack? Night can be a fear-filled time for patients. And, yes, for doctors too.

*****

Another great fear, in those days, for both patient and doctor was the dreaded “infantile paralysis” - polio. I’m sure it often did not occur to the patient but you may be sure the dread thought always entered the mind of the physician when he examined a patient with headache, aching and fever. And who, with flu, did not have these symptoms? Polio vaccine was not yet on the horizon and treatment of the illness was notoriously ineffective, despite the well-known Sister Kenny treatment with hot packs, gentle massage and mild exercises. Patients frequently ended up with withered and paralyzed or partially paralyzed limbs. Death is not rare. No one knew why some recovered uneventfully and others were seriously affected. The “iron lung” was used in cases of respiratory paralysis. It was estimated that for every case of polio diagnosed by a doctor there were nine other cases so mild as to go undiagnosed, having been shrugged off by the patient as a cold or mild case of the flu.

One of my polio cases was a 24-year old ex-g.i. who had met and married a full-blooded eskimo girl when he was on army duty in the Aleutians. His wife had been under my care for measles, and, having no natural immunity to the disease, had to be hospitalized with extreme fever, hallucinations and a guarded prognosis. She eventually made a full recovery. Later, when he contracted polio he was immediately admitted to the nearby university hospital for care. Unfortunately his was a severe case with serious paralysis and muscle wasting below the waist.

When he was discharged from the hospital a few weeks later his lower limbs were essentially useless and he was told frankly that he would never be able to use them. He would require help getting in and out of bed and, in short, would be an invalid the rest of his life. Frank had other ideas. He set out to be self-sufficient. One day when I called to see him I found him in their tiny apartment practicing getting in and out of bed without help. They had out the mattress on the floor and, with great effort, he was able to get in and out of that low bed with no help. Over a period of weeks he persisted until he was able to do the same with a somewhat higher bed and finally he could single-handedly scale the dizzying heights of a standard size bed. He was innovative in strategically placing chairs where they were most useful to him in his efforts.

Meanwhile he had been able to get in and out of his wheelchair only by the direct lifting efforts of his watchful, patient, loving wife. He made this his next goal - to get in and out of the wheelchair without assistance. By now he had improved the functioning of his legs and had been able to tease a little motion out of the few remaining, wasted muscles. He thrilled with each new ability and spent hours in practicing. His wife was now working in order to sustain the family and he felt he must be able to care for his own needs in her absence.

On his follow-up visits to the University hospital the doctors there were interested in trying to determine what muscles he was using to obtain leg movements. The usual ones were useless.

Two years after the onset of his illness he obtained employment in a factory in Jonesville doing hand work while seated in his wheelchair. A great achievement? You bet! I suspect that most men in his situation would have surrendered to the official prognosis, entered a state of inanimate depression and spent the rest of their lives as public wards, reading, watching TV and justly receiving the sympathy of all. My hat is off to Frank and I feel sorry for those in a similar situation who have not been blessed with his supply of spunk.

*****

We had purchased a new car and were justly proud of it. Prior to making the three-hour trip for a week-end visit to Betty’s parents she and I spent half a day washing and simonizing it. A truly gleaming marvel. As we drove we were smug, happy and self-satisfied. The practice was getting well-established and all was well with the world. The last three miles was on gravel road and it was just past dark, Betty was driving. Simultaneously struck by the urge, Betty and I leaned toward each other and sweetly kissed on the lips. As if to say, “Hey, snap out of it, you two,” an overhanging branch from a bush on the right side of the road slapped sharply on the windshield. As we snapped to attention we appeared to be heading for the ditch on the right side of the road. Fortunately we were going only about 33 miles per hour. Betty reflexly jerked the wheel to the left. The rear wheels tried to pass the car on the right as we side-slipped on the gravel surface and headed for the opposite ditch. She turned the wheel to the right and the car pointed down the road but its movement was still toward the ditch, we struck a ridge at the top of the slope and started over sideways. The slope was less than 45 degrees and the adjacent field was only about six feet below the level of the road, The car made crunching sounds; some glass canning jars and my house-call bag in the rear seat (in case my in-laws needed any attention) made a loud clatter as we rolled completely over and came to rest on the wheels.

“Wow! Are you alright?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“I think so. Help me find my glasses.”

“Wait. Let’s check ourselves first.”

“I’m all okay.”

“Me too. Just sore in spots is all.”

“What a kiss!”

The car was dented, scratched and with cracked windows but after be straightened a fender away from the tire it was obviously in driveable condition.

The slope was too steep to drive back up. In the darkness we could see a farm house about 200 yards back from the road on the same side. Thinking to find a gate we drove toward the house but were stopped by a fence. Following the fence away from the road we soon came to a lane which led into an old orchard behind the farmer’s house. Once in the orchard we could not find the exit to the road. There were lights in the house so I climbed the fence and knocked on the back door. The elderly man who answered the door appeared a bit feeble and apparently lived alone.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you but we have our car in your orchard and don’t know how to get it out and back to the road.”

He appeared a bit confused - as if in a dream.

“Welllllll... The gate is right there at the south-east corner.”

“Thank you, sir.” I strode rapidly back to the car before he could recover, found the gate and drove back on the road.

I wonder if the man ever found out how we got into his orchard.

The next day we were stiff and sore and had a few bruises. We have washed and waxed our cars many times since then, but never again have we ever simonized one. - makes ‘em too slippery.

*****

Winter was a most interesting time to drive in Michigan. I did a considerable amount of it both day and night and became quite adept at traversing icy roads. I vividly recall one dark night returning from the hospital in Hillsdale when I had to make three running starts at a slope in the highway in order to get to the top before my wheels started to spin. Another night about 2:00 a.m. on the main street of Hillsdale, when returning from a delivery, I attempted to scribble a brief reminder note. As I looked up, the thought flashed through mv mind, “What the hell is the rear end of that car doing right in front of me?” It had to be a flashed thought I would not have had time to say it before ramming the rear end of the parked car. No seat belt but, fortunately, my speed was slow. Two bruised knees were minor compared to my humiliation and embarrassment. The judge, bless his heart, was full of compassion and the milk of human kindness. He certainly was entitled to charge me with reckless driving but, instead, only gave me a ticket for “driving in the wrong lane”. I’d never argue with that!

*****

Another winter night I was departing the home of an ill child. On starting to back out of the driveway mv wheels began to spin and I was stuck in the snow. I took the shovel from the trunk and began to work, cursing the snow and winter in general. The curtains were drawn on the house. At one point a beam of light came out as the man drew the shade aside to see what was going on. A quick look was sufficient; the shades never parted after that. I suppose he had his own troubles and I was being paid wasn’t I? Well, wasn’t I??

*****

We had been renting a small apartment but, after a year in Jonesville, when Betty became pregnant we decided it was time to buy a home. We found one on West St. (a good neighborhood) with a single-car garage, full basement, large backyard, two stories and two bedrooms for $7,000.00. It was our busy, happy home for about five years before we purchased a larger place with three bedrooms, large den, fireplace and all hardwood floors for $19,000.00. That amount of money wouldn’t even buy a run-down shack these days. Ah, inflation!

*****

It was in the latter house that one of my “little harmless practical jokes” backfired. Our neighbor, Mr. Glasgow, had killed a male red fox in the orchard on his farm and was showing it to me when the bright idea “wouldn’t that be funny” popped into my mind. Betty’s two unmarried sisters, Mary and Berna, were visiting our home this cool fall week and it would be a good chance to give them a little scare and have a bit of a laugh. Mr. Glasgow willingly loaned me the carcass. Mary and Berna were sitting in the living room. I quietly sneaked in the back door. Holding the fox by the scruff of the neck and the rump I slowly thrust the muzzle then the forepart of the head around the doorjamb, meanwhile uttering guttural growling noises. Exclamations and squeals of fright and surprise came from the living room. The joke was a success. I laughed heartily as I emerged into full view carrying the limp carcass. It was then that I noticed the urine dribbling from the fox. He had not been dead very long and the bladder sphincter had just relaxed. Now during the “guttural growling” process I had been holding the fox over the floor register of our hot air heating system and most of the contents of his bladder had been emptied down the register. For those of you who might not be aware of it I will mention that the urine of a male fox kas an odor approximating that of the skunk. In a warm register it is most pronounced. I will leave to your imagination the amount of effort involved in cleaning the heat pipes. Neither will it take much imagination for you to realize how deeply I was in the doghouse with Betty. The register was in the kitchen yet!

*****

We lived two blocks from the high-school. One New Year’s eve we had a party at our house with a moderate amount of imbibing. One of our guests and a good friend was a teacher. About the middle of the evening he put on his coat, silently walked out the front door and in a few minutes returned smiling.

“Where in hell have you been, Dick?” someone queried.

“Oh, I went down and pissed on the school building. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

*****

Two doors from our home was “The Manor School for Boys”, a privately owned and operated most excellent school for retarded boys. Being the school physician was, for me, a most interesting experience. The 20 - 30 boys were well loved and well disciplined. The non-teachables were housed and cared for. The teachables were taught as much as they were able to absorb, even if it was only how to make a bed or set a table or to dress themselves. Reading, math, etc. were taught to those more capable. Occasionally a student would “graduate”. I know one who for many years has been self-supporting, by doing various kinds of odd jobs. Be still exchange letters at Christmas time and I prize his friendship.

Certain types of congenital mental deficiencies are accompanied by a lowered resistance to infection. Down’s syndrome (Mongolism) is one example. One such boy developed scarlet fever and died in the hospital as a result.
Because of their lowered resistance these youngsters were very susceptible to influenza and I often was called to see four or more of them at a time. When one became ill the others followed suit. The problem was largely solved when I started giving the entire staff and students “flu shots”. Twice a year Betty and I would carry the necessary equipment to the school and inoculate the entire group of students and most of the staff. There was one young man who, when it came his turn, would invariably start shouting, “I gotta tinkle! I gotta tinkle!” Thus he delayed the inevitable for a few precious minutes while he was allowed to go to the toilet. The patience of the staff was amazing. If humoring or reasoning would work they never resorted to force. It was indeed the rare case that had to be forcibly restrained for the procedure.

*****

It was at Manor School that I was privileged to observe two cases of “idiot savant”, a rather unattractive name for an interesting condition. These particular two boys were about 12 and 13 years of age but mentally at a kindergarten or lower level. Each had a special talent, however, which the average high-IQ person would find very difficult to duplicate. One took great pride in asking a new acquaintance the month, date and year of his birth. He would then proudly announce the day of the week on which that person had been born. He was seldom wrong. The other made it a point when meeting someone new to obtain that person’s birth date, address and telephone number. On a subsequent meeting, even weeks or months later, he was able to recite back the statistics without error. I was amazed.

No one has a really satisfactory explanation for these unusual cases.

*****

Although work dominated my days and nights, there were hobbies and vacations to be enjoyed too. Flying (see chapter on “Flying Days”) was a delightful source of relaxation and invariably improved my state of humor, perhaps because I was free for a time from the menace of the telephone. I did not realize I was becoming chronically grumpy until one day our six year old, Nancy, said to her mother, “I wish daddy would go flying more often. It puts him in so much better mood.” That caused a bit of sober reflection.

*****

Nancy was at about the same age when she became ill with a fever. After a day Betty said to her, “I guess if you aren’t better tomorrow we’d better have the doctor examine you.”

Her eyes brightened and she said, “You mean my daddy, —-or a real doctor?”

*****

Fishing the small lakes and streams in Hillsdale county was another of my delights. The small bass, bluegills and occasional trout were scrappy on the light line of a fly-rod and were delicious to eat. Of course when I would arrive home there was often as not a pressing home-call awaiting me and I would quickly wash, change clothes and rush off, leaving Betty to clean the fish. This was not a job she especially enjoyed. Nor did she relish searching the bits of cooked fish to remove tiny bones before feeding it to our two small youngsters. To this day she has an aversion to eating fish unless it has been prepared and cooked by someone else.

A visitor one day asked of Nancy, “So your daddy likes to fish, eh?”

“Yup. Likes to sish.”

“What kind of fish does he catch?”

“Baby sish.”

Brat!

*****

My wife declares that during my 20 years of active practice in Jonesville I had little time for family life and I guess it is true. I was fatigued a good bit of the time and had more work than I really would have chosen. I didn’t fully realize this until I started to write a chapter in this book entitled “Raising a Family” and found myself without sufficient material to make a decent chapter. Now that’s sad.

Oh, I recall playing with the children, teaching them to balance standing on my hand when three or four months of age, etc. but I seldom changed a diaper or got up with a fussy child at night. Thus I seldom helped with any of Betty’s work. She, on the other hand, was frequently in a situation where she was forced to help out with my work. If my regular nurse suddenly fell ill she would fill in. If I was not at home the patients, knowing she was a registered nurse, usually asked her for advice about an emergency or their symptoms or their medications. Knowing that I was chronically fatigued she tried not to worry me with problems of her own.

Think it would be great to be a doctor’s wife? Forget it. It ain’t easy.

*****

One evening at the supper table our three year old, Tom, who had been taught to say “please”, said, “Please pass the God damn potatoes.”

Betty and I looked at back other in alarm but said nothing and passed the potatoes. We never heard him repeat the word. I suspect that, if we had raised a fuss and delivered a lecture, he would have certainly remembered the word and looked for places to use it in the future.

It was at about the same age that, after hearing us praise a certain food on the table, he tasted it and made his own pronouncement: “It’s lelicious (another word he didn’t know), ———- I don’t like it.”

Enough of the “cute sayings” of children. I won’t try to compete with Art Linkletter.

*****

When Tom was about seven, one of his many small injuries resulted in infection about the ankle with an angry, red area from which ascended telltale pink streaks. I started him on antibiotics at once.
“Tom, do you know what doctors call what you have?”

“No, dad, what?”

“That is called ‘cellulitis with ascending lymphangiitis’.”

“Wow! Can I tell the kids at school?”

“Of course.”

So Tom practiced until he could say “cellulitis with ascending lymphangiitis” in a single breath. His friends were duly impressed.

At this point nine year old Nancy was feeling a bit left out of the picture. Of course, Dad, who knew everything, would have the answer.

“Dad, haven’t I got something with a good medical name that I can tell the kids at school about?”

“Hmm, —-Let me see.” Now this would take a bit of thought, for Nancy was a vigorous, bright, healthy specimen. And then, heaven help me, the devil himself goaded me and lighted up the bulb of an idea that was just too much for me to resist.

“Yes, Nancy, you can tell them that you have a fecalith in the circle of Willis.”

“Oh, that’s great! Say it again, dad.”

“A fecalith in the circle of Willis.”

She ran off happily repeating the phrase, so happy with the sound of it that the question as to its meaning never entered her mind.

When it occurred to her a few days later to question the meaning I had to confess the joke to her.

You see, a fecalith is a small, dry ball of human stool or excrement. The circle of Willis is a circular arrangement of blood vessels (arteries) in the base of the brain. All in all, a fecalith in the circle of Willis is an entirely fictitious condition about which the average young lady would not care to boast.

*****

I can’t resist the impulse to pass on a bit of practical knowledge which had not made it into any of the medical text-books - at least in my time. I first learned of it through reading a letter to the editor in a medical journal. The letter was from a dermatologist and was essentially as follows:

“Now, all doctors know that the best underarm deodorant is ordinary bicarbonate of soda (Hell, I didn’t know!) but it is entirely useless to suggest this to any of the ladies in my practice. Each time I suggest it I am regarded with a look of disbelief and rejection as though I were an unwashed, unshaven hobo who had just propositioned the patient. From a specialist they expect - nay, demand - something scented, pressurized and expensive. Pity.”

Eagerly I tried it. It works! Just a pinch of the powder after washing under each arm-pit (and in each groin if desired) does the trick. This is not an anti-perspirant; it does not produce dryness. But, as a deodorant - to neutralize odors - it has no equal. If you are interested try this experiment sometime when you have been perspiring and both armpits have a strong odor, put a pinch of bicarbonate of soda under one armpit only. Wait a minute or two - then sniff each side. You will find one side to be completely odorless. But, then, if you prefer something scented, pressurized and expensive...

*****

There were no psychiatrists in Hillsdale County. I was occasionally called to do a physical and/or mental examination on an inmate in the jail. The situations were usually tense, grim and suspicion-laden, not without an element of fear. But neither were they entirely devoid of humor.

“What’s your name?”

“Jesus Christ.”
Equinimitas. Don’t show any surprise or emotion on the face, doctor. This was not an unusual mental aberration.

“Birth date?” I knew it was a mistake the second I uttered it.

“If you don’t know I was born or Christmas day you’re not smart enough to be a doctor!”

Guess I asked for that one.

You have certainly heard the rhetorical question, “What would happen if Jesus were to return to earth and walk amongst us today?” I know what would happen. He would be immediately confined to a mental institution because he claimed to be Jesus Christ! Think about it.

*****

Mrs. Wilson brought her screaming six month old infant to my office. He had been crying continually for an hour without letup and nothing would make him stop. He had always been a good-natured baby.

“I thought a pin was sticking him, but I checked and it’s not that.”

“Probably an ear infection, Mrs. ‘Wilson. Let’s take a look.”

The ear-drums were perfectly normal.

“That’s not the trouble. You’d better undress him for me, Mrs. Wilson.

Off came the clothing, accompanied by lusty yells from the patient.

“The shoes too, doctor?”

My first impulse was to say, “No, that won’t be necessary.” But, as I was stalling for time to consider what all of the possibilities might be I instead replied, “Yes, please.”

The first shoe came off and the red-faced, outraged crying continued.
With removal of the second shoe the screaming stopped as though a switch had been flipped. As the tiny sock came off, the dead-white toes could be seen straightening out from their under-curled position where they had been painfully crammed when the shoe was put on. The mother and I could not help laughing as the baby gave a long, audible sigh and a faint smile lighted the tear-streaked, still-red face.

*****

Patients not infrequently came to our home after office-hours. On one occasion the parents brought a toddler with a metal crochet hook protruding from the infant’s temple. It was not easy to hide an expression of disbelief but I did my best.

“He was on the floor, doctor, when my crochet hook fell off the shelf and stuck into his head. We can’t get it out.”

I knew a crochet hook had a course barb on the end, but how long was the instrument? How far had it penetrated? Which way was the barb pointing? The latter was the most important for ease of removal. While the father and I took the baby to my office the mother went home and returned with an identical crochet hook. The flattened mid-portion had printing on one side; it was toward this side that the hook pointed. My task was simplified immensely.

A little novocaine. A one-eighth inch slit in the skin at the site of penetration. Gentle manipulation to free the barb and the crochet hook came free to be returned to the relieved mother for more prosaic use.

*****

Late one Saturday afternoon in summer we were visiting on the screened porch of some friends when a car drove up to the curb. The plainly dressed woman strode purposefully toward us.

“They told me you were here, Dr. Wiggins. My son was fishing and got a fish-hook stuck in his eye. He’s in the car.”

