This story is in its original notation, but is in story form in the book, Life Along The Dousinberry
What Error to Gain a Biscuit?
By Ronnie Powell
On an especially warm day in late spring of 1947, my twin brother Donnie and I stood waiting for Dad to finish hitching our team of horses to a cultivator. The sun was barely over the horizon and we were facing a rather long day in the cornfield replanting corn, a kernel at a time. Our overall pockets bulged with these precious kernels. The process would take us down each row to stop and drop a kernel where needed, cover it with a hoe and then move on. The sun would be hot, the horseflies and sweat bees were most aggravating. I did not relish the thought of being in the field with nothing to eat, for noon lay beyond my comprehension. I glanced at Dad appearing totally absorbed in the hitching and handed my hoe to Donnie and sprinted away toward the house.
I estimated the journey to the house and taking possession of several left over breakfast biscuits to take no more than a couple of minutes and was certain Dad would be unaware of my absents. How very wrong I would be.
I rounded a rear corner of the house, glimpsed Mother at the well drawing wash water and headed for the backs steps. Never breaking stride I took the first step up stumbled and fell striking my neck across one of the rough oak planks and the journey ended abruptly and with dire consequences. I struggled to breath, slipping close to the brink of unconsciousness. I rolled off the steps gasping and croaking like a frog. I continued thrashing about on the ground vaguely aware of Mother’s hysterical screams. It would be several hours later before I regained consciousness.
Doctor Plummer was the first face I saw, a kind old man in a rumpled suit who had helped bring me into this world. I was struck by the grimness of his face, flinching at the probing hand on my neck. I attempted to smile, but could not and then tried to speak, but failed to do so and once again moved quietly into blissful oblivion.
The good doctor of Buffalo, Missouri informed my parents I had received a crushing blow to my larynx, but couldn’t be certain of the extent of damage. Doctor Plummer informed them I would probably be unable to make a sound for awhile if ever and advised the distraught couple I should be placed in a hospital for further examination, fully aware they had no money for such a stay.
I awakened early the next morning on the davenport in the parlor. I caught the dawning sun glinting from Mother’s prized cut glass vase sitting on a table near the front window. I then recalled the day before and sat up, feeling remarkably fit except for a deep soreness in my throat. I took notice that I was clothed in one of Mother’s old flannel night gowns and became quite angry. I looked about the room for my clothing and saw the shirt and overalls lying in a heap near the door. Intent on getting out of the gown I tried standing but too weak slid to the floor and began crawling toward the garments. I could barely hold my head up, saliva drooled from my mouth making the floor slippery. The pain was near unbearable, but I continued on to the clothing. I quickly shed the gown, got into the shirt and overalls and crawled back to the couch hissing like a snake. I had at least restored my dignity.
A little later that morning the entire family entered the room. Both of my brothers stood at the door. Dad, Mother and Grandma Carrie came to the couch. Not one to mince words, Dad quietly informed me I had severely injured my voice box, as he called it and would be a spell before I could talk aloud again and perhaps never. Mother stood looking down at me weeping. Grandma also wept, holding a steaming bowl of her chicken noodle soup.
I did not take well to the disturbing news, but nodded, peeking under the covers to see if Mother had again put the gown on me, but she had not. Grandma coaxed me into eating the soup and I did so without too much difficulty and later was accompanied to the outhouse, where I set for a time idly looking through the pages of a Sears, Roebuck catalog reflecting on my dilemma.
Resilience is the definition of youth and in a couple of days I was again back on my feet resuming my chores. I could not imagine ever speaking aloud again. The thought of being a mute haunted me and in the following days, weeks and months I began realizing what I was up against. My brothers of course teased me and a few adults treated me shamefully as if I did not have good sense. One of the local ministers came by one day to see me and began shouting as if I were deaf. He then asked Dad if I was mentally challenged. The man was told to leave.
Grandma Carrie encouraged me to write on paper as clearly as I could to answer any questions presented to me and to try and communicate with people. I took advantage of every idle moment slipping off alone in the woods to try and make a sound, but September came and school. It did take long to discover that my peers including the teacher were understanding and did their best to put me at ease. It was not the children, but the few adults I came in contact with that depressed me the most with their I suppose good intentions and thoughtless behaviors. Yet during the long silent months I never lost faith that I would speak aloud again.
In early spring of the following year while walking along the old Brushy Ridge road, trying in earnest to make a sound, I uttered a guttural word or two, yet they were music to my ears. From that day on I began to speak aloud again, at first a raspy whisper and gradually a more normal vocalization. There are times even today my voice fades but for the most part has served me well. I came away from that dreadful experience a bit too independent I suppose and a deep appreciation for folks who have been handicapped. Life comes in many flavors and colors and to survive one must not judge people by a bad taste or gray reflection that does not represent the soul of a fellow human. Adios
What Error to Gain a Biscuit?
