Accidents Will Happen

Let your cat have kittens, my grandmother had warned Aunt Vi, and you'll find out who your real friends are.

It was a gentle enough reprimand considering that Aunt Vi's old tiger cat had been on the prowl and delivered her third litter of kitttens - inconvieniently enough, in a pantry cabinet where the homemade preserves were kept. Aunt Vi had been reaching for a jar of black raspberry jam when old Tessie gave a yowl of protest and sunk her teeth into the intruding palm. Startled and in considerable pain, Aunt Vi had jerked backwards and up and hit her head on the underside of the opposite shelves, knocking herself unconscious and causing a minor avalanche of canned goods, brown sugar, and a tin of butterscotch brownies bound for the upcoming quilting session. The brownie tin landed squarely on Aunt Vi's wrist and broke it in two places, a fact she realized instantly when she woke up in a dusting of flour, sugar, chocolate chips and blood. Nana was applying ice to the broken wrist and antiseptic to the bite while delivering her routine lecture on the perils of cat reproduction. Aunt Vi, holding a cold washcloth to her aching head
and praying that her eyes wouldn't bruise and blacken, alternately winced and cursed. I was sent to fetch aspirin, brandy and Miss Rowena to set the bones, there being no doctor on the island that summer. Aunt Vi spent the night and by the time Nana took her home the following day, Tessie and the kittens had been relocated to an unused closet, the pantry had been cleaned and restored, and the kitchen stocked with cold salads, breads, and a variety of heat and eat covered dishes. Aunt Pearl had delegated a week's worth of housecleaning and errands and Aunt Vi's recovery would be under the watchful eyes of the island women. The easy unity of a small island community had taken over without a second thought - to take care of one of it's own, it needed no prodding.

I remember two summers with actual doctors, both young and studious, starched and very serious and ever so slightly resentful of spending 12 precious weeks of their rotations in an isolated, close knit and mostly suspicious fishing village well accustomed to providing it's own medical treatment. The doctor's home - a solid, two story brick structure across from the church - stood mostly empty but was always kept in good repair, just in case. There were extra bedrooms should the doctor have a family, a small yard, and a wide veranda. There were two separate exam rooms and a waiting area - nothing fancy but certainly utilitarian and as modern as was possible. The residence was maintained year 'round, just in case.

Don't need no doctor, don't want no doctor, the men inside McIntyre's would all agree, but ain't gonna be shamed if we was to git one.