With visions of a punctured eye ball I strode rapidly to the car were the 12 year old son was holding his hand cupped carefully over his left eye. As he slowly removed his hand I could see the treble hook of a casting lure, one hook stuck in the skin of the upper eye-lid, another in the lower lid. The third hook was free. The eye ball was uninjured.

“My husband cut the rest of the lure off.”

“That’s good. We’ll go to my office. How did it happen?”

The boy, silent up to then, answered, “My lure got stuck on a limb. When I tried to pull it off it flipped back and hit me in the eye. Can you get it out?”

“Sure, Billy. It won’t be any great job.”

And, using a little novocaine and the same crochet-hook technique, it wasn’t.

A tetanus booster and two tiny band-aids completed the task.

“Can I ask you something, doctor?”

“Sure, Billy What is it?”

“Would it be okay to go back fishing? The fish were just starting to bite.”

*****

Boredom never was a factor in general practice. What you read here are only the unusual and interesting incidents. 99% of my practice was run-of-the-mill: colds, flu, minor and major injuries, family problems, routine baby care, shots, deliveries at all hours of the day and night, psycho-neurotics, elderly, heart problems, infections of all kinds, etc. I did minor surgery (some people say that’s any surgery done on someone else) and assisted with major surgery. We all took turns being “on call” for the local emergency room at Hillsdale Hospital. For me that was five miles away and could be an aggravation in the middle of office hours or during the night, especially if I was called back for another case just 10 minutes after climbing back between the sheets, or if Betty and I wee in the midst of a warm embrace. “Come right away, doctor, it’s an emergency” cannot be put off. Betty could never be sure when I’d be back or even if I’d be back that night. No wonder she later developed spastic “colitis”. In a small town she found it impossible to answer the phone with, “Sorry, the doctor isn’t at home.”

There were stark tragedies too, one so emotional that I avoided discussing it to this day. A doctor may have to learn to live with the unexpected post-operative death of a child; a young housewife with four children and incurable cancer; sudden deaths from heart attack or stroke; lingering death from brain disease of an intelligent, vivacious wife; leukemia; untreatable, wasting muscle disease; tragic auto accidents; suicide; broken homes.

“Being involved with all those things, didn’t you have trouble relaxing and sleeping at night?”

Sometimes, yes. But, if at the end of the day, one can stop to reflect and say, “Today I have done the best that I know how,” then relaxation is more apt to follow. Then, too, the physician in general practice has the advantage of being able to refer the most difficult cases to a specialist.

*****

Bilateral vasectomy was, and still is, an effective, economical and generally satisfactory means of birth control. I did the operation when indicated and requested, with no adverse side-effects. There was only interesting exception. The young man returned to my office about two months after the operation stating that every time he drank alcoholic beverages a tender swelling appeared for a few days under the site of the incision on the left side of the scrotum. At that time there was no swelling and I had to confess to him that I had never heard of such a thing and “if you can come back when the swelling is present perhaps I can tell you more.” He returned in a few days to show me the swelling (having had some whiskey the evening before). It was as he had said, out I was still at a loss to explain it. There were no signs of infection. I felt a bit inadequate as I gave him the only advise I could think of.

“I guess you’ll have to avoid alcoholic beverages for a while.”
“For how long, doc?” Obviously the advise was not exactly what he had hoped for.

“Well, I really don’t know. Just play it by ear and see how things come along.” Neither he nor I were very satisfied.

I thought of him occasionally in the next few months. He had not been a regular patient of mine. Finally, about a year later, I saw him while shopping on one of the main streets of Hillsdale. I could not resist speaking to him and ended by inquiring if his problem had resolved.

“Oh, yes, doc. That got gradually better after I saw you and in the past six months doesn’t bother at all.”

I lost track of him after that. Never did learn whether he developed a problem with alcoholism.

*****

Ever hear of a female circumcision? Neither had some of the nurses who read the surgical schedule. It is a legitimate operation consisting of the removal of the foreskin which usually partially develops the clitoris. I am dubious about whether it is really ever truly indicated. In any event the young lady and her husband of some four years came to my office and requested the surgical removal of this tissue. It seemed that her sexual responsiveness had waned to the point of non-existence and they were both convinced that the thickness of this bit of foreskin prevented a normal response. After an appropriate history and doing a physical exam I explained to them that I was very dubious that the thickened foreskin was the source of the problem. They denied any other marital difficulties or maladjustments and were adamant in their request.

“Do you mean that it is impossible that this could be the source of her trouble, doctor?”

“No, not impossible, but, in my opinion, highly unlikely. I seriously doubt that removal of the foreskin would solve the problem.”
“Then what do you suggest?”

“I know that you are not aware of any marital tensions, but I’d give marriage counseling a try.”

The suggestion seemed to offend both of them. At their insistence I scheduled the surgery and it was carried out uneventfully, other than for a few snickers that I thought I detected from the surgical staff.

To everyone’s disappointment (I had hoped that I was wrong) no benefit resulted. Several months later I read in the newspaper that the couple had been divorced. “Too bad,” I thought. “What could I have done to have been of more help?”

A few months later still I read where the young lady had remarried. When she showed up with a minor complaint in my office a short time later and I had finished prescribing for her, I asked, “By the way, are you still troubled with lack of sexual response?”

“Oh, heavens, no, doctor. From the moment I married _________ things have been wonderful. I didn’t know it could be so good,” and she stepped gaily out of my office with a broad grin on her glowing face.

It wasn’t the foreskin that had been the problem. It was the husband.

*****

Most children are adequately immunized against tetanus. In my years of practice I saw but one case, thank God! At that time the fatality rate, I believe, was 80 - 90%..

I was called to see the six year old son of a farm family. They were not patients of mine but the boy was obviously very ill with fever, headache, irritability, stiff neck and tendency to muscle spasms. Frankly I did not know if he had polio, meningitis, encephalitis or tetanus, but, on questioning the father stated that tee boy had never had any “baby shots”. Further questioning revealed that two weeks previously he had stepped on a thorn and “it got infected a little, - but, hell, doc, he goes barefoot and is always doing that.”

Whatever the diagnosis, he was too sick for me and I persuaded the parents to rush him to the nearby university hospital for admission while I phoned ahead to make the arrangements and to provide the tentative diagnosis.

The boy did have tetanus. By the time he arrived at the hospital he had started to convulse. If uncontrolled the convulsions would cause death and could be controlled only by deep general anesthesia. When the anesthesia was lightened he would convulse again, so he was repeatedly put under anesthesia so deep that artificial respiration had to be maintained. It was two full days before the anesthesia could be discontinued. During that time he was given massive amounts of tetanus antitoxin and was maintained with tubes in the veins, nose and bladder. The boy lived and eventually came home, but not without damage to his nervous system.

*****

The young professional man came to my office out of exasperation. He had had bouts of stomach pains for several years and had visited many different doctors without benefit. He had had many negative x-rays and had visited a good gastro-enterologist. No medication had been of the slightest help to him - antiacids, antiulcer, antispasmodics, tranquilizers, etc. No special type of food or drink ever caused an attack. There was no associated nausea, vomiting, excess gas, diarrhea or constipation. In short, nothing but pain that came and went without apparent reason. He was otherwise in perfect health and seemed emotionally and mentally quite normal.

“If you wait long enough the patient will often tell you the diagnosis” is an old medical school dictum.

“One thing I’ve noticed, doc; I can usually tell when a bout of pain is about to occur because my vision seems to get slightly blurry, like faint wave lines in it. But I don’t suppose that has anything to do with it.”

Bingo! The little, figurative light-bulb above my head started to faintly glow. I had read about abdominal migraine (pain comes in the belly instead of the head) and about abdominal epilepsy (pain in the belly replaces the convulsion) but had never seen a case of either.

“Do you have any relatives that are subject to migraine or recurrent headaches?”

“Not that I know of, doc.”

“Anybody with epilepsy or anyone that takes regular medicine to prevent seizures of any kind?”

He was hesitant. “Well, as a matter of fact, one of dad’s brothers used to have some kind of convulsions but he doesn’t anymore as far as I know. He still takes medicine every day though. Says he is sure he could get along without it but his doctor says he must keep taking it. What does that have to do with me?”

I explained my suspicions to him. He was wary of the stigma but was anxious to try an anti-epilepsy medication if I could assure him that it would not become general knowledge. This, of course, I did. On a regimen of daily bedtime doses of dilantin the bouts of abdominal pain disappeared completely. He was a a most happy and grateful patient but requested my reassurance that his case would be kept confidential.

*****

I was always fairly strict about confidentiality, even to my wife. At a social gathering of local doctors I was asked by a radiologist, “I hear Mrs. ______ has been coming to you. What’s her trouble?” I do rot remember how I phrased my refusal and would not have even remembered the incident except that a few days later a doctor who had been at the party told me he had overheard the-conversation and wanted to say that he admired my lack of willingness to give out such information on a purely social basis.

*****

“You castrated my husband!” the elderly lady in my office angrily blurted out in response to my usual question, “What can I do for you?”

She was obviously very, very serious and very, very upset. I rapidly became very, very serious and very, very apprehensive. Lawsuit? Physical mayhem? What? The only indication for castration that I know of is cancer of the prostate and those cases I always referred to a specialist. I had never castrated anyone in my life. I did recall the husband being under my care in the hospital for pneumonia about a month previously.

“When did this happen, Mrs. ________?”

“When he was in the hospital. I was visiting and you asked me to go outside because you were going to castrate him. He hasn’t been the same since.”

Slowly, as the light began to dawn, a feeling of great relief flooded over me. The husband was quite senile and often did not entirely comprehend what was going on around him. On this day he had developed urinary retention and I had had to catheterize him - draw the urine off with a small rubber tube. I had catheterized him, not castrated him! It took a good bit of talking and explaining but she finally appeared to be somewhat convinced that I was telling the truth. It was his post-pneumonia weakness that was causing him to be “not the same”. I reassured her that he should gain strength slowly if she would be patient. Fortunate1y, she was - and he did.

*****

“He was doing his family duty when he died, doctor.”

Thus the wife answered me when I made a midnight home call far from Jonesville and asked the circumstances of her husband’s sudden death, for which I had been called.

“His family duty?” I queried vaguely.

“Yes, we were—-well, —-You know.”
Now I had heard of “the family jewels” and being “in a family way”, but darned if I had ever heard of “family duty” as expressing sexual activity. Obviously one’s education does not end after medical school. Of course the thought crossed my mind that the man had died happy. Neither the circumstances nor the time of night were suited to jocularity, so I maintained my usual serious demeanor as I sympathetically told her that the coroner would have to be notified (her husband had not been under medical care) and would determine if an autopsy was indicated.

“What do you think he died of, doc?” asked the coroner on the telephone.

“I don’t know.”

‘Well, what do YOU think it could have been?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Could it have been a heart attack?”

“It’s possible.”

At that time the coroners were elected officials. I had long since learned that they didn’t want to “rock the boat” or to do anything to make themselves disliked. What politician does? The easiest way out for them was to get the doctor to make a probable diagnosis, they would quickly agree, fill in the diagnosis and sign the death certificate without the need to order an autopsy and thus possibly offend or antagonize the relatives.

On the other hand, I strongly suspected that some of the sudden deaths that occurred and were allowed to pass without an autopsy were not always exactly what they seemed to be. I had never seen this family before. For all I knew the man could have been poisoned or suffocated.

“Why don’t you just put down ‘heart attack’ and I’ll sign the certificate,” he persisted.

“I really can’t do that in good conscience.”
After a pause, I heard a long sigh, “Oh, all right, I’ll take care of it.”

I truly did regret spoiling his night’s sleep, a right which I viewed with considerable respect, if not actual reverence.

*****

After being in private practice for several years I finally accumulated enough money that I felt I could accede to my wife’s increasingly persistent suggestions that I build a small office building of my own - on the ground floor and with real air-conditioning to replace the fan blowing over a cake of ice in a large pan. It could have a ramp for wheel-chair cases, two examining rooms and a recovery room where someone could lie down and be attended without “tying up” an examining room. The toilet could be located between the two examining rooms. Oh, I had lots of ideas and had been drawing up tentative plans for at least two years. It would be all brick with a minimum of maintenance, even if the initial cost was a little higher.

The American Legion had extra property adjacent to their building just one block off Main street. They had no apparent use for it, so I inquired if it might be purchased. They would bring it up at the next meeting. They couldn’t agree. Next meeting perhaps. Still couldn’t agree. Idea. I made them an offer in writing of $1,000.00 for a specific area of land. This forced the issue to a vote and the majority ruled. I got the land.

By that time I had completed my own drawings of exactly what I wanted and felt no need to hire an architect. A local contractor-builder, Wendell Maine, was a patient of mine and was happy to contract for the work. Jonesville had a healthy local population of termites but I was sure that if I put a brick building on a cement slab, air ducts, water and drain pipes to be included in the poured cement, there would be no problem. It was a fact that the termites had to have daily contact with the soil or they could not survive.

Some two years after the building had been completed I was still smug and happy with the results. Then one day in the bathroom I noticed a “wrinkle” on the surface of one of the large plastic tile squares on the wall. I probed it curiously with my finger-tip and was amazed when my finger slipped readily through the tile and exposed typical termite workings. The backing of the tiles, I found, consisted of a glue-woodchip mixture, a delicious termite snack.

I quickly called the “Terminex” company. They came to examine the building and were glad to explain to me where I had gone wrong.

“Subterranean termites like nothing better than a cement slab to live under. The cement always gets hair-line or larger cracks in it, giving the little rascals ready access to the material above. They can also follow the spaces adjacent to pipes and heating ducts in the cement. If you had called us before you poured the cement slab, for $100.00 we would have poured chemicals beneath the slab that would protect the building for as long as it existed.”

“Oh, ————and what can we do now?”

“Now it’s not so easy. We still have to get the chemicals beneath the cement. To do that we have to drill holes through the cement floor - about every 24 inches. I’ll figure the cost for you.”

“It will be quite a bit more expensive.”

“Well, yes.”

It was.

Leaving a floor-plan to show where aIl the pipes were located, I took an unplanned three-day vacation while the work was being done. When I returned I found that a worker had drilled right through a water pipe with the resultant geyser spraying the room until the water could be turned off. I wonder whether originally hiring an architect would have saved me all of this. Maybe.

*****

My most embarrassing moment had to do, rot with a patient, but with my nurse-receptionist. Ellen Burnett was a gentle, efficient, dedicated practical nurse past middle age who was my “good right arm” in the office. I had great respect for her as she apparently did for me, and I would never have considered using profane language in front of her or saying anything the least bit off-color.

The day had been a long and busy one. There had been a bit more than the usual number of frustrations. Perhaps a a cardiac patient was worsening despite my best efforts, an obese diabetic could not be induced to lose weight, the window shade refused to work, I was still getting statements on a bill I had already paid and insurance forms (I filled them out myself) were ever on the increase. I was sitting at my desk, dusk was coming on, Mrs. Burnett had gone home and I had just been called to see a patient in the emergency room at the hospital five miles away and would have to tell BEtty I didn’t know when I’d be home for supper. Internal pressure had built up. Something had to give. On an impulse, never having done so before or since, I leaned back in my chair, took a deep breath and in full voice let forth a stream of profanity and obscene language directed at the world in general.

As I was winding down, to my horror, Mrs. Burnett came dashing breathless and wide-eyed into the room. I had thought she was gone.

“Dr Wiggins! What on earth is the matter?”

I’ll never know what she thought as I hastened to apologize and to explain and to assure her that it had nothing to do with her. I can only imagine what she told her husband that evening about the incident. Or perhaps she decided not to tell him that she had found out that Dr. Wiggins was not quite as saintly as she had supposed. For all she knew I might have such outbursts frequently in her absence.

*****

As the only doctor in a small town (Dr. Day had retired) I finally became so busy that I feared the quality of my work might suffer and looked for a way to “cut down.” In good conscience I did not feel that I should refuse new patients if they lived in the area. When a young lady came to me with her first pregnancy and I realized that I had delivered her l8 years ago I was overwhelmed. Good grief! I will be delivering the baby of a baby I delivered. - And I joyously delivered her when the time came. But it then struck me that giving up maternity work would be a good wa of reducing my work-load. There were obstetricians in the area. Besides that, the hours for maternity work are atrocious, even though it is most always a gratifying procedure.

My work was lessened somewhat but I was still “on call” 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Getting up for night calls did not get easier as the years went by. Betty was getting fed up with the long, cold and often sloppy Michigan winters and had been gently nagging me for several years to “move to a warmer climate”.

One day she again brought the subject up when I was more tired than usual.

Irritably I asked, “Betty, do you really mean what you are saying?” I didn’t think she did. “Because if you do I’m going to look for a job in a warm climate with an eight hour working day!” It thought that would quickly shut her up and get her off my back.

“You’re darned right I mean it!” She must have been tired too. “Just because my poor father lived and died in this cold climate, does that mean I have to too? But where on earth can a doctor find an eight-hour-a-day job anyhow?”

I was slightly nonplussed that she didn’t back down. “Oh, there are jobs as factory or company physician or with a drug company or as college physician. I’d have to look around.”

The more I thought about it the more excited I became, and the more determined Betty became. It was possible. I read ads in the journals, wrote to southern colleges and spoke to drug representatives. A good friend, Carl Peterson, who had been for a short time a physician in the Panama Canal Zone suggested that I might enjoy working for the Panama Canal Company, so I added that to my list of possibilities and made application.

In 1966 a university in Tallahassee, Fla. offered me a position. However I was intrigued by the Canal Zone possibility and had not heard from them even though more than two years had passed since my application. Time to fish or cut bait.

Uncharacteristically I announced to Betty that I was going to take four days off work for a flying trip to Panama to “see what the place looks like and what goes on down there” before making a decision for Tallahassee.

“Should I go with you?”

Again uncharacteristically, “No, I don’t know where I’ll be staying or what conditions will be. It’s not a trip for fun and may be just a waste of time and money, but I want to look there before we make a decision.” The only thing I was sure of was that we were about to make an exciting change.

*****

When I showed up at Gorgas Hospital, a large hospital on the Pacific end of the canal, and said I’d like to look around I was greeted with enthusiasm. The hospital administrator, a colonel in the army, introduced me to the chief of the medical service who gave me a tour of the hospital and answered my barrage of questions. No one asked me if I knew the difference between aspirin and penicillin, but at the end of the tour I was told that two general practitioners were needed badly in the out-patient clinic at the smaller Coco Solo Hospital on the Atlantic terminus of the canal. How soon could I start work? I was flabbergasted and asked why they hadn’t called me, as my name had been on application for over two years.

“Oh, actually we don’t pay too much attention to those applications. We prefer to know personally or at least to have seen the person applying.”

If I hadn’t shown my face I wouldn’t have been considered.

The next day I spent visiting Coco Solo Hospital, having been chauffeured there and back in a private limousine. I was impressed. They were impressed, although by what I don’t know. Again, how soon could I start work? The contract would be for two years, renewable if mutually agreeable. I had dinner that evening in the spacious home of one of the Gorgas doctors. The grounds, hospitals, homes and work areas all appeared well kept and the level of medical practice seemed very good. The climate was warm. I had seen large, well-stocked stores of all kinds in Panama City. I did not think Betty would be disappointed.