By Ronnie Powell
On an especially warm day in late spring of 1947, my twin brother Donnie and I stood waiting for Dad to finish hitching our team of horses to a cultivator. The sun was barely over the horizon and we were facing a rather long day in the cornfield replanting corn, a kernel at a time. Our overall pockets bulged with these precious kernels. The process would take us down each row to stop and drop a kernel where needed, cover it with a hoe and then move on. The sun would be hot, the horseflies and sweat bees were most aggravating. I did not relish the thought of being in the field with nothing to eat, for noon lay beyond my comprehension. I glanced at Dad appearing totally absorbed in the hitching and handed my hoe to Donnie and sprinted away toward the house.
I estimated the journey to the house and taking possession of several left over breakfast biscuits to take no more than a couple of minutes and was certain Dad would be unaware of my absents. How very wrong I would be.
I rounded a rear corner of the house, glimpsed Mother at the well drawing wash water and headed for the backs steps. Never breaking stride I took the first step up stumbled and fell striking my neck across one of the rough oak planks and the journey ended abruptly and with dire consequences. I struggled to breath, slipping close to the brink of unconsciousness. I rolled off the steps gasping and croaking like a frog. I continued thrashing about on the ground vaguely aware of Mother’s hysterical screams. It would be several hours later before I regained consciousness.
Doctor Plummer was the first face I saw, a kind old man in a rumpled suit who had helped bring me into this world. I was struck by the grimness of his face, flinching at the probing hand on my neck. I attempted to smile, but could not and then tried to speak, but failed to do so and once again moved quietly into blissful oblivion.
The good doctor of Buffalo, Missouri informed my parents I had received a crushing blow to my larynx, but couldn’t be certain of the extent of damage. Doctor Plummer informed them I would probably be unable to make a sound for awhile if ever and advised the distraught couple I should be placed in a hospital for further examination, fully aware they had no money for such a stay.
I awakened early the next morning on the davenport in the parlor. I caught the dawning sun glinting from Mother’s prized cut glass vase sitting on a table near the front window. I then recalled the day before and sat up, feeling remarkably fit except for a deep soreness in my throat. I took notice that I was clothed in one of Mother’s old flannel night gowns and became quite angry. I looked about the room for my clothing and saw the shirt and overalls lying in a heap near the door. Intent on getting out of the gown I tried standing but too weak slid to the floor and began crawling toward the garments. I could barely hold my head up, saliva drooled from my mouth making the floor slippery. The pain was near unbearable, but I continued on to the clothing. I quickly shed the gown, got into the shirt and overalls and crawled back to the couch hissing like a snake. I had at least restored my dignity.
A little later that morning the entire family entered the room. Both of my brothers stood at the door. Dad, Mother and Grandma Carrie came to the couch. Not one to mince words, Dad quietly informed me I had severely injured my voice box, as he called it and would be a spell before I could talk aloud again and perhaps never. Mother stood looking down at me weeping. Grandma also wept, holding a steaming bowl of her chicken noodle soup.
I did not take well to the disturbing news, but nodded, peeking under the covers to see if Mother had again put the gown on me, but she had not. Grandma coaxed me into eating the soup and I did so without too much difficulty and later was accompanied to the outhouse, where I set for a time idly looking through the pages of a Sears, Roebuck catalog reflecting on my dilemma.
Resilience is the definition of youth and in a couple of days I was again back on my feet resuming my chores. I could not imagine ever speaking aloud again. The thought of being a mute haunted me and in the following days, weeks and months I began realizing what I was up against. My brothers of course teased me and a few adults treated me shamefully as if I did not have good sense. One of the local ministers came by one day to see me and began shouting as if I were deaf. He then asked Dad if I was mentally challenged. The man was told to leave.
Grandma Carrie encouraged me to write on paper as clearly as I could to answer any questions presented to me and to try and communicate with people. I took advantage of every idle moment slipping off alone in the woods to try and make a sound, but September came and school. It did take long to discover that my peers including the teacher were understanding and did their best to put me at ease. It was not the children, but the few adults I came in contact with that depressed me the most with their I suppose good intentions and thoughtless behaviors. Yet during the long silent months I never lost faith that I would speak aloud again.
In early spring of the following year while walking along the old Brushy Ridge road, trying in earnest to make a sound, I uttered a guttural word or two, yet they were music to my ears. From that day on I began to speak aloud again, at first a raspy whisper and gradually a more normal vocalization. There are times even today my voice fades but for the most part has served me well. I came away from that dreadful experience a bit too independent I suppose and a deep appreciation for folks who have been handicapped. Life comes in many flavors and colors and to survive one must not judge people by a bad taste or gray reflection that does not represent the soul of a fellow human. Adios
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