Double Refined Spirits

Henry   ---   In the light of the passage of time, this little episode would no longer fly these days, but in 1948, guidelines were looser, restraints were lesser.

                                         This has to do with retribution, revenge if you prefer.  I had bided my time.   Internship was over and our residency in Pathology had begun.  The intern, Ray, who pushed my black kitten out the sixth story window of the hospital just to see if it would land on its feet was now a resident with me in Memphis.  As Pathology residents we received the aborted fetuses from the obstetrical service for study and disposal,  and there were many.    Now Ray was in the habit of bringing his latest female guest (potential conquest) to the Pathology lab at night as a quiet place for completion of his seduction.  There he would ply them with moonshine that he received from his east Tennessee  source in half gallon jars.  This was the key to my ploy.  That day I had received a fetus that would fit nicely in Ray’s murky moonshine jar.  That night when he poured his libation for hopeful success for his intended, he had not noticed in the dim light the other contents until too late.  She sipped, she then saw the source, and was violently ill all over Ray and his desk, never to return.   Retribution completed. 

        Now I realize this story is grim in today’s upright, uptight society,  but way back then I figured I owed it to my little innocent black kitten..

The Chronicles of Memphis, cont'd

We have returned from a highly successful family camping trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains wherein we hiked, kayaked, and rode our bicycles 17 miles down an old railroad bed.  What fun!  Each night we played spades, brought out the guitars and sang, and ate great camp food.  More recently I have had the pleasure of putting my youngest in high school.  He had his first day and survived.  It was a bit harder on me than I expected . . .

But the blog lives on, so please send stories from your early days in medicine.  Failing that, I will have to invent stories with unreasonable titles involving tonics for female weakness, the absence of goiters in present day Tennessee, or even a prescription for curing cachexy and grocer's itch.