Would they give me two months to close my practice and make some arrangements about the home which we owned?

They would.

As I flew home I was bursting with excitement and anticipation. Betty met me at the airport. She declared that I looked ike I was ten feet tall and walking on clouds as I shouted, “How would you like to move to Panama!!!”

At first she thought I was kidding, as I often did, but she soon realized my intense sincerity and found my enthusiasm to be contagious. Because our son was a junior in high school and the fall term would start in one month we decided to make the move in that period of time.

I’ll spare you an account of the next four frantic weeks as we made arrangements for my patients, the rental of my office to another doctor, the rental of our home and the severing of connections of 20 years duration. Yes, we at times had twinges of apprehension but reassured ourselves with, “Well, we can stand most anything for two years.” Little did we realize how much we would love the climate, the work, the life style, the adventures and the people in Panama.

If it hadn’t been for the suggestion of Carl Peterson and for the “nagging” of my wife we most certainly would have missed...

The Panama Adventure

Our life in Panama had several aspects:

1. The medical practice.

2. Social life in & around the Canal Zone.

3. Snorkeling.

4. Frequent trips into the countryside to mingle with the country folk and the primitive, indigenous indians.

We lived in the spacious quarters formerly occupied by naval officers when Coco Solo was a U. S. naval base. I was assigned to work in the outpatient clinic of Coco Solo Hospital. Our patients there were:
a. Employees of the Panama Canal Co. and their families. This included both U.S. and Panamanian citizens. Many of the latter spoke little or no English.
b. U.S. Army personel referred to us from the army clinics on the military posts.
c. Passengers and crew of ships transiting the canal.
d. Emergency cases regardless of status.
With some notable exceptions I found the types of cases to be treated were essentially exactly what I had been treating in my practice in Jonesville, Mich. I still saw lots of colds, flu, psychoneurosis, hypertension, minor and major injuries, family problems, foreign bodies under the skin and in various body orifices, etc. Malaria occurred but was rare. I never saw a case of yellow fever. There was, however, a vast increase in the number and variety of venereal diseases and intestinal parasites to be seen. Some of my experiences in the practice of medicine in Panama are worth the telling.

*****

In the second week of my work in the Canal Zone a Panamanian farmer (he worked for P.C.C.) entered my office stating he thought he had a worm under the skin of his arm. Where I came from that smelled a mental problem. I examined the area and found only a very ordinary looking tiny pimple with a slight swelling beneath it. I gave him some ointment and a reassuring pat on the back.

The next day a grinning lab worker presented me with a small specimen bottle in the fluid of which lay what appeared to be a small maggot.

“The emergency room doctor took this from the arm of a patient of yours last night, doctor. He thought I should show it to you.”

I had been totally ignorant of the existence of the worm known as a “gusano” in the tropics. It results when a certain type of fly lays an egg on a person’s skin. Poor hygiene is usually a contributing factor. Fortunately the patient had realized that I was an uninformed “gringo” and had the good sense to return to the emergency room that evening when a Panamanian doctor was on duty. Subsequent to that I had occasion to see several similar cases and, of course, used the appropriate treatment. I always made it a point to show such cases to recently arrived American doctors so they might be spared the chagrin which I had experienced.

*****

I am almost too embarrassed to relate the case of the elderly lady with vaginal discharge on whom I did a vaginal smear test. The result was “gram-positive diplococci present” and I informed her she needed to be treated for gonorrhea. It had been so long since I had seen a case of gonorrhea in my practice in Jonesville, Mich. that I had forgotten the positive diagnosis is made from intracellular gram-negative diplococci. I had been used to a negative report reading “no gram-negative diplococci present.” She went to another doctor in the clinic who wisely informed her that the test showed nothing needing treatment and reassured her that she did not have gonorrhea.

The chief of the out-patient department had a little discussion with me about that case. My apologies were profuse and sincere. I am sure he reviewed my case records for a time thereafter and I can’t say that I blame him. It wasn’t long before I became all too familiar with positive reports for venereal diseases. Syphilis had become a great rarity in my practice in Jonesville. Here even the secondary state was not uncommon. I learned to differentiate between lymphogranuloma venereum and granuloma inguinale, chancre and chancroid. Condylomata accuminata (venereal warts) were common.

*****

I learned to recognize with reasonable certainty, the occasional case of dermal leishmaniasis - “tropical sore”. It is transmitted by the bite of a certain type of tiny sand fly and causes a chronic skin ulcer which doesn’t heal for many months. The permanent scar is often quite large and, despite years of research, consistently effective treatment had not yet been devised.

*****

It was about 10:00 p.m. and I was on duty in the emergency room. The buxom black Panamanian lady settled her ample proportions in the chair beside my desk.

“Yes, ma’am. And what may I do for you?”

Her accent was 100% Jamaican. Many Canal Zone workers were of Jamaican ancestry.
“Doktah, my pye she too tweet, tweet, tweet.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Doktah, my pee she too tweet, tweet, tweet,” she emphasized.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

This time she stared fixedly into my eyes and slowly and firmly, as to a small child, she repeated, “Doktah, - my - pee - she - too - tweet.”

It sounded to me as though she were telling me that her pee was too sweet.

“Do you mean that your pee is too sweet?

With a sigh of great relief, “Yaaaaaaaaasssssssss, doktah.”

The nurse was listening with an amused smile on her face.

Well, I had to ask it: “How do you know that your pee is too sweet?”

“Wy, doktah, I tasted it.”

She had not been to the clinic recently but had no record of diabetes on her chart. A bit non-plussed, I managed to say, “Well, we certainly should test a specimen of your urine. Take this bottle to the service (I had learned to use the local term for ‘toilet’) and bring some back for me.”

Sure enough, it tested four-plus for sugar. Later blood testing confirmed that she was, indeed, a diabetic. I could hardly believe that in 1967 diabetes had been diagnosed by the “taste test” as used to be done a few hundred years ago when the doctor was expected, as a part of the examination, to taste the urine of the patient. The alternative was to pour the urine on the ground near an ant-hill and see if the ants were attracted to it.

On a subsequent visit I could not resist trying to find out how she had come to taste her urine.
“Mrs. ________, you were very fortunate to have found your urine to be too sweet. How did you happen to taste it?”

“Wellll, doktah, y’see I has a weak bladdah. Wen I coughs oh sneezes I lose mah pee lessen I puts mah fingah down theah and presses. Also I cooks at de cafeteriah in______ an I taste de food ah lot. Well, wan day I puts mah fingah down to stop de pee, den I forgets an I tasted it.”

Of course the story was too good to keep. Medical ethics not withstanding there was a lot of good-natured jocularity about “Dr. Wiggins’ sweet-pea patient”. One of the last to hear the full story was my wife and then only after the patient no longer worked at the cafeteria for we had occasionally eaten there.

*****

Before I had learned that the local term for toilet was “service” derived from the Spanish word “servicio” - a Panamanian mother brought her teen-age son in with the complaint that “when he was in the service he saw some blood.”

I thought it not unusual that someone in the military service might see some blood.

Groping for further explanation, I asked, “And how long ago was that?”

“Just yesterday, doctor.”

After ascertaining that the blood had been in the stool and finding that he hadn’t been “in the service” yet today, the meaning of the term gradually dawned on me and, after the appropriate examination, I proceeded to treat his anal fissure. It was several months before I became really comfortable using the term “service” instead of “toilet” with Panamanian patients.

*****

Sexual morals and mores were somewhat different in Panama than those to which I was accustomed. It was not acceptable for a man to appear in public bare-chested. If company arrived the typical Panamanian man, if shirtless, would immediately hurry off to put on a shirt. Once in Choco indian territory as we approached I saw the man hurry to put on his shirt (his only other clothing was a G-string) while the wife and grown daughter unabashedly continued their chores completely bare-chested, as was their custom.

As I was returning shirtless in my car from the beach one day a guardia stopped me, pointed and sternly reminded me, “La camisal La camisal” (“The shirt!”). A friend of mine was not so fortunate. He was given a ticket for the same offense, appeared before a judge and was fined $10.00. The ticket he kept as a momento. It simply said, “sin camisa.” (“without shirt.”)

On the other hand it is a common sight, and an apparently acceptable act, to see a man (never a woman) urinating at the roadside. I have never heard of guardia action against this.

Also, prostitution is legal in Panama but quite discreet and never advertised as such. Street-walkers are apparently not allowed and the “houses”, though well-known by everyone, are unobtrusive. One unique feature there is the B.Y.O.B.(bring your own babe - a Gringo term, not theirs) motel. My information is solidly second-hand, obtained from a friend who, out of curiosity (with his wife, I hasten to add) utilized the services of such an establishment. Word of mouth is the only advertisement; the building is about 100 yards off the highway and mostly hidden by trees. Rental is by the hour. Weekends, I am told, there is often a waiting line of cars. The car drives up to the automatic door; it opens; then drive in and the door closes behind them. They then enter the clean, orderly room. In one wall of the room is a lazy-susan type of turn-table, one half of which opens into the room and the other half of which is looked after by an attendant. If drinks are desired, such are noted on the paper provided which is then placed on the turn-table, to be rotated 180 degrees for the attention of the attendant. Drinks, the bill and the payment thereof are all provided by the same means. No words are exchanged. No one sees the customer and the customer sees no one throughout the entire procedure. Amazing! I had never heard of such a thing.

I was amazed also by the amount of venereal diseases of all kinds, which, fortunately, were usually relatively easy to cure with modern antibiotics. I usually asked such patients, “Did you pay for it?” Judging from the answers I concluded that VD was much more apt to be contracted from “a friend I met on the street” than from a professional, who could ill afford to have her business diminished by such bad news.

*****

The couple came into my office with the complaint that “his sex functioning isn’t as good as it used to be.” From his chart I could see that he was 16 years of age. She appeared considerably older, but I assumed from the nature of the complaint that they were married. Never assume! I was wrong. After a bit of delicate (and not so delicate) questioning I found that she was the boy’s mother - he was single - and had become concerned about his health because he had told her that lately he had not been able to perform as well sexually as he used to. Ah, the worries a mother has! It was one of the many occasions I had to remind myself, “Equinimitas, doctor, equinimitas!”

*****

It was not unusual for the member of a crew of a foreign ship to be unable to speak a word of English and to come to the clinic armed with a medical phrase book - German-English, Spanish-English or whatever. We would then point to the appropriate phrase(s) to inform the doctor of his symptoms. I had finished treating one such Japanese patient when a fiendish idea struck me. My sign language I asked if I might have the booklet; I was sure there were plenty more aboard ship. He readily agreed.

After office hours I took the booklet home and laboriously copied on a slip of paper the “chicken-track” characters which translated into English as “I have symptoms of gonorrhea.”

One of our good friends in the Canal Zone was away. Arnold, the modest, good-humored but very proper Japanese wife of our square-dance caller, Sid, who had been in military service in Japan. Partly because of her modesty, some of us liked to tease her and to watch her blush, but we truly admired her. Her command of the English language was excellent and she had assured us that she could read Japanese characters “perfectly well.” I decided to put her to the test and have some fun at the same time.

Our “after-party” following the next square-dance was at the home of Sid and Kay. I had revealed my plan to no one. In the later part of the evening, as we were sitting and talking, I said to Kay, “By the way, I had an interesting experience today. A Japanese physician was in my office with a patient from a Japanese ship. He spoke excellent English and we chatted for a bit after I had finished treating the patient. He was very friendly - even gave me a note so that if I am ever in Japan I can show it to any Japanese doctor and he said I would be immediately accepted as a fellow doctor and shown every courtesy. Wasn’t that nice of him?”

“Oh, yes. How very thoughtful. He must have liked you.”

“He appeared to. Here is the note he wrote. Perhaps you can read it for me.” Whereupon I solemnly handed it to her.

As I watched her face I had no doubt about her ability to read Japanese.

At three seconds her jaw dropped. Her face froze in horror.

At five seconds an intense flush spread rapidly across her face. Her mouth opened. She did not breathe. Finally she gasped, “That’s awful!”

“Kay, what’s the matter? What does it say?”

“That’s awful! That’s awful! What a terrible man to do such a thing!”

“Do what? What does it say?” I was merciless.

“Oh, I can’t tell you. It’s terrible! And he doesn’t write Japanese very well either. How could he do such a thing?”

At that I broke down laughing and confessed the crude practical joke to her. She was confused and duly flustered but accepted my apologies. When I complained to her, “Kay, you said I didn’t write Japanese very well.”
“Oh, but for an American you wrote it very well.”

At a square dance later, in retaliation, she pinned a paper to the back of my shirt: “Watch me. I can dance the part of a girl better than anyone.”

*****

Seamen on U.S. registered ships had a clause in the contract whereby, if removed from the ship by a doctor’s orders the shipping line had to pay their transportation back to the U.S. and continue to pay them their regular base wage until the ship returned to its port in the U.S. This applied even if the man’s illness lasted only a week but the ship did not return for three months. Meanwhile the man could be collecting wages from another job if re so desired. At times this could produce a tendency to gross exaggeration of symptoms or even outright malingering. The shipping companies understandably frowned on our ordering a man removed from his ship. But if a man had abdominal pain and there was any chance of early appendicitis it was hardly sensible to send him to sea on a ship without a doctor.

Sometimes, due to conditions aboard ship, a man would go to great lengths to be medically ordered from the ship. On one occasion a seaman came to ms with a swollen wrist.

“A beam fell on it, doc. I guess it’s broken.”

“Could be. We’ll get an x-ray.”

The x-ray was okay. The most I could give him credit for was a bruised wrist.

He was stunned. “Are you sure, doc? I thought sure it was broken.”

I showed him the x-ray.

After a few moments of silence he took a deep breath and confessed: “Look I gotta get off that ship. I hate it!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t give you a medical certificate for that.”
We talked a bit and he told me how he had wrapped a sweater around his wrist before striking it with an iron bar in an attempt to break it. The most I could offer him was my sympathy.

“Well, can you tell me how I can break my wrist?”

“I’m sorry, buddy, they didn’t teach us that in medical school.”

“Well, stick around. I’ll be back, you can be sure of that, doc.”

I heard no more from him. He may have returned on a different shift.

*****

I had never seen a vampire bat bite in my medical career and had the commonly held but erroneous notion that it would consist of a set of double puncture marks located over a large vein, probably in the neck, representing the sites where two hollow teeth had punctured the skin in order to suck blood. Panama has some vampire bats in the remote areas, so I did see a few of the actual bites, always in “campesinos” (farmers) or in military personnel on bivouac who had slept in the jungle.

The bat itself is quite small, only about three to four inches long, is nocturnal and reddish-brown in color. It has extremely sharp, razor-like front teeth with which it can remove a tiny divot from the surface of the skin, so deftly that the sleeping person usually does not awaken. This divot is most often taken from a highly vascular area of skin (nose, ears, fingertips or toe-tips) so that a slow, steady trickle of blood develops. The bat then settles down to lap the blood up as it surfaces, drinking until it is distended with its meal. Blood is the only food that its digestive tract will accept. Experiments have shown that if denied access to blood for a period of longer than 72 hours the bat will die, regardless of subsequent easy access to blood, forced feeding or even blood transfusions. Thus the creatures must feed frequently, usually every night, and they pose a hazard to cattle (their normal food source) in which anemia and weakness are produced, making the cattle subject to secondary infections and illnesses. The vampire is also a carrier of the deadly rabies virus.
Combined with a history of sleeping in a bat-infested area and awakening with a bloody scab on a susceptible area, the typical appearance of the tiny, clean, saucer-shaped wound makes the diagnosis relatively certain. Even when protected by a mosquito net the sleeping soldier may be subject to the bite or an area of skin which presses against the netting. Treatment consists of protection against infection, tetanus and rabies.

Eradication of the vampire bat is of concern to the U.S. military as well as to the government of Panama. To date the best means they have found is as follows: Several vampire bats are captured by placing “mist nets” in the area at night. These bats are handled carefully to avoid injuring them and are painted with a solution of anticoagulant (ingestion causes blood to lose its ability to clot). The bats are then released to return to their lair in a hollow tree or cave. In the usual process of social grooming the bats lick each other and themselves, thus ingesting the medication which causes death by internal bleeding. In this way most of the bats may be eventually eliminated.

*****

The following is an exact transcript of an emergency home-call report made out by a co-worker of mine:

Consultation Report

Date: 9/25/62 Doctor left: l0:30 p.m.

Pt’s wife called ambulance and doctor because her husband had locked himself in a closet.
On arrival pt’s wife didn’t allow me to get in the house because she didn’t know me and because I wasn’t driving an official car.
I left without seeing husband; when driving away husband came out on the porch and waived good-bye to me. He seemed in good health.

Signed: Dr. ________

*****

I had just come on duty in the emergency room of the hospital and for the remainder of my shift would be responsible for the patients in the hospital (55 beds at that time, as I recall) as well as the patients who came to the emergency room for care.

“It’s the fourth cardiac arrest he has had in six hours!” the breathless nurse said to me as she called me to see a cardiac patient in the intensive care unit. It was 24 hours after he had incurred a small myocardial infarct (“heart attack”) and he was still attached to the cardiac monitor machine which blinks and beeps most alarmingly when the heart fails to beat for three or four seconds. A ward attendant was applying external cardiac massage by vigorously applying intermittent pressure to the lower sternum with the heel of his hands. The patient was wide-eyed with fright and apprehension; he was breathing as normally as could be expected under the circumstances and could talk. The monitor showed no cardiac activity.

“Should we shock him?” asked the nurse.

I had little experience with cardiac monitors but considerable with patients. It seemed to me that a man with cardiac arrest should be unconscious. Asking the attendant to cease his efforts (the patient was greatly relieved) I felt for and found a normal pulse. A slight adjustment of the monitor resulted in “normal cardiac activity”.

“Thank heavens it’s beating again!” someone exclaimed.

Outside the patient’s room I had difficulty convincing the attendants that the fault had been in the machine, not in the patient. At the rate they were going the man would have been written up in a medical journal as having survived the greatest number ever of cardiac arrests. A different monitor was brought in and the patient had no more “cardiac arrests” that night. The staff had several formal lectures in the next few days on proper procedures. I believe the gist was “treat the patient, not the machine.”

*****

“Doktah, I wants you tuh remove suthin fum down heah,” indicating the genital area - stated the Jamaican lady as she seated herself in my office.

“Certainly, Mrs._______. What is it you would like removed?” Visualizing a mole, wart or other undesirable skin lesion.

“Well, it’s a dollah.” stated sheepishly and almost inaudibly.

“I beg your pardon?” Too often, when I find myself saying that, surprises follow.

“Is: got ah dollah in my gina and can’t get it out, doktah.”

I tried to appear unflustered but couldn’t help asking, “Is it a silver dollar or a dollar bill?’’

“A bill, doktah.”

“All right, Mrs._______, just step behind the curtain and remove your panties while I go outside to get the nurse.”

