Doctor Dad
by
Nettie Stadnyk
"Me! me! me!" I whined. "I wanna ride."
Brother Walter's words, "It's Mary's turn. You've had three rides already," fell on deaf ears. I proceeded to push my older sister off the two-wheeled cart. Six-year-old Mary was very passive and responded to my shoving by starting to cry silently as she slowly made her way toward the house.
In the early twenties, Grandfather had crudely constructed a two-wheeled cart to be used as a wheelbarrow. Metal wheels came from an old binder. A three-foot whipple tree was hewn out of a knotted poplar tree, and the box with no backboard was built out of some roughly hewn boards. It readily pivoted on the axle making it easy to dispose of its contents by raising the whipple tree.
After I pushed Mary off the cart, I tried to get on. Walter, five years my senior, jerked the whipple tree and I slid off onto the ground. By the time I got up, he had raced to the woodpile and began to fill the cart with kindling. I wasn't to be daunted. I ran after him, got onto the box as it teetered down, and clung to the sideboard.
"Get off!" he ordered. "Get off!"
I clung harder with an emphatic "No!"
He knew better than to peel me off the sideboard. Mother had often admonished Walter with "Don't you ever lay a hand on your little sister. She's only four. Use words if you want her to do something." Words had as much effect on me as raindrops on the feathers of a duck. Walter tried talking to me but with no success. Frustrated, he again jerked the whipple tree up. I fell off head first into a pile of kindling. I not only felt pain in my forehead but also blood flowing out. I shrieked blue murder.
This uncanny screaming stirred the cows, chewing their cud in the corral, into milling around. All the commotion brought Mother to the scene. At first she wasn't too alarmed because I often cried tearlessly, but when she noticed tears mixed with blood running down my nose and cheeks, she became concerned. She gathered me into her arms and wiped the blood off with her apron.She noticed a walnut-sized swelling on my forehead. She carried me into the house and gently dabbed some petro-carbo salve on the lump. This salve, always on hand, was used on cuts, swellings, etc. on the farm animals.
To stop me from blubbering, she gave me a peppermint kept hidden and used only on such traumatic occasions. It was a wonder worker. It could pacify me in a split second. In fact, I wheedled two more while I whined about what happened. "Walter, he did it! He pushed..."
I was not aware whether Mom heard Walter's side of the story. When Dad came home, she told him about the accident. "Nettie sat on the edge of the cart box. It went down with her weight. She slid and hit her head on a log." She never even mentioned Walter's part in the incident. I wasn't about to dispute the story for I was afraid of Dad. He was extremely strict. "Children should be seen and not heard" was his belief.
Three days later after supper, Mom was sitting on the doorstep watching us play tag. I sat beside her to rest. She examined the bump on my forehead, touched it with her finger, felt movement and realized there was a piece of wood under the skin. She called Dad. After a summit conference, he decided to be Doctor and operate. Walter and Mary were told to stay outside. Both sat on the doorstep and Mary started to cry.
Dad, Mom and I went into the house. Dad took his straight razor and began sharpening it on a leather strop hanging from the doorknob. His action was ominous. I sensed Mom's agitation as she began to explain to me what would happen. While I whined audibly with "no, no," and more "no's", Dad placed me on Mom's lap. She held my head securely. I started to cry without tears, and Mom accompanied me with tears. I knew better than to rebel physically. Mom kept talking continuously, trying to convince me with "It's nothing; it will hurt just a little bit and it will be better..." etc.
Dad's thunderous roar of "Keep still or else...!" surpassed any anesthetic. Immediately it froze any movement of my body. Suddenly I felt a short stinging pain from the sharp razor. Then he forced the piece of wood out. With a snicker he showed it to me and announced, "It's over." Instantly my crying stopped. I forced a hollow laugh while Mom bear-hugged me and repeated, "Good girl! Brave girl!" She set me on the chair and went straight for the candy jar. My reward was three peppermints. At this point, Walter and tear-faced Mary came in and were treated too.
After the excitement had died down, Mom cleaned my forehead with a wet cloth and doctored the one-inch razor cut with petro-carbo salve.
Now, 77 years later when I raise my eyebrows, I reveal a prominent one-inch dented scar. It's a reminder of my childhood traumatic experience.