The Doctor-Less Summer of 1955

I was seven the doctor-less summer of 1955 when Alfie Moreau died.

He was putting the final coat of paint on the church steeple at the time when, according to Rowena who was passing in her buckboard, he suddenly grabbed his chest, staggered, and fell backward - some 70 feet to the ground where he landed on the brick border of Lydia's newly planted flower bed. He broke his back, both legs, fractured his skull and demolished the pansies.

Prob'ly his heart give out, Rowena reported to my grandmother, Most likely dead 'fore he hit the ground.

Nana scowled. Ol' Alf, she muttered, Never did have the sense God gave a goat.

That's so, Rowena agreed, Reckon he didn't have no business painting a steeple or any other damn thing at 82.

Reckon if'n we'd had us a doctor it'd made a difference, Nana asked.

Rowena shook her head, Not likely, she said sadly, Not from 70 feet up.

The youngest Miller boy took sick with colic that same summer, there was an outbreak of croup in late August and at one point half the island was confined with a nasty summer flu, but Alfie's death remained the most talked about. People told stories about the first three times he had tried to ride the old plowhorse - two broken legs and a dislocated collarbone. The time he'd been daydreaming in right field when one of the Sullivan boys connected and the speeding softball had caught ol' Alf square in the face - shattered his cheekbone and nearly cost him an eye. The time he'd picked a fight with Bill Albright over the price of bootleg whiskey - three broken ribs and a shattered knee. The only time he'd gone hunting - and shot off two toes. By the time he'd reached 30, the general opinion was that he was indestructible.

There were other stories of Alfie, less adventurous and more kind - he volunteered for everything, showing up unannounced with a paintbrush or a wagon full of firewood or a load of lumber. He had a nose for trouble and a radar-like sense for those in need. He often worked from dawn to dusk - would pull vegetables, feed livestock, fill in on the ferry, drive the mail car, wash windows, never take a thing in return.

Thought it would take a full on freight train to stop ol' Alf, Uncle Shad remarked at the funeral.

God rest his soul, James said kindly, So did we all.

How like Alfie Moreau to die doing for others, Lydia added with a rueful glance at the ruined flower bed and the randomly coated gold bricks, I imagine I can always replant it.

And she did, but with wildflowers and climbing ivy and a small plaque that read Alfie's Garden. She rebuilt the border using only the gold bricks. Alfie had been the only casualty of the doctor-less summer of 1955 and he had earned a remembrance.