I could hardly contain myself. “Mary, for heaven’s sake try to keep a straight face but the patient in my room says she has a dollar bill in her vagina and we have to remove it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Nope. Let’s go.”

As the nurse was getting the patient on the examining table my curiosity was raging. “Now did the bill get in your vagina, Mrs._______?”

“Well, doktah, I got this dollah, see? An I jes knew if mah husbin foun it he’d take it away fum me. I din know where to hade it so I hade it in there.”

I didn’t know how much longer I could keep a sober, professional manner. Turning to the nurse I said, “I expect if my wife hid something there that is about the first place I’d find it.’

With that the three of us exploded with laughter. We had had an excuse to laugh heartily without the patient feeling that we were laughing at her.

One glance sufficed to show that there was nothing abnormal in the vagina, not even a penny. I made the examination meticulous and unnecessarily long to convince the patient that I had overlooked nothing. Even had the nurse look carefully over my shoulder while I manipulated the speculum to expose all areas.

“There is absolutely nothing here, Mrs._______.”

“Sure nuff, doktah?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m quite sure.”

“Well, I’ll be! Now way could it of gone?”

She left, shaking her head in apparent bewilderment.

“Now, that’s one for the books!” exclaimed the nurse. This was one of the many occasions on which I affirmed, “I’ve got to write a book!”

When the patient and nurse had left I found myself unoccupied, so leafed through the chart to peruse her previous medical history. I should have done it sooner. The light dawned. This particular lady had had several minor mental problems in the past.

Her next visit to me was some six months later, at which time she had a simple cold. After giving her a prescription I couldn’t resist the temptation to ask, “By the way, Mrs._______, did you ever find that dollar bill you lost?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she came back with, “Wy yes, doktah, it was undah heah all de tam!” With that she vigorously indicated the area under her very ample right chest. I did not pursue the matter further.

*****

The concerned mother brought her four month old infant to the clinic. It had seemed fussy and she had found a white “growth” on the roof of its mouth. Sure enough, on the center of the hand palate was a two centimeter diameter, firm, non-tender well-demarcated, raised, bone-white area with a narrow purplish border. A differential diagnosis was a solid blank. It certainly was not thrush, which I had occasion to see frequently. I called the pediatrician and the surgeon in to look at it and they were as puzzled as I was but thought it was warranted to send the patient to see a pediatrician at the larger Gorgas hospital at the other end of the Panama Canal. En route there the mother noticed the baby happily chewing on something and extracted a large, round flake of coconut from its mouth. The “tumor” was gone. The flake had apparently stuck to the roof of the mouth by suction, the resultant irritation causing the purplish border.

The practice of medicine may be many things. But it is never dull!

*****

Some of the patients had a misconception about “Pay-roll deduction”. As the man was leaving he said to me, “Please mark ‘emergency’ on this prescription (so he could get it on pay-roll deduction). I been paying each time and losing money.” Guess he figured if he couldn’t see the money leave his hand it was free.

*****

I knew no Spanish whatsoever prior to going to Panama but, once there, I enjoyed learning the language. Doctors and nurses were allowed to attend a class in Spanish (held at the hospital) for one hour a day five days a week.

This was during working hours and was considered on-the-job training. It was a pleasant class; our teacher was a pretty, young married lady from Cuba with a delightful sense of humor and endless patience. One day in class it was my turn to make a statement in Spanish. I was near the end of a sentence, planning to make it a longer sentence, then changed my mind and decided to end the sentence, intending to say the equivalent of “period” in English, I said “periodo”. She turned a bit red, shortly controlled her laughing with considerable effort, then managed to stammer, “Oh, no, no, doktor. No, no. Usted quiere decir ‘punto’. Una mujer tiene ‘periodo’.” This translates to “No, no. You should say ‘punto’. A woman has a ‘periodo!’”

*****

The lady in my office spoke only Spanish. Her baby girl was a darling and I was quite taken by her. As they were leaving I wanted to say to her, “What a sweet baby you have.” I had studied German in college and the German word for sweet is “susz”. At this point I unfortunately mixed the two languages as I smiled at the mother and said, “Que sucia su nina!”, which means, “What a dirty baby you have!” She smiled as she left the office, realizing, I hope, that the Gringo doctor had not meant what he said.

*****

One of the nurses aides was an older, pleasant, Jamaican lady who spoke Spanish fluently. Initially Joanna was my interpreter, then, as I gained fluency, she aided me in the language when necessary. I would often mimic the phrases she used in speaking with patients. One situation where I had trouble was in instructing the patient that he or she could get down from the examining table. The correct, formal phrase (and one I was just starting to learn to use) is, “Usted puede abajar” (“You may get down”). I noticed that she had a habit of saving to the patient, “Ya, va!” (pronounced “Yeah, bah!”) at which point the patient would invariably sit up and jump down from the table. However, when I subsequently used the phrase in the case of a dignified matron, she laughed and (after the patient had left) gently reprimanded me.

“A doctor would never use that phrase, Dr. Wiggins.”

“But why not, Joanna? It works fine for you. What does it mean?”

“I don’t know how to say it in English. But a doctor wouldn’t say it to a patient.”

I later learned that it is the Spanish equivalent of “Okay. Git!”

I dropped it from my repertoire.

*****
Social life in and around the Canal Zone was as active and as varied as one wished to make it. There were cocktail parties, square-dancing, photograph clubs, riding clubs, flying clubs, fresh and salt-water sports of all kinds, fishing, tennis, year-around golf, bridge clubs and a variety of other activities. The Panama Canal Co. liked to keep its employees and their families contented.

Cocktail parties were fun but we didn’t want to make them our main activity. Throughout our stay we were involved with square-dancing on a regular basis and played bridge regularly with friends. The ping-pong table in our apartment was also a good source of entertainment. We spent hours in the jungle looking for, and finding, antique bottles of all kinds. The jungle also provided us with ample opportunity to satisfy our thirst for knowledge of nature, trees, plants, birds, insects and reptiles.

*****

These outdoor excursions occasionally provided a ‘’small adventure” to enliven the day. Once, in the vicinity of Nombre de Dios, we had walked a long distance down a jungle path, then along a sandy beach. We were enjoying the solitude, observing nature and looking for antique bottles but had become a bit fatigued. We felt that we knew the area well enough that we could take a short-cut back to the village air-strip where our small home was. We ran into thick brush and a bit of swampy ground where the going was difficult but felt that the distance saved would be worth the effort. In one area we found ourselves stepping from tree root to tree root of mangrove trees to avoid several inches of water and muck below. It finally dawned on us that we should have long since come to the path we had intended to intersect. We had broken our rule of never going into the jungle without a compass and it was too near noon for the sun to be of any use. We could not bring ourselves to wait for two hours while we decided definitely which way the sun was traveling. At times we could very faintly hear the surf on the beach.

“Betty, let’s head for the sound of the surf regardless of what we have to go through and we will end up on the beach and will at least know where we are.”
“Guess you’re right. How stupid of us; no one even knows where we are. We’ve got to get out of here. C’mon the surf is that direction.”

“Oh, it sounded to me like it was over there.” I pointed in the opposite direction.

We listened carefully. At times the sound seemed to come from one direction and at other times from the exact opposite direction. That’s not possible. How can it be? Panic was starting to rear its ugly head. We knew we could survive a night in the jungle but it would be most uncomfortable, especially with no food or water.

We agreed to head for one of the surf-like sounds and started out. Our adrenaline had helped to erase part of the fatigue. (Never, but neeeeeeveeerr go out in the jungle without a compass!) We came to coarse grass taller than our heads which we had to part with our hands (the grass, not our heads) as we stepped very high to avoid being tripped. Our faces were flushed and we were perspiring profusely. The throbbing in my chest seemed to shake my entire body; I checked my pulse and found it was 160, so we rested. Betty said that if I had a heart attack she certainly couldn’t get me out. But the sound of the surf was coming closer. What a joy to reach the beach. We found ourselves not far from where we had left the shore and doggedly started the long trek back to the village. This was a remote area and we had not seen a soul on the beach or on the path.

We flew over the area and lo! the mystery of the two surfs was solved. We had been in the center of a peninsula-like projection of land and there had been surf on both sides of us. We were then able to laugh at our foolishness.

*****

Panama had a variety of interesting insects, many of quite gigantic proportions. Termite nests were common, not the mounds of dirt on the ground as in Africa but rather huge dark balls on the trunk or in the limbs Or trees. These were hand, brittle structures teeming inside with termites which would come pouring out if a machete opened a hole in the side. The rain never made these nests soft. The termites ate any dead wood in the tree and were able to digest the cellulose by being fortuitously provided with a special enzyme in the stomach for the purpose.

Butterflies were multi-hued and spectacular, the morpho (royal blue) being perhaps the best known and most sought after. These latter are dull brown on the underside but are bright, iridescent sky-blue on the tops of the wings. When one flies in the sunlight it appears as though a blue light is flashing on and off as it weaves erratically through the trees. It is astonishing to see one land near by then “disappear” on a limb as it is concealed by its near-perfect camoflauge. An interesting fact is that there is absolutely no blue pigment in the wing. The color is due to light refracted from the layer of microscopic scales which entirely covers the upper wing surface. If a finger is passed firmly over the surface a specimen of the “blue” can be collected; if the fingers are then rubbed together to mix up the scales, all that results is a dull gray mass.

I put many specimens of insects in plastic, but if the royal blue is thus treated the wing surface turns black because the liquid plastic gets between the tiny scales and disturbs the refraction. I tried many ways to overcome this frustrating situation; even applying 10 layers of hair-spray did not work. The only thing that came close was putting the butterfly in a thin plastic bag, withdrawing the air and enclosing bag and all in the liquid plastic.

Tarantulas and scorpions which I caught or which were given to ne all ended up in plastic. The Panama scorpion, in contrast to certain of those in the western U.S., is not deadly but its sting can be excruciatingly painful, as I found when one objected to my handling of it prior to injection with formaldehyde. It was one of the rare times I have ever had to take a narcotic for pain. When the pain ceased the finger tip remained numb for two days, so that I was unable to use that finger for fine tasks, such as buttoning my shirt. Such a reaction is typical of scorpion stings.

The rhinoceros beetle derives its name from a large, horn-like projection on its nose. It has been described as “fist-sized” by some but I have never seen one that large. They cannot bite but have sharp claws at the ends of the legs which can draw blood if the beetle is forcibly pulled from the bare skin. They are easily removed (if you were so adventuresome as to allow one to crawl on you in the first place - for a picture, of course) by tapping them gently on the rear to induce them to crawl off. These giant beetles are harmful only to the coconut tree. They live in the ground at the base of the tree and suck juices from the roots. The rhinoceros beetle makes a spectacular specimen when mounted in plastic.

The coconut beetle is five to six inches long (not including the very long antennae), oblong in shape and nut-brown in color. The large pinchers on the front are impressive and are used to chew through the hull of a coconut to get at the meat on which the beetle feeds. They are also capable of inflicting a painful wound with the pinchers. Both the rhinoceros and the coconut beetle are reluctant to fly but are very capable of flight and, as you can imagine, appear like small birds on the wing.

The red-wing grasshopper is of similar size but flies readily, exposing its spectacular red under-wings in the process. When the wings are spread out, as in a specimen, it looks like a cross between a butterfly and a grasshopper.

An abandoned humming-bird nest made a charming specimen in plastic.

*****

As I entered the living room of our apartment upon returning home from a day at the clinic, Betty, pointing, said, “I’ll give you 30 guesses as to what I have in that cardboard box.”

“A butterfly?” No. “A snake?” No. “Thirty thousand dollars?” No. “An elephant?” Don’t be silly. “Winston Churchill?” No.

“I could give you a million guesses and you couldn’t get it.”

“0.K. I give up. What is it?”

“A live humming-bird! But guess how I got it.”

I thought I had a pretty good idea. “It flew against the window and knocked itself out.” This was a common occurrence with other birds.

“Nope. I just reached out and picked it off the perch of our hummingbird feeder!”

“Aw, c’mon, you must be drunk.” Kidding.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I put it in a box and saved it to show you.”

In starting to refill the feeder, Betty had noted that the bird was reluctant to fly from its perch. When she lifted the feeder from its suspending wire the bird still remained on the perch so she plucked it off and put it in the box. Perhaps it had eaten some fermented nectar or fermented sugar water from a feeder or perhaps it was suffering from hypoglycemia (low blood sugar) to which hummers are subject. In any event, by that time the bird was vigorously protesting its imprisonment so I released it.

On another occasion when a hummer was on the feeder perch I slowly opened the window adjacent to it and the bird did not move.

“Look, Betty, I’m going to slowly move my hand toward him and see how close I can get before he flies.”

Two feet. One foot. One inch! I was finally able to stroke him twice gently on the tail before he flew.

*****

Panama has five types of venomous snakes: coral, eye-lash viper, bushmaster, fer-de-lance and hog-nose viper (in contrast to the non-venomous hog-nose snake of the U.S.). The tropical rattle-snake is present throughout Central America, but, for some unknown reason, has never been found in Panama. I set as my goal putting small specimens of all five types in plastic but was never able to obtain suitable specimens of the bushmaster (a nocturnal snake) or of the hog-nose viper. Specimens of the fer-de-lance (live) and the eye-lash viper (frozen) were given to me by a local veterinarian.

I found a tiny coral snake at the local golf course but it was too small.

One evening I had a phone call from the front desk of the hospital. “Mr. Wiggins, we have a snake in a glass jug here for you and I’d really appreciate it if you would get it right away. A ‘’campesino” has his wife in the hospital here and heard that some crazy “gringo” doctor was looking for a live coral snake, so he brought it in. Please get it out of here.”

“It’s alive?”

“It sure is. How soon can you come?!’

The specimen was almost two feet long, which is large as coral snakes go. It was in a clear, one-gallon glass jug with a small neck, which posed an interesting problem as to how to inject it with formaldehyde without it first injecting me with venom. Solution: Poke a hole in the metal cap; spray in an anesthetic (ethyl chloride); shake the anesthetized snake out and quickly inject it with formaldehyde, meanwhile wearing heavy leather gloves just in case. The formaldehyde quickly kills the snake and is also an excellent preservative. The coral has tiny, immovable fangs midway back on the upper jaw. Its mouth is tiny but can be opened to a flat 180 degrees so it can actual1y strike on a flat surface and inject venom. It does not have to grasp a small fold of skin and chew its venom in as was previously believed.

*****

Carl and Martha Peterson and Betty and I were driving slowly home on a gravel road from the beach when we saw a long, slender, yellow snake crossing the road. It appeared to be about three - three to three and a half feet long.

“Let’s see if we can catch it, Carl,” I cried as we skidded to a halt. I was interested in identifyIng it, not killing it.

By the time we got to the snake the front two thirds had disappeared into the grass and weeds along the road and the rest of the tail was rapidly going. I could not be sure but did not believe it was venomous so, on a rather foolish impulse and bravery bolstered by two beers, I grabbed the tail and rapidly backed up, dragging the snake from its concealment. Carl was standing back and watching the performance. Assuming that any self-respecting snake would turn and strike the moment it was free of the weeds I immediately started swinging it in an arc around my head; the centrifugal force prevented the hapless creature from turning on me.

“What are you gonna do now, Ira?”

“I dunno, Carl. Have any suggestions?”

“Can’t think of any. No point in killing it.” It would have been easy to slam it down onto the gravel.

“Guess I’ll have to let it go. Can’t do this all day.” With that I aimed it at the weeds and let it fly as gently as possible to its freedom. I imagined I could hear the creature say as it raced confusedly away, “Damn! Now what was that all about?”

*****

Tom, our high-school age son, and I were driving our VW bug on an abandoned road near Coco Solo at sundown when we spied a large boa constrictor, lying motionless to soak up the heat, in the middle of the road. It was equal to my upper arm in width and about six feet long, a beautiful specimen. I jumped out of the car, instructing Tom to take the car home and bring something to catch him with while I tried to keep him in the road. About that time the snake began to move slowly off the road and my efforts at steering him back onto the road were useless. Calling Tom back I picked up a broken stout branch from the ground and pressed it firmly behind the snake’s head. It broke loose and struck with open mouth at the branch, but I felt that if I pressed harder the next time I could stop him long enough to get a firm hold behind the head with my hand. It worked. His struggles were purposeful but not violent and not of such strength as I had imagined from Tarzan movies. I had thought that, with Tom along as back-up, the worst that could happen would be to get a bite the equivalent of that of a rat terrier or such. I supposed that his strength might allow him to work his head free from my grasp, in which case Tom and I could alternate taking holds of his neck, but that was not necessary. I allowed him to coil around my arm from fist to shoulder. The constricting action made the veins stand out on the back of my hand with some resultant discomfort but no real pain. Had it been too uncomfortable Tom could easily have grasped the tail and unwrapped the reptile. It was a healthy creature with faintly iridescent colors.We took it home, took some pictures then gave it to Luke Palumbo Sr., the biology teacher at the local high-school. He fed it on with rats and baby chicks and within two weeks any student could gently remove it from the cage and handle it without fear of being bitten. The boa, like the garter snake, tends to have a placid disposition.

*****

Another “boa story” could well have had a tragic ending. Returning back to camp after being all day on jungle survival training the soldier saw a large boa constrictor and decided to take it back with him to show his friends. He captured it rather easily and put it in a large sack but, in the process, sustained a superficial bite at the base of one thumb. It was more of a scratch than a puncture would. Not yet having a cage for it, he turned it loose in a small room which he had been using as a work-shop.

“Hey, Mike! Come see the nice boa I captured,” he said to a buddy.

As the buddy looked his eyes widened. “Nice snake, Bill. - but that’s not a boa; it’s a bushmaster. Do you know what a bite from that could do to you?”

“Holy shit!! It did bite me, - but only a scratch. I’m sure it didn’t inject any venom. If the colonel found out he’d break my ass!”

The colonel did find out and ordered him to behead the snake at once and to report with it to the hospital emergency room, - which he did. The rest of the story is anti-climax. He was kept overnight for observation but developed no symptoms and was discharged to duty the following morning. The fist-sized head with its coarse, rough scales was kept for some time in the emergency room as an object lesson. I can only presume that the colonel thereafter put more emphasis on the course in snake identification.

*****

The sloth is a fairly common creature in Panama, most often seen hanging from or feeding on a cecropia tree. Occasionally they are seen on the jungle floor or crawling slowly along the road. The coat is usually blotched with a growth of greenish algae and occupied by various vermin, including a type of moth which is called, appropriately enough, the “sloth moth”. If we saw a sloth crossing a road in its dream-like, slow-motion fashion we would often stop to expedite that particularly perilous portion of its journey. Nevertheless, road kill was rather common.

*****

One night, as I drove to the hospital for duty on the midnight shift, the gleam of my headlights revealed a huge jet-black dog with a long, graceful black tail lope smoothly out of the jungle on one side of the road, cross the road and enter the jungle on the opposite side. It had a definite cat- like grace about it. It was only after it had passed and disappeared that the adrenaline surged into my system as I realized that I had seen the black leopard which was rumored to have the jungle adjacent to the hospital as part of its territory. Had I been speeding I might well have struck and killed or maimed the beautiful creature.

A few weeks later, one of the negro hospital ward attendants on a nocturnal coffee-break walked out into the darkness behind the hospital to stretch his legs. Sometimes night hospital duty can be boring. As he rounded a corner he came face to face with what was probably the same black leopard. He turned and ran for the safety of the hospital; simultaneously the cat turned and ran for the safety of the jungle. There the similarity ended. I seriously doubt that the black leopard turned as pale as did that black man as he entered the back door of the hospital.

*****

The giant anteater is very rare in Panama. However, I had seen several specimens of the lesser (or collared) anteater killed on the road. On two occasions I have seen them in the wild. These long-snouted animals with the bowed front legs, strong claws and large prehensile tail weigh eight to 12 pounds and are incapable of biting, but with its claws can easily tear apart the strongest termite nest to lick up the tasty occupants with its long, sticky tongue. The claws also make very effective defensive weapons.
About 9:30 one evening I was jogging along a dimly lighted street of Coco Solo and saw a large cat ambling across the road. My first thought was, “That’s a funny gait for a cat.”

As I approached closer it dawned on me, “Holy cow! It’s an anteater. Wonder if I could catch it to take home and get a picture.” I found that I could “herd” it by stepping in front of it any time it started to move off in a particular direction. If I approached it rapidly it would face me, sit back on its prehensile tail like a boxing kangaroo and take swipes at me with its front claws. Thinking I could tire it out by these “boxing” efforts I looked about in vain for a stick or branch of any kind with which to worry it. No luck. The Panama Canal Company was a bug on cleanliness and neatness of its streets.

I parried with my tennis-shoe clad foot but it had good reflexes. Once it dodged backward and fell over. On the next swipe I was alarmed when it caught one claw in the lowermost loop of my shoe-lace. I had sudden visions of the beast climbing up my leg and lacerating it to ribbons. In an attempt to keep it as far away from me as possible, I immediately started turning rapidly as I jumped up and down on the unhampered foot while swinging the other in a wide circle. The centrifugal force kept the animal at a distance, three legs and the tail groping in the air. After about three turns (I was thankful it wasn’t necessary to see how long I could keep that silly maneuver up) it sailed off into the air beside the road and scampered up the trunk of a palm tree, stoping about five feet up. If I grasped it by the tip of the tail and let it hang upside down would it be able to turn up and and tear at me With its front claws? Ready to quickly drop it, I gave the maneuver a try and it worked. The three and a half block trip home was a tedious one for I had to hold the six to seven pound animal at arm’s length to keep it from reaching my legs. I changed hands frequently and twice, when it almost reached my hand, I had to drop the animal and recapture it.

After taking a picture I watched as the frightened animal waddled rapidly off into the darkness.

*****

The iguana is a large, green lizard often growing to three feet or more in length. It can run very fast and is at home in the trees as well as or the ground. It is a vegetarian, not a scavenger, and its long tail is an excellent weapon for defense. Its white, tender meat is a prize delicacy amongst knowledgable Panamanians, who often hunt it with the aid of dogs. On a Sunday, as we were returning home from church services, I spied one about two and a half feet in length behind a hedge-row next to a long, brick abandoned building. Seeing a friend in another car, I braked to a halt and called to him.

“Hey, let’s see if we can run this iguana up and down next to the building until he tires out so we can catch him. I’d like to try the meat.”

“I’m willing to give it a try.”

It was a fast runner but not too bright and not willing to leave the protection of the hedge-row to make a dash for freedom, a race which it could easily have won. With my friend at one end of the hedge-row and me at the other (Betty helping) we soon tired it out so that I was able to approach it and quickly grasp its head with one hand and the tail with the other. I had no desire to experience a lashing by the tough, strong tail, for I had seen the marks left on a patient by such an encounter.

In the process of skinning, I found the meat to be very white and entirely odorless. The stomach was partially filled with chewed, fresh, green leaves.

Betty agreed to cook the meat but wasn’t about to partake of any part of that “ugly thing”. She shook the pieces up in a paper bag with flour and salt, then fried it as one did a chicken. There was no odor while cooking. For herself she prepared beef. Tom and I found the iguana to surpass chicken in taste and tenderness. We raved about its flavor until Betty could stand it no longer. She tried a small bite and so thoroughly agreed with us that she finished her meal with iguana and left the beef for another meal.

*****

Betty and I had learned to snorkel and I had done a little scuba while still in Michigan. The snorkeling in Panama was as much different as is swimming in muddy ice-water fully clothed with stocking cap, overcoat and rubber boots as compared to the sensuous feeling of swimming nude in cool, crystal-clear water. The undersea world is a completely different world and I could write a complete book on that alone but many others have done that before me and I will not try to duplicate their efforts. Suffice it to say that the colors, forms, grace and beauty rivals that so vividly portrayed in National Geographic magazine. Betty and I were often transfixed in awe at the graceful forms of coral and sea-fans, ranging from huge specimens down to the most delicate - from massive boulders of brain coral to the tiny fragile, pastel-violet forms of “precious coral” clinging precariously to the roofs of underwater caves. We saw fish varying from monstrous tarpon And grouper to brilliant, multi-hued tropical fish of unending variety in form and action. The sand-diver, when frightened, will actually swim forcibly into soft sand and disappear. The flying gurnard when disturbed will spread its large pectoral, blue-tinted fins and vibrate them, making them appear as shimmering wings, as it lies otherwise motionless on the sandy bottom. The angler-fish has a small stalk on its nose with a tiny “lure;” on the end which it vibrates to attract small prey. The small, many-hued nudibranchs undulate gracefully through their watery domain. Sunlight sparkles from the jelly-fish, rivaling the beauty of a miniature crystal chandelier. The timid octopus in its hole may cautiously reach out to touch the exploring finger of a diver. The “sea-hare”, a fist-sized sea-slug, is mottled greenish in color, a large snail with no external shell - only a finger-nail-size internal shell which can be felt through the middle of its back. When irritated or frightened this interesting creature exudes a beautiful, deep purple ink into the water, much as an octopus exudes its black ink when it jets away from a pursuer. The list of intriguing examples is endless.

“Oh, but aren’t you afraid of sharks?”

Of course we are afraid of sharks. Anyone in his right mind should fear and respect any wild animal which is capable of maiming or killing him. Fortunately:
a. Most sharks appear to be more terrified of us than we of them.
b. The shallow-water, reef sharks (nurse, bill, black-tip, etc.) are less dangerous than the deep-water (pelagic) variety (hammer-head, great white, tiger, etc.)
c. Certain precautions are well-known to lessen the possibility of shark attack (swim with a buddy; avoid murky water; do not carry speared fish or lobsters; never swim rapidly away from a shark; use strong, slow, purposeful movements; never molest a sleeping or resting shark). A shark can be unpredictable but most of its actions are predictable: It is attracted by fluttery movements in the water, low frequency sounds and blood. It is repelled by sudden movements and loud noises. Its natural food is wounded, sick or disabled fish - not humans - so try not to look, act or smell like a wounded fish!

The shark we saw most was the common nurse shark, a variety which can sleep motionless on the bottom, often under a coral ledge. Upon seeing a snorkeler such a shark might remain motionless or might swim slowly off, increasing speed if followed, or at times would flee in what appeared to be abject terror of the strange creatures in its domain. Often the only part of a shark we saw was its tail as it turned to flee from us as we spied each other simultaneously.

The only shark that did not “run” from us was a young, black-tip shark about four and a half feet long, just off-shore from Rey Island, one of the Perles islands in the Pacific ocean. It was swimming leisurely in a circle as we approached it. I swam rapidly toward it, expecting it to flee, but it only swam faster in a tighter circle. Discretion being the better part of valor and not wishing to call its bluff, we changed course to avoid its apparent territory- it made no attempt to follow us. That was the closest we ever came to experiencing a “shark incident”.

Incidentally, shark meat is a tasty and nutritious form of sea-food. The only requirement is that it be dressed and cleansed immediately, before the urea in the blood has a chance to deteriorate and impart an objectionable taste to the meat. The sting ray likewise provides tasty food.

“What about barracuda? Aren’t they dangerous?”

The main characteristic of this sleek, toothy, vicious-looking fish is its intense curiosity. It approaches divers and follows then around, often quite closely. If one exhales and sinks to the bottom the ‘cuda will often come in close and quite literally look directly into the face plate of the diver’s mask. Spear-fishermen often use this means of luring a ‘cuda in close enough to shoot. My son once tried this method on a large one and it came so close that he was unable to raise his spear gun to get a shot. He was so awed by the situation and the size of the fish that he declined to shoot it as it moved away. The ‘cuda, however, is not a danger to divers except in murky water where a foot or hand might be mistaken for a fish, its natural prey, or where a shiny, dangling object such as a charm bracelet might be mistaken for a tasty minnow. When a leg-knife is thrown at a ‘cuda it will often quickly follow the quivering, shiny blade to the bottom. If the ‘cuda presence is worrisome a simple remedy is to turn slowly toward it then swim in a burst of speed directly at it. If the creature feels it is being pursued, it will leave and not return. Usually.

“Now don’t tell me there is nothing dangerous under the sea.”

Certainly there are some dangerous things but nothing that one can’t pretty well avoid by the use of caution, knowledge and common sense. Entering the sea is considerably less dangerous than getting in your car for a drive. Of the many things I am going to mention, please note that none of them will pursue you. You must approach them. Also, contact with them is much more apt to be just uncomfortable, rather than a threat to life or limb.

The Portuguese man-o-war is a faintly violet, oblong bubble floating on the water with long violet tentacles dangling beneath. Contact with these tentacles releases a powerful venom which causes excruciating pain and, if the exposure is severe, can cause shock. Even though I once managed to catch a small, beautiful Portuguese man-o-war fish from amongst the threatening tentacles, I have never experienced the sting. Victims tell me it is extremely painful. I have handled the bubbles with immunity and a couple of times touched the still-moist tentacles of one dead on the beach without being stung. Other people at the beach have been painfully stung by a “dead” one. Simple watchfulness provides adequate insurance to avoid contact.

Jellyfish come in a great variety of sizes, shapes and stinging potential. Most are white, mucous-like and round in shape. They may be on the surface, in mid-water or on the bottom. Some have no sting and may be touched with impunity. Others give a Painful sting which leaves a poison-ivy-like rash. Those with dangling tentacles I tend to avoid. On the other hand I have swam through large, dense schools of a tentacleless variety, bumping against scores of them, with no effect. The dangerous sea wasp jellyfish is not found in waters adjacent to Panama.

Black spiny sea-urchins are the bane of the diver for they are seemingly omnipresent and are like living pincushions, with the sharp ends pointed out. All it takes is a light touch to cause the tip to penetrate the skin. There is an immediate stinging sensation, which wouldn’t be so bad if the tip would then pull out but it invariably breaks off, leaving a jet-black, sliver-like bit beneath the skin. Surprisingly enough this foreign body is absorbed so rapidly that usually in a day or two no trace of it can be seen. Absorption can be hastened by-immediately breaking up the black matter with a finger-nail or other object. Trying to surgically remove the “sliver” is an unnecessary and sometimes harmful procedure. Betty and I have both had urchin spines in various parts of our anatomy but most commonly in the hands, due to reaching into a hole in the coral after a lobster, unaware that the hole was also occupied by a spiny sea-urchin.

If handled very carefully from beneath, an urchin can be lifted out of the water with the bare hand. On occasion I used this act to impress the local natives. It worked.

Inside the black body of the spiny sea urchin often lies a yellow egg mass which is edible either raw or cooked and is considered a delicacy by the Japanese, who have boats devoted entirely to the collecting of this bounty from the sea. I have tried the eggs raw, while snorkeling. They taste salty, with a faint flavor of iodine and are not one of my favorite foods - but then neither is caviar. I suspect they would be most acceptable if mixed in a salad such as lettuce, or perhaps on a cracker. But then I seldom carry crackers while snorkeling.

Fire coral or “stinging coral” is not red as you might suppose. It assumes various shapes, is extremely common and is tan in color with faint whiteness at the tips. It doesn’t look like fire but certainly feels like fire when touched. If touched gingerly (which I do on occasion to show new divers that it is not all that dreadful) it imparts only a slight stinging sensation and leaves a faint, pink rash for a day or two. If pressed more forcibly against the skin the sensation is intensified but by no means excruciating.

The bristle worm or fire-worm was unknown to me when I first saw the fuzzy, caterpillar-like form crawling on the surface of some coral. Picking it up with my bare hands I felt a prickling sensation and, on casting it hurriedly away, saw a multitude of tiny, white hairs protruding from the skin of my fingers. These I removed by scraping the area with y log-knife. I had quickly learned what I was to later confirm by reading about this sea worm. On subsequent contacts with this creature I touched it only with a probe or knife to watch its pink body turn snow white as it protruded its armor of bristles in self-defense. At the base of each clump of bristles can be seen the tiny, pink, external gills.

In Panama the sea-snake is found only in the Pacific, not in the Atlantic ocean. It is extremely venomous but has a very docile disposition and the diver has little or nothing to fear. Swimmers have been observed in blissful ignorance swimming through a group of these snakes as they simply swam out of the way to let the swimmer pass. The recorded bites are usually on scientists experimenting with the snake or on fishermen as they remove the creatures from their nets.

Moray eels are common and are not venomous. Most bites are incurred as a diver reaches into a hole in the coral, perhaps after a lobster or crab, not aware that an eel is in residence. Betty and I have both been given warning “nips” in just such a fashion. The nip leaves two small, half-moon shaped, incised wounds, not jagged as one might suppose. These wounds are said to usually become infected. Ours did not. The answer to this danger is to not reach back into a hole unless you know what is back there.

We usually carried a two and a half foot long metal probe with a sharpened tip and a wooden handle. I had often killed an eel by thrusting the probe into the gill area near the rear of the head and anchoring the tip by pushing it into the coral, thus preventing the animal from pulling free. I was surprised at how quickly an eel, thus impaled, would die. On one occasion the eel managed to pull free and made a direct attack on me. I must have broken existing records for swimming backwards for, I must admit, I was momentarily terrified. After a few yards, during which time it was just inches from my flippers, it quickly turned and headed back for its lair. I did not follow. It was only several days later that I realized it was only wanting to chase me away. Had it wanted to catch me it easily could have, for an eel can swim with amazing speed.

As my experience increased and after reading a book* I found that it was considerably more interesting to feed the moray eels than to kill them. Bits of raw fish worked best. I would put a piece on the tip of my probe and offer it. It was accepted with graceful manners, as it usually was, I would prefer the next piece with my gloved hand. After thus becoming gradually acquainted it was usually simple to feed the remaining pieces from my bare hand. I was surprised at the gentleness of most of the moral eels. I have later talked with divers who have been able to pet and to gently handle this much maligned creature.

Various types of sting rays abound in the sea. They are shy and just prefer to be left alone. If one is free-swimming it is impossible to approach it closely enough to be stung. Stings occur when someone steps on the creature sleeping in the sand, thus the recommendation that waders use the “shuffle step.” If forewarned, the sting ray is most anxious to get out of the way. With slow approach and gentle movements I have many times been able to “get” a ray lying on the sandy bottom. The meat of the ray is edible - very similar to scallops.

The electric ray was completely unknown to me. While snorkeling near the perimeter of a public beach in Venezuela I noted a seven inch diameter horseshoe shaped depression in the sand about nine feet below the surface of the water. On brushing over it with my bare hand I was shocked with what felt like an electric current. Unbelievable! As I floated on the surface and watched the area I saw movement below the sand and had the first hint that it was a ray. But electric? I had never heard of such a thing; electric eels, yes, but electric rays??? I just had to satisfy my curiosity. Telling Betty to keep an eye on me, I unsheathed my leg knife with its black plastic handle, dove down and speared in the center of the oval outline. As I brought it wriggling forth it was obviously a ray - gray with brownish circular markings. When I next encountered a Smithsonian scientist and related the incident I was shown a picture of the same electric ray and was assured that there were such things. It is the only one I have ever seen in many years of diving.

Relating these stories makes it seem as though diving is dangerous. Really it is not at all. It is simply a completely new, beautiful and amazing world that everyone should become acquainted with. Comfort and safety can best he assured by knowledge, caution, common sense, the wearing of gloves and the use of a “boxing stick” to investigate things with which one is not familiar.

Tube worms are the Christmas tree decorations of the undersea world. The “feather duster” worms have brown and white feather plumes and, indeed, look like miniature feather dusters gently waving with the barely perceptible motion of the sea. These delicate, fragile organs serve as gills and also serve to entrap small organisms for nourishment. When threatened, all tube worms have the ability to so quickly draw back into the tube that one wonders if they were really ever there at all. The “Christmas tube worm” has a spiral feathery gill that is in the shape of (you guessed it!) a miniature Christmas tree. These come in all shades of the rainbow, usually pastel tints; some are multi-hued. Many coral-heads are studded with these shockingly beautiful, flower-like animals. One form of tube-worm has pale violet gills, grows in clusters and resembles a miniature garden which suddenly changes to a group of dull, whitish stalks when a hand is passed over it.

*****

Lobsters, as you know, make delicious eating. Betty and I like to eat them but, even more, we enjoy trying to catch them. I say “trying” because we have found that for every one we catch there are three or four that manage to escape. If the hunter relies only on mask, snorkel, gloves and a poking stick it is truly a sport in which the lobster has the advantage. Working as a team we had best results if one would poke while the other would grab. If the lobster backs into a shallow depression or a dead-end labyrinth in the coral it is easy but they are usually not so accommodating. Often they will back themselves into such a tight-fitting hole with their spiny exterior gripping the walls that they can not be pulled free. Grasping the head and quickly rotating it back and forth several times often causes the lobster to release its grip on the wall so that it can be extracted.

*****

I was never very good with the use of a spear-gun, nor did I especially enjoy its use. Many creatures are injured in such a fashion and carrying speared fish certainly invites shark encounters. A Peace Corps worker friend in Panama told me of the time he had speared a fish and was swimming back to shore as he held the gun and allowed the line to follow behind with the fish and spear on the end. On feeling a sudden yank on the line he turned in time to see the tail of a large shark as it raced away with the fish and the metal spear. Had he been carrying the fish in his hand he may well have lost part of his anatomy. Or would the shark have been reluctant to come that close to him? No one can say for sure. I have read of some natives who spear fish in shark-infested waters and avoid confrontation by holding the fish on the tip of the spear above the water level as they swim back to the boat.

*****

The trunk fish is an odd-looking creature with a rigid body, flat on the bottom and triangular in cross-section. It is propelled only by motion of fins and tail, the body being completely inflexible. Often it feeds by blowing jets of water through its pointed mouth to stir up the sand on the bottom. It can swim rapidly only in short bursts and is not difficult to catch by hand if it is unable to reach some sheltering coral.

*****

Another fish which is interesting and not difficult to catch by hand is the balloon fish, porcupine fish or “tiny puffer”. It, too, is a clumsy swimmer. When caught, the alarmed creature, thinking it is about to be eaten, sucks in water (or air if held above water), expanding to three or four times its original size and extending dozens of rather sharp spines which had previously been held flat against the side of the body. This would certainly discourage a larger fish from trying to swallow it but renders the poor thing completely unable to swim - a rather comical sight. The bite of its bony jaws would be painful but not dangerous. It is interesting to observe in this fish the patchy, fluorescent green areas invariably present on the corneas of both eyes. I can’t imagine their function.

*****

I was snorkeling with our teen-age son, Tom, and a friend of his on a reef near Coco Solo about 100 yards off-shore. He had his spear-gun and was looking for prey.

“Hey, dad, give me a hand,” I heard him shout.

When I arrived at his side I was amazed to see a large tarpon dangling from the end of his spear. It’s gill-covers were working but it was limp from the pectoral fins backward.

He told me the story. He had dived under to look in a cave but it contained no fish. As he turned around to start back up he was startled by the sight of a huge eye looking at him - so close that he couldn’t see what it belonged to. Now that’s close! Thinking it was a shark and remembering my admonition never to run from a shark he “froze” and the creature started to slowly back away. As it came into focus he was able to see that it was a large tarpon and, by now, there was sufficient distance separating them that he could raise his spear-gun into firing position. At point-blank range he shot and luckily struck the tarpon in the spine just behind the head, paralyzing it from that point backward. Had the spear penetrated most anywhere else in the body he most certainly would have lost fish, spear and all, for a tarpon is a strong game fish and does not give up easily.

We were later to find that this fish weighed 8- pounds. The problem was to get it to shore where our station wagon was parked. Almost 100 yards of coral awash in six - 18 inches of water lay between us and shore. His buddy walked to shore, brought back a stout limb which they put through the gills and then dragged it thus to shore. Most Americans do not eat tarpon meat but the Panamanians make a soup from it. After weighing and taking a picture he took the fish to Colon and, in the market there, found a buyer for it. 15 cents a pound, as is, guts and all.

*****

“What is a Panamanian, really?” we were often asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean what race are they? Are they white, black, red, or what?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, ‘yes’?”

“Yes, they are white or black or red or what.”

“You mean there is no typical Panamanian?”

“No more than there is a typical American. In fact the situation is quite analogous. Originally Panama was occupied by several different tribes of indians. They remain and are the original “true” Panamanians. The search for trade routes, gold and valuables brought in Spaniards. African slaves were brought in and escaped. Construction of the Panama Canal brought in large numbers of Jamaicans and Chinese. These and their offspring are all Panamanian. See what I mean?”

*****

During our fifteen and a half years in Panama we met and became friends with many Panamanians in all walks of life.

“But what about anti-American feelings?”

Rare, indeed, in our experience. Mutual admiration was the rule. They loved us more for our bungled attempts to use the Spanish language. Their politicians often disagreed with our politicians and vice versa, but on a person-to-person basis we could not have asked for a more amicable relationship.

Our list of Panamanian friends included physicians, teachers, ministers and laborers. Some of the friendships we most cherished were those of members of the indian tribes we came to know.

*****

Panama has five different tribes of indians, each with its own dialect, customs, taboos and manner of dress. The second language of each tribe is Spanish but it is usually only the men that are bilingual. As civilization encroaches many of the men come to work in the Canal Zone and pick up English as a third language.

Two of these indian tribes are very scarcely populated, little known and accessible only with difficulty. I get the impression they may be slowly headed for extinction; I do not even remember their names. The other three tribes are in a stable state, each in a pretty well defined area of Panama.

*****

The Guaymi indians are scattered throughout the western [art of the country, primarily in the area of the Azuero peninsula. Panama runs generally east and west, remember? The women are easily recognized by the typical mother Hubbard type of dress (nagua) which they sew by hand and wear. The men of all tribes seem to wear cotton, short-sleeve shirts of any color or design and old cotton trousers or shorts. Shoes are rarely worn. The house consists of a thatched roof supported by poles, with or without one or more walls of cut cans placed vertically. Cooking is by a fire on the ground or on a small, elevated wooden platform with dirt on the top to protect the wood from burning. Some homes have hammocks, but sleeping on the ground is most common. Much of this country is so arid that washing of clothing is sometimes a problem. The Cuaymi, in general, are used to living in poverty. During a recent drought, some were said to be reduced to eating grass when their meager crops failed. The men occasionally work as laborers in the sugarcane fields. They may also sell their original beaded collars as well as woven bags (chacaras) to tourists. In general, they are willing to accept help only if it involves no change in their life-style. They seem to be introvertive, shy and self-demeaning. It would be difficult for an outsider to develop a real friendship with a Guaymi family.

The Choco indians are in eastern Panama in the Darien jungle, mostly to the south of the continental divide. This part of Panama was many rivers and the Choco tend to have small villas on the banks of these rivers. The women characteristically wear a sarong and are bare above the waist except on the rare occasion of a trip to a “civilized” town. The men and women indulge in profuse body painting with a black dye obtained from a jungle plant. The designs are usually geometric and include the face. Breasts are often painted with concentric rings around the nipples. An interesting side-light is that when strangers are seen to be approaching, the men usually hasten to put on a shirt. I can’t explain that one, except that in the entire country of Panama it appears to be unseemly for a man to be bare chested. Silver earrings and breast ornaments are often worn by the men for ceremonial occasions. Homes are elevated above the ground, with a care floor, cane walls and a thatch roof. The ladder consists of a log with notches cut on one sids. Children and dogs traverse it with ease. Adults go up “no hands” carrying a burden. If privacy is desired the log is simply turned with the notches down. Sleeping is on a woven pallet, often with a wooden pillow (shaped like a stool) for a head-rest. For sale to tourists they make baskets woven of reed as well as interesting wooden carvings.

Hygiene is not an important word in the vocabulary of the Choco. We stayed overnight in a reed hut in one of the villages.* Our hut was near the river and we had an excellent view of the huge fallen tree trunk which sloped gently from the shore, becoming gradually submerged a little past mid-point in the stream. When I awakened in the morning I peered through a crack in the cane wall and saw a young Choco lady, bare except for her sarong, standing thigh-deep in water on the log as she leisurely plucked a dressed chicken. She was, as is the custom, using the river as a garbage disposal, allowing feathers and other unwanted parts to disappear down the stream.

“How convenient!” I thought.

As I watched, another lady sauntered down the log and a bit of friendly gossip ensued. As they were talking the recently arrived one nonchalantly raised her sarong a bit, squatted into the water and did what nature called upon her to do. Meanwhile they continued to talk as the chicken plucker just as nonchalantly continued to dip her chicken in and out of the water.

This particular village was only about two miles from the Pacific shore and therefore had a “tidal current”. When the tide was low, the flow was from inland toward the mouth of the river as is to be expected from a well-behaved river. However, with each high tide (the Pacific tide in this area often approached 14 - 16 feet) the flow reversed and the current ran “upstream” for six or seven miles inland. This not only caused considerable variation in the depth of the river but also backed up liberal quantities of refuse, changing the stream from a relatively clean one as it flowed toward the ocean to a veritable cesspool when it flowed backward. Naturally the natives had learned to do their swimming and bathing in the river when the flow was downstream.

*****

I have saved my account of the Kuna indians for last. They are the best known and the most written about indians in Panama - for good reason, I might add - and I will not try to compete with the many excellent treatises and books* which have been published on these charming and very interesting people. We came to know quite intimately some of the primitive families as well as some of the more acculturated families and were proud to call them friends. They are a clean, intelligent people who bathe frecuently in the sea; they are industrious and slow to ask for outside help. There is no word for “thank you” in the Kuna language for none is necessary. It is assumed that the giver gives because he wanted to and the only proper response would be the return of a gift - at some future time.

Originally the Kunas lived in the eastern half of Panama along the northern shore and in the adjacent mountainous areas, going to the nearby off-shore islands to fish, collect coconuts and to meet the trading boats (primarily from Colombia) which plied the waters there. Some 200 (?) years ago all but a few families migrated to the islands, living gregariously and densely packed (they like it that that) on some of the islands, using most of the others for the growing of coconut trees. The reason for this migration is unknown. The following theories have been proposed: 1. An epidemic swept the mainland and the medicine men dictated the change. 2. Avoidance of insects. 3. Easier access to costal trading vessels. Perhaps it was a combination or for entirely different reasons. As island dwellers they now have to go by dugout canoe (cayuco) to the mainland rivers almost daily for fresh water to drink and to use in cooking. The tide in this area of the Atlantic ocean is only one to two feet. The islands fit well the story-book picture of the “idyllic tropical island paradise”. They are tiny, ranging from a few yards in diameter to a few hundred feet. They are barely above sea-level and look as though a four or five foot wave would wash right over the island - which indeed it would were it not for the protecting outer reef which runs from the first island about 60 miles east of Colon to the last of the islands at the Colombian border. These islands are free of snakes and almost free of insects.

The non-populated islands either have no hut at all or a small living hut and a small cooking hut for the man or the family which take turns in living on the island for a few months at a time to guard it and to gather coconuts. Land ownership is not a part of the Kuna culture, but the trees themselves are owned by individuals or families. There is no doubt as to ownership identity and one Kuna would not “filch” another’s coconuts even if hard-pressed. The coconut amounts to essentially legal tender in the islands and with the trading vessels. For many, many years the value was one Real (5 cents) each, but worldwide inflation has not overlooked this area and the standard trading value is now vientecinco centavos (25 cents) each. Even though the Kunas now use money for purchases it is not unusual for them to use coconuts to purchase items from the boats.

The populated islands are quite different. When they populate an island they really populate it. Huts are so close together as to barely allow walking space between. Several families often live in one “nega”, without partitions, sleeping in hammocks and hanging personal items from the log rafters. Privacy is non-existent, perhaps one reason why theft is almost unheard of; everyone immediately recognizes everyone else’s property. Digging down two to four feet to the water level produces water which is quite suitable for washing clothes or bathing. It is slightly brackish but not salty - amazing, considering the fact that each island is so small and completely surrounded by salt water. The information I have received is that the water from rainfall is kept relatively salt free by the difference in osmotic pressure.

Each populated island usually has one or more small “tiendas”, stores in which needed items are sold by an enterprising Kuna after he has purchased them from a trading boat - either from Colon or from Colombia. Stores carry cloth, needles, thread, clothing, fishing supplies, canned goods, thongs (black sandals) and the inevitable soft drinks which the Kuna love. The soft drinks may be cooled in a bottled-gas type of refrigerator but often are taken and enjoyed warm.

The large council hut is the focal point of each island. It is a rare evening indeed when a meeting is not held there. It may last from one hour up to all night long, depending upon the importance of the subject(s) discussed.Announcements of the meetings and who are expected to attend (men, women, mixed, etc.) is made by one or more Kuna men in a town-crier type of voice as they stroll through the village streets carrying the appropriate, carved “authority stick”, indicating that they are authorized to make the announcement. Betty says it always sounds as though they are saying, “Town Meeting tonight!” No subject is taboo at these meetings; anything from a small boy’s misbehavior to the changing of a long-standing tribal custom. At one time cement block structure was not allowed because it was “not natural”. This was changed when one man argued that all of the ingredients were natural. During two meetings the villagers sit on crude wooden benches while the meeting is conducted by the chief(s) as they lie in hammock(s) at the center of the hut. Often it is one man’s duty to exhort at intervals those present to “stay awake and pay attention.” Some meetings are for the sole purpose of reminding the people, often in chant and song, of their tribal rights, customs, duties, etc. Some are for women only, to remind them of the part they play in marriage and the home; some are for men only with a similar purpose. At a meeting anyone who so desires may speak and expect to be received courteously, but disagreements and emotions are also in evidence. When the discussions are finished it is the chief who makes the final decision. If the chief makes too many unpopular decisions he is replaced, but this would be very unusual.

Since time immemorial island-living people have used the ocean for their bottomless garage disposal. This was not so bad when ail the items they used were biodegradable, but with the advent of plastics and metal containers and with the increase in population and tourism the problem has become a bit more evident. It was with great disgust that I once observed personnel from a mission hospital dumping into the sea containers with dressings soiled with blood, pus and bodily discharges - one of the problems of coping with encroaching civilization.

The shallow water along the beaches is the universal toilet facility. Simply squatting in the water serves the purpose, and the normal bodily discharges are certainly biodegradable. The more modest may attain a semblance of privacy by squatting alongside of or between two cayucos (dug outs). Believe it or not, peri-anal fecal soiling is cleansed in the salt water with the aid of the heel. We had been told this but it was many years before we actually observed it. With the advent of tourism a few families have built a small pier over the water leading to an out-house, some even being equipped with a modern toilet seat over the hole in the board. It is an experience, indeed, to look at the fish through the cracks in the floor as one feels the sway in the structure as the cayucos bump against the side in the ocean swells. I never did get over the impulse to reach for the flush handle as I left or to chide Betty as I saw her coming out, “Did you remember to flush it?”

Historically the Kuna have been a proud, independent people, slow to make friends and suspicious of strangers. All for good reason. When the Spaniards entered the region in search of gold they tortured, killed and made slaves of the Kunas. The indians are almost free of facial hair. The bearded Spaniards made a lasting impression, which carries over even today in the form of distrust of light-skinned, beard-faced persons. Up until about 35 years ago non-Kunas were not allowed to stay overnight on any of the islands and interbreeding was taboo to the extent that an obviously non-Kuna baby was destroyed at birth and the mother was said to have sometimes been equally treated. With the advent of missionaries in the islands these customs have slowly changed but inter-marriage is still a great rarity.

*****

You will note that “Kuna” is sometimes spelled with a “C”. It is only recent years that these people have had a written language and they have decided that the official spelling will be with a “K”. It is of interest that “cuna” in Spanish means “cradle” or “origin” and the Kuna people consider themselves to be the cradle of the entire human race. According to their mythology, the one great God, the earth-mother, made human forms out of dough and put them in the oven. She (yes, She) mistakenly took the batch out too soon, resulting in the white, pale-skinned race. The next batch she left in too long and the negro race resulted. The third batch she left in just right, producing the golden-skinned Kuna people.

Our attitude that these are people to be “helped” is not necessarily shared by the Kuna. They have a somewhat different outlook. I shall never forget one Christian church service that Betty and I attended on the island of Ailipandi. We were the only non-Kunas in the congregation. The minister was a Kuna who had had his theological training in the U.S. The sermon was part in Spanish and part in Kuna. I was able to understand the part in Spanish when he exhorted the audience, “Just because you are Kunas you don’t need to think you are so much better than everyone else! We are all God’s children.”

*****

The Kuna social set-up is a matrilineal one - not matriarchal as is sometimes said. The men are the ultimate bosses in important matters, but the women rule household matters. When a couple marry they go to live with the bride’s family and the groom works for them. Material goods and coconut trees are passed down through the maternal side of the family. Thus parents are most happy when the new baby is a girl, for she will stay with the family and eventually bring in a new worker. When a baby boy is born the parents know that they will eventually lose him to another family at about the time when he is becoming most productive.

The Kuna man hunts, fishes, builds huts, makes cayucos, gathers coconuts and raises crops on the mainland - yucca, bananas, corn, plantain, sugar-cane. He dresses in short-sleeve shirts, shorts or all cotton trousers (typically with an open, broken zipper) and little else. Certainly no shoes. At important meetings the officials often wear a tie and a dark felt hat - still barefoot.

The Kuna woman keeps house, cleans and cooks the fish and game, washes clothes in the hull of two broken cayuco or in a mainland stream, squeezes sugar juice from cane, raises children and spends endless hours with needle and thread making the molas for which these indians are famous. More of that later. She is as colorful in the bright sun light as the butterfly of your dreams. On her head she wears a bright red scarf, often with a narrow yellow border and red figures of birds or animals, outlined in yellow. The scarf is not tied or pinned on. It can be adjusted as a shade from the sun and is also handy as a carry-all.

The gold nose-ring used to be universally employed but was discouraged by missionaries and some of the more modern families now dispense with it. It is of solid gold with a slit for easy insertion-into the hole in the nasal septum. The older women have the largest rings, sometimes so large as to cause stretching of the septum, for it is a sign of wealth and one way of banking their cash. As money is accumulated the ring is traded in for a larger size. This is done by the husband making a trip into the city to a jewelry store or by purchasing from one of the few itinerate jewelers who occasionally travel the islands. I have seen baby girls a few weeks old with perforated nasal septums through which a string had been tied to prevent the hole from healing. I even saw one baby with a tiny bone through the hole. They are inclined to use whatever is convenient and effective. Young girls usually have a very tiny gold ring and young ladies often are quite attractive until the sun does its invariable, insidious damage to the unprotected skin, with resultant drying and winkling. A Kuna woman of 40 often looks closer to 60. How does the nose-ring look when its owner has a cold and runny nose? Just like you think it would.

The Kura females paint a thin black line down the bridge of the nose from near the forehead to the tip of the nose. This gives the nose a narrower appearance, which they consider desirable and some believe it also wands off evil spirits. This line is made with the juice of a certain fruit, sometimes mixed with charcoal, and it is indelible, lasting for several weeks, at which time it is carefully renewed. They consider it great fun to paint such a line on the nose of any willing visitor.

Baby girls’ ears are invariably pierced and kept open with a string for later insertion of tiny solid gold earrings, usually circular in shape and growing in size as wealth is accumulated. Adults often have solid gold earrings the size of saucers. Even though they are very thin, the weight is sufficient to require help in support in the form of strings over the tops of the ears. Additionally, if wealth permits, the lady may wear a gold breast-plate, an oblong piece of thin gold faintly imprinted with decorative figures such as butterflies. You might expect these very expensive and beautiful ornaments to be worn only for visitors or on ceremonial occasions. Not so. The slightest excuse is adequate. The gold rings on the fingers are quite plain and rather an anti-climax to the rest of the spectacular jewelry. In lieu of the breast-plate, the women often wear beads around the neck. These may be made from plastic beads, seeds, animal teeth, shark’s teeth, bones, coins, bits of coral or most any other available item.

Around wrists and ankles the women tightly bind the bracelet-like “wini”, pronounced as in the slang term for hot-dog. This is a string one to two yards long on which have been threaded yellow and red plastic beads in such a fashion that, when wound around the limb, a pattern results. Each wini fits only the size of the owner’s limb. If the size is different a disruption of the pattern occurs. Usually one lady makes another lady’s wini, for it has to be constructed as it is applied, quite difficult to do on one’s own wrist - easier perhaps on the ankle. It is not a matter of simply winding the string around. It is wound half-way around and looped over the end string (which is left long for this purpose) before continuing around the limb. These bands are usually left or until the string wears out and breaks. The skin under such a wini is always paler in color due to less sun exposure.

The feet are bare except for the now almost universal use of the handy and inexpensive clomp, thong or beach sandal. I have never seen these indians become amorous but am told that they do not kiss, rather preferring to touch toes.

Around the waist is worn a Dorothy Lamour-type sarong, usually dark blue with yellow figures, but occasionally dark green with yellow figures. The ends are tucked in. It is never pinned but stays on (usually) by friction and faith. I have seen running young ladies lose a sarong and, as they laughingly whipped it back on, observed (O.K., so I should be ashamed of myself) that beneath it they wore an abbreviated sarong apparently made of old, faded material. Perhaps that one was pinned on.

I have left the description of the tropical mola blouse for the last for it is the item for which these women are the most well-known. It is a true work of native art - beautiful, intricate, imaginative, yet primitive in concept. Indirectly we owe the existence of the mola to missionaries. Originally the Kuna women wore no clothing over the breasts but, rather, indulged heavily in intricate body painting, as the Choco indians still do.We are told that missionaries arrived, convinced them that exposure of the breasts was indecent and induced them to wear cotton blouses. Since body painting could not be enjoyed with this arrangement the women began sewing intricate designs on the blouses. Presto: The mola blouse.

The mola blouse, in its present form, consists of a front panel (mola) and a back panel (mola) with a gaudy print yoke and a narrow border at the bottom which is tucked under the wrap-around sarong. The sleeves are short and slightly puffed. The hole in the yoke is just large enough to allow for the passage of the head. As you can see, each blouse has two molas. On a good blouse these two molas are similar or complimentary but never identical in design.

Good mola is made from three to four layers of solid color cloth, usually black, red, orange and yellow. The design or picture is made by cutting the design out of the top layer and turning the edges under to expose the underlying color. This layer can then be further cut to expose the third color, and so on. Some describe this as “reverse applique.” Dots are made by cutting a tiny X in the cloth with small scissors, turning the edges under with a needle then stitching the edges down with fine thread of the same color so the stitches do not show. The skillful artist is able to make the hole round rather than square. The smaller the hole the greater the difficulty. I have seen molas with hundreds of such tiny dots, each representing a minimum of ten minutes of intense concentration. In this fashion are made designs, human figures, animals, birds, fish, letters, rainbows or whatever the imagination provides. For variety sometimes various other odd colors are slipped between layers and exposed as desired by cutting down to them. Good mola has no blank spaces. The maker of an excellent mola often intentionally includes a carefully planned but obscure “defect” (such as a dot of different color among dots of similar color) for no human should make anything perfect.

Most mola makers are women but some few are men who prefer the effeminate life. They often make the most excellent molas.

How long does it take to make a mola? The answer is elusive. for women sew in their spare time, often using it as a social occasion. They sit about in groups on wooden stools in the shade of a hut, chatting, gossiping and laughing and often proudly holding up their unfinished work to show to a passer-by. They often sew in the evening by the light of a kerosene lamp.

They may sew for four hours in one day, half an hour or not at all. If they get bored with the project they may put it away and get it out again at a later date when the urge strikes. Originally the molas were made only for personal wear but when the Kuna found that tourists are anxious to buy them they started making all sizes and shapes, some with very poor quality of craftsmanship, some even made with the aid of a foot-treadle sewing machine. Now molas can be purchased from the size and shape of a quarter up to huge banners measuring several feet on each side and costing hundreds of dollars.

Humor is common in molas. Fish or animals are often depicted wearing ties or articles of clothing. Often a mola maker will laugh and be too shy or embarrassed to be willing to explain the meaning of her mola design. Mola designs can usually be classified as one of the following:
Geometric
Nature (fish, animals, plants, birds, butterflies, etc.)
Historical
Mythical (as of a dragon taking a bite out of the moon as an albino indian shoots an arrow at the beast to kill it and prevent it from completely devouring this desirable heavenly body.)
Story telling
Religious (the manger scene and Christ on the cross are favorites.)
Copies of pictures or words in magazines (I have seen lions and elephants neither of which is present in Panama - Mexican dress and even one with the large letters “Kotex” emblazoned across the front.)
Modern (helicopter, television, space flight, snorkeling - I have a delightful example of the latter with flippers on the feet, a mask in place and bubbles floating to the surface.)

What does one look for in a good mola?
Symmetry.
Beauty (in the eye of the beholder)
Originality (Many times favorite patterns are widely copied, each copy declining in quality.)
Fineness of stitches. (The thread should be fine, identical to the color of the cloth and closely soaked, often barely visible. Machine sewing, when discovered, is a source of embarrassment to the owner.)
Fineness of detail in the design.
Absence of black or unfilled spaces in the pattern.

It is only fair to ask, “But what on earth does one do with a mola if he does buy one?” One obvious answer is to put it in a simple frame and hang lt on the wall. It is beautiful, unusual and a proud indicator of the taste and preferences of the owner. The geometric designs are often favored to make purses for ladies. Molas also make an attractive and unusual pillow cover or decorations on a dress. I have seen them used as patches on blue jeans. Of course the blouse itself can be worn as such.

Wen we first visited the San Blas islands in 1966 the Most excellent blouse could be purchased for $10.00; that is, $5.00 for each mola panel. More recently I have paid $30.00 for a single panel and Betty (in 1984) paid $50.00 for a good blouse. With bartering (the indians enjoy bartering and many think you foolish to pay the first asked price) single panels can often be purchased for $5.00 - $20.00. When purchased in fancy, big-city stores in the U.S. the prices are four to six times that.

Can a design or picture or logo be made to order? We have tried it a few times with very unsatisfactory results: the workmanship was poor, the piece never got finished; the price was exorbitant. You see, the Kuna sew primarily things that they are interested in and enjoy. For them it is fun and of no importance how many hours they may put into a creation. Now if they are bound by your ideas and your colors that is work, which puts an entirely different light on the situation.

There are many interesting things about the Kuna other than their molas. Their great sense of humor, besides showing up in their molas, constantly crops up in daily life. They love to laugh and find any excuse to do so. They laugh at you; they laugh at themselves; they laugh at animals; they laugh at situations. If a small child falls down, the big sister looking after him laughs and he gets up laughing. I once pointed out to a lady that she was displaying her mola to me upside down. The other ladles looked at her and laughed and she laughed as hard as any of them. Once in a small island tietnda (store) I was bickering with a wrinkled elderly lady with a huge nose ring over the price of a mola. She became angry, started chewing me out at the top of her lungs in Kuna, took me roughly by the arm and led me out the door. There in the narrow sand street we looked stonily at each other for a moment. Then she broke out into a hearty laugh; it was all a joke. When I joined her in laughing she knew I was a good sport. A bright grin crossed her lovely face as she turned and retreated back into the store. Whether or not I got the mola at my price is irrelevant. The moment was priceless.

*****

The Kunas, while in their own territory, are pretty much allowed by the Panamanian authorities to make and enforce their own laws, so long as outsiders are not involved. They do a good job; crime is exceedingly rare for it simply is not tolerated. There are no jails in the San Blas islands. One of the worst punishments that can be inflicted is banishment from the islands; a lesser punishment, but one still to be feared, is banishment from the individual’s home island. A common punishment for lesser sins (failure to obey a council ruling; repeated drunkenness; disrespect for elders, etc.) is to shave the head and administer a whipping with a cactus-like bush which stings like nettles when applied. They refer to this as a “cactus beating.”

*****

In recent years the islands have become dotted with small airstrips and the indians not infrequently make trips to Colon or to Panama City. Many of the men work for the Panama Canal Company. The basic transportation, however, is still the cayuco, a dug out canoe. Formerly the Kuna made them from trees from the mainland and occasionally still do but now prefer to buy them in rough-hewn form from the Colombian trading boats. The price is about $20.00. They then finish the job using only adz, machete and a hand drill to perforate the hull in several places so as to better judge thickness of the hull. These holes are later filled with a whittled wooden jug. I have never seen them use the burn and scrape technique used by some other cultures. Forward of midship a seat is placed, in the middle of which is a large hole and below that a depression in the hull. This is for the mast, for these people will as much as they paddle, no mean accomplishment for a canoe with no keel and no rudder. The paddle serves as both as the master sits at the stern with his foot holding the paddle firmly against the downwind side of the boat, one hand on the rope attached to the boom of the mast. There is a long rope dangling from the top of the mast and a young boy is usually sent grasping this as he leans far over the upwind side of the boat to aid in balance. Nowadays one of the first things a man buys when he can afford it is an outboard motor. They are very expensive and gas is about $3.00 per gallon. Incidentally, these cayucos can be quite large. It is not unusual to see one carrying 10 - 15 people.

*****

The Kuna attitude toward drinking alcoholic beverages is different from ours. Chicha (drinking) feasts are held on specific occasions: usually holidays or the coming of age for a young girl. Until recent years the chicha was made from corn and sugar cane juice, boiled in a large iron pot, poured in a cayuco to cool, then aged in large earthen jars. Some is still produced this way but with acculturation larger and larger amounts of “seco” (an inexpensive, clear, white Panamanian alcohol) are being substituted. The interesting thing is that between chicha feasts the drinking of alcohol is severely frowned upon but during a feast men and women are supposed to get drunk. Not getting drunk then is one mark against him going to Kuna heaven. Alcoholism is almost nonexistent except for those who go to live in the big city and learn to drink daily. Betty and I have been to chicha feasts. They get pretty noisy with laughter, good-natured banter and the roar of loud talking. Fights do not seem to ensue. When a man or a woman falls to the ground, more sober persons unceremoniously literally drag them off (everyone laughing, of course) and deposit them in their respective huts. During these feasts the children are left in the care of older children - one of the few times when they don’t seem very happy. I suspect because they are a bit apprehensive seeing their elders “out of control”.

Betty and I, with our grown son and daughter and her family, were planning on attending one chicha feast which we never made. I’ll tell you why. The feast was on a nearby island, a very few minutes by motorized cayuco, but the night was pitch dark, no stars or moon, and the seas were quite heavy. The large cayuco was tied to the end of the wooden dock as seven of us clambered aboard. I was in the bow. Balancing precariously in the pitching craft I loosed the bow line. The indian guide in the stern started the motor and shouted “shove off”. I pushed hard against the dock. As a wave slammed me to my seat in the inky darkness I grabbed for the sides of the boat and held on tight. At that I felt a stabbing pain in my right little finger at the same time I heard the sound of the heavy craft being thrown against the pier by a large wave. By reflex I jerked my right hand in and felt the little finger with my opposite hand. The tip was slit open and I could feel the bone protruding.

“Hey, gang, I’m not going. I think I just left a finger on the pier.”
I immediately realized that the exaggeration did not make a very good joke.

“I’m only kidding, guys. But I did hurt my finger.”

The probing beam of a flashlight revealed exactly what I had felt and spoiled everyone’s appetite for attending the chicha feast. We all debarked. I realized that, of necessity, the treatment was going to be crude and painful. So the first thing I did upon reaching our hut was to gulp down about three or four ounces of rum. Betty and I then got out what little equipment we had and set to work by the light of a flashlight. We had soap, two gallons of drinking water carried from Coco Solo which I felt was reasonably pure, some tape, sterile bandages, tweezers and chloraseptic throat spray. Betty and I both washed our hands thoroughly. The fingernail was two-thirds torn free from its base and required removal. Betty grasped it with the tweezers and pulled. As the tweezers pulled off with a “snap” searing pain ran up my arm.

Not wishing to experience that particular sensation again with nothing to show for it, I firmly muttered, “Enough of that!”, grasped the nail with two fingers of my other hand and quickly ripped it off. Next we thoroughly lavaged the tip of the finger with drinking water, gently peeling back the three flaps of the tip to expose all parts, including the fragmented terminal phalanx (bone). Not having any other antiseptic, we then thoroughly sprayed it inside and out with the throat spray, repositioned the flaps in their original position and applied a snug, bulky, sterile dressing to control bleeding.

By this time it was 10:00 p.m. and time for bed. We reassured the others that all was well and went to bed, being careful to maintain the injured hand as high as possible at all times to discourage swelling and bleeding. By this time the rum had taken full effect and I was essentially free of pain. Okay, so actually I was feeling pretty good. Betty didn’t think I should be feeling that good, however, so she gently rejected my advances and I dozed off with my hand propped part of the night against the head of the bed and the rest of the night across my chest. I was surprised at how well I slept.

The next day we were due to fly back to Coco Solo, I as the pilot. Betty and the others did all of the packing, lifting, carrying and worrying about me, but I assured them there would be no problem flying and there wasn’t. To avoid my making two trips, half of the group returned on a commercial flight. Upon arrival in Coco Solo I immediately reported to the emergency room of the hospital for more definitive treatment of the wound, this time under local anesthesia, for which I was deeply grateful. The surgeon re-opened the wound, cut away some devitalized tissue and again thoroughly lavaged the area, this time with sterile saline solution. He put in the sutures loosely, anticipating infection, and gave me a tetanus injection and an antibiotic. Some days later there was a bit of superficial infection but it cleared rapidly and the feared osteomyelitis (bone infection) never developed. The remaining scar is much preferable to losing the tip of the finger.

*****

Medicine men still practice in San Blas and are held in high esteem. They treat with herbs gathered in the jungle, incantations (accompanied by rattles), burning coco-bean incense and the use of hand-carved “medicine dolls”, each with a specific purpose. On their home-calls I have heard them chant the entire night through in a patient’s hut. Their ministrations appear to be effective in a large percentage of cases and I would never volunteer my services unless asked. In one case my aspirin did not help the pain in a man’s hip but, after a nocturnal treatment by the medicine man, he declared he felt much better - even though there was no noticeable change in his limb.

In another case I believe I saved a baby’s life by giving an antibiotic for what appeared to be a staph skin infection with septicemia.

*****

The medicine men routinely recommend that pregnant women take charcoal in order to prevent the birth of albino babies, of which there is a very high incidence in these indians.

*****

Our good missionary friend, Marvel Iglesias, tells in her book “Beauty is a Ring in My Nose?” of the time a donkey was brought on a boat to the islands, being donated by a thoughtful, concerned person to be used as a beast of burden and thus free the indians of some of the strenuous loads to which they are daily subjected, especially on trips on the mainland. Now these people had never seen a horse or a donkey and lined up to gaze in awe at the strange creature as it was led through the village. According to Marvel’s account in her book, the local medicine man ran excitedly about exhorting the pregnant women to close their eyes and not look at the beast for, if they did, their babies would be born with long ears. An interesting story, indeed, and almost accurate, but I learned from her in recent years that it was a male donkey and she had to change the story just a bit in order to avoid possibly offending any readers. As a postscript let it be mentioned that the women shamed the men for letting the donkey carry their loads and it eventually ended up as a pampered pet!

*****

Excitement in San Blas! All of the local fishermen of the island of Ailigandi agree that there is a white rock slowly rising out of the sea in shallow water near an off-lying island out by the outer reef. It has attained a height of some four to five feet and is snow-white in color. It was reported in the local Panamanian press, one report indicating that smoke or steam had been seen coming from it. The local medicine men declared that it was supernatural and determined that a giant octopus and a giant moray eel were living beneath it. They pronounced it taboo and forbade any indian to go near it. On our next visit to that island we were able to convince a local man to take us and our snorkel equipment to the “white rock” so we might have a closer look. The rock was white and jagged but the seas were so rough that we could not get close, let alone enter the water to snorkel near it. With the spray dashing into the air I could see how “smoke” or “steam” could easily be visualized. The trip did allow us to form a theory, however. In the area I had often seen huge areas of solid coral undermined by wave action. I felt that one of these, very near the surface, had cracked from its own weight and slowly tilted upward, the cracked surface being white. I relayed this thought to one of the more educated indians. Two days later the water was calm and I proposed to confirm the theory but was completely unable to get anyone to take us to the site. The excuses were flimsy and we were sure that the medicine men had tightened their control.

The day we left I circled the rock at low altitude in our small Cessna and it appeared that our theory was correct.

*****

Before the missionaries were effective in the San Blas islands deformed babies were not allowed to live. Cleft palate and cleft lip (“hare-lip”) were fairly common deformities. A dedicated, Christian missionary doctor, Dr. Daniel Gruver, worked at the mission hospital on Ailigandi for many years. One of the countless beneficial things he did was to demonstrate to the Kuna that such defects could be corrected surgically. As a result, some such babies are now allowed to keep the gift of life.

*****

Never forget that these indians are primitive, proud and with a strong sense of morals and justice that sometimes does not match with the Gringo sense of justice. I would not want to be in the place of the foreigner adjudged guilty of taking advantage of a Kuna. One such person who ran a resort in the islands was said to have been neglectful in paying his indian workmen, even when pressed to do so. After what the indians felt was a suitable length of time they burned the man’s cabins and his boat. End of resort; end of problem as far as the Kuna were concerned.

*****

The story of another resort in the San Blas islands is even more tragic and hair-raising, with senseless loss of life and property. Tom and Joan Moody with their young daughter, Marijo, were as fine an American far as ever existed. About 1966, through arrangements with a Kuna family, they were able to lease an entire small island and turned it into a well-run resort. The Moody’s felt they had done everything legally, as I believe they had, according to U.S. standards. Over the years, however, there were occasional rumblings among the Kuna who felt that the Moody resort was illegally constituted because the chiefs of the islands had not been consulted nor had they given their formal consent to the arrangement. Some Kunas sided with the Moodys. In any event Tom Moody chose to ignore warnings by certain indians to leave. The attack took place when no paying guests were on the island - during the off-season. The tragic tale is revealed by the following excerpts taken directly from a letter written by Mrs. Moody:

“20 June 1981. There were six of us on the island at the time of the raid... Rex (the new dive master), his father Bob and stepmother Agnesi, Tom’s sister Peggy, Tom and myself...

Around four a.m. I was awakened by a familiar voice outside my bedroom window calling, ‘Mr. Moody, wake up.’ He said they wanted gasoline... As I groggily headed out the door... Peggy came out of her house and she saw men crouched all around my house. One of them grabbed her, knocking her to her knees and holding her at bay by swinging a sword over her head. Tom was at the door and then, in an anguished voice, I heard him say, ‘Oh, my God, NO!’... many men... guns pointing at us... some wore masks... Time stood still, broken only by the voice of one... ‘Moody, you remember our Congresso and we say Moody go. NOW MOODY GO!’. And a shot rang out knocking Tom backward about four feet... flesh and blood splattered everywhere and hearing his screams... I the myself over him screaming at the top of my lungs. Two or three men pulled me off... others grabbed Tom by his mangled leg and dragged him down the steps... like a sack of garbage... other gunshots... were... fired in the air. Indians were running here and there, throwing flaming bottles of gasoline onto the thatch roofs of the office, kitchen and clubhouse... throwing gasoline all over (Tom) and lighting matches in an attempt to burn him alive. One even set a burning gallon of gasoline next to him, thinking it would explode. Others beat Tom unmercifully with their gun butts over his head, arms, and groin... swung a machete at him in an attempt to hack him to pieces and at each swing Tom would roll away... the indians had tied a rope around Tom’s gutted leg and... tied his leg to his neck and hung him from a coconut tree... threw gasoline onto the cane walls and bathroom curtains and set it afire... Tom went unconscious and they left him for dead... other boarded our launch... stealing... had tied me and Peggy up on the beach... I had gotten tied... grabbed me and retied my wrists... I was disentangled once again... ran back and began to tie me up, so I pretended to faint... As they were pulling away... Peggy and I... ran from building to building... pausing to extinguish the fire in the blue house.

...Rex, Bob and Agnesi cut Tom down and began putting out the fires... we had a heavy downpour around midnight so the rain-soaked thatch was too soaked to burn.

...I almost tripped over (Tom) lying on the path behind our house. I heard his weak voice say, ‘Joan, come here. I’m fading fast and I want to tell you somethings.’ ...I asked him how badly he was hurt and I still didn’t know where they had shot him...’They shot me in the leg.’... I... began running... for my radios screaming, ‘Goddamnit, you’re going to LIVE... no one dies of a bullet wound in the leg!’... A ham operator in Florida answered my call... call for the MEDDAC helicopter at Howard Air force Base... the time was 4:48 a.m. ... We... wash the gasoline off (Tom) and bandage the wound... In less than an hour we heard the distant ‘whop-whop’ of the helicopter... they were on the way... I changed radio frequencies... to... the National Guard to notify then of the situation and requested police protection.

The events of the remainder of that morning and the afternoon still remain fuzzy and jumbled in my mind... ten hours after Tom was shot and beaten, we heard the sound of a large helicopter approaching the island... small boat returning from the Porvenir direction approaching the island. At the time the helicopter was landing on the beach... the ‘guardia boat’ pulled up to the main dock. There was an apparent confrontation between the villagers and the armed ‘guardia’ and both the Cuna guardia were shot... one... in the heart causing instantaneous death and the second... in the neck... they wore no uniforms nor were there any identifying markings on their boat, it is understandable how the accidental shootings occurred.

...the 22nd of June... we heard rumblings... drinking and gathering... about nine miles north... At 4:00 p.m. I spoke with Tom via radio-telephone in the hospital... Tom had undergone the first of a total of seven major operations (the shot-gun wound had removed most of the calf of his leg)... The U.S. Embassy came to our aid... Ham operators... monitored us throughout the days and nights to follow. Thank God... they were our only communication with the outside world... Guardia protectors... no cargo boats permitted in our area, the... district was shut off from the outside world by orders of the Intendencia (the Kuna political governor of the San Blas islands)... the Minister of Government and Justice... meeting... the only concern of the authorities was to arrest the killer of the Cuna guardia, but NOTHING was ever done about the guerrilla terrorists who brutally attacked us and tried to kill Tom. To this day they live freely amongst the tribe!... Minister... revoked our license to do business in San Blas. We were tried and convicted without a trial.

...our two boats... on June 30th, arriving at the port city of Colon late that afternoon.

...Quite obviously, these young men had spent time living abroad... learning the guerrilla tactics... since it was one of their first operations, the bungled it... were also ‘high’ on something and not coherent...

This raid had been discussed two nights prior at a large congresso in the Carti islands... Some of the terrorists were from that area... When the (indians) of Rio Sidra (a near-by island) stood behind us, they were virtually cut off from any movement and trade with the outside world... They were slowly being starved to death. The villagers of Rio Sidra turned over the young man who had accidentally killed the guardia to the Panamanian authorities... The terrorists who instigated the attack and committed the brutal atrocities - although their identities are known by the tribe, as indians have no secrets - are still living freely in the islands almost three months later. (They were never punished.)

These crimes are not the work of the ‘traditional’ Cuna; nor is it condoned by them. It is definitely the handiwork of the terrorist infiltrators. In recent years, these young men have returned to their tribal homeland, spouting the typical communist rhetoric... political changes taking place in the islands... Although we have fuel and materials worth thousands of dollars stored on the docks, it was left unguarded as we have never had a problem with thievery... nothing was ever under lock and key.

All foreigners were being ousted from San Blas. What is it they fear we might discover? Throughout the years, we ignored all the little nagging warning signals... boats travelling through reefy areas at night without running lights... planes flying low after dark and landing on the remote airstrips... tales of Columbian-Indian shootouts... strange yachts passing through... We suspect the economically their new enterprise will bring much more income than tourism. ...all we were able to get out were the two boats and the money from the sale of them went to pay doctors and hospitals... and our creditors... Building an entire community on a remote sandpit takes a lot more time, work and preserverance than it does to put a comparable operation in ‘civilization’... keeping it operational is another matter. We had no public utilities to plug into - electricity, gas mains, nor water. Each system had to be developed by us. Supplies... had to be freighted by sea... and stored for six months in advance. Fresh fruits, vegetables and meats were flown out.

7 October 198l
...for Tom the healing will take a long time. The entire muscle of the calf was blown completely away with most of the tibia... a 20 gauge shotgun was around four feet from Tom’s leg when the terrorist pulled the trigger. The biggest fight of all has been to save the leg... it raged with infection for four weeks. Five major operations... plastic surgery... bone grafting.

We apologize to all of you who have patiently awaited our story... we can not say what we did while still in Panama... We are attempting to get compensation from the Panamanian government through international courts.

Once Tom is mended, we will begin our search of an island once again as we know that we cannot live anywhere else and be satisfied.

Tom, Joan and Marijo”

I present these as facts and will not editorialize except to say that we talked with Rex (the dive master) after the attack. He remained hidden throughout the attack; he was the one who cut Tom down as he hung unconscious from the tree, appearing to Rex to be dead. The daughter, Marijo, was in school in Panama City at the time. These are fine people. In our opinion, the traditional Cuna are also fine people. What a tragedy for all concerned. Obviously no one gained.
Several months after the attack the chiefs of all the islands held meetings and agreed that henceforth no non-Kuna would be allowed to operate a profit-making venture in the San Blas territory.

*****

Most of the Kunas still adhere to the traditional burial rituals. In the past babies were not usually given a name for several weeks, perhaps because the infant mortality rate was so high and more grief would be associated with the loss of a named baby. Death of the elderly is accepted rather matter-of-factly.

“In that hammock? Oh, that’s grandpa. He’s dying.”

After death the face is usually painted with the orange-red color of the achiote plant and a nightlong vigil is held over the body. No embalming is used. In the morning the fully-clothed body is sewn into a hammock , carried to a cayuco and transported to the mainland, accompanied by grieving relatives and friends.

On our last visit to Panama I was privileged to join the proceedings at this point and to witness the actual burial of an elderly lady. The graveyard, as usual, was on a riverbank not far from the river’s mouth. When we arrived the professional Kuna grave diggers had not yet finished the two foot by seven foot rectangular hole in the hard clay soil. When they finished (to a depth of about five and a half feet) poles were driven into the ground at each end and a ledge was carved or each side into which were fitted strong limbs to form a roof. Before finishing the roof, a small clay pot with burning cocoa beans was lowered to the floor of the cavern, so that the strong, acrid fumes could smoke out any evil spirits. Articles of the lady’s clothing had been placed on the roof to hold in the smoke. Quantities of the deceased’s beads were thrown onto the floor of the crypt. In a few minutes the roof was removed and, amidst wailing, the hammock was lowered into the opening and the ropes at each end tied to the poles so that the hammock did not rest on the floor. No dirt was thrown into the hole. The sticks were replaced as a roof, over which were carefully laid several layers of the old one’s clothes, apparently to prevent dirt from sifting through. I do not know if her entire wardrobe was thus disposed of or not but it seemed a waste of some very interesting molas. Over this was then heaped a generous mound of dirt. Sometimes the gold jewelry is buried with the individual; sometimes it is thrown into a deep and secret part of the ocean so it can’t be stolen. Rarely it is reused. Has anyone been pillaged a grave to get the gold? I am told that illicit trespassers seem to somehow disappear without a trace - and I believe it!

At this point my guide suggested we leave. A low thatched roof, supported by poles, is built over the grave. Stools are often left here so that relatives can occasionally visit and talk about the good times they had when the deceased was still alive. Although I did not witness it, part of the ritual after burial is to place a string leading from the grave down to the bank of the river where it is attached to a tiny wooden boat. The string is for the deceased’s spirit to follow to the boat, which it rides across the river to the spirit world.

*****

Acculturation is occurring in San Blas. There are now schools on many islands, teaching in the Spanish language. I expect the Kuna dialect will eventually disappear. Too bad; it is a beautiful, soft language. The word they use for goodbye, literally translated, means “a bad hello”.

Some of the young ladies are now wearing western-style dresses instead of the traditional sarong and mola blouse. Along with this they are less inclined to wear the gold nose-ring and to paint the black stripe on the nose. Birthdays and Ages are now much more apt to be remembered.

Of course the transistor radio has become omnipresent and thievery, I am sorry to say is no longer unheard of. I know of at least two islands that have television sets. The youth on some of the islands have tried marijuana and I am told that in some sectors it is a problem. “Sodas” (soft drinks) are extremely popular on all of the islands - hot or cold.

The Panama Canal Company considered the Kuna men excellent workers and many moved, with their families, to Colon in order to work for the P.C.C. - most often as dock workers or cooks and kitchen helpers on one of the military posts. Often the women did not change their style of dress when they moved to Colon or to Panama City and it is always a delightful surprise to see one of these colorful creatures, gold nose-ring and all, walking on the main street of one of those cities. They are also often seen in a park or on a street corner selling their molas, wood carvings or beads.

Fortunately this acculturation, so far, has affected only a small percentage of the Kuna people, the great majority of which still live largely in the old traditional ways, utilizing the medicine men, listening to the chanters and story-tellers and bringing up the children to value the traditional customs. It is still a tremendous experience to visit these people via tour boat or in one of the small planes that fly daily from Panama City to various air-strips in these islands. If you are ever in Panama it is well worth the trouble and expense to take one of these trips, even for just a day. But if you can stay for a few days and become just a little better acquainted with the indians, so much the better.

*****

So much for the Kuna indians. As you can see, they were a very significant part of our life during our fifteen and a half years in Panama and it is with reluctancy that I leave the subject. Much of importance was left unsaid, but if you have been stimulated to read more about them you can refer to the publications I mentioned earlier.

*****

“The most important thing to look at when buying a used car is the face of the seller.”

Thus the man enlightened me as he was inspecting the car I had for sale.

He bought the car.

How could he go wrong? It was a VW.

*****

It was 1975 and I was having a pleasant, interesting morning working in the family practice clinic at Coco Solo hospital.

A nurse knocked at the door.
“Come in.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, doctor,” rather apologetically, “But we thought you should know. Your wife has been in an auto accident and they are bringing her in to the emergency room.”

The world stood still as my thoughts raced. I had seen many victims of highway slaughter; the range, extent and seriousness of injuries can be beyond description.

“How badly is she hurt?” I forced myself to ask.

“We don’t know. That’s all the message we got.”

I don’t remember if I made any rash promises to the Almighty or not, but I do remember abandoning my patient to hurry to the emergency room to fidget and to pace.

In about 100 years they wheeled Betty in - in a wheel-chair, much to my relief.

“Hi, honey,” were her first apologetic words, “I’m afraid I totaled the station wagon.” (A bus had struck her broadside.)

“Never mind the station wagon. Where are you hurt? I saw no immediate visible signs of injury but she appeared pale and in pain.

“I guess I hurt my chest.”

The nurses quickly checked her pulse, respirations and blood pressure. All okay, except for the rapid pulse, not unusual under the circumstances. They stripped her to the waist as she winced with pain with each movement.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Here,” indicating the lateral aspect of the left side of the chest. There was no discoloration but I could detect an irregular puffiness or swelling of the skin in that area. As I gently felt the skin there was the unmistakable crumpled-cellophane-like crepitation so characteristic of air bubbles under the skin. This crepitation extended upward into the arm-pit. Listening to the chest revealed slightly lessened breath sounds on the affected side. No doubt about it. She had fractured a rib or ribs and one of them had punctured the lung, allowing air to escape into the space between the lung and the chest wall and thence to the layer of fatty tissue under the skin. I was beginning to feel relieved. Things could have been a hell of a lot worse.

After an injection for pain a chest x-ray revealed fractured ribs, air under the skin and only a relatively small pneumothorax (air in the chest cavity). Fractured ribs are very painful but after two days in the hospital and about four weeks of convalescence at home she recovered with no trace of residual damage and was soon back square-dancing and snorkeling with me. The blue station wagon had indeed been “totaled” and was not insured (except for liability), but I had no regrets. Over the years I had saved more than enough on insurance premiums to replace it.

But how would one insure against loss of an irreplaceable wife???

*****

As a medical student I am sure I must have read, at one time or another, about syringomyelia. After two and a half years in the army medical corps, 20 years in private practice and the then 12 years in a clinic in the Canal Zone (the year was 1978), I had never seen a single case - or, for that matter, had ever met a doctor who had seen one. This is a condition of unknown cause in which the cells in an area of the spinal cord degenerate and are replaced by fluid, forming a cyst without a lining, the pressure from which further affects the nerve tracts in the spinal cord. It most commonly affects the shoulders and arms of both sides of the body, showing up as numbness of the affected areas plus muscle weakness and wasting.

For many years Betty had had vague symptoms of numbness and aching to which no cause could be attributed. Even she had begun to think that she was psychoneurotic. Then one day, during an examination for shoulder pain, an alert orthopedic physician noted a definite paralysis of certain muscles attaching to the shoulder blade. Review of the chest x-rays revealed a slight curvature of the spine which had developed, almost imperceptibly, over a period of the past 10 - 15 years. After examinations by specialists, hordes of lab tests and a myelogram (dye is injected around the spinal cord to reveal its size and shape), no conclusion was reached. By this time she had also developed a diminished right knee-jerk reflex and definite weakness in the right leg with a tendency to “foot-drop”, i.e., difficulty in bringing the forepart of the foot upward.

To say it was an emotionally stressful time would be putting it mildly. No one could provide a diagnosis, but something was obviously seriously wrong and getting worse. I read everything I could get my hands on in regard to neurological disturbances and could find nothing that really fit the pattern. The only thing I could find that came even close was that odd condition known as syringomyelia. When I mentioned this to the neurologist he gave me a blank look. When I mentioned it to a physician friend, he responded, “Now, Ira, don’t you think that’s stretching pretty far for a diagnosis?” - but he didn’t have any better ideas.

We hit the “panic button”, took a leave of absence and headed straight for the University Hospital at Ann Arbor, Mich., not far from which I had practiced for 20 years. The work-up left nothing out. I even noted that on the chart one of the possible diagnoses was “hysteria”.

“Can hysteria cause one knee-jerk reflex to be absent?” I asked.

“Not likely, but it’s possible,” was the answer. At least they were considering everything, I reassured myself.

By this time Betty was having difficulty walking without support. A decision was reached.

“There is definitely an abnormality of the spinal cord at the base of the neck. It may be syringomyelia (!aha) but it isn’t typical and there are other conditions, such as a tumor, which might be causing the trouble. We will operate and treat whatever we find. If it is syringomyelia we will insert a drainage tube into the cyst and leave it in, running beneath the skin of the chest down into the abdomen. This is a relatively new treatment but we have had some good results.”

The books I had read said there was no effective treatment for the condition, but what he said made sense to us.

To make a long story short, the condition proved to be syringomyelia (the only case I had ever seen and it had to be in the one I most loved), the tube was placed as planned and the results were most gratifying. Before long she was again square-dancing, snorkeling and, as usual, doing all of her own house-work.

*****

As I approached 63 years of age, Betty (4 years younger) and I talked it over and decided it might be wise to retire while we could still enjoy doing things and be physically active rather than retiring only after a point had been reached when all we could do was watch television and read. We both loved Panama and would have retired there but, in view of her medical problem, thought it wiser to locate in the U.S. nearer expert medical care.

*****

My last notable experience prior to leaving Panama occurred about one month prior to our departure. Betty and I had always bragged that we walked the streets in all areas of Colon and had never been robbed or mugged. Colon has a reputation similar to Central Park in New York City in that respect. We had occasionally had Panamanian guardia voluntarily accompany us as we walked through certain “bad” areas of the city and I always felt kindly toward them for it but never really felt it was necessary.

One sunny day, at noon, as I was on an errand on one of the main streets, a man crossed the street diagonally to a point several feet ahead of me. He quickly turned and stabbed his hand into the opening of my left, side trousers pocket in which I had placed several folded bills. I usually left my bill-fold in the car. In panic I grabbed the pocket between his hand and the bills and held on for dear life as we waltzed around in a tight circle.
“There’s nothing there! There’s nothing there!” I rather stupidly insisted.

He was stronger than I and my trousers were about to rip. No guardia was in the area. Eschewing any act of bravery I opened my mouth wide and screamed as loudly as I could “Help!!!” People appeared in doorways as far as a block away so I must have been in good voice. In any event my attacker immediately ran and disappeared down a narrow alley-way as I pointed after him and cried out for all to hear, “Maleante! Maleante!” (“Thief!”) I thought I detected expressions of “Oh, is that all?” on some of the faces as they went back about their business and, pulse racing, I scurried back to the safety of my car. I had lost no money, had not been hurt and had only dirty finger-prints around my pocket to show for the encounter.

“I’ve got to write a book,” I muttered.

*****

We retired to Naples, Florida - the closest thing we could find to the tropical climate of Panama.

*****

What did I do in retirement?

Well, for one thing I wrote a book.

*****

Now I can stop saying, “I’ve got to write a book!”

finis

I’ve Got to Write a Book!
by Ira Wiggins

Scars Publications and Design, Janet Kuypers, Publisher

ccandd96@aol.com
http://scars.tv

First Edition
Printed in the United States of America

copyright © 1998 Ira Wiggins, Scars Publications and Design

All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reprinted without express permission from the author

Other Productions by Scars Publications and Design:

Children, Churches and Daddies, print and electronic magazine
Hope Chest in the Attic, poems and short stories by Kuypers
Sulphur and Sawdust, poems and short stories by assorted writers
The Window, 1st and 2nd editions, poems and short stories by Kuypers
Slate and Marrow, poems and short stories by assorted writers
MFV: The Demo Tapes, compact disc by Mom’s Favorite Vase
Autumn Reason, novel in letter form by Sydney Anderson
Close Cover Before Striking, poems, essays and short stories by Kuypers
Infamous In Our Prime, essays by Rochelle Holt & Virginia Love Long
Blister and Burn, poems, essays and short stories by assorted writers
( woman. ), poems, essays and short stories by Kuypers
Anais Nin: An Understanding of Her Art, essays by Rochelle Holt
Seeing Things Differently, performance art compact disc by Kuypers
The Electronic Windmill, novel by Pete McKinley
Contents Under Pressure, poems, essays and short stories by Kuypers
Harvest of Gems, a book by Michael Arthur Finberg
Changing Gears, poetry by Janine Canan
Death in Málaga, an account about the Spanish Civil War by Edward Norton
The Average Guy’s Guide (to Feminism), a collection of feminist writings by Kuypers
The Little Monk, a book by Michael Arthur Finberg
Changing Gears, a travelogue from Kuypers